Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

ARSON PLUS, by Dashiell Hammett

IT TORE THE LAUGH FROM MY THROAT, by Meriah L Crawford

THE TAGGART ASSIGNMENT, by Vincent Starrett

TOMORROW’S DEAD, by David Dean

THE FLAMING PHANTOM, by Jacques Futrelle

MESSAGE IN THE SAND, by John L. French

THE ASSISTANT MURDERER, by Dashiell Hammett

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, by C.J. Henderson

THE RED THUMB MARK, by R. Austin Freeman

MONSIEUR LECOQ, by Emile Gaboriau

THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE, by Edgar Allan Poe

HELL-BENT FOR THE MORGUE, by Don Larson

DEATH OF THE FLUTE, by Arthur J. Burks

OH FANNY, by Raymond Lester

CLANCY, DETECTIVE, by H. Bedford-Jones

THE TATTOOED MAN, by William J. Makin

TRIGGER MEN, by Eustace Cockrell

BUTTERFLY OF DEATH, by Harold Gluck

MY BONNIE LIES…, by Ted Hertel

THUBWAY THAM, FASHION PLATE, by Johnston McCulley

THE MURDER AT TROYTE’S HILL, by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

THE AFFAIR OF THE CORRIDOR EXPRESS, by Victor L. Whitechurch

SECRET SUGGESTION, by Vincent H. O’Neil

THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

BLACK SUNRISE, by Jack Halliday

THE LION’S SMILE, by Thomas W. Hanshew

THE NAIL, by Pedro de Alarçon

THE ROME EXPRESS, by Arthur Griffiths

IN THE FOG, by Richard Harding Davis

OFFICER DOWN, by Robert J. Mendenhall

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

The Detective Megapack is copyright © 2013 by Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved.

* * * *

“Arson Plus,” by Dashiell Hammett, originally appeared in Black Mask magazine, October 1923.

“It Tore the Laugh from My Throat,” by Meriah L Crawford, was originally published in Chesapeake Crimes 3 (published by Wildside Press, 2008). Copyright © 2008 by Meriah L. Crawford. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Taggart Assignment,” by Vincent Starrett, originally appeared in Short Stories, August 10, 1922.

“Tomorrow’s Dead,” by David Dean, was originally published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, July 2011. Copyright ©2011 by David Dean. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Flaming Phantom,” by Jacques Futrelle, originally appeared in The Thinking Machine (1907).

“Message in the Sand,” by John L. French originally appeared in Past Sins, the Matthew Grace Casebook (Padwolf Publishing, 2009). Copyright © 2009 by John L. French. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Assistant Murderer,” by Dashiell Hammett, originally appeared in The Black Mask, February 1926.

“All’s Well That Ends Well,” by C.J. Henderson, originally appeared in Hardboiled #12. Copyright © 1990 by C.J. Henderson. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Red Thumb Mark, by R. Austin Freeman, originally appeared 1907.

Monsieur Lecoq, by Emile Gaboriau, originally appeared in 1869.

“Hell-Bent for the Morgue,” by Don Larson, originally appeared in 10-Story Detective, January 1941.

“Death of the Flute,” by Arthur J. Burks, originally appeared in 1933.

“Oh Fanny,” by Raymond Lester, originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, November 16, 1919.

“Clancy, Detective,” By H. Bedford-Jones, originally appeared in Blue Book magazine, April 1926.

“The Tattooed Man,” by William J. Makin, originally appeared in Blue Book magazine, May 1936.

“Trigger Men,” by Eustace Cockrell, originally appeared in Blue Book magazine, October 1936.

“Butterfly of Death,” by Harold Gluck, originally appeared in Smashing Detective Stories, September 1951.

“My Bonnie Lies…,” by Ted Hertel, originally appeared in The Mammoth Book of Legal Thrillers. Copyright © 2002 by Ted Hertel. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Thubway Tham, Fashion Plate,” by Johnston McCulley, originally appeared in Detective Story Magazine, 1920.

“The Murder at Troyte’s Hill,” by Catherine Louisa Pirkis, originally appeared in The Experiences of Loveday Brooke (1893).

“Secret Suggestion,” by Vincent H. O’Neil, originally appeared in Crime Capsules: Tales of Death, Desire, and Deception. Copyright © 2011 by Vincent H. O’Neil. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Black Sunrise,” by Jack Halliday, is original to this collection and is copyright © 2013 by Jack Halliday.

“Officer Down,” by Robert J. Mendenhall, originally appeared in Crimespree Magazine, November/December 2010. Copyright © 2010 by Robert J. Mendenhall. Reprinted by permission of the author.

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

The Detective Megapack selects 30 tales, classic and modern, which we hope will intrigue and entertain you. We really enjoyed putting this collection together. Hopefully you will encounter at least a few authors you haven’t read before. If you like their work here, do seek out their other books and stories.

This volume was primarily selected by Carla Coupe and John Betancourt, though everyone at Wildside Press helps. And we continue to thank our readers who make suggestions.

ATTN: KINDLE READERS

The Kindle versions of our Megapacks employ active tables of contents for easy navigation…please look for one before writing reviews on Amazon that complain about the lack! (They are sometimes at the ends of ebooks, depending on your version or ebook reader.)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the Megapack series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone (and email a revised copy to you when it’s updated, in either epub or Kindle format, if you provide contact information). You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com.

* * * *

THE MEGAPACK SERIES

The Adventure Megapack

The Boys’ Adventure Megapack

The Christmas Megapack

The Second Christmas Megapack

The Classic American Short Story Megapack

The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack

The Cowboy Megapack

The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective Megapack

The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack

The Father Brown Megapack

The Ghost Story Megapack

The Second Ghost Story Megapack

The Horror Megapack

The Macabre Megapack

The Martian Megapack

The Military Megapack

The Mummy Megapack

The Mystery Megapack

The Penny Parker Megapack

The Pulp Fiction Megapack

The Rover Boys Megapack

The Science Fiction Megapack

The Second Science Fiction Megapack

The Third Science Fiction Megapack

The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack

The Fifth Science Fiction Megapack

The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack

The Penny Parker Megapack

The Pinocchio Megapack

The Steampunk Megapack

The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack

The Tom Swift Megapack

The Vampire Megapack

The Victorian Mystery Megapack

The Werewolf Megapack

The Western Megapack

The Second Western Megapack

The Second Western Megapack

The Wizard of Oz Megapack

The Wizard of Oz Megapack

AUTHOR MEGAPACKS

The E.F. Benson Megapack

The Second E.F. Benson Megapack

The B.M. Bower Megapack

The Wilkie Collins Megapack

The Jacques Futrelle Megapack

The Randall Garrett Megapack

The G.A. Henty Megapack

The Andre Norton Megapack

The H. Beam Piper Megapack

The Rafael Sabatini Megapack

ARSON PLUS, by Dashiell Hammett

Jim Tarr picked up the cigar I rolled across his desk, looked at the band, bit off an end, and reached for a match.

“Three for a buck,” he said. “You must want me to break a couple of laws for you this time.”

I had been doing business with this fat sheriff of Sacramento County for four or five years—ever since I came to the Continental Detective Agency’s San Francisco office—and I had never known him to miss an opening for a sour crack; but it didn’t mean anything.

“Wrong both times,” I told him. “I get them for two bits each, and I’m here to do you a favor instead of asking for one. The company that insured Thornburgh’s house thinks somebody touched it off.”

“That’s right enough, according to the fire department. They tell me the lower part of the house was soaked with gasoline, but the Lord knows how they could tell—there wasn’t a stick left standing. I’ve got McClump working on it, but he hasn’t found anything to get excited about yet.”

“What’s the layout? All I know is that there was a fire.”

Tarr leaned back in his chair and bellowed: “Hey, Mac!”

The pearl push buttons on his desk are ornaments so far as he is concerned. Deputy sheriffs McHale, McClump, and Macklin came to the door together—MacNab apparently wasn’t within hearing.

“What’s the idea?” the sheriff demanded of McClump. “Are you carrying a bodyguard around with you?”

The two other deputies, thus informed as to whom “Mac” referred this time, went back to their cribbage game.

“We got a city slicker here to catch our firebug for us,” Tarr told his deputy. “But we got to tell him what it’s all about first.”

McClump and I had worked together on an express robbery several months before. He’s a rangy, towheaded youngster of twenty-five or -six, with all the nerve in the world—and most of the laziness.

“Ain’t the Lord good to us?”

He had himself draped across a chair by now—always his first objective when he comes into a room.

“Well, here’s how she stands,” he went on. “This fellow Thornburgh’s house was a couple miles out of town, on the old county road—an old frame house. About midnight, night before last, Jeff Pringle—the nearest neighbor, a half-mile or so to the east—saw a glare in the sky from over that way, and phoned in the alarm; but by the time the fire wagons got there, there wasn’t enough of the house left to bother about. Pringle was the first of the neighbors to get to the house, and the roof had already fallen in then.

“Nobody saw anything suspicious—no strangers hanging around or nothing. Thornburgh’s help just managed to save themselves, and that was all. They don’t know much about what happened—too scared, I reckon. But they did see Thornburgh at his window just before the fire got him. A fellow here in town—name of Henderson—saw that part of it too. He was driving home from Wayton and got to the house just before the roof caved in.

“The fire department people say they found signs of gasoline. The Coonses, Thornburgh’s help, say they didn’t have no gas on the place. So there you are.”

“Thornburgh have any relatives?”

“Yeah. A niece in San Francisco—a Mrs. Evelyn Trowbridge. She was up yesterday, but there wasn’t nothing she could do, and she couldn’t tell us nothing much, so she went back home.”

“Where are the servants now?”

“Here in town. Staying at a hotel on I Street. I told ’em to stick around for a few days.”

“Thornburgh own the house?”

“Uh-huh. Bought it from Newning & Weed a couple months ago.”

“You got anything to do this morning?”

“Nothing but this.”

“Good. Let’s get out and dig around.”

We found the Coonses in their room at the hotel on I Street. Mr. Coons was a small-boned, plump man with the smooth, meaningless face and the suavity of the typical male house-servant.

His wife was a tall, stringy woman, perhaps five years older than her husband—say, forty—with a mouth and chin that seemed shaped for gossiping. But he did all the talking, while she nodded her agreement to every second or third word.

“We went to work for Mr. Thornburgh on the fifteenth of June I think,” he said, in reply to my first question. “We came to Sacramento, around the first of the month, and put in applications at the Allis Employment Bureau. A couple of weeks later they sent us out to see Mr. Thornburgh, and he took us on.”

“Where were you before you came here?”

“In Seattle, sir, with a Mrs. Comerford; but the climate there didn’t agree with my wife—she has bronchial trouble—so we decided to come to California. We most likely would have stayed in Seattle, though, if Mrs. Comerford hadn’t given up her house.”

“What do you know about Thornburgh?”

“Very little, sir. He wasn’t a talkative gentleman. He hadn’t any business that I know of. I think he was a retired seafaring man. He never said he was, but he had that manner and look. He never went out or had anybody in to see him, except his niece once, and he didn’t write or get any mail. He had a room next to his bedroom fixed up as a sort of workshop. He spent most of his time in there. I always thought he was working on some kind of invention, but he kept the door locked, and wouldn’t let us go near it.”

“Haven’t you any idea at all what it was?”

“No, sir. We never heard any hammering or noises from it, and never smelled anything either. And none of his clothes were ever the least bit soiled, even when they were ready to go out to the laundry. They would have been if he had been working on anything like machinery.”

“Was he an old man?”

“He couldn’t have been over fifty, sir. He was very erect, and his hair and beard were thick, with no gray hairs.”

“Ever have any trouble with him?”

“Oh, no, sir! He was, if I may say it, a very peculiar gentleman in a way; and he didn’t care about anything except having his meals fixed right, having his clothes taken care of—he was very particular about them—and not being disturbed. Except early in the morning and at night, we’d hardly see him all day.”

“Now about the fire. Tell us everything you remember.”

“Well, sir, my wife and I had gone to bed about ten o’clock, our regular time, and had gone to sleep. Our room was on the second floor, in the rear. Some time later—I never did exactly know what time it was—I woke up, coughing. The room was all full of smoke, and my wife was sort of strangling. I jumped up, and dragged her down the back stairs and out the back door.

“When I had her safe in the yard, I thought of Mr. Thornburgh, and tried to get back in the house; but the whole first floor was just flames. I ran around front then, to see if he had got out, but didn’t see anything of him. The whole yard was as light as day by then. Then I heard him scream—a horrible scream, sir—I can hear it yet! And I looked up at his window—that was the front second-story room—and saw him there, trying to get out the window! But all the woodwork was burning, and he screamed again and fell back, and right after that the roof over his room fell in.

“There wasn’t a ladder or anything that I could have put up to the window—there wasn’t anything I could have done.

“In the meantime, a gentleman had left his automobile in the road, and come up to where I was standing; but there wasn’t anything we could do—the house was burning everywhere and falling in here and there. So we went back to where I had left my wife, and carried her farther away from the fire, and brought her to—she had fainted. And that’s all I know about it, sir.”

“Hear any noises earlier that night? Or see anybody hanging around?”

“No, sir.”

“Have any gasoline around the place?”

“No, sir. Mr. Thornburgh didn’t have a car.”

“No gasoline for cleaning?”

“No, sir, none at all, unless Mr. Thornburgh had it in his workshop. When his clothes needed cleaning, I took them to town, and all his laundry was taken by the grocer’s man, when he brought our provisions.”

“Don’t know anything that might have some bearing on the fire?”

“No, sir. I was surprised when I heard that somebody had set the house afire. I could hardly believe it. I don’t know why anybody should want to do that.…”

“What do you think of them?” I asked McClump, as we left the hotel.

“They might pad the bills, or even go South with some of the silver, but they don’t figure as killers in my mind.”

That was my opinion, too; but they were the only persons known to have been there when the fire started except the man who had died. We went around to the Allis Employment Bureau and talked to the manager.

He told us that the Coonses had come into his office on June second, looking for work; and had given Mrs. Edward Comerford, 45 Woodmansee Terrace, Seattle, Washington, as reference. In reply to a letter—he always checked up the references of servants—Mrs. Comerford had written that the Coonses had been in her employ for a number of years, and had been “extremely satisfactory in every respect.” On June thirteenth, Thornburgh had telephoned the bureau, asking that a man and his wife be sent out to keep house for him, and Allis sent out two couples he had listed. Neither couple had been employed by Thornburgh, though Allis considered them more desirable than the Coonses, who were finally hired by Thornburgh.

All that would certainly seem to indicate that the Coonses hadn’t deliberately maneuvered themselves into the place, unless they were the luckiest people in the world—and a detective can’t afford to believe in luck or coincidence, unless he has unquestionable proof of it.

At the office of the real-estate agents, through whom Thornburgh had bought the house—Newning & Weed—we were told that Thornburgh had come in on the eleventh of June, and had said that he had been told that the house was for sale, had looked it over, and wanted to know the price. The deal had been closed the next morning, and he had paid for the house with a check for $14,500 on the Seamen’s Bank of San Francisco. The house was already furnished.

After luncheon, McClump and I called on Howard Henderson—the man who had seen the fire while driving home from Wayton. He had an office in the Empire Building, with his name and the title Northern California Agent for Krispy Korn Krumbs on the door. He was a big, careless-looking man of forty-five or so, with the professionally jovial smile that belongs to the traveling salesman.

He had been in Wayton on business the day of the fire, he said, and had stayed there until rather late, going to dinner and afterward playing pool with a grocer named Hammersmith—one of his customers. He had left Wayton in his machine, at about ten thirty, and set out for Sacramento. At lavender he had stopped at the garage for oil and gas, and to have one of his tires blown up.

Just as he was about to leave the garage, the garage man had called his attention to a red glare in the sky, and had told him that it was probably from a fire somewhere along the old county road that paralleled the state road into Sacramento; so Henderson had taken the county road, and had arrived at the burning house just in time to see Thornburgh try to fight his way through the flames that enveloped him.

It was too late to make any attempt to put out the fire, and the man upstairs was beyond saving by then—undoubtedly dead even before the roof collapsed; so Henderson had helped Coons revive his wife, and stayed there watching the fire until it had burned itself out. He had seen no one on that county road while driving to the fire.…

“What do you know about Henderson?” I asked McClump, when we were on the street.

“Came here, from somewhere in the East, I think, early in the summer to open that breakfast-cereal agency. Lives at the Garden Hotel. Where do we go next?”

“We get a car, and take a look at what’s left of the Thornburgh house.”

An enterprising incendiary couldn’t have found a lovelier spot in which to turn himself loose, if he looked the whole county over. Tree-topped hills hid it from the rest of the world, on three sides; while away from the fourth, an uninhabited plain rolled down to the river. The county road that passed the front gate was shunned by automobiles, so McClump said, in favor of the state highway to the north.

Where the house had been was now a mound of blackened ruins. We poked around in the ashes for a few minutes—not that we expected to find anything, but because it’s the nature of man to poke around in ruins.

A garage in the rear, whose interior gave no evidence of recent occupation, had a badly scorched roof and front, but was otherwise undamaged. A shed behind it, sheltering an ax, a shovel, and various odds and ends of gardening tools, had escaped the fire altogether. The lawn in front of the house, and the garden behind the shed—about an acre in all—had been pretty thoroughly cut and trampled by wagon wheels, and the feet of the firemen and the spectators.

Having ruined our shoeshines, McClump and I got back in our car and swung off in a circle around the place, calling at all the houses within a mile radius, and getting little besides jolts for our trouble.

The nearest house was that of Pringle, the man who had turned in the alarm; but he not only knew nothing about the dead man, he said he had never even seen him. In fact, only one of the neighbors had ever seen him: a Mrs. Jabine, who lived about a mile to the south.

She had taken care of the key to the house while it was vacant; and a day or two before he bought it, Thornburgh had come to her house, inquiring about the vacant one. She had gone over there with him and showed him through it, and he had told her that he intended buying it, if the price wasn’t too high.

He had been alone, except for the chauffeur of the hired car in which he had come from Sacramento, and, save that he had no family, he had told her nothing about himself.

Hearing that he had moved in, she went over to call on him several days later—“just a neighborly visit”—but had been told by Mrs. Coons that he was not at home. Most of the neighbors had talked to the Coonses, and had got the impression that Thornburgh did not care for visitors, so they had let him alone. The Coonses were described as “pleasant enough to talk to when you meet them,” but reflecting their employer’s desire not to make friends.

McClump summarized what the afternoon had taught us as we pointed our car toward Tavender: “Any of these folks could have touched off the place, but we got nothing to show that any of ’em even knew Thornburgh, let alone had a bone to pick with him.”

Tavender turned out to be a crossroads settlement of a general store and post office, a garage, a church, and six dwellings, about two miles from Thornburgh’s place. McClump knew the storekeeper and postmaster, a scrawny little man named Philo, who stuttered moistly.

“I n-n-never s-saw Th-thornburgh,” he said, “and I n-n-never had any m-mail for him. C-coons”—it sounded like one of these things butterflies come out of—“used to c-come in once a week to-to order groceries—they d-didn’t have a phone. He used to walk in, and I’d s-send the stuff over in my c-c-car. Th-then I’d s-see him once in a while, waiting f-for the stage to S-s-sacramento.”

“Who drove the stuff out to Thornburgh’s?”

“M-m-my b-boy. Want to t-talk to him?”

The boy was a juvenile edition of the old man, but without the stutter. He had never seen Thornburgh on any of his visits, but his business had taken him only as far as the kitchen. He hadn’t noticed anything peculiar about the place.

“Who’s the night man at the garage?” I asked him.

“Billy Luce. I think you can catch him there now. I saw him go in a few minutes ago.”

We crossed the road and found Luce.

“Night before last—the night of the fire down the road—was there a man here talking to you when you first saw it?”

He turned his eyes upward in that vacant stare which people use to aid their memory.

“Yes, I remember now! He was going to town, and I told him that if he took the county road instead of the state road he’d see the fire on his way in.”

“What kind of looking man was he?”

“Middle-aged—a big man, but sort of slouchy. I think he had on a brown suit, baggy and wrinkled.”

“Medium complexion?”

“Yes.”

“Smile when he talked?”

“Yes, a pleasant sort of fellow.”

“Brown hair?”

“Yeah, but have a heart!” Luce laughed. “I didn’t put him under a magnifying glass.”

From Tavender we drove over to Wayton. Luce’s description had fit Henderson all right, but while we were at it, we thought we might as well check up to make sure that he had been coming from Wayton.

We spent exactly twenty-five minutes in Wayton; ten of them finding Hammersmith, the grocer with whom Henderson had said he dined and played pool; five minutes finding the proprietor of the pool room; and ten verifying Henderson’s story.…

“What do you think of it now, Mac?” I asked, as we rolled back toward Sacramento.

Mac’s too lazy to express an opinion, or even form one, unless he’s driven to it; but that doesn’t mean they aren’t worth listening to, if you can get them.

“There ain’t a hell of a lot to think,” he said cheerfully. “Henderson is out of it, if he ever was in it. There’s nothing to show that anybody but the Coonses and Thornburgh were there when the fire started—but there may have been a regiment there. Them Coonses ain’t too honest-looking, maybe, but they ain’t killers, or I miss my guess. But the fact remains that they’re the only bet we got so far. Maybe we ought to try to get a line on them.”

“All right,” I agreed. “Soon as we get back to town, I’ll get a wire off to our Seattle office asking them to interview Mrs. Comerford, and see what she can tell about them. Then I’m going to catch a train for San Francisco and see Thornburgh’s niece in the morning.”

Next morning, at the address McClump had given me—a rather elaborate apartment building on California Street—I had to wait three-quarters of an hour for Mrs. Evelyn Trowbridge to dress. If I had been younger, or a social caller, I suppose I’d have felt amply rewarded when she finally came in—a tall, slender woman of less than thirty; in some sort of clinging black affair; with a lot of black hair over a very white face, strikingly set off by a small red mouth and big hazel eyes.

But I was a busy, middle-aged detective, who was fuming over having his time wasted; and I was a lot more interested in finding the bird who struck the match than I was in feminine beauty. However, I smothered my grouch, apologized for disturbing her at such an early hour, and got down to business.

“I want you to tell me all you know about your uncle—his family, friends, enemies, business connections—everything.”

I had scribbled on the back of the card I had sent into her what my business was.

“He hadn’t any family,” she said; “unless I might be it. He was my mother’s brother, and I am the only one of that family now living.”

“Where was he born?”

“Here in San Francisco. I don’t know the date, but he was about fifty years old, I think—three years older than my mother.”

“What was his business?”

“He went to sea when he was a boy, and, so far as I know, always followed it until a few months ago.”

“Captain?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I wouldn’t see or hear from him for several years, and he never talked about what he was doing; though he would mention some of the places he had visited—Rio de Janeiro, Madagascar, Tobago, Christiania. Then, about three months ago—some time in May—he came here and told me that he was through with wandering; that he was going to take a house in some quiet place where he could work undisturbed on an invention in which he was interested.

“He lived at the Francisco Hotel while he was in San Francisco. After a couple of weeks he suddenly disappeared. And then, about a month ago, I received a telegram from him, asking me to come to see him at his house near Sacramento. I went up the very next day, and I thought that he was acting queerly—he seemed very excited over something. He gave me a will that he had just drawn up and some life-insurance policies in which I was beneficiary.

“Immediately after that he insisted that I return home, and hinted rather plainly that he did not wish me to either visit him again or write until I heard from him. I thought all that rather peculiar, as he had always seemed fond of me. I never saw him again.”

“What was this invention he was working on?”

“I really don’t know. I asked him once, but he became so excited—even suspicious—that I changed the subject, and never mentioned it again.”

“Are you sure that he really did follow the sea all those years?”

“No, I am not. I just took it for granted; but he may have been doing something altogether different.”

“Was he ever married?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Know any of his friends or enemies?”

“No, none.”

“Remember anybody’s name that he ever mentioned?”

“No.”

“I don’t want you to think this next question insulting, though I admit it is. Where were you the night of the fire?”

“At home; I had some friends here to dinner, and they stayed until about midnight. Mr. and Mrs. Walker Kellogg, Mrs. John Dupree, and a Mr. Killmer, who is a lawyer. I can give you their addresses, if you want to question them.”

From Mrs. Trowbridge’s apartment I went to the Francisco Hotel. Thornburgh had been registered there from May tenth to June thirteenth, and hadn’t attracted much attention. He had been a tall, broad-shouldered, erect man of about fifty, with rather long brown hair brushed straight back; a short, pointed brown beard, and a healthy, ruddy complexion—grave, quiet, punctilious in dress and manner; his hours had been regular and he had had no visitors that any of the hotel employees remembered.

At the Seamen’s Bank—upon which Thornburgh’s check, in payment of the house, had been drawn—I was told that he had opened an account there on May fifteenth, having been introduced by W. W. Jeffers & Sons, local stockbrokers. A balance of a little more than four hundred dollars remained to his credit. The cancelled checks on hand were all to the order of various life-insurance companies; and for amounts that, if they represented premiums, testified to rather large policies. I jotted down the names of the life-insurance companies, and then went to the offices of W. W. Jeffers & Sons.

Thornburgh had come in, I was told, on the tenth of May with $15,000 worth of bonds that he had wanted sold. During one of his conversations with Jeffers he had asked the broker to recommend a bank, and Jeffers had given him a letter of introduction to the Seamen’s Bank.

That was all Jeffers knew about him. He gave me the numbers of the bonds, but tracing bonds isn’t always the easiest thing in the world.

The reply to my Seattle telegram was waiting for me at the Continental Detective Agency when I arrived.

MRS EDWARD COMERFORD RENTED APARTMENT AT ADDRESS YOU GAVE ON MAY TWENTY-FIVE. GAVE IT UP JUNE 6. TRUNKS TO SAN FRANCISCO SAME DAY CHECK NUMBERS ON FOUR FIVE TWO FIVE EIGHT SEVEN AND EIGHT AND NINE.

Tracing baggage is no trick at all, if you have the dates and check numbers to start with—as many a bird who is wearing somewhat similar numbers on his chest and back, because he overlooked that detail when making his getaway, can tell you—and twenty-five minutes in a baggage-room at the Ferry and half an hour in the office of a transfer company gave me my answer.

The trunks had been delivered to Mrs. Evelyn Trowbridge’s apartment!

I got Jim Tarr on the phone and told him about it.

“Good shooting!” he said, forgetting for once to indulge his wit. “We’ll grab the Coonses here and Mrs. Trowbridge there, and that’s the end of another mystery.”

“Wait a minute!” I cautioned him. “It’s not all straightened out yet—there’re still a few kinks in the plot.”

“It’s straight enough for me. I’m satisfied.”

“You’re the boss, but I think you’re being a little hasty. I’m going up and talk with the niece again. Give me a little time before you phone the police here to make the pinch. I’ll hold her until they get there.”

Evelyn Trowbridge let me in this time, instead of the maid who had opened the door for me in the morning, and she led me to the same room in which we had had our first talk. I let her pick out a seat, and then I selected one that was closer to either door than hers was.

On the way up I had planned a lot of innocent-sounding questions that would get her all snarled up; but after taking a good look at this woman sitting in front of me, leaning comfortably back in her chair, coolly waiting for me to speak my piece, I discarded the trick stuff and came out cold-turkey.

“Ever use the name Mrs. Edward Comerford?”

“Oh, yes.” As casual as a nod on the street.

“When?”

“Often. You see, I happen to have been married not so long ago to Mr. Edward Comerford. So it’s not really strange that I should have used the name.”

“Use it in Seattle recently?”

“I would suggest,” she said sweetly, “that if you are leading up to the references I gave Coons and his wife, you might save time by coming right to it.”

“That’s fair enough,” I said. “Let’s do that.”

There wasn’t a tone or shading, in voice, manner, or expression, to indicate that she was talking about anything half so serious or important to her as a possibility of being charged with murder. She might have been talking about the weather.

“During the time that Mr. Comerford and I were married, we lived in Seattle, where he still lives. After the divorce, I left Seattle and resumed my maiden name. And the Coonses were in our employ, as you might learn if you care to look it up. You’ll find my husband—or former husband—at the Chelsea Apartments, I think.

“Last summer, or late spring, I decided to return to Seattle. The truth of it is—I suppose all my personal affairs will be aired anyhow—that I thought perhaps Edward and I might patch up our differences; so I went back and took an apartment on Woodmansee Terrace. As I was known in Seattle as Mrs. Edward Comerford, and as I thought my using his name might influence him a little, I used it while I was there.

“Also I telephoned the Coonses to make tentative arrangements in case Edward and I should open our house again; but Coons told me that they were going to California, and so I gladly gave them an excellent recommendation when, some days later, I received a letter of inquiry from an employment bureau in Sacramento. After I had been in Seattle for about two weeks, I changed my mind about the reconciliation—Edward’s interest, I learned, was all centered elsewhere; so I returned to San Francisco—”

“Very nice! But—”

“If you will permit me to finish,” she interrupted. “When I went to see my uncle in response to his telegram, I was surprised to find the Coonses in his house. Knowing my uncle’s peculiarities, and finding them now increased, and remembering his extreme secretiveness about his mysterious invention, I cautioned the Coonses not to tell him that they had been in my employ.

“He certainly would have discharged them, and just as certainly would have quarreled with me—he would have thought that I was having him spied on. Then, when Coons telephoned me after the fire, I knew that to admit that the Coonses had been formerly in my employ, would, in view of the fact that I was my uncle’s only heir, cast suspicion on all three of us. So we foolishly agreed to say nothing and carry on the deception.”

That didn’t sound all wrong—but it didn’t sound all right. I wished Tarr had taken it easier and let us get a better line on these people, before having them thrown in the coop.

“The coincidence of the Coonses stumbling into my uncle’s house is, I fancy, too much for your detecting instincts,” she went on. “Am I to consider myself under arrest?”

I’m beginning to like this girl; she’s a nice, cool piece of work.

“Not yet,” I told her. “But I’m afraid it’s going to happen pretty soon.”

She smiled a little mocking smile at that, and another when the doorbell rang.

It was O’Hara from police headquarters. We turned the apartment upside down and inside out, but didn’t find anything of importance except the will she had told me about, dated July eighth, and her uncle’s life-insurance policies. They were all dated between May fifteenth and June tenth, and added up to a little more than $200,000.

I spent an hour grilling the maid after O’Hara had taken Evelyn Trowbridge away, but she didn’t know any more than I did. However, between her, the janitor, the manager of the apartments, and the names Mrs. Trowbridge had given me, I learned that she had really been entertaining friends on the night of the fire—until after eleven o’clock, anyway—and that was late enough.

Half an hour later I was riding the Short Line back to Sacramento. I was getting to be one of the line’s best customers, and my anatomy was on bouncing terms with every bump in the road.

Between bumps I tried to fit the pieces of this Thornburgh puzzle together. The niece and the Coonses fit in somewhere, but not just where we had them. We had been working on the job sort of lopsided, but it was the best we could do with it. In the beginning we had turned to the Coonses and Evelyn Trowbridge because there was no other direction to go; and now we had something on them—but a good lawyer could make hash out of it.

The Coonses were in the county jail when I got to Sacramento. After some questioning they had admitted their connection with the niece, and had come through with stories that matched hers.

Tarr, McClump and I sat around the sheriff’s desk and argued.

“Those yarns are pipe dreams,” the sheriff said. “We got all three of ’em cold, and they’re as good as convicted.”

McClump grinned derisively at his superior, and then turned to me.

“Go on, you tell him about the holes in his little case. He ain’t your boss, and can’t take it out on you later for being smarter than he is!”

Tarr glared from one of us to the other.

“Spill it, you wise guys!” he ordered.

“Our dope is,” I told him, figuring that McClump’s view of it was the same as mine, “that there’s nothing to show that even Thornburgh knew he was going to buy that house before the tenth of June, and that the Coonses were in town looking for work on the second. And besides, it was only by luck that they got the jobs. The employment office sent two couples out there ahead of them.”

“We’ll take a chance on letting the jury figure that out.”

“Yes? You’ll also take a chance on them figuring out that Thornburgh, who seems to have been a nut, might have touched off the place himself! We’ve got something on these people, Jim, but not enough to go into court with them. How are you going to prove that when the Coonses were planted in Thornburgh’s house—if you can even prove that they were planted—they and the Trowbridge woman knew he was going to load up with insurance policies?”

The sheriff spat disgustedly.

“You guys are the limit! You run around in circles, digging up the dope on these people until you get enough to hang ’em, and then you run around hunting for outs! What’s the matter with you now?”

I answered him from halfway to the door—the pieces were beginning to fit together under my skull.

“Going to run some more circles—come on, Mac!”

McClump and I held a conference on the fly, and then I got a car from the nearest garage and headed for Tavender. We made time going out, and got there before the general store had closed for the night. The stuttering Philo separated himself from the two men with whom he had been talking, and followed me to the rear of the store.

“Do you keep an itemized list of the laundry you handle?”

“N-n-no; just the amounts.”

“Let’s look at Thornburgh’s.”

He produced a begrimed and rumpled account book, and we picked out the weekly items I wanted: $2.60, $3.10, $2.25, and so on.

“Got the last batch of laundry here?”

“Y-yes,” he said. “It j-just c-c-came out from the city t-today.”

I tore open the bundle—some sheets, pillowcases, tablecloths, towels, napkins; some feminine clothing; some shirts, collars, underwear, and socks that were unmistakably Coons’s. I thanked Philo while running back to the car.

Back in Sacramento again, McClump was waiting for me at the garage where I had hired the car.

“Registered at the hotel on June fifteenth; rented the office on the sixteenth. I think he’s in the hotel now,” he greeted me.

We hurried around the block to the Garden Hotel.

“Mr. Henderson went out a minute or two ago,” the night clerk told us. “He seemed to be in a hurry.”

“Know where he keeps his car?”

“In the hotel garage around the corner.”

We were within ten feet of the garage, when Henderson’s automobile shot out and turned up the street.

“Oh, Mr. Henderson!” I cried, trying to keep my voice level.

He stepped on the gas and streaked away from us.

“Want him?” McClump asked; and at my nod he stopped a passing roadster by the simple expedient of stepping in front of it.

We climbed in, McClump flashed his star at the bewildered driver, and pointed out Henderson’s dwindling tail-light. After he had persuaded himself that he wasn’t being boarded by a couple of bandits, the commandeered driver did his best, and we picked up Henderson’s tail-light after two or three turnings, and closed in on him—though his car was going at a good clip.

By the time we reached the outskirts of the city, we had crawled up to within safe shooting distance, and I sent a bullet over the fleeing man’s head. Thus encouraged, he managed to get a little more speed out of his car; but we were overhauling him now.

Just at the wrong minute Henderson decided to look over his shoulder at us—an unevenness in the road twisted his wheels—his machine swayed—skidded—went over on its side. Almost immediately, from the heart of the tangle, came a flash and a bullet moaned past my ear. Another. And then, while I was still hunting for something to shoot at in the pile of junk we were drawing down upon, McClump’s ancient and battered revolver roared in my other ear.

Henderson was dead when we got to him—McClump’s bullet had taken him over one eye.

McClump spoke to me over the body.

“I ain’t an inquisitive sort of fellow, but I hope you don’t mind telling me why I shot this lad.”

“Because he was—Thornburgh.”

He didn’t say anything for about five minutes. Then: “I reckon that’s right. How’d you know it?”

We were sitting beside the wreckage now, waiting for the police that we had sent our commandeered chauffeur to phone for.

“He had to be,” I said, “when you think it all over. Funny we didn’t hit on it before! All that stuff we were told about Thornburgh had a fishy sound. Whiskers and an unknown profession, immaculate and working on a mysterious invention, very secretive and born in San Francisco—where the fire wiped out all the old records—just the sort of fake that could be cooked up easily.

“Now, consider Henderson. You had told me he came to Sacramento sometime early this summer—and the dates you got tonight show that he didn’t come until after Thornburgh had bought his house. All right! Now compare Henderson with the descriptions we got of Thornburgh.

“Both are about the same size and age, and with the same color hair. The differences are all things that can be manufactured—clothes, a little sunburn, and a month’s growth of beard, along with a little acting, would do the trick. Tonight I went out to Tavender and took a look at the last batch of laundry—and there wasn’t any that didn’t fit the Coonses! And none of the bills all the way back were large enough for Thornburgh to have been as careful about his clothes as we were told he was.”

“It must be great to be a detective!” McClump grinned as the police ambulance came up and began disgorging policemen. “I reckon somebody must have tipped Henderson off that I was asking about him this evening.” And then, regretfully: “So we ain’t going to hang them folks for murder after all.”

“No, but we oughtn’t have any trouble convicting them of arson plus conspiracy to defraud, and anything else that the Prosecuting Attorney can think up.”

IT TORE THE LAUGH FROM MY THROAT, by Meriah L Crawford

I was supposed to be on vacation. I was supposed to be relaxing, putting my feet up, reading. I was supposed to be eating locally-caught seafood—like drum, soft-shell crab, and oysters dug fresh. I was supposed to be sitting on the porch of my little rental cabin on Chincoteague, enjoying the break I’d earned after nearly four solid months of long hours, seven-day weeks, and living out of my car while working on a huge class-action lawsuit. The phone was not supposed to ring, and if it did, I was not supposed to answer. But it did, and I did, and this is what happened.

* * * *

“Is this Lauren? Lauren Lindsay?”

I could tell from the voice that something was very wrong. “Yes?” I said.

“My name is Harriet Reynolds. I was Jess Walter’s college roommate.” Jess is a lawyer friend of mine who I work for as a private investigator. She sometimes referred clients to me, but she also knew how much I needed this time off.

“It’s my husband,” she said, her voice breaking. “He’s—he’s missing.” Harriet began sobbing.

I could almost feel her body shaking over the phone. I’d had people start crying before—usually while telling me they suspected their husband or wife was cheating on them—but not like this. I waited for a couple of minutes until the storm began to ease, then said, as gently as I could, “I’m so sorry about your husband. Tell me what I can do to help.”

“I want you to find him. Please.”

Though I was exhausted and reluctant to take any new work on, for Jess’ sake I decided to at least hear her out. I pulled out a notebook and pen, and sat at the small dining table to take notes.

Her husband Tom, a retired bank manager, went to visit his mother one afternoon, just over a week ago. Harriet stayed behind because of a migraine, and went to bed early. When she woke up at almost eight the next morning, Tom still hadn’t come home. Harriet called his mom, who told her that Tom left just after eleven the night before, saying he was going straight home. Harriet then began a frenzy of phone calling: hospitals, the police, friends and family in the area. Nothing. After another call to Tom’s mother, who was starting to get frightened, Harriet drove the route to her house, and then back by a slightly different path. There was no sign of him. Nothing at all.

Later that same day, she told me, the police found Tom’s car parked at the edge of a field. It was a couple miles off his expected path, which was explained by the fact that the fuel tank was empty. The working theory was that he’d noticed he was low on fuel sometime after he started home, and turned toward the main highway where he knew he could buy gas at that hour. He’d obviously run out before he got that far.

It seemed reasonable to think he’d simply started walking, since it was only about a mile to the nearest gas station. But, what happened next was anybody’s guess. Finally, after a week’s work with no solid leads, the police had admitted that there wasn’t much more they could do. And that’s when Harriet called Jess, who sent her to me.

I’d worked missing persons cases before, but they were all fairly basic: finding old friends, former employees, or catching up with a rebellious son who’d left home at sixteen and not been heard from since. It was usually a matter of doing a bunch of online searching followed by, at most, a few phone calls. There was one young woman I hadn’t been able to find for seven months, but it turned out she’d moved to a different state and lived with friends for half a year while saving up to rent an apartment. That kept her name out of the databases for much longer than usual.

But, this? Harriet’s story just didn’t make much sense to me. It all came back to a simple question: If he wasn’t dead, why hadn’t he called? There was a time before cell phones, when some rural areas didn’t have phone service available for every home, that he might just be sick or hurt and not able to let her know. But the man had a cell phone, as do most people nowadays, and service was fairly good on the peninsula. It seemed clear to me that he was gone either because he wanted to be, or because he was beyond wanting. Beyond anything. Either way, it wasn’t going to end well for Harriet.

After briefly flirting with the idea of declining the case, I suggested we meet to talk in person. Why didn’t I just tell her I couldn’t do it? Two reasons. First, I owed Jess. She’d helped me deal with the murder of a dear friend the year before, and then put me to work when I needed it. I knew I’d earned my keep working for her, but she’d risked a lot on a rookie. If a friend of hers was in trouble, there was no way I could turn her down. The second reason was that it was an interesting case. I’d like to say I did it because I care, because Harriet’s pain touched me—and it did. But, as much as anything, I just wanted to dig in and find the answer for myself.

Harriet gave me directions, and I headed out. I hadn’t seen much of the Eastern Shore on my drive to Chincoteague, because I’d gotten a late start. It had been well after sunset when I rolled off the bridge onto the southern tip of the peninsula. What I found in daylight was a single north-south highway lined mostly with tiny strip malls and fields of corn, soybeans, and tomatoes. A foul stench announced the presence of the area’s other major industry: a chicken processing plant. I slid the window up and put the air on recirculate, trying not to think about the smell and the flocks of seagulls rioting over the back lot.

Away from the commercial areas, on narrow, winding country roads, I saw a mix of farmhouses, mobile homes, and small housing developments sprinkled among fields and a few tracts of wooded land. A nice place to visit and drive through, but rural areas like that always make me feel sorry for the local kids, imagining the boredom they must suffer growing up. And there were so many bleak houses that bore signs of neglect and deep poverty.

It made the small housing development that Harriet had directed me to all the more striking. They owned a recently-built single-story brick house with a view of the Chesapeake Bay between two houses across the road. It was lovely, but utterly silent. There wasn’t even the sound of birds. When the houses were built, they must’ve scraped the land clean, because the only landscaping I could see consisted of saplings and clumps of ornamental grass that wasn’t dense enough to sustain much in the way of wildlife.

When Harriet ushered me into the dimly-lit living room, it felt like a house already in mourning. For her sake, I wished there was a small crowd of family and neighbors there, but during the nearly two hours I was with her, no one knocked, the phone didn’t ring, and no cars even drove past. It made some sense when she told me they’d just moved to the area to help take care of his mom, but it was still so grim.

I sat quietly and listened to Harriet tell me the story again, encouraging her to add more details or explain when it seemed relevant. She had an easy manner about her, and a gentle, quiet humor that, even in the midst of this nightmare, peeked out now and then. But she was clearly both physically and mentally exhausted, and when she finished, she sat and stared silently out the window, as though she lacked the energy to even think of what to say or do next.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but there’s something I have to ask.”

“You want to know if he might have left me,” she said tonelessly.

I waited for her to continue.

After a moment, she shook her head and turned to look at me. “No.” She straightened and gave me the most confident look I’d seen from her so far. “I understand why you’re asking, but I would bet the whole commonwealth of Virginia that he’d never cheat on me. Not ever. And lord knows, he’s had opportunity to. Conventions, business trips, late nights at work.”

“Then, how…” I paused, knowing she could guess what I meant, and we’d both like it better if I didn’t need to spell it out.

Still firmly, she said, “Because he tells me everything. He told me the time he got drunk during a conference and called his boss a jackass. He told me when he dented his rental car and reported that he had no idea how it happened. He even told me when his assistant at the bank told him she was in love with him—and he let me decide what to do about it.” She nodded to herself at the memory.

If nothing else, she was sure of her man’s devotion, and for that, at least, I envied her. I don’t know whether it’s me, or the men I choose, or simply a reflection of the times, but three of my last four boyfriends had found monogamy too great a burden to bear. Good riddance to them.

Of course, it was also possible that she was just in denial. Clients are often wrong, whether willfully or not.

“OK,” I said. “Is there any other reason he might take off without telling you?”

She tilted her head to the side, giving me questioning look.

“Maybe rescuing a friend in distress?” I said. “Helping a family member he knows you don’t like?” I frowned, thinking, grasping for something even remotely plausible, and she stared at me eagerly, hoping for more.

She seemed to realize I had nothing else to suggest, and sat back, looking momentarily numb again. “No,” she said. “Nothing like that. I did wonder at first if he ran into someone. Decided to go for a beer and managed to get drunk, then slept on their couch. But of course, as that first day wore on, that got less and less likely. And by now…”

“You’ve called everyone?”

“Yes.” She rested her hand gently on a stapled stack of papers on the table beside her. “I called everyone I could think of. Everyone in his contact list in his e-mail program that might have heard from him. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.” Her fists suddenly clenched, her eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed tightly together.

I kept going, hoping to distract her. I asked about money, his credit cards, retirement accounts, investments. Nothing had been touched. She’d spent considerable time over the past few days going over the last three years worth of financial data, and nothing seemed amiss. Nothing was missing from the house, as far as she could tell. He didn’t even have much money with him. She thought it would have been less than $20, since he rarely carried much cash anymore.

“Oh,” I said quickly, “why is that?”

She half smiled. “He’d always be donating money, or loaning it out, or just giving big tips to people wherever he went. I don’t mean to sound…I mean, I love that about him, that he’s so generous, but you see—well, he’d just go through the money so quickly, so we agreed. He carried just enough for a paper, lunch, maybe a few little things, and told everyone his wife had him on a strict allowance.” She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I suppose people thought I was controlling and cheap, but we really couldn’t afford for him to spend so much.”

She looked intently at me, as though waiting for my approval or my judgment, so I said, “Sure, that makes sense.”

She nodded again, and began shuffling through the papers.

Based on what she showed me, it was clear they were comfortable financially, though not wealthy by any means. Most of their money was in the house, which was paid for, and their two cars. Kidnapping seemed unlikely, but still worth considering, I suppose.

“Had anyone asked either of you for a large loan recently, or seemed particularly interested in your finances?”

“Not so far as I know.”

I continued. “Since the night he disappeared, especially right afterwards, were there any strange phone calls or hang-ups?”

“No.”

“Any odd letters or packages?”

She froze. “Gosh, I don’t know. We don’t even have a mailbox here. Everything goes to our post office box, and there’s been nothing unusual there. I guess someone might have put something in a neighbor’s box by mistake.”

I asked her to check with the neighbors, glad to have a task to give her, and then I asked for a copy of the contact list. She stood and took it with her to a room down the hall where I heard a copier running.

While she was gone, I scanned the room. It was neat, spare, with a faint haze of dust on everything. The furniture was mostly new, in an odd mix of overstuffed upholstery and shaker-style pieces, with a few ornate antiques thrown in. An upright piano stood in one dim corner with a handful of photos scattered across the top. A pleasant room, but it didn’t tell me much.

Harriet’s shoes—navy leather pumps—thudded faintly as she moved from carpet to wood to rug coming back into the room. She handed me the pages and we sat for almost twenty minutes going through them, page after page.

“He never deletes anyone out, even people he hasn’t spoken to in ages. Tom always says that some of his best times are spent talking to old friends and business associates. He can pick up the phone and call someone he hasn’t heard from in a decade or more, and talk and laugh and do business with them like they’d played golf that weekend.” She smiled, looking almost happy for a moment. “I’ve never understood how he could do that. I’ll run into someone I haven’t spoken to in six months and not have a word to say beyond, ‘How are you?’ and ‘You look wonderful.’”

Harriet showed me the code she used when she went through the list, noting which ones she called, which people he knew only faintly—say, through church or rotary—which were family and close friends, business associates, people she knew he hadn’t spoken to in years. I added a few notes as well, including highlighting people Harriet hadn’t been able to locate, and anyone who lived on the peninsula.

After a few more questions, I finished by asking, “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me, or any questions you have?”

She stiffened abruptly and looked down at her feet, and I braced myself. She said, “Do you think he’s alive?”

I paused, trying to come up with the right answer, but there just wasn’t one. “I really don’t know, Harriet.”

She sighed and leaned back in the chair, looking exhausted and defeated.

I suggested she get some rest, and promised I’d call the next day to give her an update. She nodded dully and sat staring straight ahead while I let myself out.

As I climbed in and started my car, I felt as though I’d escaped. I was relieved to be away from her grief and fear. At the same time, I couldn’t help feeling thrilled to be working on such a baffling case. Together, those emotions brought a truckload of guilt with them. The only thing I could really do to help her was to find her husband, and I needed enthusiasm to do my job well, but did that excuse it? That was another question I wasn’t prepared to answer.

As I drove out of the Reynolds’ neighborhood, I called the Sheriff’s office and made an appointment to meet with a Lieutenant Withams, who was surprisingly willing to talk. We met at a nearby Hardees and found a quiet corner to sit in.

“So, what is it you need to know, ma’am?” he asked, with a large, rough hand planted firmly on the creased and dirty file folder in front of him.

A full copy of the file would have been nice, but it seemed unlikely. “How about telling me what steps you’ve taken so far. I’m sure you’ve been thorough,” I added.

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you?”

“Well, I know your time and resources are limited, but I have a lot of respect—”

He put a hand up. “Sheriff told me to cooperate, and I will. I don’t need my ego stroked.” He started by pulling out a map and folding it into about a twelve-inch square. “Here,” he said, making Xs with a blue ballpoint, “is where we found the car, here’s his Mom’s house, his own home, and the gas station we’re guessing he would’ve headed for.”

I studied it briefly, asking questions about the exact spot where Tom’s car was. “I was wondering—could he have gone to a nearby farm or something where they might have had some gas to give him?”

Withams shrugged again. “That area’s mostly a mix of marsh, housing developments, and fields.” He turned the map toward him. “Lots of folks have dogs and shotguns, too. Not to mention jobs to get up for, bright and early. That time of night, I don’t see a man like him waking someone up just because he was dumb enough to let his tank run dry. But, who knows?”

I took notes as Withams continued. He had been thorough. He’d spoken with dozens of people, knocked on a lot of doors, checked accounts, cell phone usage, even spoken to a few people at Tom’s former job.

“And the car?”

He flipped through the file until he got to a report from the state police, who had more of a crime lab than the local department. “No signs of blood, no tampering or forced entry. Nothing illegal or out of the ordinary at all, in fact. No papers aside from the manual and registration. Missus Reynolds said he’d just cleaned it out, and the garbage all went to the dump. And the scene? No skid marks, no footwear impressions, nothing dropped or discarded.” He scowled. “Nothing. Just nothing.”

He listed a few other things he’d done, including checking Tom’s credit and his criminal history, which basically got him nowhere. When he was finished, I asked, “Lieutenant, what do you think happened to him?”

He pushed back slightly from the table and reached down to adjust the gear on his belt. Finally, he sighed and shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest idea, ma’am. There is not one piece of this that makes sense to me. It’s that damn car.” He looked up to see how I’d react to the curse, and seemed reassured by the lack of offense on my face. “Well, if it weren’t for that, I’d be sure he’d taken off with some lady. As it is?” He shrugged. “I was expecting him to roll in hung over the next day, or for his wife to get some kind of half-assed redneck ransom note.” He looked at me more confidently this time, almost challenging me to object to his words.

I ignored them and went on. “Could he have gotten lost in the woods?”

He exhaled sharply and tilted his head. “I don’t see how. He might’ve forgotten the woods around here since he moved away, but I understand he’s been a hunter all his life. He’d be too savvy for that.”

“Have there been any abductions that look similar to this? Kidnappings?”

“Only on TV,” he said. “I’ll tell you what we have seen, when adults have disappeared. The person, man or woman, has had some bad news—usually money or health, or maybe a cheating girlfriend—and they’ve gotten in a car or thumbed a ride on the highway, and they’ve just vanished. Sometimes they turn up again. Sometimes not. But oftentimes, there’s just no way to find them until they get locked up for something, killed or hurt bad, or…hell, one guy—real sumbitch—he sent his wife a postcard from someplace sunny telling her how much happier he was not to have to listen to her whining anymore. As if there was something unreasonable about her expecting him to work now and then and help pay the bills.” Lieutenant Withams had a mean look on his face as he remembered it.

After a moment, he turned his attention back to me and I asked, “Is there anything you can recommend I look into? Anything you didn’t have time to do that might be promising?”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded hands. “Let me see. Did she give you the list of contacts?”

I nodded.

“I called the top tier—the ones he’d spoken with the most. But there are maybe two hundred more on there that I just didn’t have time for.”

I grimaced, and he smiled.

“And I didn’t knock on every single door between the gas station and where we found his car.”

I sighed and nodded. “OK, I’ll start on those. Will you let me know if you can think of anything else that might be useful?”

“You bet. And if you find anything…”

“I’ll keep you up to speed.” Only with Harriet’s permission, that is, but he didn’t need to hear that.

* * * *

I followed the lieutenant to the field where the car had been found. There was nowhere to pull off except for the dirt-and-gravel farm road that Tom had left his car on, and I wanted to leave that clear. The roads were narrow with no shoulder, and edged with deep drainage ditches, so Withams obligingly turned on his lightbar and waved to me to park in front of him along the road. I got out and he showed me the spot, pointing out various landmarks. There was a trio of rusting bins—wide, squat silos made of corrugated steel that farmers store grain in—just visible above the treeline.

“Those bins—” I started.

“Checked ’em, first thing. Also the abandoned house beyond those trees there,” he pointed toward where I knew the bay was, “and the five closest houses.”

I walked around for a few minutes, eyes down, studying the ground. There were prints all over, from boots and sneakers mostly, but I knew it had rained heavily early on the morning after Tom had disappeared, so they’d be more recent. I nudged at some trash with my foot, and peered under a plastic bag.

Withams watched with a slightly amused expression. “What are you expecting to find?”

“More than I’d find if I didn’t look at all,” I said. “I’m sure you already did this, but it never hurts to have another set of eyes.”

He shrugged, then walked back to his car and propped himself on the hood.

I kept going, moving in a spiral pattern out from the car’s location. I wanted intensely to find some critical piece of evidence. After ten minutes, I’d have settled for finding something mildly interesting or even vaguely suggestive. But aside from a disturbing amount of roadside trash, there was nothing that struck me as deserving to be called evidence.

Finally, as I saw the lieutenant checking his watch and my own patience began to wane, I gave in and decided to spend the rest of my afternoon knocking on doors. Withams wished me luck, and we drove off in opposite directions.

I went to house after house that day, well into the evening, repeating the same words. “Hi, my name is Lauren Lindsay. I’m a private investigator. I was hired by Harriet Reynolds, from over near Craddockville, to help find her husband Tom. Can you tell me about the night he went missing?”

I met some very nice people; some that were fairly polite, but probably wouldn’t tell me if my butt was on fire; some that didn’t seem bright enough—or sober enough—to remember a night eleven days earlier; and a handful that were so creepy that I found myself checking their yards for signs of freshly-turned earth or unusually well-fed hogs.

After repeating my spiel yet again, one woman asked, through a barely-cracked door, “There a reward?”

I hesitated, and she started to close the door, so I said, “Sure. Yeah, I’m sure that could be arranged. Did you see something?”

“I might have,” she said. “Which night was that, again?”

I told her, and she said she saw a man picked up by a maroon sedan, around 11 P.M. “And…I think they was fighting.”

I got the clear impression she was inventing on the spot in the hope of making some cash, so I asked for a description. The woman hesitated. “Did you see if he had a ponytail?” I asked.

“Oh yes, that’s right. I remember he did.”

“Thanks, then,” I said. “Wrong man.”

She slammed the door, swearing, as I turned and walked back to my car. That was the closest I came to anything useful—and it wasn’t anything remotely like close.

Withams was right, too—most of the locals did have dogs. I was sniffed and growled and barked at. A gorgeous black lab-rottweiler mix lunged at me so hard that the chain around his neck yanked him off his feet, and he struggled in the mud to stand again, shaking himself. He was more cautious, but continued barking just the same. If I were home in Richmond, I’d have grabbed my pepper spray before wandering through this area. I hadn’t thought I’d need it on vacation. Next time, I was bringing it.

* * * *

The next morning, I was awakened by gulls crying, and the sound of a small boat as it chugged away from the dock near my rental. For a moment, I wished I was going with them, but then the wind gusted and blew a wave of rain against the front windows. An awful day for a boat ride, but a perfect day for computer searches. I started with the PI databases, and found little of interest. The database showed the few places they’d lived—they spent nearly thirty-six years in the same house in Charlottesville, Virginia—but I found almost nothing of note. He had a hunting and fishing permit, which wasn’t a surprise, and it showed his last employment, at the Virginia National Bank. The rest was as expected—family, neighbors, a whole bunch of people the system thought might be related to Tom, but probably weren’t.

It was never easy teasing the meaningful data out from the rest, but I saved the report to refer to later, just in case something came up. Often, the database showed unadmitted bankruptcies, a criminal record here or there—it was always more luck than anything when the system could spit that out—and even suggested a spouse or kids that the person had forgotten to mention. But I already knew Harriet and Tom were married, and their data was pretty straightforward. They had no mortgage on their current house, owned no other properties, and there wasn’t even a speeding ticket showing.

I moved on to a whole slew of other searches, like newspapers, blogs, and general web searches. I turned up some interesting articles, including a profile of Tom in the Charlottesville Daily Progress, published when he retired. I learned that he was an avid golfer, an active member of Rotary and the local chamber of commerce, and had served on the city council for two terms more than ten years earlier.

Harriet’s name came up in a few similar articles, though she was less public with her activities. I pulled up one story whose title caught my attention—“Reynolds Indicted for Check Fraud”—but it was Shauna Reynolds, no apparent relation. Her attorney’s name was Tom, which is why the article came up. I sighed in disgust and went outside for a quick break.

The overhang on the porch protected me from the slow, light rain, except when the wind carried it in my direction. The air was warm and smelled salty-sweet, and I wished I could go walk on the beach. I knew there was a short path I could take to get a closer look at the lighthouse that I could see from the small deck, and there were overlooks where I could see herds of wild ponies and flocks of egrets and ibises. And then maybe some nice, fried local seafood for lunch. I wanted so badly to go out and play.

Over the last few months, I’d taken scores of repetitive statements in a huge class-action lawsuit, picked up medical records, made thousands of copies, written reports, handled stupid questions, and answered phone calls at all hours—all of it critical, urgent, life-or-death. Then the clients would call with questions that made it obvious they hadn’t even read the reports I’d sent them.

I complained to Jess about it—she’d referred the law firm to me—but she was less than sympathetic. “Brainless paperwork and brain-dead clients are part of the gig, darlin’,” she told me, and then reminded me how much they were paying. And yeah, that was nice, but I’d barely seen or spoken to friends and family since it started. And as for dating…well, I wasn’t sure I’d particularly missed that. Still, I wondered if I’d made a mistake by becoming a PI. Is this what my future would be like? I heaved another deep sigh, went back to my desk, and started plugging keywords into the browser again.

By the time the sun began setting and I’d decided to stop for the day, I had a large file of copied web pages on my computer’s desktop, a couple pages of written notes, and a half dozen appointments for the following day. I’d called a few people that the lieutenant and Harriet had both already spoken with, just because they were the most likely to hear from Tom: his siblings, his best friends, a nephew in DC that he was close with, and some former co-workers. I mostly heard what I expected—a whole lot of nothing—but the nephew, a salesman for Verizon, had some interesting insight.

“I dunno,” he said thoughtfully. “Aunt Harriet wasn’t happy. I mean, she wasn’t, like, miserable or anything. But she was…like, discontent. You know? And it made him feel guilty?”

“Why was she discontent?”

“Uhhhh.” He cleared his throat.

I got the impression he regretted mentioning it, so I said, “I can keep what we discuss confidential. And, really, anything you can tell me might help.”

“Yeah. OK. Well, I guess she wanted kids, but he didn’t, so, you know. She loved him. But then, after he retired…and it’s so quiet out there. She doesn’t know anyone, and there’s nothing much to do, he told me. But, you know…”

“Did he say what he was going to do about it?”

“Oh,” he said, and I could imagine him shrugging, “he said he’d probably buy her some jewelry or take her on a trip. Something like that. I mean…you know, he would never have left. Not ever.”

I underlined “ever” in my notes, and asked some follow-up questions, but didn’t really learn anything else. It was nice that he was so confident about Tom’s loyalty to his wife, but people were wrong about that sort of thing all the time. I wanted to believe in Tom, too, but I had to keep an open mind.

I updated Harriet and learned that she’d spoken to the neighbors. No one had received any packages or letters not meant for them. She sounded oddly calm and I wondered if she’d had pharmaceutical assistance. For the moment, though, she seemed OK.

* * * *

The next morning, the sky was still gray, but I was up and ready to roll early. I went to talk with Dan Stockton, the VP of the local bank where Tom and Harriet had their accounts. He and Tom had struck up a friendship shortly after he and Harriet first moved there, and they had lunch about once a week.

Dan didn’t have a lot to add to what I already knew. “We talked about the business world, mostly. He gave me a fair bit of advice, to be honest. Good advice, too. And we talked about stuff like the weather, crop yields, local scandals. That kind of thing. Wish I could help you, but I’m sure I’d be the last person he’d tell if he was planning to take off.”

After we talked, Dan showed me details of the Reynolds’ accounts—Harriet had faxed him a signed consent form—and he confirmed that Tom’s cards still hadn’t been used. Just before we parted company, I asked him the same question I asked everyone I spoke with who knew Tom at all: “Where do you think he is?”

He shook his head. “I’ve thought and thought about it, and I just don’t know. I do not know. I’m sorry.”

The next few interviews—with neighbors, the president of their homeowners’ association, and even Tom’s minister—netted me nothing new except for the revelation that Tom was really fond of root beer, and liked to watch David Letterman after his wife went to bed. The minister thought Tom was a good Christian man, though not terribly interested in scripture. Mildly interesting, but not exactly useful.

I ate a late lunch at a shack of a place called Metompkin Seafood, where I had some of the best fish I’ve ever eaten. I was sitting at a picnic table outside, wiping the last of the meal from my hands, when my cell phone rang. It was Harriet.

I expected a request for another update, or maybe a new bit of information. What I got was some very bad news: Tom’s mother, Marian, had had a stroke, and died alone sometime late the night before.

“Oh, God.” Harriet moaned. “I should have been with her. I should have…and she died not knowing—not even knowing if her son was dead or alive.” She moaned again, harshly. “So help me, if that man just ran off with some woman—” she broke off, said “Damn,” and I thought she was going to start crying again.

“Harriet,” I said, “I’m so sorry.” I was especially sorry that I hadn’t been able to talk to Tom’s mother before she died, though I felt incredibly insensitive even thinking it.

Harriet sighed and said, “You know, I didn’t even like her. I don’t know that anyone did, she complained so much. Talked about herself and her troubles all the time. But she loved him dearly. And what a terrible way to die. I didn’t…I didn’t want this. God, I didn’t.”

She said it so insistently that I was certain she had wished Tom’s mother dead, even if only for a moment, so they’d be free of the obligation to care for her. I felt sorry for Harriet. It’s the kind of thought people have just because they’re human, without any real desire to see it happen. And the worst of it was, this would make life simpler for Harriet. Part of her had to be relieved that the burden wasn’t hers any longer.

We spoke for a few minutes more, and I updated Harriet on my progress. There wasn’t much of it, but I hoped it would help her, even if just a little bit, if she knew that I was hard at work.

Once I got off the phone, I headed back to Chincoteague. I sat and reviewed my notes, hoping I’d see something I missed before, but there was nothing. Finally, I pulled out Tom’s long list of contacts, scowled at it, and sat down to start dialing. I didn’t have high hopes, but I knew from experience that if I worked at it hard enough, sooner or later I’d probably stumble over something useful.

As the afternoon passed into evening, I continued crossing names off the list. I made notes about every call, marked a couple that sounded odd, had numbers that were disconnected, or where I got a machine. By 9 P.M., I was starting to lose steam. I took a break and made a sandwich. While I ate, I stared out at the water, lit by the flash of the lighthouse’s warning light rotating in a strange long-short, long-short rhythm. The sight relaxed me, finally, and I decided to call it a night.

It was just past eight the next morning when I started up again, and continued calling for hours. By mid-afternoon, I switched over to the west-coast numbers, which I’d left for last. I was getting ready to dial the fifth California number when I noticed something odd. The man, Ed Gorman, had a Sacramento address, but a Virginia area code—and it looked like an Eastern Shore number. I inhaled sharply, and punched the numbers, thinking, “Be there, be there, be there…” Of course, he wasn’t. His voicemail answered, and I cursed and hung up.

I went online and did a reverse phone search. The results came on the screen, and I shouted, “Yes,” when I saw it: 81 Bay Crest Drive, Pungoteague, VA. I knew that road name; I’d driven by it the day before. It was near where Tom’s car had been found. Less than a quarter mile, and much closer than the gas station, though in the opposite direction. I doubted anyone had thought to look there. I certainly hadn’t.

I dug in my bag for the map, and tried desperately to think of some explanation that would fit. Tom walked to Gorman’s house after the car ran out of gas, and they got drunk together. Maybe Tom had gotten sick or injured, and Gorman was taking care of him.

I unfolded the map, trying to hold onto my desperate, absurd hope, even though I knew it didn’t make any sense. He’d have been home ages ago. But it was too much of a coincidence. It had to tie in.

I called the number three more times and finally said, “Screw this,” got in the car, and started driving. It would take about fifty minutes to get there. I ran through different scenarios in my mind as I drove, and it started making me crazy, so I cranked up the radio and sang along. There was a song about a guy riding his pony on a boat, and another about tractor love. I was no fan of country music, but it passed the time.

* * * *

The road Gorman lived on was a smooth gravel track with trees pressing in on either side. The house, no more than a hundred feet back, looked like a fifties-era brick ranch, with large windows and a slate patio out front. There was a light on inside, which seemed like a good sign, but then I saw two packages tucked inside the screen door, and a soggy flyer for a lawn mowing service plastered to the stoop.

I knocked, and for a minute imagined that an amnesiac Tom would answer, looking kindly and confused. But that kind of thing only happens in cheesy soap operas—and it was always the evil twin in disguise, anyway. Neither version of Tom opened the door. After several more attempts and a walk around the house, I had to accept that no one was home.

I walked down the driveway to the road, pulled open the mailbox, and found a note taped inside: “Out of town—family emergency. Please hold mail. Have a blessed day. Lou.” At the top was the date the note had been written—three days before Tom had gone missing.

“Damn.” I felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. After all the work I’d done, this had been my one promising lead.

After a few minutes of staring at the ground feeling sorry for myself, I turned and looked back at the house. It was possible Tom had come here anyway, not knowing Lou were gone. If he’d arrived on his front steps sometime late that night and found the place empty, what would he have done?

I headed back behind the house, to where I’d seen a shed. Inside, I found a small riding mower, the usual assortment of shovels and rakes, a wheelbarrow, and a few other pieces of equipment. I spotted a gas can under a workbench on the left, and jiggled it. It was empty, and I saw no other cans. I suppose he could’ve taken one with him and walked back to the car. But, then what?

There was a garage, too, though. Might they have gas stored in there? Would Tom know how to get in to check? I started looking around the shed for the key that I thought they’d probably have hidden there, not thinking too hard yet about what I’d do if I found it. I lifted coffee cans full of nails, and half-empty bags of grass seed and potting soil. I was getting ready to climb a step ladder and check the beams, when the light shifted, and I heard a man clearing his throat.

I spun toward the door, my heart feeling like it was trying to break out of its cage, and was both relieved and dismayed to find Lieutenant Withams standing there looking amused—mostly.

“We got a call that some girl was sneaking around back in here. From the description, I thought it might be you. Something I can help you find?”

I explained what I’d learned, and why I was at the house.

“Huh,” he said, “that was good thinking.”

We talked a while, and I was relieved to see he didn’t seem particularly upset about what I’d been doing at the house. We discussed the case in detail, and then he asked, “What next?”

I folded my arms and tried to look thoughtful, because it seemed preferable to admitting I had few ideas left. “Did Tom know anyone else down this road?”

“Not so far as I know, though truthfully, I never considered he might walk in this direction. I wouldn’t have thought he’d take the chance at that hour. And wasn’t Gorman one of the people Mrs. Reynolds said her husband hadn’t spoken to in years?”

“Yes, but he had the local phone number in his contact list. They must have spoken recently, or it would still have been a California number, wouldn’t it? Maybe he just hadn’t gotten around to putting the new address in.”

“Huh. I suppose. Pretty sure the Gorman’s have lived here for almost ten years, though. They can’t have been close.”

I nodded. “Maybe he saw it as an opportunity to renew their friendship?”

“By asking to borrow gas late at night?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes the best way to get to know someone better is by letting them do you a favor.”

He thought about that for a minute and then nodded.

“I tell you what,” I said, “I’m going to walk from here to where the car was found, just to see if anything jumps out at me. Care to come along?”

Withams nodded, and called in on his radio to let dispatch know where he’d be. We started out walking, and chatted idly about trivial things: the nice weather, the Chincoteague ponies, his fishing trip to the Florida Keys the month before. I told him about fishing for trout with my dad when I was little, and the time I ate a worm. He told me about his grandmother teaching him how to knit, and the fit his father’d had when he came home to find his little man sitting on the couch with his sisters, knitting a scarf.

We were both roaring with laughter when I saw it, and it tore the laugh from my throat. It was the underside of a boot, submerged in a deep water-filled drainage ditch beside the road, just a short distance from where Tom’s car ran out of gas. It might be just an old, discarded boot. It might be nothing. Except for the edge of a black and red flannel shirt that was also floating in the water, in just about the right spot.

Withams noticed I’d stopped, and started to ask what was wrong. But then he saw my face and followed my gaze, and he knew, too. We’d found Tom.

“Sweet Jesus,” he said, and reached for his radio.

* * * *

What followed had little to do with me. After they’d removed the body from the ditch, I went with the lieutenant to tell Harriet. She saw us coming up the drive looking grim, and collapsed, wracked with sobs. Her minister was there, and he promised he’d look after her. I felt guilty, again, for the relief I felt at being able to walk away, but I could see that Withams felt it, too. I suppose it was natural enough.

I went back to the office with him, answered a few questions, and gave him all my contact information. I made Withams promise to let me know what the medical examiner found, and he said he would, and we said our good-byes.

And then, the sun still high in the sky and the day stretching before me, I got in my car and headed back to Chincoteague. If it was a hit and run, it was a matter for the police; if it was accidental—a fall, maybe, or a heart attack—then it was just a shame. In either case, my part in it was done.

I had another week of my vacation left, and suddenly that seemed terribly long. I reached the turn for my rental, and instead kept on driving. Now that I had the time, I was finally going to climb to the top of that lighthouse, and see if the view was any better from there.

THE TAGGART ASSIGNMENT, by Vincent Starrett

CHAPTER I

I had not seen my friend Lavender for some days, and through no fault of my own. He was out of town. But faithfully every morning I strolled around to his rooms, collected his mail, and tried to imagine that in the absence of the great Lavender I was myself a person of importance. I even opened letters that appeared to be significant and, when necessary, replied with tidings of my friend’s absence; but throughout the week of silence that followed his departure there had been nothing warranting a wire to him in Wisconsin, where I knew he was engaged upon a will case of national prominence.

On the eighth day of my voluntary factotumship, I sauntered toward the dingy edifice whose upper story concealed the curious activities of my remarkable friend.

I suppose there were not a dozen men in the community who knew Lavender to be a detective, but the regular postman was one of these, and this friendly individual I met as I entered Portland Street.

“Well, I see he’s home,” he cheerfully greeted me.

“The deuce he is!” I exclaimed.

“Yep, saw him this morning on my first trip. I’ve got a letter for him. You going up?”

“Yes;” I said indignantly, “and he’s going to be called down! He might have let a fellow know when he was coming.”

The man in gray laughed. “Now you see him and now you don’t,” he chanted, and fished in his sack until he had found the single letter intended for James Eliot Lavender.

But I withheld the bitterly affectionate greeting that lay upon my lips as I burst into the library, for I quickly saw that Lavender was not alone. He was deep in consultation with one of the most striking young women I had ever seen. Both looked up at my noisy entrance.

“Hello, Gilly,” said my friend casually. “I was about to telephone you. Glad to see you! Let me make you acquainted with Miss Dale Valentine. My friend Mr. Gilruth, Miss Valentine.”

I bowed and stared. We had had young lady visitors before, but seldom such arresting specimens as this one. And her name and face were curiously familiar, although at the moment I could not place her.

“You are wondering where you have seen Miss Valentine before, no doubt Probably you have noticed her portrait in the newspapers. Her engagement recently was announced by the press. Draw up a chair, Gilly, and listen to what Miss Valentine will tell you. Do you mind repeating the story?” he asked his client, with a friendly smile. “Mr. Gilruth is my assistant and will work with me in this matter.”

Of course, I knew her as soon as he spoke about the newspapers. She was the season’s bright and particular “bud,” and her approaching marriage to a young man of her own set had filled the society columns. What in the world, I wondered, could this darkly beautiful girl, with a woman’s greatest happiness less than a week away as I remembered it, want with my friend Lavender?

“Something very strange has happened, Mr. Gilruth,” she said frankly. “Perhaps something very terrible.” Her lips trembled, and she paused as if to control an emotion that threatened to destroy her calm. “My fiancé, Mr. Parris, is missing. That is everything, in a word. He—”

Noting her distress, Lavender hastily threw himself into the breach.

“Yes,” he said, “that is the whole story. In a word, Mr. Rupert Parris has disappeared, practically on the eve of his wedding. Miss Valentine cannot explain so remarkable an action by any ordinary reason, and quite naturally she suspects that something may have happened to Mr. Parris; that he may have been injured, or abducted, or even—possibly—killed; although, as I tell her, that seems, unlikely in the circumstances. There is no one else to ask that a search be made—Mr. Parris is alone in the world—and Miss Valentine has determined to risk the unpleasantness of possible gossip and ask for investigation. The case is to be kept from the newspapers if humanly possible, but one way or another Mr. Parris is to be found. Miss Valentine has honored us by asking us to conduct the search.”

The young woman nodded her head gratefully in acknowledgment of his understanding and his delicate statement of the facts.

“Today is Tuesday,” continued my friend, “and Mr. Parris has been missing only since Sunday evening, so it is possible that he may appear at any moment with a quite reasonable explanation of his absence. Something of the highest importance to him may have occurred which called him away without giving him opportunity to notify Miss Valentine. We dare not assume that, however, for it is also possible that Mr. Parris is at this moment in need of our assistance. Now, Miss Valentine, your fiancé called you on the telephone on Sunday evening—?”

“Shortly after six o’clock,” she took up the story as he paused. “He said that he had just dined, and that he would be over within an hour. I waited, and—he did not come. I supposed that something unexpected had detained him, but when he had not arrived at nine o’clock I became anxious and called his rooms. He was not there and had not been in all evening. Nor had he been seen at his club. There was no further word from him that evening, and there has been none since. I am at my wit’s end, and—”

“Quite so,” interrupted Lavender, smiling, “but we are not, Miss Valentine. So far as it is possible, you will please let us do the worrying from now on.” His engaging smile conjured a feeble response. “You had not planned to go out on Sunday evening?”

“No, we were to spend the evening at home—at my home, of course. Dad was there, and he was very fond of Rupert. They always played a game of chess when Rupert came.”

“Your mother, I think, is dead?”

“Yes.”

“And how long had you known Mr. Parris, Miss Valentine?”

“For about a year. We have been engaged for about three months. The engagement was to have been short. Mr. Parris and my father were both opposed to long engagements.” She paused, then continued: “Perhaps I should tell you that it was largely on my father’s account—for his sake, rather—that Mr. Parris and I became engaged. Dad liked him very much, and when I had come to know him I liked him, too. My father naturally wanted me to marry happily, and he had a high opinion of Mr. Parris, who is somewhat older than I. Do not misunderstand me, please! Of course, I was very much distressed by his disappearance, and I shall do everything in my power to find him. I think I have proved that.”

“I see. Will you describe Mr. Parris for us?”

“He is of middle height, and quite slim; dark hair worn rather longer than usual. Complexion somewhat pale. He was forty-one on his last birthday. I suppose he would be called good-looking.”

“You can give us a photograph, of course?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Rupert was averse to having his photograph taken, and I haven’t one in the house.”

Lavender frowned and nodded. He drummed his fingers on his chair-arm for a moment.

“Gilly,” he suddenly said to me, “you must trace that telephone call. Miss Valentine will—”

“You mean Rupert’s—Mr. Parris’s call to me?” asked Miss Valentine quickly. Then she blushed. “I did that, Mr. Lavender!”

“Good for you!” cried Lavender. “I ought to have asked you.”

“Yes,” she continued, “when he didn’t come, I didn’t know what to think, and when I had called his rooms and his club, and no one knew anything about him, I was afraid, and I—I was ashamed to do it—but I traced his call.”

“Admirable!” my friend exclaimed. “The most sensible thing you could have done. Where did it come from?”

“That is strange, too, and I can’t quite believe it. Perhaps the operator made a mistake and traced the wrong call; but I was told that it had come from the office of the Morning Beacon!”

“A newspaper office,” I said quickly. “Then we have another clue.”

“No,” she said, with a shake of her head, “for when I called the Beacon, as I did, nobody ever had heard of Mr. Parris. I had to be very careful, you see, for if I hinted at his disappearance there would have been a dreadful story about it the next morning. I didn’t identify him for them; I just asked for a Mr. Parris who had telephoned from there; but there was no such man in the office, they said, and had not been. When they became curious I thanked them and rang off.”

“Odd,” muttered Lavender, “very odd!” He sat with creased brow for a moment, then leaped to his feet. “No matter, Miss Valentine! We’ll begin at once. I hope before long we shall have a happy report for you.”

The dark young woman stood up and extended her hand. There was embarrassment in her eyes.

“You know,” she faltered, “the wedding date is—set? It is to be—”

“I know,” said Lavender, understanding her hesitation. “It is set for a week from tomorrow. You mean that if there is to be a wedding, and no gossip, I must work quickly. Believe me, Miss Valentine, I shall!”

“Thank you,” she said simply, “I know you will.”

Then with a quick grip of my hand, and a bright, brave look at us both, she was gone. Lavender looked after her thoughtfully.

“A fine girl,” said my friend at length. “If this Parris has jilted her and run away for any reason, I’ll—well, I’ll make him regret it, Gilly, if he’s living!”

“You think that is the case?” I asked.

“It is the obvious answer to the riddle,” he replied. “But certainly I have no right to think it. In fact, I don’t think it as vigorously as I may have suggested it—but it must be considered. After all, the poor devil may be dead, or even—as she suggested—a prisoner somewhere, although it doesn’t look much like abduction. Full grown men are abducted on, their wedding eves only in books.”

I plunged my hand into my pocket. “By George, Lavender,” I exclaimed, handing him the letter the postman had given me, “this was handed me outside the house, and I clean forgot it! And talk about the long arm of coincidence! Look at that return address!”

He received the envelope from my hand and read the printed card in its corner. As plain as print could make it, the inscription invited a return in five days to the Morning Beacon!

“Coincidence?” he asked, looking up with a quizzical smile. “I wonder! The Beacon was suspicious when Miss Valentine called up, remember.”

He tore open the envelope and a card dropped out. There was nothing else. Lavender picked the card from the floor.

“As usual, the plot begins to thicken,” he continued, chuckling. “If this is coincidence, it’s a striking case of it.”

The card bore the engraved name “Mr. Gorman B. Taggart,” and underneath in pencil script, “2:30 P.M.”

“Taggart!” I cried.

“Yes,” said Lavender, “Taggart! Owner and publisher of the Morning Beacon. And he will be here, if I do not misread his laconic message, at 2:30 by his expensive gold watch.” He produced his own, and frowned.

“It’s after 2:30 now,” I contributed uselessly.

“Yes, confound it!” agreed my friend. “I hope he didn’t see Miss Valentine leaving this house! I have a feeling, Gilly, that a curious muddle is developing. There’s the bell now, and in a moment you will see my feeling verified, when Gorman B. Taggart stands upon my rug and tells us the meaning of his visit.”

He walked across to the door and flung it open, and through the aperture there shortly entered the mountainous and well-known figure of the famous newspaper proprietor; thereafter for twenty minutes it occupied a creaking arm-chair by the window.

“Your secretary?” queried Taggart, in a bass rumble. His glance was upon me.

“My assistant,” corrected Lavender politely. “What can we do for you, Mr. Taggart?”

“Damn it!” said Gorman B. Taggart, “I hope you can do a great deal.” He frowned at us both for an instant, then continued: “Mr. Lavender, my circulation manager, Moss Lennard, has been with me for forty years without missing a day, and now I’m afraid something has happened to the old man. He’s been missing since Sunday evening!”

CHAPTER II

We found our pipes soothing after our second visitor had gone away. Lavender looked questioningly at me, and I looked back at him without a glimmer of light in my brain.

“Muddle is right!”, I said at length. “You guessed it, Jimmie!”

He laughed a little.

“And yet it may clear things amazingly,” he retorted. “That there is a connection between the two I have not the slightest doubt. On the face of things, I would say that they are together, wherever they are—Parris and Lennard. If Taggart’s story is correct—and I must suppose that it is—they must have disappeared at about the same time; and note how easily a theory may be builded that will fit the case. Parris called Miss Valentine shortly after six; that call, traced, is found to have originated in the Beacon office.

“Now for Lennard: after being seen around the place all afternoon—Sunday is a working day for a morning newspaper—he goes out to dinner about half past six and does not return. Lennard is a familiar figure in the Beacon neighborhood, and he was actually seen in conversation with a man, who may very well have been Parris, outside the office; that is what the cigar dealer next door told Taggart. The cigar man knew Lennard, but of course he did not know Parris. Parris could have made his call from any one of a dozen phones in the Beacon office without being seen—of course, with the connivance of Lennard.

“Our first theory, then, would shape up about like this: Parris, for reasons of his own, as yet unknown, goes to see old Lennard at the Beacon office, and—obviously—discharges at him some revelation that alarms the older man. Whatever it is, it is important enough to make both seek safety in flight. Of course, it follows that they have known each other for some time. We shall have to look into the past of both these gentlemen before we are through; meanwhile, instead of one man we have two to look for, and our task is simplified because by finding one we at least get word of the other.

“We shall have to proceed carefully, for we can’t let Taggart suspect that we are looking for any one other than Lennard. For Taggart we are running down only Moss Lennard, for Miss Valentine we are seeking Rupert Parris; two cases ostensibly; yet we know that we are working the same case. Really, it begins to look very promising.”

“I’m glad you think so, Lavender,” I said dryly. “To me it looks like a bigger job than ever. Two missing men—twice as much work.”

“No, half as much,” he corrected. “Our description of Parris might be better; as it stands, it will fit hundreds of fellows of his class. We are better off with Lennard. Taggart’s description is clear enough, and here is the photograph he left. Well-preserved old chap, isn’t he? I’ll have a copy made for you, and you can carry it around with you. I’ve an idea that we shall find Moss Lennard before we find Rupert Parris. And now for an important question: Did these two skip together, or did they separate?”

“If they are seeking safety from something, they probably separated,” I promptly. answered.

“You may be right. That is what they should have done, of course. Well, our first step must be to visit the haunts of each. Parris lived at the Sheridan Arms, and belonged to the November Club. Lennard, Taggart said, is an old bachelor, and has three rooms in a private house on the West Side. We may as well work together, at first anyway, for it’s little we’ll learn at the Sheridan, and we can proceed almost at once to Lennard’s place.”

We taxied to the Sheridan Arms and learned exactly what Lavender had expected—nothing, or practically nothing, that we did not already know. Parris had not been seen at the hotel on the Sunday of his disappearance and had not called up. Nobody thought anything of this, because Parris was not often seen at the hotel, anyway; he maintained a room for his occasional convenience and was supposed to spend his time at the club. There was nothing in his room to suggest that he had left it permanently; indeed there was much to suggest that he would certainly return—expensive garments, pipes, knickknacks, a pigskin suitcase, and the usual impedimenta of a bachelor’s chamber, including a handsome photograph of Miss Dale Valentine in a silver frame.

A chat with the switchboard operator gave us our single fact of interest, and that merely added weight to our already acquired knowledge. The girl testified that several times in recent weeks Parris—who was well-known to her by sight—had telephoned to the Beacon office, and each time she had heard him ask for Mr. Lennard. She had never overheard any conversation between the two, however, and Parris never had stayed long in the booth.

“At least,” said Lavender, “we have established a connection between them.”

At the November Club little more was to he learned. Parris was not often on hand; at any rate, he was seldom seen in the lounge; and although he had a room, it was mot much occupied. He came and went without question, and it was not always known when he was in the place and when he was not. He did not court publicity, and to us it was apparent that for reasons of his own he must divide his time between the hotel and the club, so far as sleeping was concerned.

“A queer bird, this Parris,” commented Lavender, as we left the last place. He looked at his watch. “Now, Gilly, if we haven’t lost Lennard’s address, we should be able to get out there and back before dinner time. Remember we are to dine with the great Gorman B. Taggart at his club, and although he may be five minutes late for an appointment, we may not.”

Moss Lennard, circulation manager of the Beacon for many, years, lived far out on West Jackson Boulevard, but our taxi deposited us before his door in a little time; and here for the first time we received a scrap of highly important information. Although Taggart certainly had caused inquiries to be made at Lennard’s rooms, apparently they had been of a perfunctory character, and no doubt by telephone, for the housekeeper was able to tell us at once that Lennard had gone to Milwaukee.

“Yes, sir,” said the elderly female, with a series of nods, “Mr. Lennard went up to Milwaukee by the night boat, sir, on Sunday. That is, he told me he was going to Milwaukee, sir, and by the night boat, and so I suppose that is what he did. Didn’t say when he would be back, sir, and naturally I didn’t ask him. ’Twasn’t my business, and Mr. Lennard is not a boy, sir. He’s a man that knows very well how to take care of himself. He’s been here, off and on, for a good many years, and we never worried when he was away.”

“He was away a good deal?” asked Lavender.

“No doubt,” replied our garrulous informant. I “Yes, I suppose he was. Him being a newspaper man, sir, he was often away on duty for days at a time. Sometimes he stayed at the office; sometimes he was out of town; sometimes he was here. We never bothered about Mr. Lennard. And on Sunday morning he said to me, ‘Mrs. Barrett’—that being my name, sir—I’m going up to Milwaukee tonight by the night boat. I don’t feel well, Mrs. Barrett,’ he said, ‘and a lake trip is what I need, and it’s little time I get during the day for boats,’ he said. And so he went, and if he is not back at his office, then you may be sure he’s stayed in Milwaukee. Never fear, sir, about Mr. Lennard.”

“Quite so,” said Lavender, who had followed this long speech with polite attention, “but it seems strange, nevertheless, Mrs. Barrett, that he did not notify his office that he was going; and it is stranger still that, finding he could not get back the next day, he did not wire. I represent Mr. Taggart, as I have told you, and he is anxious about Mr. Lennard. He asked me to look, into Mr. Lennard’s rooms while I was here, to see if Mr. Lennard had left a note maybe, or something of the sort—possibly, an address in Milwaukee, eh?”

The old woman sniffed.

“It’s a strange time for Mr. Taggart to be anxious,” she asserted scornfully, “and him paying Mr. Lennard a salary which he should be ashamed to give a man after forty years! Many’s the time I’ve heard Mr. Lennard say that he wouldn’t stand it much longer, no he wouldn’t. He could get more money on any other paper, he said, and it was only loyalty that kept him to the Morning Beacon. Yes, sir, loyalty is what it was! He’d been with ’em from a lad. And now because he takes a little trip to Milwaukee—”

“Was Mr. Lennard a drinking man?” interrupted Lavender with a smile, edging past her into the hall.

“Well, sir, he certainly was that, sometimes, but never a rough word from him, or a sound out of his room. He drank his liquor, sir, like a gentleman. Yes, sir, you can see his rooms; as neat and clean as a pin they are—”

Still mumbling she turned away, and we followed her into the dark hallway and up a flight of stairs to the second story, where she opened a door and asked us to enter. When she had pushed an electric, button we looked around us upon a comfortable sitting room, every detail of which bore out her claims as to its neatness. But Lavender’s interest at once was centered upon an old desk that stood beside the front window. He crossed to it, with only a hasty glance at the bedroom which opened off the sitting room.

“This, I suppose, is his desk? Very interesting indeed! And as you say, Mrs. Barrett, not an empty bottle about the place.” He winked at me. “A fine gentleman, this Mr. Lennard. I can see. Well now, about that Milwaukee address—” And he began to rummage with a practised hand in the drawers of the old desk.

His search was unrewarded by anything of value, and he turned his attention to the waste basket, still half full of old papers, while I explored the bedroom. When I returned, Lavender, with a gleam in his eye, was saying good-by to the housekeeper. It occurred to me that he had found something. At any rate, he was pressing a coin into the old lady’s willing palm.

“Thank you very much,” I heard him say. “Come on, Gilly, we must get along or we shall be late for dinner. the way, Mrs. Barrett, did Mr. Lennard ever make any trips home?”

“Home?” echoed our humble servant. “You mean to Washburn? Well, yes, sir, but not very often. Only twice that I can remember while he’s been here. But I’ve often heard him speak of his old home. That’s where he was born.”

“Of course,” said Lavender. “Washburn, Indiana, isn’t it?”

“No, sir,. Washburn, Illinois. Right here in our own state. Mr. Lennard is one of our great men, sir, like Lincoln and Grant and Logan—”

“And Roosevelt,” interrupted Lavender wickedly. “Well, that is very interesting. Thank you very much.”

And after a time we were out in the street and in the waiting taxicab.

“What were you getting at?” I demanded, as we started.

“Nothing in particular,” smiled my friend, “but we’ll have to investigate Lennard’s past sooner or later, and I just wanted to find out where he originated. She’s certainly a loquacious old person, isn’t she? I’ll have to have another talk with her some time. No, Gilly, I got what I really wanted out of the wastebasket.”

I jumped. “You mean that you got something you went there expecting to find?”

“I went there hoping to find a correspondence between Parris and Lennard,” he replied, “and what do you suppose I discovered?” He fumbled in his pocket, and produced an electric torch, for dusk was now falling and the interior of the taxicab was almost dark. “This!” he concluded triumphantly, and turned his light on a crumpled sheet of paper.

Bending over excitedly, I smoothed it out on his knee and read the words written on it in ink. Apparently it was the beginning of a letter which had been discontinued and thrown away. It read:

My Good Prince Rupert:

This is to say that your romantic career is at an end. Every dog, ’tis said, has his day, and yours—poor dog!—has come. You have been useful to me, I shall not deny, and I am grateful for a few. things. For the rest—no matter! At any rate, I am through with you, and for good. It may be that your little enterprise—

There the fragment ended. I sat staring at it until Lavender snapped off his light and plunged us into darkness.

“Well?” he asked, and chuckled at my astonishment.

“That is a threatening letter, Lavender,” I said soberly. “Did Lennard write it? There’s no signature.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that he wrote it; Taggart could tell us. It was never finished, of course. He may have written another that pleased him more. A very curious letter! Did Parris receive one like it? Or was this written for us?”

“For us?”

“For any who would take the trail! It seems incredible that such a letter, preceding such a mystery, should have been left lying for anybody to find.”

“You can’t ignore it, Jimmie,” I said.

“No, I can’t! Furthermore, I must assume that its brother went to Parris, and that it had something to do with this double disappearance. On the face of it, it would appear that Lennard was threatening Parris, but the tone of the letter is not violent; it is more ironical than malicious. One might suppose such a line as ‘your day has come,’ to be a threat—or, such a line as ‘I am through with you for good.’ And yet the tone of the letter is rather one of amused pity, as if the writer had knowledge of the other’s disgrace in some connection, and were twitting him about it.”

“I would arrest Lennard, just the same, on the strength of that letter,” I vigorously asserted.

“So would the police,” said Lavender. “I’m not sure that I wouldn’t arrest Parris on the strength of it!”

I stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

“I see your point, of course; but both are missing—Parris the more mysteriously of the two.”

He did not, answer, and for a time there was silence between us while the auto scudded toward the Loop. Then Lavender broke the silence with another question.

“And why ‘Prince Rupert’?”

“Part of Lennard’s irony, no doubt,” I made answer. “You pointed out the satirical tone of the letter.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “but it has a romantic sound. That is, it suggests a masquerade. And Lennard obviously has something on Parris. May it not be that he has unmasked Parris, who is really somebody else? That would explain the letter in part. Parris’s receipt of the letter—I wish it were dated!—would explain his rushing off to see Lennard and breaking his engagement for Sunday evening with Miss Valentine.”

I nodded agreement.

“Very ingenious, Jimmie,” I applauded, and it sounds more than plausible as you state it. I think it almost equally obvious, though, that Parris has something on Lennard.”

“Because Lennard, too, has disappeared? Perhaps! It’s quite possible, of course. But if what Lennard knew about Parris was of great importance, as it seems to have been, Lennard may have disappeared for reasons best known to Parris.”

This gruesome suggestion gave me a shock.

“See how easily everything is explained by such a supposition,” he continued. “Parris receives a letter and learns that he is discovered—whatever his sin may have been—so he hastens off to the Beacon office and sees Lennard. While there he calls Miss Valentine on the telephone, expecting that he will be through with Lennard in time to join her in an hour. Or did he really expect to meet her at all? The question intrudes itself! Assuming that he did, however, he is not through with Lennard in an hour, so we must believe that something unexpected happened. In other words, he was unable to shut up Lennard in one way, so he chose another. And it took him longer than an hour, and left him fearful of a return. Eh?”

I nodded again, unwillingly. I think I liked the unknown Parris better than Lavender did.

“Oh, I admit the plausibility of it,” I said. “Yet Lennard has found Parris ‘useful,’ by his own showing, and must have known of Parris’s sin, whatever it was, for some time. Parris must have known that Lennard knew.”

“I think not,” disputed Lavender. “Lennard undoubtedly had known Parris’s secret for some time, but Parris may not have known that Lennard knew. When Lennard speaks of Parris as having been ‘useful,’ he means merely that he has used Parris for his own purposes—not that they were confidants.”

Beyond question, it occurred to me, Lavender already had builded a strong theoretical case against Parris. I blurted out the plain American of his argument.

“It comes to this, then: That Parris has murdered Lennard to stop his mouth.”

“My dear Gilly, you know very well that I would never make such a charge with so little to go on. I do not even hint it, really, save as a possibility. I casually suggest it to you; I’m not telling the police. But you will admit, I think, that, if Lennard’s body were to be found, some place, our task of locating Miss Valentine’s fiancé would become a very unhappy one. In short, we should probably be looking for Lennard’s murderer at the same time.”

At the Waterside Club we found Taggart impatiently. awaiting us, although we were quite on time.

“We’ve only a moment for a bite, I’m afraid,” he greeted us. “Lennard has been found, and—”

“Not in Milwaukee, surely?” interrupted Lavender, while something clutched at my, heart.

“Milwaukee, hell!” said Taggart. “He was found in the lake. Dead—drowned—probably a suicide. Poor old man!”

And there were tears in the eyes of Gorman B. Taggart.

CHAPTER III

It was true enough. Taggart identified the body while we looked on in silence. He had been telephoned at the club, and had only awaited our coming to hasten to the undertaking establishment whither his manager’s body had been removed.

Lavender made his usual careful examination, but, startling as had been his suggestion in the taxicab, a suggestion that was almost prophecy, in one detail he had missed. To all appearances Lennard had not been murdered. The man had been drowned, but no mark showed on the body to indicate that violence had preceded the plunge. Lavender was frankly puzzled.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Taggart suddenly! And when we were all back at the club he abruptly finished the thought that had been in his mind. “Lavender, it’s all my fault! I’m the man to blame! I threatened him with dismissal. Yes, I did! After forty years of faithful service, I threatened him with dismissal! And why? Because the poor devil was drinking more than I thought he ought to. Poor old Lennard! And he went away and drowned himself! By God, I ought to be held responsible for it!”

Lavender shook his head in slow disagreement.

“No,” he said. “Your feelings do you credit, of course, but you need not hold yourself responsible. You could not have anticipated this. I’m sorry that you didn’t tell me sooner, though. Not that it would have made any difference to Lennard; he’s been in the water since Sunday.”

“I’m to blame;” repeated Taggart grimly. “A damned old fool, that’s what I am! Well, the case is over, Lavender. I’m sorry. I hadn’t looked for anything like this. I’ll sign a check for whatever amount you like, and add a thousand to it for charity.”

This would not be at all to Lavender’s liking, I thought, to give up the case. There was another side to it about which Taggart knew nothing. I looked anxiously at my friend, wondering what he would say. To my surprise he accepted his dismissal easily, accepting at the same time a handsome check for services which, he declared, he had not rendered, and applauding Taggart’s benevolent intentions toward “charity.”

“There will be an inquest tomorrow,” he said, “but I can’t imagine that I shall be wanted. If so, you can communicate with me. And now, as I have another matter on hand, I’ll thank you and say good-by.”

We stood up and shook hands, and shortly thereafter were in the street, I wondering mightily. Lavender smiled at my perplexed face.

“I couldn’t arouse his suspicions, Guy,” he said. “We must protect Miss Valentine’s name at all costs. But, of course, I’m not through with the case. More than ever now, I must see it through. What, time is it? Late, of course! I wonder if. that old chatterbox, Mrs. Barrett, is up at this hour? Probably not. I’ve got to see her again. She probably knows all about Lennard, and it’s particularly necessary now for me to know all that she can tell. Well, I’ll have to wait until morning. And we shall have to see Miss Valentine again. What a muddle this Lennard episode has made of the case!”

But the morning brought our second and biggest shock; one that left us blinking. Miss Valentine called and calmly stopped the search. I had spent the night with Lavender, and we were hardly done with our breakfast when the young woman appeared.

“I’ve been thinking it over,” she told us, “and I know now that I have acted foolishly. If Mr. Parris has seen fit to go away, it is his own business. It is mine, too, of course, but I have no right to make it anybody else’s. If I have been—well, to be brutal, if I have been jilted, there is no reason for me to cry it from the housetops. And I am making myself ridiculous by seeking a man who may not care to have me find him. No, Mr. Lavender, let him come back to me, if there is a reasonable explanation for his action. I shall not demean myself by running after him.”

Lavender delicately pointed out that her fiancé’s disappearance had not been cried from the housetops, ind was not likely to be; but his words fell on deaf ears. Nor did the suggestion that Parris might need our assistance move her to reconsider her decision.

There was no help for it. Lavender had been dismissed again, and when a few moments later she had gone away he said as much with bitter amusement. He had flatly declined to accept a fee from her, and I could see that he was greatly disturbed by this latest and apparently final development.

“I must admit that she did that very well,” he said with a snort. “Now, why did she do it?”

“I thought she told us pretty clearly,” I replied. “And, truth to tell, Lavender, there was sense in what she said—about running after him, you know.”

“That’s the clever part of it,” he nodded. “On the face of things, she has simply reconsidered and decided that she will not pursue a man who may not want her. But her agitation of yesterday does not check with her calmness of today.”

“Why else should she call us off?”

“Well,” drawled my friend, recovering his self-possession and lighting his pipe, “it is just conceivable, you know, that she has heard from Parris!”

“By Jove!” I cried.

“That is too obvious not to be considered,” he continued; “but there are difficulties in the way. If she has heard from Parris, and Parris is responsible for the death of Lennard, as he may very well be, then she is protecting him. She might even do that, of course, but somehow I don’t think so. She doesn’t really care enough about him for that. She may be protecting him without knowing the truth, or as I say, in spite of the truth. On the other hand, she may be perfectly honest in her statement to us. In any case, we seem to have been properly fired. How does it feel to be discharged, Gilly?”

“Are we definitely out of it?”

“Unless I carry my suspicions to the police, I fancy we are. And my suspicions are only suspicions. Lennard’s body is unmarked. I could carry my tale to Taggart, perhaps, and work with him again; but that would be betraying Miss Valentine, which is not to be considered. It looks as if we were out of a job, Gully!”

But we were not out long. Before our pipes had been refilled twice the telephone rang, and on the other end of the connection was Gorman B. Taggart. Taggart, too, had reconsidered.

“Look here, Lavender,” he said to my friend, as at Lavender’s nod I picked up the extension receiver and listened in, “has it occurred to you that there may have been something irregular in Lennard’s death?”

“Yes,” replied Lavender promptly, “it has! But there’s not a shred of actual evidential proof. What makes you ask?”

“Nothing but my conscience, I’m afraid,” said Taggart mournfully. “If I could think that I was not indirectly responsible for this, I’d be a happy man, Lavender.”

“Then,” said my friend, “try to be happy. I can’t promise anything, but if you want me to go ahead with my suspicions and see where they lead, I’ll be glad to make the attempt.”

“Fine!” boomed the voice of Taggart. “Go ahead! Unlimited funds behind you, and report when you’ve got something to report. Good-by!”

Lavender hung up the receiver with a smile of wicked pleasure.

“We’re never out of a job long, anyway,” he murmured. Then he bounded to his feet. “Gilly, I’m off to see Lennard’s housekeeper, the garrulous, and perhaps bibulous, Mrs. Barrett. You’re off to see Miss Dale Valentine. Tell her of the finding of Lennard’s body, if she doesn’t know, and that Parris and Lennard are known to have been together. The Lennard affair is probably in the papers, and she may have seen it; possibly that’s what brought her here this morning. Tell her, anyway, and try to find out whether she has heard directly or indirectly from Parris. Don’t frighten her. We’re asking for assistance, not threatening her; but she must understand that we are now employed by Taggart in this affair. You can explain that we have not betrayed her confidence, She’ll see you, I think—I thought she liked your hair.”

He seized a handful of cigars and a package of cigarettes from his humidor, and we descended the stairs to the street, A gray-haired old man was approaching, our door, and at sight of us he stopped.

“Mr. Lavender?” he asked, glancing from one to the other of us. My friend nodded, and he continued: “I am Arthur Valentine. My daughter, I believe, has consulted you about the curious absence of her fiancé, Mr. Rupert Parris, May I ask whether you have made any headway in the matter?”

Lavender seemed surprised. He shook his head.

“We are no longer in Miss Valentine’s employ,” he said quietly. “I believe Mr. Parris has not been found, but you will have to consult your daughter, Mr. Valentine.”

The old man, for whom a handsome car, was waiting, stared at us in astonishment.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” he said at length. “My daughter said nothing to me about concluding the search. This is very strange. You know nothing, then?”

“Nothing whatever,” said Lavender politely. “Have you any theory of your own?”

Valentine shook his head. “I am not in my daughter’s confidence in this matter,”, he replied almost sadly. “I was on my way to the office, and I thought I would stop in and see you. Until yesterday my daughter and I discussed this matter freely, but last night she seemed worried, and ths morning she left the house early, refusing to talk. I thought that perhaps she had. heard something that distressed her.”

“Not at all,” said Lavender cheerfully. “Not from us, at any rate. She called this morning and dispensed with our services, Mr. Valentine; that is all I can tell you.”

With a word of thanks Valentine turned away. Lavender thoughtfully watched him until his machine had turned the corner and disappeared.

“Last night!” he said. “What did Miss Valentine learn last night, Gilly, that made her refuse further to discuss matters with her father?”

After a moment he shrugged, and at that instant a taxicab came into sight. He flagged it with upraised hand.

“A great day, eh?” he smiled, as if nothing had occurred to make him think. “Better come back here, Gilly, when you’re through. I’ll return as quickly as possible.”

As luck would have it, Miss Valentine had not gone directly to her home, and in consequence she was not there when I called. I waited in the house for an hour, and spent another hour in the streets nearby; then as she had not appeared I returned to Lavender’s rooms where he impatiently awaited me.

“Odd!” he commented, when he had heard what I had to tell. “Well, we’ll call her up from time to time. We must talk with her.”

“What about Mrs. Barrett?” I demanded.

“I begin to see light, Gilly,” he replied gravely. “I fancy I know what Miss Valentine heard last night, or part of it; her father may have revealed something innocently enough which set her on the right track. I’ll tell you the whole story, and you can see what you make of it. This, in effect, is what Mrs. Barrett had to tell. She was prostrated, of course, by Lennard’s death, and glad to tell everything she knew.

“Lennard came from Washburn, as she told us before. In his youth there was an unhappy love affair, as a result of which he never married. A Miss Mary Glover was his sweetheart, and on the eve of their wedding, almost, she jilted him and married a wealthy man in the city—that is, in Chicago. Prepare to be shocked. We met the wealthy man this morning.”

“Great Jupiter!” I cried. “Not Valentine?”

“Jupiter and Jove, too,” he agreed. “Yes, Arthur Valentine. In short, Lennard was engaged to marry Miss Valentine’s mother, and was turned down cold for money. Who shall say what tortures he suffered and what revenges he planned? Lennard came to Chicago, and no doubt kept track of the social rise of the Valentines. He was fortunately situated in a newspaper office; he knew all that went on. In time Dale Valentine was born, and in time Mrs. Valentine died. Dale Valentine grew up into—well, you know into what she grew. She had suitors, among them Rupert Parris, who became the successful one.

“Here, then, would be a splendid opportunity for Lennard’s deferred revenge. Jilted by the mother himself, if he could contrive to have the daughter jilted on her wedding eve how poetic would be his revenge! I don’t defend this course; I say it may very well have occurred to him. Suppose then that he contrives to meet Parris, to do him services, and at the same time to learn something about Parris that is not to Parris’s credit. We can learn nothing of Parris’s past. It may have been anything. But would it be enough to threaten Parris with exposure? Would Parris vanish at a threat? Not necessarily. Lennard’s hold would have to be pretty strong for that.

“But suppose Lennard combines with his threat of exposure some manufactured tale, say about Dale Valentine’s mother, whose memory he both loves and loathes! If Parris were a gentleman he would resent it; if he were a coward in masquerade, probably he would not. But gentleman or coward, what would Parris do? I think he would try to stop Lennard’s mouth, either for his own sake, or for the sake of Miss Valentine. Did he do it?”

“I’m afraid he did, Lavender,” I confessed. “You make it seem very probable. But what hold could Lennard have had over Parris?”

“A queer one, you may be sure. It’s almost the kernel of the riddle.”

“And what do you think Miss Valentine learned from her father?”

“Merely, perhaps that he had once had an unsuccessful rival in love whose name was Lennard. It would be enough. Miss Valentine would couple it with the story in the newspapers about the discovery of Lennard’s body. Or perhaps she already knew, through her mother years ago, that Lennard had been her father’s rival. If so, the newspaper story about Lennard would revive that memory. But I think something her father said put her on the track of the truth, for he told us that it was last night that she began to be preoccupied and silent. All of which, of course, would be insufficient to convince her of what is possibly the truth, if she had not heard from Parris. She must have received a letter last night, and I’d give a good deal to know what it revealed.”

I turned it all over in my head, and to me it seemed complicated enough to bother anybody. But one thing I was certain of.

“The time has come, Lavender, to tell Taggart the whole story,” I said flatly.

“Yes,” he agreed instantly, “we must be frank with Taggart; we can’t play two games now. He must print no word of the affair, of course; and I think he will not wish to, for it will reflect on Lennard to some extent—his own man.”

He swung to the telephone and called up the Valentine home.

“This is Gorman B. Taggart speaking,” he said deliberately into the mouthpiece, “the publisher of the Morning Beacon. I wish to speak to Miss Valentine.” There was a silence and then his tone changed. “Out?” he cried. “Out of town? Are you sure? When did she leave? A letter, eh? I am very sorry; I have important news for her. Can you say where she went? To what station, then? A ten o’clock train! Yes, Mr. Taggart speaking! Now listen, please. I want you to remember what Miss Valentine wore to the train. It is important, for I am going to send a man to see her, and he must be able to identify her.”

After this there was a longer silence, at the end of which Lavender coolly said, “Thank you,” and hung up. He was tremendously excited.

“Gone!” he cried. “Gone out of town on a ten o’clock train, this morning. There was a letter last night, as I suspected. They deceived you at the house, Gilly. They knew then that she had gone.”

“Yes,” I said, “gone to meet Parris!”

He swung back to the telephone and gave a strange number quickly. Then he asked an astonishing question.

“A young woman, dark and very pretty, wearing a heavy veil, was there this morning and asked to see the body of Moss Lennard. Was she allowed to see it?”

He listened to the reply, then with at word of thanks rang off.

“Miss Valentine saw Lennard’s body this morning, after leaving these rooms. She examined Lennard’s garments. She went away in a taxicab. By George, Gilly, that girl has spunk! It took nerve to do that!”

CHAPTER IV

We found Taggart seated before a worn old desk in a private office on the glass door of which appeared the letters forming the name “Moss Lennard,” and the words “Circulation Manager.” The publisher swung about in his chair as we entered and seemed embarrassed at our coming. But he extended his big hand in welcome.

“Glad to see you,” he said. “I’ve just been looking over poor old Lennard’s desk.”

“Nothing wrong with his accounts, of course?” asked Lavender. “I assumed that you had looked into them before.”

“Oh, that’s all right. He was straight as a string. But I didn’t know what the old desk would develop.”

“What have you found?”

“Nothing of interest, I guess; unless it’s this! I didn’t know Moss went in for light literature.”

He smiled and handed over a volume bound in green cloth, on the back side of which appeared its flamboyant title, “The Montreville Mystery.”

Lavender smiled. “I know that yarn,” he said. “It’s a French detective story, translated into English. A good one, too. I haven’t read it in years.” He laid it on his knee. A curious light danced in his eyes.

“Well, Lennard must have found it to his taste,” said Taggart. “It appears to be well worn, although I haven’t had time to look into it.”

“I’ll take it along with me, if I may,” smiled Lavender boyishly. “Do you mind? I’d like to read that yarn again. Also,” he added dryly. “I’d like to see why it was of such interest to Moss Lennard.”

Taggart looked surprised, but readily acquiesced.

“Sure,” he said. “I guess no one wants it now. Keep it if you care to.”

“Now,” said my friend when he had pocketed the volume, “I have news for you, Mr. Taggart, and you are going to be surprised.” And he told our client the whole story of Rupert Parris.

Taggart was immensely agitated. He leaped from his chair and executed a few steps of an improvised and unintentional dance.

“We’ve got to get him!” he cried. “Lavender, we’ve got to get him!”

“I suppose so,” said Lavender. “But wait; I’m not through.” And he revealed the recent activities of Miss Dale Valentine, including a statement of her visit to the morgue where the body of Lennard lay.

Taggart paced the room in his excitement.

“You see it, of courser he demanded. “Incriminating evidence! She removed something from the garments that would have hurt Parris!”

“And now she’s gone to Parris,” I said, unintentionally humorous.

“No,” corrected Lavender, “she’s gone to Washburn, Illinois, the early home of Moss Lennard and her mother. She must have relatives there yet. The poor child has discovered the truth.”

“The truth!” cried Taggart suspiciously. “What are you withholding now, Lavender. Come, let’s have it! What is the truth then?”

“It’s a long story,” my friend replied, “and I’ve just found the final link in this novel you have given me. But the first truth is this: Moss Lennard was not murdered; he committed suicide, and for the purpose of making it appear that Parris had murdered him. He wished to leave a stigma upon the name of Rupert Parris, the accepted lover of Miss Dale Valentine. It was part of his revenge upon the girl’s mother, long dead. You know that story. With the girl jilted and her lover’s name smirched, his revenge would be complete save in one particular.

“He would want Miss Valentine to know what he had done; that would be the final twist of the knife, to tell her what he had done and why he had done it. I am now convinced that the letter Miss Valentine received was from Lennard, a letter nicely timed to be delivered some days after his death. It would be sent first to some other part of the country, then re-addressed by some friend there, who, of course, would not suspect Lennard’s motive. Miss Valentine received it last night, probably by special delivery. I can see Lennard working it all out.

“What a dolt I have been, Gilly!” he exclaimed. “Because the truth was fantastic I refused to see it, or at any rate to credit it, until this book and the girl herself convinced me. She left the house veiled. Why? I deduced the morgue, and found that I was right. I had already deduced a letter, and I know now that I was right. Then Taggart hands me this book, and it is a book that I know! In it there is a leading character named Rupert; the scene of the story is Paris. Could anything be plainer? Look!”

He drew it from his pocket and began to turn the leaves. A quick frown settled between his eyes. Then suddenly he examined the covers. In the end he leaned back and laughed quietly.

“I’ve been an ass again,” he smiled. “An examination of the book would have solved the mystery days ago, had we known of the book’s existence. Look at it! A book on theatrical make-up, rebound in the covers of a popular novel!”

But now Taggart and I were both on our feet, bursting with the amazing thought that had pierced our brains.

“Then Parris—” I began and hesitated to finish it.

“Was Lennard!” roared Taggart.

“Yes,” smiled Lavender. “Lennard, all the time, except for one or two evenings a week, when he became Parris to revenge himself upon the daughter of the woman who had jilted him. Gilly, I’m afraid I am becoming dull!”

CHAPTER V

We did not pursue the distressed and humiliated girl to Washburn. Lavender’s explanation was too clear to require further proof. Complete and final proof was found by a thorough ransacking of Lennard’s rooms in the West Side rooming house, where the paraphernalia of make-up, and a really splendid toupee, was carefully hidden away. But the make-up boxes were scarcely touched; they had been unnecessary except at the beginning.

Mrs. Barrett, half blind and splendidly loyal to her eccentric guest, had never suspected, and in the dark hallway—on the evenings of his Parris masquerades, as Lavender called them—Lennard had passed without question. Dressed in Lennard’s clothes and speaking in Lennard’s voice, he had gone forth as Parris to exchange for Parris’s clothes at his hotel. His “Parris” life had been spent in three places, almost alternatively; at his hotel, at his club, and at the Valentine home, and at no one of them had he ever stayed long. It was a masterpiece of deception.

His motive for suicide was certainly obscure; but it is conceivable that he may, have sickened of the game he was playing. Lavender’s idea is that he was merely sick of life, and passed out gladly after accomplishing his self-appointed task. Certainly the whole scheme was elaborately worked out, even to the ingeniously phrased and romantic letter in which the manager bade farewell to his younger self, then left for an investigator to find. And an admirable touch was his habit of calling himself from the hotel—that is, calling for Lennard on the telephone, in the hearing of the operator who knew him as Parris. A clever rascal on the whole, and a man who might have been an asset to society with a little more charity.

“The amazing thing to me, Lavender,” I said, “is how he was able to pass himself off in the Valentine home.”

“It may have been difficult at first,” he replied, “but Lennard’s make-up was, of course, very skilful. It consisted in very little, for really little disguise was necessary. He probably used very little theatrical make-up, in spite of his study of the subject. Lennard was fifty and more, but a well preserved man. Further, he was thin, and therefore had no betraying weight to endanger his plan; he would pass as a slim, middle-aged man. With a good wig over his half bald head, and a sprinkling of rice powder over a good massage, he would look quite as young as he claimed to be. He admitted to forty-one years! His dress helped, too, for naturally he dressed in the height of fashion. His features were good, and his determination was great.

“And the big thing in his favor was the fact—for certainly it must have been a fact—that neither Mr. Valentine nor his daughter ever had seen him as Lennard. The mother who would have recognized him was dead. Probably he met the girl’s father at the club and won him by his personality and his chess; after that the match was as good as made. Miss Valentine as much as hinted that it was a match made by her father.”

“I am sorry for Dale Valentine,” I said sincerely.

“So am I,” said Lavender, “sorry that she must suffer this humiliation, even though there may be no distressing publicity, for Taggart will take care of that. Parris will be called away suddenly, and will die in another city, and no one will know the difference. But I’m glad for Dale Valentine in another sense. What a good thing it is that the old rascal didn’t see the greater revenge he had in his power. Suppose he had actually married the girl!”

TOMORROW’S DEAD, by David Dean

The old man opened his eyes and groaned. A string of reddened spittle spun from his busted lip and stretched itself impossibly upwards, crawling across his narrow field of vision in its quest for the ceiling of his car. He wanted to wipe it away, but his arms felt heavy and useless. He looked down to find his hands but they were absent from his lap.

He thought irritably of his wife—perhaps she could explain; quite probably she was responsible. Wincing from the pain in his neck, he managed to turn towards the passenger seat. His wife hung loosely within her seatbelt, tendrils of her grey hair floating above her head like that of a drowned woman.

He understood now; began to remember. There had been a truck…a very large truck with one of those great push-bumpers welded onto the front of it. It was the last thing he had seen as it t-boned them with such force that his car had been overturned and his wife killed. He had been given no time to be afraid or react. As he hung there studying the alien geography of his shattered windshield and the asphalt sky beyond, he began to grow angry. Not so much over the loss of his wife, as he had never had much use for her, but at being so roughly handled. He understood something of brutality, but only in the giving, not in the receiving.

With a great effort, fueled largely by his growing righteous fury, he willed his arms to return to his sides, to obey his commands, but like lumps of molded clay they dangled uselessly from his shoulders. Yet, a slight and painful tingling alerted him that they still lived; might still serve to release him from his entrapment given enough time. Once free of the seatbelt, he could crawl from the car and seek help; get proper medical attention; sue the towing company whose truck and drivers had done such damage. Because it had been a tow truck, there was no doubt in his mind on this matter as his thoughts gelled; he remembered the crane-like appendage that jutted up from behind the cab. It had had a distinctive paint job, as well—blue and yellow; the cab occupied by two men so heavily tattooed that, in the brief moment before impact, they had appeared almost blue. ‘By God,’ he thought, ‘they left me here to die! I’ll wring them dry for this.’

As if summoned by his angry thoughts, the rumble of a large diesel engine entered his blood-filled ears. The old man painfully swiveled his head to peer out what was left of his driver’s-side window in time to see the distinctive blue and yellow color-pattern roll slowly into his field of vision and stop. ‘This won’t do them any good,’ he thought bitterly. ‘I had the right of way at the intersection and they were speeding on top of it; there’s no way trying to be Good Samaritans now is gonna save ’em—they’ve broken my arms…and killed my wife, too,’ he added with a growing sense of indignation.

The truck appeared to sit there for a long time and from his vantage, the old man could see nothing but the huge knobby tires and the lower half of the door. ‘Where are the police?’ he wondered anxiously. ‘Damn police should be here.’

He heard the squeal of rusted hinges and a pair of busted-up work boots dropped upside down into sight. A door slammed; then another. Both of the men were coming over, he observed. ‘Sons-of-bitches are not in any hurry,’ he thought, as the second pair of boots came into sight from round the truck—these were cowboy boots, shiny and new, the toes pointy and hard. Both sets of boots appeared aimed at him, immobile now; waiting.

‘What are they doing?’ the old man wondered, suddenly uneasy. The amount of blood pooling onto the car ceiling alarmed him, though he was reasonably certain it was from his wife. ‘Even so, they should help,’ he reasoned. ‘They should get me out of here…it’s their fault, after all.’ In the distance, a siren intruded into his increasingly panicky thoughts. ‘Thank God,’ he thought, ‘someone has called the police. The boots began to move.

The cowboy boots clipped across the tarmac of the street, taking two steps for every one of the work boots. They reached his window and halted once more, the old man’s world suddenly reduced to a close study of men’s footwear. He could see that the Western boots were covered in snakeskin while the work boots were scuffed and dusty, nondescript. “Help me,” he croaked through a mouthful of blood and loose teeth. It sounded more like gargling, the words turned to mush.

Two faces suddenly appeared, disconcertingly close and upside-down. The tattoos flowed from beneath their collars and sleeves in a riot of swirling, maze-like patterns, occasionally interrupted by a recognizable image. The straining face of Christ, bloodied by his crown of thorns, peeked out from the partially open shirt of ‘Work Boots’, while a serpent swallowing a naked woman crawled down the arm of the Cowboy.

Before he could wrench his attention from their illustrations and actually look into their faces, ‘Work Boots’ produced a blade from somewhere, it’s cutting edge short, but as cruelly curved as a parrot’s beak. ‘He’s going to cut me loose,’ the old man thought, even as alarms began to clang inside his churning brain.

The larger man reached in as if to slice through the strap and the old man felt a sharp tug. But as his would-be rescuer retreated once more, he found that he was still suspended, though suddenly robbed of breath. A fine, crimson mist filled the car and though he comprehended its meaning, he no longer had the power to scream. A caul of blood masked his face and blinded his eyes. Even as his brain and heart began to power down in furious jolts and ominous lulls he wondered why. ‘Why have you cut my throat?’ he wanted to ask, but the ones who could answer were already driving away in the stolen car they had parked nearby just a few hours before.

* * * *

Byron snagged the phone before the third ring, flipped it open and mumbled, “Chief Patrick here.” The voice on the other end of the phone made him sit bolt upright in bed, his gummy eyes fluttering open. The digital clock glowed redly from its perch—it was three-thirty in the morning.

“Byron?” the woman’s voice sounded uncertain. “It’s me, Reba.”

Byron pictured his best friend’s wife in faraway Atlanta, a genteel, classy woman. The soft lilt of home bled through the tension in her voice. “What’s wrong?” he asked. Something had to be wrong, of course, for her to call at this hour; for it to be her instead of Tom. He thought of Tom’s recent heart problems. “Is Tom okay? What’s wrong?”

There was a pause, and then she answered, a tremor entering her voice now, “He’s gone, Byron. I don’t know what’s happened, but he never came home from his office on Tuesday.” Byron’s free hand slid unconsciously across the smooth, unwrinkled sheet of the far side of his bed. It remained as empty as when he had turned in for the night. He remembered that it was now Thursday—Tom had been gone for over twenty four hours. Julia had not come home either, but he was growing used to that; they were not Tom and Reba.

Reba went on, “I’ve called everyone we know; everyone I could think of. No one’s heard from him or seen him. Then I thought of you. I knew it was a long shot, with you being way up there in New Jersey, but I thought maybe…maybe he just needed some time with an old friend. He’s seem worried lately…preoccupied.” Another pause ensued, this one charged and dark as a thunderhead. “He’s not there, is he?” she asked at last, the tears in her voice betraying her fear.

“I’ll catch the very first flight I can,” Byron replied softly, even as his mind raced through all the details of handing over the reins of his department to his second-in-command. “I should be there by late afternoon. Call me right away if he comes home in the meantime.”

* * * *

Byron sat in the faux leather chair that Thomas Llewellyn should have occupied and slowly swiveled from side to side. The seventh floor office overlooking Peachtree Street was not cooperating. The large chair and the scarred metal desk it faced were the only signs of permanence, and even these were devoid of character, being standard issue in cubicles across the nation. The shelving along the walls was constructed of thin, wobbly railings supporting dusty cardboard boxes; most appeared in danger of imminent collapse. The few filing cabinets were tilted and dented, as if accustomed to suffering the kicks and blows of angry men. The ragged files they contained meant nothing to Byron and shed no light on his friend’s disappearance. Tom’s laptop, the only computer he possessed Reba had explained to him, was nowhere to be found.

Byron had visited the office only once before and that had been many years ago on one of his annual trips to see his mother. Whenever possible, he engineered a stopover with the Llewellyns on his way to their mutual hometown of Columbus, yet a hundred miles further south. It seemed more than a lifetime ago when they had all attended the same high school together; lived in the same neighborhood.

At the time of his first visit Tom had been in the midst of just getting moved in; just beginning his consulting business. And now it seemed to Byron that almost nothing had changed in the room since that time, and this gave him an anxious, uneasy feeling. Thomas had done very well in life, had a good income and a beautiful home in a leafy, much sought-after suburb, yet his office bespoke none of this. In fact, Byron reflected, it was a decidedly mute environment—any single one of his officers’ lockers back in New Jersey displayed more character, more personality, than this dim, silent room.

Byron had opened every drawer, closet, and box in his blind search for any clue as to where Tom had gone—or been taken. Reba had assured him that Tom had no enemies; none that he had ever spoken of. “He’s a municipal planning consultant,” she had reminded Byron shortly after he had arrived. “He visits towns throughout the southeast, by invitation mind you, conducts interviews with employees, observes procedures and writes up his thoughts and recommendations on streamlining operations.

“He’s never the one that actually does any firings, you know, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s long gone before anything like that gets done,” she had assured him. “People like Tom, Byron; you know that; they always have.”

It was true, Byron thought once more. Tom had always had an easy, witty charm about him. He wasn’t the kind to make enemies. In that way, they were very different men. Byron smiled at the memory of Tom’s slightly sardonic banter, the arched eyebrow, the curved upper lip that belied his innate good humor. He moved easily amongst men Byron reflected with only a little envy. But even as he remembered his best friend, his hands, patting and probing without need of his direct attention, discovered the envelope and drew it forth. It had been taped to the bottom of the battered desk’s slide-out typing shelf—an anachronism concealing a secret.

As the yellowed, brittle newspaper clippings spilled forth onto the desk top like ancient leaves, Byron felt a darkness, the shadow of a black wing, sweep across his heart. He did not need to read the terse accounts to know the story they told; he recognized his old home in the grainy photos, his own mother and father, decades younger, but the strain and heartache already permanently etched into their faces. Worse still, was the tiny inset of a school photo the police had used in their investigation—a boy of ten sporting the heavily lacquered, thrust-up hair of the era; his smile wide and toothsome—a boy that might have been Byron himself but for his blondness. “Daniel,” he whispered.

Byron leapt to his feet sweeping the clippings hastily back into the envelope. A list of names and addresses written on a strip of white paper, obviously much newer than the articles, caught his eye amongst the tobacco-colored shards, and he studied it for a moment. All of the addresses were in Columbus, but the names themselves meant nothing to him. He returned the list to the envelope and stuffed the entire package into his inside jacket pocket. Within minutes he was in his rental car and speeding southward on I-85 through the wind-swept night.

* * * *

The shell of a house peeked whitely out from its nest of riotous shrubberies and questing vines. In the moonlight it reminded Byron of a skull sinking into the overgrown, humid earth. The entrance was only partially covered by a piece of warped plywood. ‘Probably neighborhood kids,’ he thought; ‘the house would certainly qualify as haunted.’ He could picture the local kids taking the dare to enter the decrepit blue-collar bungalow; he might have done the same thing himself once upon a time.

Something flexed and popped beneath his shoe and he flashed a quick beam from his penlight onto it. A barely legible ‘For Sale’ sign lay rusting and forgotten in the tall, rank grasses. The house still lay empty after thirty-five years—a testament to the fate of its original owner.

Daniel’s body had never been found; his abductor and murderer never apprehended by the police. ‘But the man responsible was identified,’ Byron recalled in a frisson of loathing tinged with guilt—‘justice had been served, and more importantly, Daniel had been avenged.’ Of this, and not very much more, he was certain. Just as he was certain when he discovered the clippings regarding Daniel’s kidnapping in Tom’s office, that his missing friend had discovered something new in the decades-old case; possibly something dangerous to them both. Otherwise Byron would never have returned to this house just two blocks from where he and Thomas grew up; never returned to the only place on earth where he had been responsible for the death of another human being—where they had killed his brother’s murderer.

The list of names meant something to Thomas and now he had disappeared. Was he being blackmailed? Had they been found out after all these years?

Byron pushed through the tall grasses and mounted the few, cracked concrete steps leading up to the gapped entrance. With just a pause to quickly illuminate the interior and insure that a floor still existed, he squeezed through and stood inside.

The climbing tendrils that threatened to pull the tiny house down had not yet obscured all the windows, and through these poured a faint, phosphorescent light; Byron stood still and allowed his eyes to adjust. Gradually, objects once recognizable as furniture coalesced into view—a moldering armchair trembling with hidden mice, a pile of unidentifiable debris seemingly swept up into one corner, a two-legged coffee table that appeared to be kneeling like a dog. He glanced nervously down the short hallway and risked a brief flash of his light. The kitchen at the other end of the house remained impenetrable to the weak illumination, but no noose hung there; no corpulent little man dangled kicking and purple-faced, his eyes black with engorged blood; there was no toppled chair.

Something fluttered whitely on the door frame and Byron instinctively sought it with the beam of his light. He half-expected to find a dusty, irritated moth, but found instead a square of paper tacked to the warped, peeling wood, its edges trembling faintly in the slight breeze. Like the list with the yellowed clippings, this also appeared fresh and recent in its brilliance. Byron trod cautiously down the corridor, his heart thudding louder with every step that drew him closer to the kitchen and its dark memories.

It had all started with their dog ‘Buddy’—he was the first to go missing. In reality, he had been Byron’s dog, an amiable mongrel that he had adopted off the street and then left behind as he had entered his teens. Daniel had been only too happy to inherit the black and white cur. In just a short while, Buddy had successfully, and far too easily as far as Byron had been concerned, transferred his allegiance to the younger Patrick—he became Daniel’s shadow and constant companion; there was not one without the other. That is, until Buddy failed to show up for breakfast one hot, sticky morning a month into their summer vacation.

By the second day of Buddy’s absence, Daniel was inconsolable, suffering the loss as a fresh and open wound. It had been Byron that suggested his little brother stop his sniveling, wipe his snotty nose and go from house to house to make inquiries. Byron had not expected this tactic to produce any actual results other than occupying Daniel’s attention for a few days and putting an end to his bawling, if only temporarily. This cynical suggestion would haunt Byron for the rest of his life.

Armed with a crayon depiction of Buddy scrawled onto a page of lined notebook paper, Daniel sallied forth into the early morning neighborhood with full confidence in his brother’s idea. He never came back. The portrait of the dog was later found in a garbage can set out to the curb. The can bore the sloppily painted numbers that once were attached to the decaying house in which Byron now stood. The former, and deceased, occupant denied any knowledge of little boys or missing dogs. No one believed him.

He was an older man who lived alone. So far as any one knew there had never been a Missus or a girlfriend, and there had been rumors long before Daniel disappeared. Some of Byron’s friends hinted at hidden knowledge, kids in the neighborhood who went silent when the subject of Mr. Virgil Curtsie came up—children who went dead white and stared at their feet. When Byron had suggested the door-to-door campaign to Daniel, he had forgotten Mr. Curtsie; he had forgotten the spider that crouched within the heart of their neighborhood, the small, soft man who always found something to do in his postage stamp-sized front yard when school let out. The grubby little man with the thick, greasy glasses that insisted trick-or-treaters come in to his home on Halloween to receive their due.

Even so, the police search revealed nothing useful to their investigation within his walls. Half the neighborhood, adult and child, had stood vigil outside his home the day of the search. When Curtsie had escorted the last officer to the door, Byron recalled the little smile that had lifted his pursed and purplish lips—a tiny, furtive smile of triumph. Thomas had nudged him hard in the ribs that hot day as the sun sank like a ball of fire into the faraway ocean. “We should git’im! You wanna git’im?” he had asked urgently. “If it was my brother, I’d damn sure git’im!”

They were both big boys at fourteen, and athletic, and what they did was not hard to do once they had made up their minds. Thomas had been startlingly adept at violence, pummeling and overpowering the smiling Curtsie as he answered their knock at his back door. Binding him with the clothesline they had brought was the work of only a few moments. The remaining length had been fastened round his fleshy neck and pulled through a lamp hook fastened to the ceiling and tied off to the oven door. Byron remembered being amazed and intimated by his best friend’s unexpected proclivity for violence and his adult-like confidence. From the moment they had entered the house Thomas had moved with assurance.

The entire episode had unfolded in the slow, detail-laden way of dreams; only the moments of violence achieving rapidity, the images blurred and seeping colors. Byron had intended that they should interrogate the grimy little man about Daniel’s whereabouts, but Thomas, in his righteous zeal, had rendered his mouth incapable of forming coherent words. Now, their plan to threaten him with hanging unless he came ‘clean’ would appear to have no real purpose. Nonetheless, Thomas had herded their prisoner onto the chair and threaded the hangman’s rope to its anchor. Mr. Curtsie swayed from side to side and appeared dazed; unsure of what was happening to him. Just as Byron prepared to intervene—after all it was Daniel’s whereabouts that they had come for—Thomas suddenly put a finger to his lips and pointed to the front of the house. “Did you hear a car pull up?” he asked urgently.

Byron sprinted for the front door and peered cautiously through the curtains. The mail man’s jeep was just pulling away from the Curtsie post box. He nearly passed out with relief. When he returned, the chair lay on its side and the man responsible for his little brother’s disappearance dangled from the ceiling. “The bastard jumped,” Thomas whispered at the awe-inspiring sight and pointed to the back door. “Let’s go,” he had commanded the mesmerized Byron; “Now!” Together, they had fled the house like two boys running from a broken window; shouting and laughing with relief when they were safely away. It was only later that Byron realized that Tom had untied the dead man’s hands before they had escaped.

Byron snagged the folded note from the door frame and opened it. In the beam from his penlight, he read the words, “Waiting for you.”

* * * *

The chief of the Columbus P.D. was a large, heavy man not much older than Byron, early fifties, he guessed. He had the look of a college football player gone to seed. The chief slid a paper cup of coffee across his desk and regarded his visitor. Byron saluted him with it and said, “I appreciate you seeing me, Chief Tanner; I’m sure you’re busy.”

“Call me Steve,” he replied, suspicion written all over his face; “How can I say no to a fellow chief…even one from New Jersey?” he added with just the hint of a smile.

Byron smiled tightly back. “I grew up here…born and raised. My mama still lives here.”

“Columbus High?”

“No, Pacelli.”

Chief Tanner took a noisy sip of his coffee and leaned back in his leather chair. “Is that right? You gotta go somewhere, I reckon. Well how in the hell did you end up stranded in the frozen north, pray tell?”

“Pretty easy, actually; I met and married a Jersey girl while I was serving in the army. You know how it goes, when we decided to get out of the service she wanted to settle down close to her folks, and I just wanted her to be happy for a change; it worked …for a while.”

Tanner smiled more broadly now, as if Byron were just then exhibiting recognizable human features. “Wives,” he waved his meaty paw across the top of his desk; ‘they’re something, ain’t they?” He didn’t require an answer. “Looks like they’ve treated you pretty good up there, didn’t they, Chief…for a southern boy?” He slid Byron’s police ID card across his desk to him.

“Yep,” Byron admitted; “they sure as hell have.”

Tanner gazed silently across the desk top at him with the expression of a benevolent uncle for a nephew who has traveled far and done well. “So then, what is it we can do for you,” he asked in the gently tumbled grammar of the Piedmont.

Byron looked at Tanner squarely. “Steve, my best friend has gone missing and I have reason to believe he may be somewhere here in Columbus…his wife is frantic,” he added for emphasis.

“Grown man?” Tanner asked. “He might not thank you if you find him, Byron. Besides, you know as well as me that the police can’t involve themselves with runaway husbands.”

“It’s not like that.” Byron leaned forward. “I think he’s gotten into some kind of trouble. I don’t know if he’s running from something or away from it, but it’s also possible he was taken.”

“Taken?” Tanner echoed. “If you had any proof of that the FBI would already be involved, wouldn’t they?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but continued. “I’m still not hearing why this might be a police matter, Byron, and to tell you God’s honest truth, we’re a little bit busy around here just at the moment. You may not be familiar with the little crime wave we’re having, but the press is having a field day.” He shoved the morning’s Ledger-Enquirer across his desk to Byron and pointed at a photograph of an overturned car—spectators knelt and peered at something dangling within. Chief Tanner stabbed a thick finger at it and said, “Had his throat cut, by God! Run off the road and murdered for no apparent reason; his wallet left behind. It don’t make sense and it’s not the first—we’re rackin’ ’em up day by day. I’ve got a city of over a quarter million people, Byron, and less than five hundred cops to take care of ’em. Like I said, we’re kind of preoccupied just now.”

Byron had stopped listening, his attention having been arrested by the name of the elderly victim, Nicholas A. Strohmayer. His finger hung above it like a wasp, hovering and uncertain, unable to move on. He fished the list of names he had taken from Tom’s office out of his jacket pocket and quickly scanned it. N. Strohmayer appeared third down. His eyes flicked back to the newspaper to confirm the spelling; then up to the face of his counterpart.

“Steve,” he began softly, “you said there have been other unexplained murders recently—like Strohmayer?” The Columbus chief nodded his large, bullish head warily. “What were their names?”

Tanner paused for just a moment; then answered, “Robson, Fletcher and Forrester, Claudius…Claude to his friends when he was breathing. Why do you ask?”

Byron’s finger trailed down the list stopping briefly on the two names printed as C. Forrester and F. Robson. He looked back up at Tanner; then said, “I think I may have a list of the victims.” He handed the paper to him.

Tanner studied it for several long moments before saying, “I’ll assign you a liaison officer, but you’ll have to share a desk.”

* * * *

Vanda Tucker did not recognize Byron by either name or appearance and he said nothing to enlighten her. On the other hand, he had recognized her instantly in spite of the many years that had passed since their brief acquaintance. He actually felt himself blushing upon introduction. She was in a gray pants suit that had become a little too snug and sported a detective sergeant’s badge on the leather holder attached to her belt. Byron had to keep biting his lower lip to keep from smiling. As she escorted him into her small, basement office she threw him a suspicious glance as she pushed open a frosted window. The narrow view revealed little but a concrete runway leading to the basement steps at the other end of the building. Several trash cans were lined up opposite, their lids invisible from the acute angle. She fired a cigarette and waved the smoke out the opening. “What’s the grin for, Chief? Something strike your funny-bone this morning?” She took a quick glance in a mirror hung on the brick wall and pushed at her dark hair a little. “Hmmm?”

“No,” he lied; “just the awkwardness of the situation, I guess.”

She didn’t appear to buy that, but went on anyway. “Alright then, the chief says, that is, my chief, that I’m to bring you up to speed on these cases—our little murder spree, so let’s get to it.”

She signaled for him to sit, so Byron obediently eased himself into the ancient wooden school chair that was wedged next to her desk. If someone opened the door suddenly he would be banged in the knees with it. She threw a number of files onto the desk but did not bother to sit herself.

Puffing away at her smoke she narrated in fine detail the apparently senseless murders of three men. The most recent, Strohmayer, he already knew the manner of death, but the previous two bore no resemblance other than the cold-blooded ferocity of their execution and the lack of any appreciable motive. “Oh yeah,” she added. “In all three cases the victims were elderly men, though I’m sure you’ve already noted that.

“Also, she continued, “witnesses have testified that the killers were two heavily tattooed white males. They don’t seem to be making too much of an effort to conceal their identities—the forensic artist is working something up for us and it should be ready soon.”

She flicked her latest cigarette out the window and turned back to face Byron. “I’m sorry about all that,” she said shyly. “I’ve tried to quit a bunch of times, but every time I do I blow up like a balloon. Even now, I can hardly button these pants,” she laughed.

It was not her pants that drew so much of Byron’s unwilling attention, but her fully-packed blouse, whose buttons appeared to be straining with the effort of containing her. The memories of their first and, until now, only meeting, came rushing back to him, flooding his senses; making him as testosterone-charged as an adolescent boy; as the fifteen year old he had once been when they had met that long-ago autumn night.

“Goodness gracious you are easily embarrassed,” she laughed; mistaking Byron’s discomfort to be about her remarks. “Don’t they have any girls up there in New Jersey?” she asked playfully.

“Yeah,” he admitted, as thoughts of Julia rose like snow dervishes; instantly cooling him. “Maybe we should consider re-interviewing the families of the victims,” Byron offered.

Vanda’s smile vanished with Byron’s and she responded flatly, “To what end?”

He told her about Thomas and the list and she asked, “What’s your friend got to do with all this?”

“I don’t know,” Byron answered honestly; “I really don’t.” But even so, he felt a darkness gather in his heart like a murder of crows, shrieking and restless, merciless and full of hunger.

* * * *

The widow Robson greeted them from her front porch swing. The early sun had yet to reach her and she was wrapped in a hand-knitted shawl in shades of orange and green that were last popular in the 1970’s. Byron thought her thin white hair resembled a halo as it floated above her tiny, fragile skull. She pointed to two rusty metal rockers that faced the street and asked pleasantly, “Could I get ya’ll some coffee?”

“No ma’am,” he declined; ‘we’ve had our coffee, thank you.” He could hear his drawl seeping back into his speech with every word—It was like a first language that returned when back in the land of one’s birth, smoothly; without conscious thought, and ever since he had landed in Atlanta it had crept steadily forth.

“We just wondered if we could ask you a few questions about your husband?” he continued. Vanda smiled at the old woman and took a seat, while Byron half-sat and half-leaned on the porch railing.

Mrs. Robson’s smile vanished and she snugged the caftan around her narrow shoulders as if she had just felt a chill. “More questions, then? I don’t much see the point, I must say. The harms all been done; nothing we say here’s gonna change any of that.”

Vanda said, “Harm, ma’am…you mean your husband’s murder?”

The old woman looked down at her lap and her large-jointed fingers that she restlessly knit together. “Yes,” she answered after a moment; “That’s harm too, isn’t it?”

Byron threw a puzzled glance at his partner and answered, “Of course it is. It’s a grievous harm that’s still out there—men are still being murdered, Mrs. Robson, and we’d like to put a stop to it; that’s why we’re here.”

She looked back up at him; her eyes misty and frightened. “I don’t really know anything,” she pleaded.

“Maybe you do, ma’am,” Vanda intervened; reaching over and patting one her veined hands. “Sometimes we know more than we realize.”

“Did you, or your husband, know a man named Thomas Llewellyn?” Byron asked.

The old woman shook her head. “No, I’m afraid that doesn’t ring any bells. I’m sorry.” Byron thought she seemed relieved. He thrust the list at her.

“How about any of the names on this list? Take your time, Mrs. Robson and be sure.” He watched her carefully peruse the roster from the top down. The paper began to vibrate in her fingers and she went to hand it back to him. “Which ones do you recognize,” he asked abruptly; refusing to take it; “Point at them.”

She looked up at him with pleading, yellow eyes. “Do it, ma’am; right this minute.” He felt Vanda’s gaze on him. The old woman unfurled a talon-like finger and tapped a name on the list; then another and another. Byron watched closely. One name had been that of fellow victim, Claudius Forrester; the second, however, still lived…at least for now.

“How about the name, Virgil Curtsie…does that do anything for you?” She kept her face pointed down at the quaking paper clutched in her spiderish hands. “That name isn’t on the list, so why don’t you look up at me and answer?”

Vanda had risen to her feet and appeared on the verge of intervening. “Hey now,” she began, but Byron cut her off.

“Look at me and answer,” he nearly shouted; snatching the list from her.

Mrs. Robson raised her pale, ghostly face; her mouth parted; tears trembling in her eyes. “How did you know?” she asked. “How could you know?”

“What’s going on?” he heard Vanda ask from somewhere far away; “Chief?”

Byron ignored her and pressed on. “Did your husband keep an address book…where is it, Mrs. Robson?”

She pointed at the screen door. “Just inside by the telephone…I don’t know why you’re shouting at me,” she sobbed; “I didn’t do anything!”

“Get it,” he barked at Det. Sgt. Tucker.

“Yes sir!” she barked back, throwing open the door and letting it slam behind her. When she returned moments later with the book, it was to witness Byron stalking away toward the car. She hastened to catch up. “We’ll return this after we’re done with it,” she promised the old woman over her shoulder.

“I don’t want it,” she cried in return as she scurried into her house.

“Sir,” Vanda called out to Byron’s back; hurrying to catch him, “sir…chief or no chief, you’ve got some explaining to do! What was that back there?”

Byron had already reached the car and started it. He began to pull away from the curb before she could even close her door. The acceleration threw her back into her seat. “Damnit, Chief! You mind not killing us…at least not before you’ve explained what’s going on.” She snapped her seatbelt and took a moment to situate it comfortably between her breasts before turning to study Byron’s hardened profile. She lit a cigarette and didn’t bother to open the window. “It’s not fair to sit down at our table with cards up your sleeve—it’s just not polite; especially when you’re a guest. So how about it, Chiefie? You about ready to spill your guts, or do I have to smoke you out?” She laughed at her own joke in a way that made Byron feel both warm and challenged.

“Yeah,” he answered, glancing over at her; noting the sparkle in her green eyes. “I’m about ready…just open that damn window.”

He aimed the car for downtown and the Rankin Bar.

* * * *

Byron knocked back his second bourbon and set the glass down next to his cooling cup of coffee. Vanda sat across the small table from him sipping at a steaming cup of chicory; the Rankin Bar being one of the very few places in town where they served the ‘Old South’ coffee substitute. The Detective Sergeant studied her charge with some amusement.

“Hey there,” she said softly, “let’s not forget it’s only eleven—that’s AM, by the way.” She glanced around the coolly dark room nearly devoid of customers. “Ain’t it a shame you can’t even smoke in bars anymore? Good Lord…this used to be a place of sin and iniquity…now look at it, all dolled up for church.”

Byron took in his surroundings for the first time. It was true…this bar, like most of downtown, had become so gentrified since he had last lived in Columbus that it was almost unrecognizable. What had once been a decaying business district in a dying mill town had been transformed. Gone were the sleazy hole-in-the-wall, drink-standing-up or go-outside-to-fall-down bars where textile workers used to donate their hard-earned paychecks. Even the gritty, massive brick buildings that had once ground and roared twenty-four hours a day and housed thousands of workers had fallen silent, their operations spirited away to exotic lands like Mexico and Indonesia. Now, those that remained had been converted into high-end lofts with views of the river that had once powered their turbines; the rest had been plowed under for strip malls or preserved as seldom visited museums. Like elsewhere, Byron thought through the calming haze of ‘Makers Mark’, Columbus had surrendered its blue collar soul for a place in the land of cubicles; replacing its mills and foundries with insurance companies and credit card corporations. As if conjured up by his ruminations, an old tramp made his unsteady way past their window, blinking and uncertain in the new day—a working-class Rip Van Winkle awakened to a future that has no place for him. Byron raised a finger to the bar tender.

“Hold that thought,” Vanda commanded both Byron and the mixologist; stopping the latter with his hand on the neck of the preferred bottle. Receiving no encouragement from Byron he drifted away into the shadows. “Still waiting on you, professor,” Vanda smiled across the table at her new partner; “Let’s have it, shall we; before you render yourself incapable. Tell me about that list.”

“When I realized that some of the names on Tom’s list were also ‘your’ victims, I knew that I…we,” he corrected himself and received an encouraging nod from Vanda; “had to find the connection—that there had to be something that tied them all together. So, when I saw the old woman, Mrs. Robson, I decided to take a chance and show her the list. She knew the other names, and more importantly, her husband had known them, as well…she also knew Virgil Curtsie.”

“Who the hell is he when he’s at home?” Vanda quipped. “His name wasn’t on that paper.”

“No,” Byron conceded, “but she knew him, which meant her husband knew him, and my friend Tom Llewellyn knew them all…or at least their names.”

“Why?” Vanda asked simply.

“I’m not sure,” Byron replied.

Vanda took a breath, “Do you think it could be your friend is behind these murders?”

Byron took a moment before answering. “I don’t know anymore, but it’s something I have to consider.”

Vanda reached over and patted his hand before asking, “How did you know to show the old lady the list, Byron? What significance do those names hold for you? Cause if you don’t mind my saying, that scene on the porch came across as a little personal to me.”

He looked across at Vanda while weighing his words, even as the alcohol and her touch loosened the tight collar with which he always girded himself. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”

Vanda tucked her chin in and pursed her lips as if she had been considering this very thing; then tapped the table top with a long, lacquered nail before answering, “There is something about you that is so familiar.” Her eyes narrowed in concentration. “High School?” she asked

“Pacelli,” he answered, just as he had done in Tanner’s interview.

Vanda shook her head, “Nope…Baker.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “A Catholic boy, huh; they can be awful sweet,” she observed dreamily.

“Please, Lord above,” she continued, “do not tell me that I should remember you, if you know what I mean, and I pray you don’t.” She shook a cigarette out of her package, then not finding an ashtray, managed to break it in half while trying to get it back in. “There was a time there…a short period, mind you, after my husband left me, when I’m afraid I kinda went off the deep end a little…did a little too much partying…woke up in a few too many strange places with a few too many strange…well, I don’t have to tell you; you’re a mature man, after all.” She took a deep breath. “You are not one of those men, are you? Please say no.

“You can’t be,” she hastily answered herself, “you’ve been living up north all this time! Oh my God, that’s a relief! Only why in the world do I run my mouth so, besides you’re the one that’s supposed to be talking! You did that on purpose!” she accused Byron.

He laughed gently. “I’m sorry,” he offered; “I do have the advantage, as I remember you explicitly.”

Vanda propped her chin in her hand and said, “Explicitly…oh dear…well do tell, get it over with.”

“It was at Baker High School,” Byron began; his voice becoming soft and smoky with the memories of a long-ago evening. “Some classmates and I crashed one of those famous teen dances at your school gym. One of the coaches that guarded the entrance was the older brother of one of my school buddies and he let us in. We hardly knew what to do once we had breached your battlements, so we just stood around in a knot trying not to look conspicuous and achieving the exact opposite, I’m sure. That’s when I saw you. You were dancing away and the center of attention; at least my attention, and I made up my mind right then and there to ask you to dance. I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

“Oh how you do go on!” Vanda said in her best tidewater drawl. Then, “Pray continue, please, I’m all ears.”

Byron chuckled hoarsely. “Well, I asked…I asked you to dance and you did. I think my legs were shaking, I was so nervous. Then, at some point, the band switched to something slow and I’ll never forget the sensation of holding you close. Remember, I’d been attending a Catholic school, and it was the seventies you know, so I hadn’t had a lot of experience with girls yet. Then I did something that I’ve never forgiven myself for.” He glanced guiltily at Vanda whose hand had drifted to her cheek as if she were checking for a temperature.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“I let my hand brush up against your left breast, I distinctly remember which one, and said, quite romantically I’m sure; “I’d really like to do it with you.”

Vanda’s mouth fell open. “You!” she managed to say. “That was you?”

“So you do remember me?” Byron laughed.

“I do now, you naughty boy! I was so disappointed that you didn’t stick around for an answer; you took off from there like the devil was on your heels.”

“No,” Byron smiled ruefully. “I lost my nerve and so also the lady fair…but, I never forgot her.”

Vanda blushed in spite of herself but drawled, “How you do talk, suh, I declare!”

“So now you know my deep, dark secret.”

“Darlin’, if that’s the worst of it you’ve got to keep trying.”

Byron glanced down at his empty tumbler and Vanda followed his gaze. “But that’s not all, is it? Maybe I should buy you another after all; it appears firewater puts you in a confessional mood.”

He glanced up guiltily just as her cell phone began to ring. She dug around in her voluminous bag for several moments before locating it. Flipping it open she answered, “Detective Sergeant Tucker,” then went silent. After a moment more she said, “Five minutes, we’re just around the corner from the station.” She snapped the phone shut and announced, “We’ve got to roll…it seems a package arrived at the station that’s causing quite a stir…and it’s for you.”

* * * *

They met Chief Tanner in the evidence processing room on the second floor. He was waiting for them at the end of a long table on which sat a single cardboard box. The box appeared to have been roughly torn open; the brown wrapping paper and string that had bound it had been left hanging from its crushed sides. It was smeared with fingerprint dust as well. Several men in lab jackets were arrayed around the table in various attitudes; none appeared happy with the box.

“We had the robot open it when we saw it was addressed to you,” Chief Tanner informed Byron as he and Vanda walked into the room of waiting men. “There was no return address and after what just happened, I thought it best we didn’t take any chances.”

Byron stopped at the far end opposite his counterpart and asked, “What did just happen?”

Tanner pushed the box several inches further away just using his fingertips and said, “We went right over to Mister Timothy Wakely’s house after I got a look at that list of yours—he was the next on it; still living so far as we knew—we now know that to be incorrect.”

“Murdered?” Byron said.

“Very much so,” Tanner assured him; “Had his head removed with the family sword. My boys here,” he nodded at the gloomy technicians, “assure me that the sword is a genuine Confederate issue; probably a family heirloom. Not that that matters much for Mr. Wakely, as it appears he had no children of his own to hand it off to—a confirmed bachelor as they used to say in the old days.” He winked at Byron.

Vanda, who had been edging up to the open box, halted and said, “Please tell me that his head is not in that box.” Her face went a shade lighter.

Tanner gave her a look; then said, “Byron, I’m afraid this might be bad news for you, but what came in this box has to do with your missing friend, Llewellyn.”

Byron noticed Vanda sidling a little closer to the box. He remained still. “Bad news?” he repeated dully.

Vanda reached the box and peered quickly in. Byron heard her say, “Oh my God!”

“Pretty bad, yeah,” Tanner continued; softening his voice a little. “Some sonofabitch sent you his index fingers.”

Byron felt himself take a step back then stop; then heard himself ask, “You sure they’re his?”

“Yeah, ’fraid so; we rolled one and sent it through AFIS. It was a match from when he applied for a pistol permit in Atlanta a few years ago. We couldn’t lift any prints from the box itself. Whoever sent it was careful enough.”

“Any chance for Thomas,” Byron asked.

“It’s possible” Tanner answered; his expression unconvincing; “…he could still be alive. It would depend on whether they stanched the bleeding…or whatever else they may have done to him before, or afterward. I’m sorry, Byron; I know you were good friends.”

“That’s it then?”

Tanner shook his big head reluctantly. “No, I’m afraid not…there’s a note.” The Columbus chief slid a clear plastic evidence bag containing a handwritten note on lined paper to Byron. Byron noted the rusty-looking stains that decorated the margins, as well as remnants of clear tape that had been snipped near their middle. It read, ‘Tell Byron to hurry up—I’m almost done. Thomas wanted to point the way.’ He looked up at Chief Tanner as Vanda placed a hand on his arm. He could feel himself shaking. “His fingers had been taped to this page?”

Tanner nodded. “Each was pointing in the opposite direction of the other…a joke.”

“Who’s left now?”

“Just one according to Llewellyn’s list—a Randolph J. Carruthers, white male, aged seventy-six. He lives alone since his mother died a few years ago. We’ve got undercover with him now.”

“Anyone assigned to the night shift yet?”

“You and Tucker I expect,” Tanner sighed.

“That’d be fine…thanks.” Byron said.

Tanner called over to Vanda, “Tucker, you in?”

She turned slightly from the open window overlooking the patrol parking lot and answered, “Neck deep, Chief.”

“Byron, go get fitted for a vest and draw a weapon from the armory…you comfortable with a .45 cal?”

“That’s what we qualify with.”

“Good. Tucker, will you stop mooning around and escort Chief Patrick to the armory, please ma’am?”

As they walked down the hallway together Vanda turned and said, “He might still be alive, Byron. I know it’s not likely, but we don’t know why he was taken in the first place. He may have some value to them.”

Byron said nothing; as he was wondering what that value might be.

“Besides,” she added with a weak smile, “at least now you know that he’s not the one behind all this.”

* * * *

Randolph J. sat in the shadowed corner of his cluttered, dusty living room and eyeballed the two officers that had relieved his previous guardians. They didn’t look like much to him. When he had been the man’s age, he reflected, he could have taken him easily; as to the woman…well, that was obvious. He had spent nearly his entire life in school gyms teaching kids the rudiments of sports and the basics of developing a strong physique and knew two losers when he saw them. Smokers and drinkers…soft and slow—this was what stood between him and…something…a painful death, maybe. He shuddered and the damned woman noticed as she made her rounds of the windows checking latches. She quickly turned away. He hoped that they could at least shoot well, if it came to that.

The man reentered the room from the kitchen after spending what seemed an inordinate amount of time in the back rooms of his house. He was drying his hands with a ragged dish towel. “Find anything to interest you?” Randolph J. asked slyly.

Byron regarded him for a moment before asking in his turn, “What do you think?”

The old man reared back in his stained and tattered lounger, “I won’t tolerate disrespect—I demand respect.”

Byron turned away and went to the front door. “Uh huh,” he answered disrespectfully.

Vanda sidled up to him and whispered fiercely in his ear, “Do you mind? We’ve got to spend all night here with this old boy, so do you think you could you give your feud with the elderly just a slight hiatus?”

Byron jiggled the door knob and double-checked the deadbolt without answering.

Vanda’s forehead furrowed with a new thought. “Wait a minute,” she continued with just a glance over her shoulder at Mister Carruthers, “did you find something?”

Byron turned back toward the kitchen and Vanda followed. “I’ll make some coffee,” he said.

When they had entered the tiny, fly-blown kitchen, she seized his elbow. “Byron?” she demanded; then folded her arms waiting.

He looked over her shoulder into the darkening living room. Carruthers studied them both with open suspicion, his long, sagging face, pale and stubbled, pursed in distaste; his tiny, deep-set eyes glittering with malice. Byron turned back to Vanda. “He has a drawer full of children’s underwear in his bedroom,” he said; then resumed his preparations, rinsing out a greasy coffee pot and spooning some stale grounds into a filter basket.

“Might be grandchildren,” Vanda offered unconvincingly.

Byron glanced over his shoulder at her; then returned to his task.

She looked once more to where the man they were to protect glowed like a fungus in the deepening shadows of the on-coming evening. “Oh Lordy,” Vanda whispered; “Oh dear God; I won’t sleep a wink in this house,” she promised.

“Am I allowed to use my own bathroom?” Their unhappy host called out to them. “Would that be a goddamn problem, do you think?” He began to hoist himself up on shaky, spindly arms.

“It’s your house,” Byron answered, “do what you want. All we ask is that you not go outside and to keep all the curtains closed and the doors locked—the rest is up to you.”

“So I can go to bed if I want to?” Randolph J. persisted unpleasantly; beginning his unsteady exit of the close, malodorous room.

“It’s up to you,” Byron repeated; “Don’t let us stop you.”

The old man made his way like a great, white spider into the dark recesses of the rear of the house and vanished from sight.

* * * *

When they came for him it was not in darkness but just as the sun began to rise over a murky horizon. Vanda had not been as good as her word, but had fallen asleep on the old man’s seedy, sprung couch sometime after three AM. Byron had succumbed in an armchair facing the front door some time before, confident that the sound of anyone attempting to gain entry would quickly rouse him.

It was the crash and grind of the approaching garbage truck that awakened them both. Byron stood and stretched before going to the window to take a peek at the world newly revealed, and heard bones cracking in his back. He smiled tiredly at Vanda who had just managed a sitting position and who smiled blearily back.

He parted the thick, dusty curtains just enough to peek outside. The garbage truck trundled noisily into view, an institutional green monster, spewing diesel smoke and dripping an unsavory stew of fluids from various leaks within its carcass. With a hiss and a squeal it halted in front of Carruthers’ house and the ‘Moan Back’ man leapt down from the maw of the vehicle. Byron dully registered the worker’s scroll of ‘tats’ and began to turn away. ‘He’s going to ruin those fancy cowboy boots,” he thought.

“Anything showing,” Vanda asked cheerfully as she made her way to the kitchen to begin a new pot of coffee.

Byron heard the crash of metal as Randolph’s garbage can was slammed into the lip of the receiving end of the truck outside. “No,” Byron began, “just the garbage pick-up. That’s one job you couldn’t pay me to…” The boots niggled at his subconscious and he turned back toward the window, but it was the sound of running footsteps that interrupted his sentence. “What the …” he began. He threw back the curtain just in time to see ‘Cowboy Boots’ returning the now-empty and very dented can back to the side of Carruthers’ house, even as a second heavily-tattooed man, presumably the driver, charged up the walk wielding a cinder block. Byron just had time to think, ‘Two white males, heavily tattooed,’ before the concrete was launched through the very window he was peering out from. He threw himself to the right in a shower of broken glass and shards of jagged wood.

From the kitchen, he heard the sound of something clattering to the floor and the faraway sound of Vanda’s voice crying, “Byron?”

He had fallen onto his right side, pinning his gun beneath his frame. He scrabbled to flip himself over and bring it into play even as Vanda rushed in with her weapon already drawn and pointing at the destroyed window. In that split second, the face of ‘Cowboy Boots’ appeared framed in the wreckage and Byron noted his long, curly hair, clean and shining in the light of the new day; swinging about his shoulders like a model’s in a shampoo commercial. In spite of the tattoos concealing so much of his features it was clear to Byron that he could not be much more than twenty-five. He tossed the grenade into the room and vanished before either he or Vanda could fire a single shot and Byron thought his expression inappropriately cheerful for the occasion.

The resultant explosion concussed Byron and retuned him to the floor clasping his ears, deaf, writhing, and blind as a mole. He could not know what might have happened to Vanda. Though his senses had been scattered by the concussive bang and brilliant flash of the stun grenade, he understood that he was still alive for the moment, yet helpless and at the mercy of his enemies.

It was the terrified screams of Randolph J. that first pierced the swirling disorder of his mind and ears and let him know that there would be an end to his disablement. Through a white haze he was startled to see that the two tattooed men were already in the house and carrying the old man between them, as neatly wrapped in a blanket as a cigar. Byron sat up feeling for his gun. The driver kicked him in the forehead as he passed with his load and Byron went back down, the gun temporarily forgotten.

As a trickle of blood began to stain his vision, Byron dragged himself toward where Vanda lay. He could see that she was still breathing, but unconscious. He felt something metal beneath his hand and seized it; then made for the appallingly destroyed doorway like a slug—unable to comprehend what had transpired in the lost time from the moment of the explosion until now.

As the sun rose like an angry red eye over the misty tree tops and damp roofs, he saw his adversaries toss Carruthers onto the drooling lip of the garbage truck’s compressor. Byron’s vision cleared enough to witness the younger of the two men throw the lever to commence the downward progress of the great blade, as the older held their victim in place, smiling all the while. Carruthers screamed and flopped about like a monstrous cocoon while watching his death come to him with the inexorable whine of hydraulics.

Byron’s first shot went wide of the larger, older man, but pinged off the metal hide of the truck in an unnoticed shower of rust and paint. The killers were unable to hear the report above the screams and machinery, so he tried again. This time the younger one went down, his hand releasing the deadly lever, but without missing a beat his partner took over his duties and resumed the downward progress while pinning Carruthers with a corded, muscular arm. He glanced back towards Byron with a patient hatred, as if he had all the time in the world. As Byron tried to steady himself for his next shot, the great, filthy blade arrived; beginning its crude vivisection—there was no chance for the victim now; the voice of his terror and pain arcing ever-higher; then abruptly halting with the sickening snap of metal at last meeting metal.

With only the briefest of pauses to insure that his partner was truly dead, the big man stalked away in the direction from which the truck had come, but so many people had come out to see what was happening, that Byron had no chance for another shot. His quarry walked away and, wisely, no one made a move to stop him. The screaming of the shocked witnesses almost masked the banshee-wail of fast-approaching sirens, while behind him Byron heard Vanda cough and groan.

“Don’t open your eyes,” he mumbled through a mouthful of blood; then laid his head down on the filthy floor and closed his own.

* * * *

It was mid-afternoon by the time Byron and Vanda were released from the emergency room at Saint Francis and Tanner was waiting for them in his office. He could have been happier.

The two of them gave their account of the debacle at the Carruthers home and their stories being in accord with the facts found on the scene, Tanner had little to say except, “Well, maybe things will settle down now since they got everyone on the goddamn list; hopefully that made the surviving sonofabitch a happy camper.” As they made their way for the door, he added, “By the way, I’m glad those bastards let you two live…they did, you know. Any thoughts on that, Byron; I’m sure it’s crossed your mind too?”

Byron turned back to Tanner who looked tired and as creased as old leather, and said, “I’ll probably never know now. They did what they set out to do, I think. It’s over.” He didn’t tell Tanner or Vanda of the note he had found tucked away in his jacket pocket. One of the assailants had slipped it into his jacket as he and Vanda had lain unconscious after the concussion grenade had done its work. It read, ‘Think simple and you’ll know what to do—come alone.’ It was written in the same crude lettering of the note contained in the bloody package.

Outside of Tanner’s office Vanda took Byron’s hand and looked up into his face. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight, Byron…I know I don’t want to be.”

Byron found that he couldn’t even smile. “God, I spent my whole youth and a good part of my adulthood fantasizing about this moment.”

Vanda sighed and took a step back, releasing his hand. “But…?”

“The memory of ‘us’…of what could have been, is all I’ve had to keep me going at times…a lot of times. My life is a shambles right now…my wife…I don’t even want to go there. The truth is I can’t afford the risk of losing you by having you; I’m afraid to take the chance, Vanda.”

The corners of Vanda’s mouth turned up just a little. “My God, I can’t believe I’m being turned down in favor of a fantasy—even if it is a fantasy about me. You are a dreamer, Byron Patrick, and a little bit of a poet, and very sweet, and I’d really like a chance to kick your wife’s ass.” The little smile vanished. “You’re also something of a liar, Chief Patrick. You’re keeping something back in all this and I know it has to do with your little brother’s abduction all those years ago.”

Byron reared back as Vanda smoothly continued, “Yeah, that’s right, I know about your little brother and Virgil Curtsie—I had one of our computer geeks ‘Google’ you the day we met—I may be a hot little number, Byron, but I am also a pretty damn good cop. That list your friend Llewellyn had is connected to that event. You know the rest, I think, or have figured it out by now.”

Byron stared hard at her for several moments; then said, “Tom and I killed Virgil Curtsie, Vanda, the man who took my little brother. We were just kids, and I don’t think we set out to do it, but to be honest with you, I don’t really know anymore. But now, all these years later, it seems someone wants revenge for that killing—that’s why they took Thomas.

“As to the list, I’m just not sure. It became apparent to me during this investigation, and to you as well I suspect, that the list was a roll call of pedophiles; all of an age to have been contemporaries of Virgil Curtsie. What Tom was doing with the list—that’s where things start to get hazy. At first, I thought it might be Tom behind the murders, but after the index fingers, I knew better.”

Vanda glanced cautiously at Chief Tanner’s closed door. “You poor baby, you’ve been carrying this around all these years and then…this. It must seem like a nightmare.”

Byron nodded; then added, “It’s been a nightmare since I sent Daniel out to look for that damned dog of his. The killing of Curtsie seemed just another part of it all. It’s why I left Columbus all those years ago; it’s probably why I went into police work in the first place—penance. Now it’s come full circle somehow and here I am again.”

“What will you do now?” Vanda asked; then, “What will you tell Tom’s wife?”

“What’ll I do?” Byron repeated; then lied, “Go back to my motel room and get drunk. Then sometime after that call Reba and give her the news that Tom’s not coming back—not now; not ever.”

Vanda took his jacket by the lapels and pulled him down to her, planting a moist kiss on his stubbled cheek, while just brushing his lips with hers. For a brief moment he felt her fingers stray across his ribcage then withdraw with a final, urgent tug on his jacket. “Call me if you change your mind,” she said, her eyes never leaving his; “…and don’t go roamin’ around after dark, okay? I’ll be watching you,” she promised.

Byron nodded dumbly back, the note in his pocket as heavy as death.

* * * *

Curtsie’s house appeared just as he had last seen it—bathed in moonlight and sagging beneath the weight of climbing vines and cloaking branches. The plywood door covering still hung tiredly from a single nail as Byron slipped behind it and entered.

A wavering yellow light flickered in the short hallway leading to the kitchen and Byron walked toward its source. He did not try to hide his coming as he knew that he was expected and the creaking floorboards would not allow stealth in any case. Even so, he walked slowly and gently, his hands empty; palms sweating.

The kitchen chair (could it possibly be the same one?) had been placed in the middle of the room once more, it’s spindly metal legs, rusty and loose with age, shifting dangerously with the weight of Thomas Llewellyn. Lit candles gave the long-abandoned kitchen the sepia tone of an old photograph. Tom shifted carefully on his feet to avoid upsetting the precarious balance he was afforded by the rotten plywood seat. His hands had been tied behind his back and Byron could see the crude, dirty bandages they sported; he also had a filthy rag tied round his mouth. Byron also noted the rope that ran from round his neck, through the chandelier hook; terminating in a sturdy knot. The knot lay in the hands of the large, tattooed man who had written Byron’s invitation to the party. Occasionally the man would give a slight tug on his end in order to observe the resultant actions on the other. Tom’s predicament appeared to provide him a quiet amusement.

“Figured it out, yet?” he asked Byron in the sand-papered voice of a heavy smoker.

Byron studied the features camouflaged beneath the swirling blue body art, the faded blue eyes; the stubby nose flattened now by some past violence, the sandy hair going grey with hard years, still shaggy as a rock star’s. “Some, Danny…not all,” he answered. His throat felt swollen and his vision blurred momentarily.

“It’s all about your friend here, brother; your friend…and his friends—men like Mister Curtsie.”

Byron shook his head and took a slight step back, feeling as if he might faint.

“What?” Daniel asked; “You never knew when we were kids that Tom knew Curtsie? I’m shocked, big brother, after all he was your very best friend wasn’t he?”

Byron looked to Tom whose streaming brown eyes were wide with fear and panic. “Tell me,” Byron said, turning away from him to face his brother.

“He was Curtsie’s ‘boy’, Byron; that is, until he reached fourteen. Curtsie liked ’em a little younger. That’s where I came in. I was a little younger.” He gave the rope a slight tug and Tom teetered precariously to one side; then the other, before regaining his balance once more. Byron could hear his mewling through the filthy gag.

Daniel lit a cigarette with his free hand; then continued, “Curtsie threatened to sell him to someone who liked his age group unless he recruited a replacement…that was me. Are you beginning to get the picture there, Chief?”

Byron nodded, saying nothing.

“Ol’ Tom here took advantage of my search for the dog to make sure I stopped in at Virgil Curtsie’s. He told me he was pretty sure that Curtsie had taken our dog in and was keeping him for the owner to claim. I went there, of course. What did I know?—I was only nine years old. He had a cozy room set up for me in his basement, and if the heat hadn’t been brought on him so soon, he might have ‘recruited’ me to take Good Friend Tom’s place and let me go—that’s how it went with you, didn’t it, Good Friend Tom?” He placed a work-booted foot against the chair and slid it carefully for several inches. Tom’s squealing grew more frantic. From somewhere outside Byron heard a car gliding down the deserted street; then another. They stopped several houses away.

“As it turned out,” Daniel continued; crushing out his smoke with his heel, “Curtsie had ‘friends’ and he was able to hand me off before the police came in to search. I think you know the kind of friends I’m talking about, Big Brother; you’ve got a list of them from our friend Tom, I think. He got that list from our Mister Curtsie and has been making money from it ever since…can’t say I blame him too much on that account. He deserved something, too, I reckon, for all his sufferings.” He turned to regard Tom once more. “Even so…I did a little suffering myself.” He shoved the chair a few more inches and drew up on the slack in the rope. The toes of Tom’s shoes danced on the edge as his eyes began to bulge and grow dark with blood.

Daniel turned back to Byron. “For the next seven years I got traded. I didn’t even know who I was anymore…who I belonged to—I was newly adopted, a visiting nephew or grandchild, a runaway daughter’s illegitimate son…. I had so many different names, that if it weren’t for Tom’s list there, I might not remember them all.

“In the end, I was dumped out of the other end of the pipeline—too old…at sixteen. Can you beat that? I never went home; the thought never even crossed my mind; I wasn’t ‘that’ little boy anymore. I went to all the places people like me go and made my way in fits and spurts to prison—it wasn’t hard…in fact, it seemed kind of like a natural progression. It was a good environment for me…I kinda of liked prison, really.”

He studied Byron in silence for a moment; then continued, “I met a fella inside that had done time in New Jersey; courtesy of you, he said. ’Course he didn’t know we were brothers. Boy was I surprised…my big brother, a cop…and in New Jersey for God’s sake! That guy hoped to kill you next time he got up north…but he fell to death in the showers before his time was up.”

Daniel sighed and coughed as the room began to fill with a silence that swirled and curdled in the dark corners of the dead house. From down the street, Byron heard the distinct snick of car doors being carefully shut.

“Friends of yours?” Daniel inquired casually, and when Byron didn’t answer continued his narrative as if nothing were happening. “If you and Tom hadn’t killed Curtsie they might have found me, brother. That was Tom’s plan all along, you know—he never intended for the old man to be able to talk to anyone…about anything, if you know what I mean. He brought you along for extra muscle and, if it all went wrong, fall guy.”

Byron looked up at his little brother and asked, “Why now, Daniel—what’s happened?”

“I was released, Byron…sent back out into the good old world to finish dying. I’ve got the ‘Big A’ as it turns out…clock ticking, that sort of thing. It just occurred to me tie up some loose strings. I did that and just have this one left. I knew you’d come when I took Tom…I hoped you would. You’re a loose end, too; and I wanted you to know.” He grinned up at Tom and poked him hard in the ribs with a stiff finger. His victim supplied a corresponding muffled squeal. “You want to help?” Tom’s pleading eyes met Byron’s but he turned away.

“Who was that I killed,” he asked.

“A good friend of mine from prison…somebody like me really; there’s a lot of us out there. I don’t think he cared too much that you killed him, big brother, if that’s worrying you.”

Byron shook his head once more and said softly, “I have a lot to answer for, Danny. I didn’t look after my little brother and look what it’s come to—mom and dad killed by the strain of it all, you…ruined, and me—my whole life an attempt to escape the past; each day, each tomorrow dead, stillborn. Just look at us.” The brothers’ eyes met in the flickering, haunted room.

“But we were kids, little brother, victims; even Tom—not that that lets him off the hook. But I can’t just stand here and let this happen, because if I do, I will never, ever, be able to recover from it, and everything will just continue instead of really ending. I’m gonna take him out of here, Daniel, and I’m gonna see to it that everyone knows what he did; and more importantly, why you’ve done the things you’ve done. I owe you that much, Danny; people should know, and you should be there to tell them while you can.

“Tom sent you into this house a long time ago and I wasn’t there for you—please, Danny, now that I’ve found you all these years later, let me take you out of here…if not for your sake, then for my own—I need you, little brother, and there’s not a lot of time left to us. Isn’t that why I’m really here?”

Byron reached across the short distance between them and took hold of Daniels’s end of the rope. Daniel stared back hard at him; his grip firm.

“Please,” Byron pleaded.

“You should have gone with me, By,” Daniel answered, tears leaking from his fierce, bloodshot eyes. “I needed you.” His grip loosened and Byron untied the knot; then gently threaded the rope back through the ceiling hook. Still holding one end, he guided Tom down from the rickety chair and led him toward the door like a dog on a leash. He didn’t bother removing his gag or ligatures. He felt Daniel looming close behind.

As he neared the doorway, Byron called out to the officers he knew would have surrounded the house, “Vanda…Chief, we’re coming out! Hold your fire! I’ve got the one responsible for all this and I’m sending him out first!” With that, he kicked his old friend hard enough in the backside to propel him through the doorway. Thomas took out the plywood sheet as he tumbled helplessly down the steps into the tall, rank grasses of the front yard. A murmur arose at the trussed suspect’s violent expulsion.

“Vanda, I’m coming next, but I’ve got company so don’t anybody get antsy, you hear? You’ll recognize him, but take it easy! He’s ugly enough to scare anybody and that’s for certain, but he’s with me…its Daniel, my brother!” And with that Byron turned and took his brother’s arm, and together they walked out of that house and into the warm and living night.

THE FLAMING PHANTOM, by Jacques Futrelle

CHAPTER I

Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, stood beside the City Editor’s desk, smoking and waiting patiently for that energetic gentleman to dispose of several matters in hand. City Editors always have several matters in hand, for the profession of keeping count of the pulse-beat of the world is a busy one. Finally this City Editor emerged from a mass of other things and picked up a sheet of paper on which he had scribbled some strange hieroglyphics, these representing his interpretation of the art of writing.

“Afraid of ghosts?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” Hatch replied, smiling a little. “I never happened to meet one.”

“Well, this looks like a good story,” the City Editor explained. “It’s a haunted house. Nobody can live in it; all sorts of strange happenings, demoniacal laughter, groans and things. House is owned by Ernest Weston, a broker. Better jump down and take a look at it. If it is promising, you might spend a night in it for a Sunday story. Not afraid, are you?”

“I never heard of a ghost hurting anyone,” Hatch replied, still smiling a little. “If this one hurts me it will make the story better.”

Thus attention was attracted to the latest creepy mystery of a small town by the sea which in the past had not been wholly lacking in creepy mysteries.

Within two hours Hatch was there. He readily found the old Weston house, as it was known, a two-story, solidly built frame structure, which had stood for sixty or seventy years high upon a cliff overlooking the sea, in the center of a land plot of ten or twelve acres. From a distance it was imposing, but close inspection showed that, outwardly, at least, it was a ramshackle affair.

Without having questioned anyone in the village, Hatch climbed the steep cliff road to the old house, expecting to find some one who might grant him permission to inspect it. But no one appeared; a settled melancholy and gloom seemed to overspread it; all the shutters were closed forbiddingly.

There was no answer to his vigorous knock on the front door, and he shook the shutters on a window without result. Then he passed around the house to the back. Here he found a door and dutifully hammered on it. Still no answer. He tried it, and passed in. He stood in the kitchen, damp, chilly and darkened by the closed shutters.

One glance about this room and he went on through a back hall to the dining-room, now deserted, but at one time a comfortable and handsomely furnished place. Its hardwood floor was covered with dust; the chill of disuse was all-pervading. There was no furniture, only the litter which accumulates of its own accord.

From this point, just inside the dining-room door, Hatch began a sort of study of the inside architecture of the place. To his left was a door, the butler’s pantry. There was a passage through, down three steps into the kitchen he had just left.

Straight before him, set in the wall, between two windows, was a large mirror, seven, possibly eight, feet tall and proportionately wide. A mirror of the same size was set in the wall at the end of the room to his left. From the dining-room he passed through a wide archway into the next room. This archway made the two rooms almost as one. This second, he presumed, had been a sort of living-room, but here, too, was nothing save accumulated litter, an old-fashioned fireplace and two long mirrors. As he entered, the fireplace was to his immediate left, one of the large mirrors was straight ahead of him and the other was to his right.

Next to the mirror in the end was a passageway of a little more than usual size which had once been closed with a sliding door. Hatch went through this into the reception-hall of the old house. Here, to his right, was the main hall, connected with the reception-hall by an archway, and through this archway he could see a wide, old-fashioned stairway leading up. To his left was a door, of ordinary size, closed. He tried it and it opened. He peered into a big room beyond. This room had been the library. It smelled of books and damp wood. There was nothing here—not even mirrors.

Beyond the main hall lay only two rooms, one a drawing-room of the generous proportions our old folks loved, with its gilt all tarnished and its fancy decorations covered with dust. Behind this, toward the back of the house, was a small parlor. There was nothing here to attract his attention, and he went upstairs. As he went he could see through the archway into the reception-hall as far as the library door, which he had left closed.

Upstairs were four or five roomy suites. Here, too, in small rooms designed for dressing, he saw the owner’s passion for mirrors again. As he passed through room after room he fixed the general arrangement of it all in his mind, and later on paper, to study it, so that, if necessary, he could leave any part of the house in the dark. He didn’t know but what this might be necessary, hence his care—the same care he had evidenced downstairs.

After another casual examination of the lower floor, Hatch went out the back way to the barn. This stood a couple of hundred feet back of the house and was of more recent construction. Above, reached by outside stairs, were apartments intended for the servants. Hatch looked over these rooms, but they, too, had the appearance of not having been occupied for several years. The lower part of the barn, he found, was arranged to house half a dozen horses and three or four traps.

“Nothing here to frighten anybody,” was his mental comment as he left the old place and started back toward the village. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. His purpose was to learn then all he could of the “ghost,” and return that night for developments.

He sought out the usual village bureau of information, the town constable, a grizzled old chap of sixty years, who realized his importance as the whole police department, and who had the gossip and information, more or less distorted, of several generations at his tongue’s end.

The old man talked for two hours—he was glad to talk—seemed to have been longing for just such a glorious opportunity as the reporter offered. Hatch sifted out what he wanted, those things which might be valuable in his story.

It seemed, according to the constable, that the Weston house had not been occupied for five years, since the death of the father of Ernest Weston, present owner. Two weeks before the reporter’s appearance there Ernest Weston had come down with a contractor and looked over the old place.

“We understand here,” said the constable, judicially, “that Mr. Weston is going to be married soon, and we kind of thought he was having the house made ready for his Summer home again.”

“Whom do you understand he is to marry?” asked Hatch, for this was news.

“Miss Katherine Everard, daughter of Curtis Everard, a banker up in Boston,” was the reply. “I know he used to go around with her before the old man died, and they say since she came out in Newport he has spent a lot of time with her.”

“Oh, I see,” said Hatch. “They were to marry and come here?”

“That’s right,” said the constable. “But I don’t know when, since this ghost story has come up.”

“Oh, yes, the ghost,” remarked Hatch. “Well, hasn’t the work of repairing begun?”

“No, not inside,” was the reply. “There’s been some work done on the grounds—in the daytime—but not much of that, and I kind of think it will be a long time before it’s all done.”

“What is the spook story, anyway?”

“Well,” and the old constable rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It seems sort of funny. A few days after Mr. Weston was down here a gang of laborers, mostly Italians, came down to work and decided to sleep in the house—sort of camp out—until they could repair a leak in the barn and move in there. They got here late in the afternoon and didn’t do much that day but move into the house, all upstairs, and sort of settle down for the night. About one o’clock they heard some sort of noise downstairs, and finally all sorts of a racket and groans and yells, and they just naturally came down to see what it was.

“Then they saw the ghost. It was in the reception-hall, some of ’em said, others said it was in the library, but anyhow it was there, and the whole gang left just as fast as they knew how. They slept on the ground that night. Next day they took out their things and went back to Boston. Since then nobody here has heard from ’em.”

“What sort of a ghost was it?”

“Oh, it was a man ghost, about nine feet high, and he was blazing from head to foot as if he was burning up,” said the constable. “He had a long knife in his hand and waved it at ’em. They didn’t stop to argue. They ran, and as they ran they heard the ghost a-laughing at them.”

“I should think he would have been amused,” was Hatch’s somewhat sarcastic comment. “Has anybody who lives in the village seen the ghost?”

“No; we’re willing to take their word for it, I suppose,” was the grinning reply, “because there never was a ghost there before. I go up and look over the place every afternoon, but everything seems to be all right, and I haven’t gone there at night. It’s quite a way off my beat,” he hastened to explain.

“A man ghost with a long knife,” mused Hatch “Blazing, seems to be burning up, eh? That sounds exciting. Now, a ghost who knows his business never appears except where there has been a murder. Was there ever a murder in that house?”

“When I was a little chap I heard there was a murder or something there, but I suppose if I don’t remember it nobody else here does,” was the old man’s reply. “It happened one Winter when the Westons weren’t there. There was something, too, about jewelry and diamonds, but I don’t remember just what it was.”

“Indeed?” asked the reporter.

“Yes, something about somebody trying to steal a lot of jewelry—a hundred thousand dollars’ worth. I know nobody ever paid much attention to it. I just heard about it when I was a boy, and that was at least fifty years ago.”

“I see,” said the reporter.

* * * *

That night at nine o’clock, under cover of perfect blackness, Hatch climbed the cliff toward the Weston house. At one o’clock he came racing down the hill, with frequent glances over his shoulder. His face was pallid with a fear which he had never known before and his lips were ashen. Once in his room in the village hotel Hutchinson Hatch, the nerveless young man, lighted a lamp with trembling hands and sat with wide, staring eyes until the dawn broke through the east.

He had seen the flaming phantom.

CHAPTER II

It was ten o’clock that morning when Hutchinson Hatch called on Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen—The Thinking Machine. The reporter’s face was still white, showing that he had slept little, if at all. The Thinking Machine squinted at him a moment through his thick glasses, then dropped into a chair.

“Well?” he queried.

“I’m almost ashamed to come to you, Professor,” Hatch confessed, after a minute, and there was a little embarrassed hesitation in his speech. “It’s another mystery.”

“Sit down and tell me about it.”

Hatch took a seat opposite the scientist.

“I’ve been frightened,” he said at last, with a sheepish grin; “horribly, awfully frightened. I came to you to know what frightened me.”

“Dear me! Dear me!” exclaimed The Thinking Machine. “What is it?”

Then Hatch told him from the beginning the story of the haunted house as he knew it; how he had examined the house by daylight, just what he had found, the story of the old murder and the jewels, the fact that Ernest Weston was to be married. The scientist listened attentively.

“It was nine o’clock that night when I went to the house the second time,” said Hatch. “I went prepared for something, but not for what I saw.”

“Well, go on,” said the other, irritably.

“I went in while it was perfectly dark. I took a position on the stairs because I had been told the—the thing—had been seen from the stairs, and I thought that where it had been seen once it would be seen again. I had presumed it was some trick of a shadow, or moonlight, or something of the kind. So I sat waiting calmly. I am not a nervous man—that is, I never have been until now.

“I took no light of any kind with me. It seemed an interminable time that I waited, staring into the reception-room in the general direction of the library. At last, as I gazed into the darkness, I heard a noise. It startled me a bit, but it didn’t frighten me, for I put it down to a rat running across the floor.

“But after awhile I heard the most awful cry a human being ever listened to. It was neither a moan nor a shriek—merely a—a cry. Then, as I steadied my nerves a little, a figure—a blazing, burning white figure—grew out of nothingness before my very eyes, in the reception-room. It actually grew and assembled as I looked at it.”

He paused, and The Thinking Machine changed his position slightly.

“The figure was that of a man, apparently, I should say, eight feet high. Don’t think I’m a fool—I’m not exaggerating. It was all in white and seemed to radiate a light, a ghostly, unearthly light, which, as I looked, grew brighter. I saw no face to the thing, but it had a head. Then I saw an arm raised and in the hand was a dagger, blazing as was the figure.

“By this time I was a coward, a cringing, frightened coward—frightened not at what I saw, but at the weirdness of it. And then, still as I looked, the—the thing—raised the other hand, and there, in the air before my eyes, wrote with his own finger—on the very face of the air, mind you—one word: ‘Beware!’”

“Was it a man’s or woman’s writing?” asked The Thinking Machine.

The matter-of-fact tone recalled Hatch, who was again being carried away by fear, and he laughed vacantly.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”

“Go on.”

“I have never considered myself a coward, and certainly I am not a child to be frightened at a thing which my reason tells me is not possible, and, despite my fright, I compelled myself to action. If the thing were a man I was not afraid of it, dagger and all; if it were not, it could do me no injury.

“I leaped down the three steps to the bottom of the stairs, and while the thing stood there with upraised dagger, with one hand pointing at me, I rushed for it. I think I must have shouted, because I have a dim idea that I heard my own voice. But whether or not I did I—”

Again he paused. It was a distinct effort to pull himself together. He felt like a child; the cold, squint eyes of The Thinking Machine were turned on him disapprovingly.

“Then—the thing disappeared just as it seemed I had my hands on it. I was expecting a dagger thrust. Before my eyes, while I was staring at it, I suddenly saw only half of it. Again I heard the cry, and the other half disappeared—my hands grasped empty air.

“Where the thing had been there was nothing. The impetus of my rush was such that I went right on past the spot where the thing had been, and found myself groping in the dark in a room which I didn’t place for an instant. Now I know it was the library.

“By this time I was mad with terror. I smashed one of the windows and went through it. Then from there, until I reached my room, I didn’t stop running. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have gone back to the reception-room for all the millions in the world.”

The Thinking Machine twiddled his fingers idly; Hatch sat gazing at him with anxious, eager inquiry in his eyes.

“So when you ran and the—the thing moved away or disappeared you found yourself in the library?” The Thinking Machine asked at last.

“Yes.”

“Therefore you must have run from the reception-room through the door into the library?”

“Yes.”

“You left that door closed that day?”

“Yes.”

Again there was a pause.

“Smell anything?” asked The Thinking Machine.

“No.”

“You figure that the thing, as you call it, must have been just about in the door?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad you didn’t notice the handwriting—that is, whether it seemed to be a man’s or a woman’s.”

“I think, under the circumstances, I would be excused for omitting that,” was the reply.

“You said you heard something that you thought must be a rat,” went on The Thinking Machine. “What was this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Any squeak about it?”

“No, not that I noticed.”

“Five years since the house was occupied,” mused the scientist. “How far away is the water?”

“The place overlooks the water, but it’s a steep climb of three hundred yards from the water to the house.”

That seemed to satisfy The Thinking Machine as to what actually happened.

“When you went over the house in daylight, did you notice if any of the mirrors were dusty?” he asked.

“I should presume that all were,” was the reply. “There’s no reason why they should have been otherwise.”

“But you didn’t notice particularly that some were not dusty?” the scientist insisted.

“No. I merely noticed that they were there.”

The Thinking Machine sat for a long time squinting at the ceiling, then asked, abruptly:

“Have you seen Mr. Weston, the owner?”

“No.”

“See him and find out what he has to say about the place, the murder, the jewels, and all that. It would be rather a queer state of affairs if, say, a fortune in jewels should be concealed somewhere about the place, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” said Hatch. “It would.”

“Who is Miss Katherine Everard?”

“Daughter of a banker here, Curtis Everard. Was a reigning belle at Newport for two seasons. She is now in Europe, I think, buying a trousseau, possibly.”

“Find out all about her, and what Weston has to say, then come back here,” said The Thinking Machine, as if in conclusion. “Oh, by the way,” he added, “look up something of the family history of the Westons. How many heirs were there? Who are they? How much did each one get? All those things. That’s all.”

Hatch went out, far more composed and quiet than when he entered, and began the work of finding out those things The Thinking Machine had asked for, confident now that there would be a solution of the mystery.

That night the flaming phantom played new pranks. The town constable, backed by half a dozen villagers, descended upon the place at midnight, to be met in the yard by the apparition in person. Again the dagger was seen; again the ghostly laughter and the awful cry were heard.

“Surrender or I’ll shoot,” shouted the constable, nervously.

A laugh was the answer, and the constable felt something warm spatter in his face. Others in the party felt it, too, and wiped their faces and hands. By the light of the feeble lanterns they carried they examined their handkerchiefs and hands. Then the party fled in awful disorder.

The warmth they had felt was the warmth of blood—red blood, freshly drawn.

CHAPTER III

Hatch found Ernest Weston at luncheon with another gentleman at one o’clock that day. This other gentleman was introduced to Hatch as George Weston, a cousin. Hatch instantly remembered George Weston for certain eccentric exploits at Newport a season or so before; and also as one of the heirs of the original Weston estate.

Hatch thought he remembered, too, that at the time Miss Everard had been so prominent socially at Newport George Weston had been her most ardent suitor. It was rumored that there would have been an engagement between them, but her father objected. Hatch looked at him curiously; his face was clearly a dissipated one, yet there was about him the unmistakable polish and gentility of the well-bred man of society.

Hatch knew Ernest Weston as Weston knew Hatch; they had met frequently in the ten years Hatch had been a newspaper reporter, and Weston had been courteous to him always. The reporter was in doubt as to whether to bring up the subject on which he had sought out Ernest Weston, but the broker brought it up himself, smilingly.

“Well, what is it this time?” he asked, genially. “The ghost down on the South Shore, or my forth-coming marriage?”

“Both,” replied Hatch.

Weston talked freely of his engagement to Miss Everard, which he said was to have been announced in another week, at which time she was due to return to America from Europe. The marriage was to be three or four months later, the exact date had not been set.

“And I suppose the country place was being put in order as a Summer residence?” the reporter asked.

“Yes. I had intended to make some repairs and changes there, and furnish it, but now I understand that a ghost has taken a hand in the matter and has delayed it. Have you heard much about this ghost story?” he asked, and there was a slight smile on his face.

“I have seen the ghost,” Hatch answered.

“You have?” demanded the broker.

George Weston echoed the words and leaned forward, with a new interest in his eyes, to listen. Hatch told them what had happened in the haunted house—all of it. They listened with the keenest interest, one as eager as the other.

“By George!” exclaimed the broker, when Hatch had finished. “How do you account for it?”

“I don’t,” said Hatch, flatly. “I can offer no possible solution. I am not a child to be tricked by the ordinary illusion, nor am I of the temperament which imagines things, but I can offer no explanation of this.”

“It must be a trick of some sort,” said George Weston.

“I was positive of that,” said Hatch, “but if it is a trick, it is the cleverest I ever saw.”

The conversation drifted on to the old story of missing jewels and a tragedy in the house fifty years before. Now Hatch was asking questions by direction of The Thinking Machine; he himself hardly saw their purport, but he asked them.

“Well, the full story of that affair, the tragedy there, would open up an old chapter in our family which is nothing to be ashamed of, of course,” said the broker, frankly; “still it is something we have not paid much attention to for many years. Perhaps George here knows it better than I do. His mother, then a bride, heard the recital of the story from my grandmother.”

Ernest Weston and Hatch looked inquiringly at George Weston, who lighted a fresh cigarette and leaned over the table toward them. He was an excellent talker.

“I’ve heard my mother tell of it, but it was a long time ago,” he began. “It seems, though, as I remember it, that my great-grandfather, who built the house, was a wealthy man, as fortunes went in those days, worth probably a million dollars.

“A part of this fortune, say about one hundred thousand dollars, was in jewels, which had come with the family from England. Many of those pieces would be of far greater value now than they were then, because of their antiquity. It was only on state occasions, I might say, when these were worn, say, once a year.

“Between times the problem of keeping them safely was a difficult one, it appeared. This was before the time of safety deposit vaults. My grandfather conceived the idea of hiding the jewels in the old place down on the South Shore, instead of keeping them in the house he had in Boston. He took them there accordingly.

“At this time one was compelled to travel down the South Shore, below Cohasset anyway, by stagecoach. My grandfather’s family was then in the city, as it was Winter, so he made the trip alone. He planned to reach there at night, so as not to attract attention to himself, to hide the jewels about the house, and leave that same night for Boston again by a relay of horses he had arranged for. Just what happened after he left the stagecoach, below Cohasset, no one ever knew except by surmise.”

The speaker paused a moment and relighted his cigarette.

“Next morning my great-grandfather was found unconscious and badly injured on the veranda of the house. His skull had been fractured. In the house a man was found dead. No one knew who he was; no one within a radius of many miles of the place had ever seen him.

“This led to all sorts of surmises, the most reasonable of which, and the one which the family has always accepted, being that my grandfather had gone to the house in the dark, had there met some one who was stopping there that night as a shelter from the intense cold, that this man learned of the jewels, that he had tried robbery and there was a fight.

“In this fight the stranger was killed inside the house, and my great-grandfather, injured, had tried to leave the house for aid. He collapsed on the veranda where he was found and died without having regained consciousness. That’s all we know or can surmise reasonably about the matter.”

“Were the jewels ever found?” asked the reporter.

“No. They were not on the dead man, nor were they in the possession of my grandfather.”

“It is reasonable to suppose, then, that there was a third man and that he got away with the jewels?” asked Ernest Weston.

“It seemed so, and for a long time this theory was accepted. I suppose it is now, but some doubt was cast on it by the fact that only two trails of footsteps led to the house and none out. There was a heavy snow on the ground. If none led out it was obviously impossible that anyone came out.”

Again there was silence. Ernest Weston sipped his coffee slowly.

“It would seem from that,” said Ernest Weston, at last, “that the jewels were hidden before the tragedy, and have never been found.”

George Weston smiled.

“Off and on for twenty years the place was searched, according to my mother’s story,” he said. “Every inch of the cellar was dug up; every possible nook and corner was searched. Finally the entire matter passed out of the minds of those who knew of it, and I doubt if it has ever been referred to again until now.”

“A search even now would be almost worth while, wouldn’t it?” asked the broker.

George Weston laughed aloud.

“It might be,” he said, “but I have some doubt. A thing that was searched for twenty years would not be easily found.”

So it seemed to strike the others after awhile and the matter was dropped.

“But this ghost thing,” said the broker, at last. “I’m interested in that. Suppose we make up a ghost party and go down tonight. My contractor declares he can’t get men to work there.”

“I would be glad to go,” said George Weston, “but I’m running over to the Vandergrift ball in Providence tonight.”

“How about you, Hatch?” asked the broker.

“I’ll go, yes,” said Hatch, “as one of several,” he added with a smile.

“Well, then, suppose we say the constable and you and I?” asked the broker; “tonight?”

“All right.”

After making arrangements to meet the broker later that afternoon he rushed away—away to The Thinking Machine. The scientist listened, then resumed some chemical test he was making.

“Can’t you go down with us tonight?” Hatch asked.

“No,” said the other. “I’m going to read a paper before a scientific society and prove that a chemist in Chicago is a fool. That will take me all evening.”

“Tomorrow night?” Hatch insisted.

“No—the next night.”

This would be on Friday night—just in time for the feature which had been planned for Sunday. Hatch was compelled to rest content with this, but he foresaw that he would have it all, with a solution. It never occurred to him that this problem, or, indeed, that any problem, was beyond the mental capacity of Professor Van Dusen.

Hatch and Ernest Weston took a night train that evening, and on their arrival in the village stirred up the town constable.

“Will you go with us?” was the question.

“Both of you going?” was the counter-question.

“Yes.”

“I’ll go,” said the constable promptly. “Ghost!” and he laughed scornfully. “I’ll have him in the lockup by morning.”

“No shooting, now,” warned Weston. “There must be somebody back of this somewhere; we understand that, but there is no crime that we know of. The worst is possibly trespassing.”

“I’ll get him all right,” responded the constable, who still remembered the experience where blood—warm blood—had been thrown in his face. “And I’m not so sure there isn’t a crime.”

That night about ten the three men went into the dark, forbidding house and took a station on the stairs where Hatch had sat when he saw the thing—whatever it was. There they waited. The constable moved nervously from time to time, but neither of the others paid any attention to him.

At last the—the thing appeared. There had been a preliminary sound as of something running across the floor, then suddenly a flaming figure of white seemed to grow into being in the reception-room. It was exactly as Hatch had described it to The Thinking Machine.

Dazed, stupefied, the three men looked, looked as the figure raised a hand, pointing toward them, and wrote a word in the air—positively in the air. The finger merely waved, and there, floating before them, were letters, flaming letters, in the utter darkness. This time the word was: “Death.”

Faintly, Hatch, fighting with a fear which again seized him, remembered that The Thinking Machine had asked him if the handwriting was that of a man or woman; now he tried to see. It was as if drawn on a blackboard, and there was a queer twist to the loop at the bottom. He sniffed to see if there was an odor of any sort. There was not.

Suddenly he felt some quick, vigorous action from the constable behind him. There was a roar and a flash in his ear; he knew the constable had fired at the thing. Then came the cry and laugh—almost a laugh of derision—he had heard them before. For one instant the figure lingered and then, before their eyes, faded again into utter blackness. Where it had been was nothing—nothing.

The constable’s shot had had no effect.

CHAPTER IV

Three deeply mystified men passed down the hill to the village from the old house. Ernest Weston, the owner, had not spoken since before the—the thing appeared there in the reception-room, or was it in the library? He was not certain—he couldn’t have told. Suddenly he turned to the constable.

“I told you not to shoot.”

“That’s all right,” said the constable. “I was there in my official capacity, and I shoot when I want to.”

“But the shot did no harm,” Hatch put in.

“I would swear it went right through it, too,” said the constable, boastfully. “I can shoot.”

Weston was arguing with himself. He was a cold-blooded man of business; his mind was not one to play him tricks. Yet now he felt benumbed; he could conceive no explanation of what he had seen. Again in his room in the little hotel, where they spent the remainder of the night, he stared blankly at the reporter.

“Can you imagine any way it could be done?”

Hatch shook his head.

“It isn’t a spook, of course,” the broker went on, with a nervous smile; “but—but I’m sorry I went. I don’t think probably I shall have the work done there as I thought.”

They slept only fitfully and took an early train back to Boston. As they were almost to separate at the South Station, the broker had a last word.

“I’m going to solve that thing,” he declared, determinedly. “I know one man at least who isn’t afraid of it—or of anything else. I’m going to send him down to keep a lookout and take care of the place. His name is O’Heagan, and he’s a fighting Irishman. If he and that—that—thing ever get mixed up together—”

Like a schoolboy with a hopeless problem, Hatch went straight to The Thinking Machine with the latest developments. The scientist paused just long enough in his work to hear it.

“Did you notice the handwriting?” he demanded.

“Yes,” was the reply; “so far as I could notice the style of a handwriting that floated in air.”

“Man’s or woman’s?”

Hatch was puzzled.

“I couldn’t judge,” he said. “It seemed to be a bold style, whatever it was. I remember the capital D clearly.”

“Was it anything like the handwriting of the broker—what’s-his-name?—Ernest Weston?”

“I never saw his handwriting.”

“Look at some of it, then, particularly the capital D’s,” instructed The Thinking Machine. Then, after a pause: “You say the figure is white and seems to be flaming?”

“Yes.”

“Does it give out any light? That is, does it light up a room, for instance?”

“I don’t quite know what you mean.”

“When you go into a room with a lamp,” explained The Thinking Machine, “it lights the room. Does this thing do it? Can you see the floor or walls or anything by the light of the figure itself?”

“No,” replied Hatch, positively.

“I’ll go down with you tomorrow night,” said the scientist, as if that were all.

“Thanks,” replied Hatch, and he went away.

Next day about noon he called at Ernest Weston’s office. The broker was in.

“Did you send down your man O’Heagan?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the broker, and he was almost smiling.

“What happened?”

“He’s outside. I’ll let him tell you.”

The broker went to the door and spoke to some one and O’Heagan entered. He was a big, blue-eyed Irishman, frankly freckled and red-headed—one of those men who look trouble in the face and are glad of it if the trouble can be reduced to a fighting basis. An everlasting smile was about his lips, only now it was a bit faded.

“Tell Mr. Hatch what happened last night,” requested the broker.

O’Heagan told it. He, too, had sought to get hold of the flaming figure. As he ran for it, it disappeared, was obliterated, wiped out, gone, and he found himself groping in the darkness of the room beyond, the library. Like Hatch, he took the nearest way out, which happened to be through a window already smashed.

“Outside,” he went on, “I began to think about it, and I saw there was nothing to be afraid of, but you couldn’t have convinced me of that when I was inside. I took a lantern in one hand and a revolver in the other and went all over that house. There was nothing; if there had been we would have had it out right there. But there was nothing. So I started out to the barn, where I had put a cot in a room.

“I went upstairs to this room—it was then about two o’clock—and went to sleep. It seemed to be an hour or so later when I awoke suddenly—I knew something was happening. And the Lord forgive me if I’m a liar, but there was a cat—a ghost cat in my room, racing around like mad. I just naturally got up to see what was the matter and rushed for the door. The cat beat me to it, and cut a flaming streak through the night.

“The cat looked just like the thing inside the house—that is, it was a sort of shadowy, waving white light like it might be afire. I went back to bed in disgust, to sleep it off. You see, sir,” he apologized to Weston, “that there hadn’t been anything yet I could put my hands on.”

“Was that all?” asked Hatch, smilingly.

“Just the beginning. Next morning when I awoke I was bound to my cot, hard and fast. My hands were tied and my feet were tied, and all I could do was lie there and yell. After awhile, it seemed years, I heard some one outside and shouted louder than ever. Then the constable come up and let me loose. I told him all about it—and then I came to Boston. And with your permission, Mr. Weston, I resign right now. I’m not afraid of anything I can fight, but when I can’t get hold of it—well—”

Later Hatch joined The Thinking Machine. They caught a train for the little village by the sea. On the way The Thinking Machine asked a few questions, but most of the time he was silent, squinting out the window. Hatch respected his silence, and only answered questions.

“Did you see Ernest Weston’s handwriting?” was the first of these.

“Yes.”

“The capital D’s?”

“They are not unlike the one the—the thing wrote, but they are not wholly like it,” was the reply.

“Do you know anyone in Providence who can get some information for you?” was the next query.

“Yes.”

“Get him by long-distance ’phone when we get to this place and let me talk to him a moment.”

Half an hour later The Thinking Machine was talking over the long-distance ’phone to the Providence correspondent of Hatch’s paper. What he said or what he learned there was not revealed to the wondering reporter, but he came out after several minutes, only to re-enter the booth and remain for another half an hour.

“Now,” he said.

Together they went to the haunted house. At the entrance to the grounds something else occurred to The Thinking Machine.

“Run over to the ’phone and call Weston,” he directed. “Ask him if he has a motor-boat or if his cousin has one. We might need one. Also find out what kind of a boat it is—electric or gasoline.”

Hatch returned to the village and left the scientist alone, sitting on the veranda gazing out over the sea. When Hatch returned he was still in the same position.

“Well?” he asked.

“Ernest Weston has no motor-boat,” the reporter informed him. “George Weston has an electric, but we can’t get it because it is away. Maybe I can get one somewhere else if you particularly want it.”

“Never mind,” said The Thinking Machine. He spoke as if he had entirely lost interest in the matter.

Together they started around the house to the kitchen door.

“What’s the next move?” asked Hatch.

“I’m going to find the jewels,” was the startling reply.

“Find them?” Hatch repeated.

“Certainly.”

They entered the house through the kitchen and the scientist squinted this way and that, through the reception-room, the library, and finally the back hallway. Here a closed door in the flooring led to a cellar.

In the cellar they found heaps of litter. It was damp and chilly and dark. The Thinking Machine stood in the center, or as near the center as he could stand, because the base of the chimney occupied this precise spot, and apparently did some mental calculation.

From that point he started around the walls, solidly built of stone, stooping and running his fingers along the stones as he walked. He made the entire circuit as Hatch looked on. Then he made it again, but this time with his hands raised above his head, feeling the walls carefully as he went. He repeated this at the chimney, going carefully around the masonry, high and low.

“Dear me, dear me!” he exclaimed, petulantly. “You are taller than I am, Mr. Hatch. Please feel carefully around the top of this chimney base and see if the rocks are all solidly set.”

Hatch then began a tour. At last one of the great stones which made this base trembled under his hand.

“It’s loose,” he said.

“Take it out.”

It came out after a deal of tugging.

“Put your hand in there and pull out what you find,” was the next order. Hatch obeyed. He found a wooden box, about eight inches square, and handed it to The Thinking Machine.

“Ah!” exclaimed that gentleman.

A quick wrench caused the decaying wood to crumble. Tumbling out of the box were the jewels which had been lost for fifty years.

CHAPTER V

Excitement, long restrained, burst from Hatch in a laugh—almost hysterical. He stooped and gathered up the fallen jewelry and handed it to The Thinking Machine, who stared at him in mild surprise.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the scientist.

“Nothing,” Hatch assured him, but again he laughed.

The heavy stone which had been pulled out of place was lifted up and forced back into position, and together they returned to the village, with the long-lost jewelry loose in their pockets.

“How did you do it?’ asked Hatch.

“Two and two always make four,” was the enigmatic reply. “It was merely a sum in addition.” There was a pause as they walked on, then: “Don’t say anything about finding this, or even hint at it in any way, until you have my permission to do so.”

Hatch had no intention of doing so. In his mind’s eye he saw a story, a great, vivid, startling story spread all over his newspaper about flaming phantoms and treasure trove—$100,000 in jewels. It staggered him. Of course he would say nothing about it—even hint at it, yet. But when he did say something about it—!

In the village The Thinking Machine found the constable.

“I understand some blood was thrown on you at the Weston place the other night?”

“Yes. Blood—warm blood.”

“You wiped it off with your handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

“Have you the handkerchief?”

“I suppose I might get it,” was the doubtful reply. “It might have gone into the wash.”

“Astute person,” remarked The Thinking Machine. “There might have been a crime and you throw away the one thing which would indicate it—the blood stains.”

The constable suddenly took notice.

“By ginger!” he said. “Wait here and I’ll go see if I can find it.”

He disappeared and returned shortly with the handkerchief. There were half a dozen blood stains on it, now dark brown.

The Thinking Machine dropped into the village drugstore and had a short conversation with the owner, after which he disappeared into the compounding room at the back and remained for an hour or more—until darkness set in. Then he came out and joined Hatch, who, with the constable, had been waiting.

The reporter did not ask any questions, and The Thinking Machine volunteered no information.

“Is it too late for anyone to get down from Boston tonight?” he asked the constable.

“No. He could take the eight o’clock train and be here about half-past nine.”

“Mr. Hatch, will you wire to Mr. Weston—Ernest Weston—and ask him to come tonight, sure. Impress on him the fact that it is a matter of the greatest importance.”

Instead of telegraphing, Hatch went to the telephone and spoke to Weston at his club. The trip would interfere with some other plans, the broker explained, but he would come. The Thinking Machine had meanwhile been conversing with the constable and had given some sort of instructions which evidently amazed that official exceedingly, for he kept repeating “By ginger!” with considerable fervor.

“And not one word or hint of it to anyone,” said The Thinking Machine. “Least of all to the members of your family.”

“By ginger!” was the response, and the constable went to supper.

The Thinking Machine and Hatch had their supper thoughtfully that evening in the little village “hotel.” Only once did Hatch break this silence.

“You told me to see Weston’s handwriting,” he said. “Of course you knew he was with the constable and myself when we saw the thing, therefore it would have been impossible—”

“Nothing is impossible,” broke in The Thinking Machine. “Don’t say that, please.”

“I mean that, as he was with us—”

“We’ll end the ghost story tonight,” interrupted the scientist.

Ernest Weston arrived on the nine-thirty train and had a long, earnest conversation with The Thinking Machine, while Hatch was permitted to cool his toes in solitude. At last they joined the reporter.

“Take a revolver by all means,” instructed The Thinking Machine.

“Do you think that necessary?” asked Weston.

“It is—absolutely,” was the emphatic response.

Weston left them after awhile. Hatch wondered where he had gone, but no information was forthcoming. In a general sort of way he knew that The Thinking Machine was to go to the haunted house, but he didn’t know when; he didn’t even know if he was to accompany him.

At last they started, The Thinking Machine swinging a hammer he had borrowed from his landlord. The night was perfectly black, even the road at their feet was invisible. They stumbled frequently as they walked on up the cliff toward the house, dimly standing out against the sky. They entered by way of the kitchen, passed through to the stairs in the main hall, and there Hatch indicated in the darkness the spot from which he had twice seen the flaming phantom.

“You go in the drawing-room behind here,” The Thinking Machine instructed. “Don’t make any noise whatever.”

For hours they waited, neither seeing the other. Hatch heard his heart thumping heavily; if only he could see the other man; with an effort he recovered from a rapidly growing nervousness and waited, waited. The Thinking Machine sat perfectly rigid on the stair, the hammer in his right hand, squinting steadily through the darkness.

At last he heard a noise, a slight nothing; it might almost have been his imagination. It was as if something had glided across the floor, and he was more alert than ever. Then came the dread misty light in the reception-hall, or was it in the library? He could not say. But he looked, looked, with every sense alert.

Gradually the light grew and spread, a misty whiteness which was unmistakably light, but which did not illuminate anything around it. The Thinking Machine saw it without the tremor of a nerve; saw the mistiness grow more marked in certain places, saw these lines gradually grow into the figure of a person, a person who was the center of a white light.

Then the mistiness fell away and The Thinking Machine saw the outline in bold relief. It was that of a tall figure, clothed in a robe, with head covered by a sort of hood, also luminous. As The Thinking Machine looked he saw an arm raised, and in the hand he saw a dagger. The attitude of the figure was distinctly a threat. And yet The Thinking Machine had not begun to grow nervous; he was only interested.

As he looked, the other hand of the apparition was raised and seemed to point directly at him. It moved through the air in bold sweeps, and The Thinking Machine saw the word “Death,” written in air luminously, swimming before his eyes. Then he blinked incredulously. There came a wild, demoniacal shriek of laughter from somewhere. Slowly, slowly the scientist crept down the steps in his stocking feet, silent as the apparition itself, with the hammer still in his hand. He crept on, on toward the figure. Hatch, not knowing the movements of The Thinking Machine, stood waiting for something, he didn’t know what. Then the thing, he had been waiting for happened. There was a sudden loud clatter as of broken glass, the phantom and writing faded, crumbled up, disappeared, and somewhere in the old house there was the hurried sound of steps. At last the reporter heard his name called quietly. It was The Thinking Machine.

“Mr. Hatch, come here.”

The reporter started, blundering through the darkness toward the point whence the voice had come. Some irresistible thing swept down upon him; a crashing blow descended on his head, vivid lights flashed before his eyes; he fell. After awhile, from a great distance, it seemed, he heard faintly a pistol shot.

CHAPTER VI

When Hatch, fully recovered consciousness it was with the flickering light of a match in his eyes—a match in the hand of The Thinking Machine, who squinted anxiously at him as he grasped his left wrist. Hatch, instantly himself again, sat up suddenly.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded.

“How’s your head?” came the answering question.

“Oh,” and Hatch suddenly recalled those incidents which had immediately preceded the crash on his head. “Oh, it’s all right, my head, I mean. What happened?”

“Get up and come along,” requested The Thinking Machine, tartly. “There’s a man shot down here.”

Hatch arose and followed the slight figure of the scientist through the front door, and toward the water. A light glimmered down near the water and was dimly reflected; above, the clouds had cleared somewhat and the moon was struggling through.

“What hit me, anyhow?” Hatch demanded, as they went. He rubbed his head ruefully.

“The ghost,” said the scientist. “I think probably he has a bullet in him now—the ghost.”

Then the figure of the town constable separated itself from the night and approached.

“Who’s that?”

“Professor Van Dusen and Mr. Hatch.”

“Mr. Weston got him all right,” said the constable, and there was satisfaction in his tone. “He tried to come out the back way, but I had that fastened, as you told me, and he came through the front way. Mr. Weston tried to stop him, and he raised the knife to stick him; then Mr. Weston shot. It broke his arm, I think. Mr. Weston is down there with him now.”

The Thinking Machine turned to the reporter.

“Wait here for me, with the constable,” he directed. “If the man is hurt he needs attention. I happen to be a doctor; I can aid him. Don’t come unless I call.”

For a long while the constable and the reporter waited. The constable talked, talked with all the bottled-up vigor of days. Hatch listened impatiently; he was eager to go down there where The Thinking Machine and Weston and the phantom were.

After half an hour the light disappeared, then he heard the swift, quick churning of waters, a sound as of a powerful motor-boat maneuvering, and a long body shot out on the waters.

“All right down there?” Hatch called.

“All right,” came the response.

There was again silence, then Ernest Weston and The Thinking Machine came up.

“Where is the other man?” asked Hatch.

“The ghost—where is he?” echoed the constable.

“He escaped in the motor-boat,” replied Mr. Weston, easily.

“Escaped?” exclaimed Hatch and the constable together.

“Yes, escaped,” repeated The Thinking Machine, irritably. “Mr. Hatch, let’s go to the hotel.”

Struggling with a sense of keen disappointment, Hatch followed the other two men silently. The constable walked beside him, also silent. At last they reached the hotel and bade the constable, a sadly puzzled, bewildered and crestfallen man, good-night.

“By ginger!” he remarked, as he walked away into the dark.

Upstairs the three men sat, Hatch impatiently waiting to hear the story. Weston lighted a cigarette and lounged back; The Thinking Machine sat with finger tips pressed together, studying the ceiling.

“Mr. Weston, you understand, of course, that I came into this thing to aid Mr. Hatch?” he asked.

“Certainly,” was the response. “I will only ask a favor of him when you conclude.”

The Thinking Machine changed his position slightly, readjusted his thick glasses for a long, comfortable squint, and told the story, from the beginning, as he always told a story. Here it is:

“Mr. Hatch came to me in a state of abject, cringing fear and told me of the mystery. It would be needless to go over his examination of the house, and all that. It is enough to say that he noted and told me of four large mirrors in the dining-room and living-room of the house; that he heard and brought to me the stories in detail of a tragedy in the old house and missing jewels, valued at a hundred thousand dollars, or more.

“He told me of his trip to the house that night, and of actually seeing the phantom. I have found in the past that Mr. Hatch is a cool, level-headed young man, not given to imagining things which are not there, and controls himself well. Therefore I knew that anything of charlatanism must be clever, exceedingly clever, to bring about such a condition of mind in him.

“Mr. Hatch saw, as others had seen, the figure of a phantom in the reception-room near the door of the library, or in the library near the door of the reception-room, he couldn’t tell exactly. He knew it was near the door. Preceding the appearance of the figure he heard a slight noise which he attributed to a rat running across the floor. Yet the house had not been occupied for five years. Rodents rarely remain in a house—I may say never—for that long if it is uninhabited. Therefore what was this noise? A noise made by the apparition itself? How?

“Now, there is only one white light of the kind Mr. Hatch described known to science. It seems almost superfluous to name it. It is phosphorus, compounded with Fuller’s earth and glycerine and one or two other chemicals, so it will not instantly flame as it does in the pure state when exposed to air. Phosphorus has a very pronounced odor if one is within, say, twenty feet of it. Did Mr. Hatch smell anything? No.

“Now, here we have several facts, these being that the apparition in appearing made a slight noise; that phosphorus was the luminous quality; that Mr. Hatch did not smell phosphorus even when he ran through the spot where the phantom had appeared. Two and two make four; Mr. Hatch saw phosphorus, passed through the spot where he had seen it, but did not smell it, therefore it was not there. It was a reflection he saw—a reflection of phosphorus. So far, so good.

“Mr. Hatch saw a finger lifted and write a luminous word in the air. Again he did not actually see this; he saw a reflection of it. This first impression of mine was substantiated by the fact that when he rushed for the phantom a part of it disappeared, first half of it, he said—fthen the other half. So his extended hands grasped only air.

“Obviously those reflections had been made on something, probably a mirror as the most perfect ordinary reflecting surface. Yet he actually passed through the spot where he had seen the apparition and had not struck a mirror. He found himself in another room, the library, having gone through a door which, that afternoon, he had himself closed. He did not open it then.

“Instantly a sliding mirror suggested itself to me to fit all these conditions. He saw the apparition in the door, then saw only half of it, then all of it disappeared. He passed through the spot where it had been. All of this would have happened easily if a large mirror, working as a sliding door, and hidden in the wall, were there. Is it clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Mr. Weston.

“Yes,” said Hatch, eagerly. “Go on.”

“This sliding mirror, too, might have made the noise which Mr. Hatch imagined was a rat. Mr. Hatch had previously told me of four large mirrors in the living- and dining-rooms. With these, from the position in which he said they were, I readily saw how the reflection could have been made.

“In a general sort of way, in my own mind, I had accounted for the phantom. Why was it there? This seemed a more difficult problem. It was possible that it had been put there for amusement, but I did not wholly accept this. Why? Partly because no one had ever heard of it until the Italian workmen went there. Why did it appear just at the moment they went to begin the work Mr. Weston had ordered? Was it the purpose to keep the workmen away?

“These questions arose in my mind in order. Then, as Mr. Hatch had told me of a tragedy in the house and hidden jewels, I asked him to learn more of these. I called his attention to the fact that it would be a queer circumstance if these jewels were still somewhere in the old house. Suppose some one who knew of their existence were searching for them, believed he could find them, and wanted something which would effectually drive away any inquiring persons, tramps or villagers, who might appear there at night. A ghost? Perhaps.

“Suppose some one wanted to give the old house such a reputation that Mr. Weston would not care to undertake the work of repair and refurnishing. A ghost? Again perhaps. In a shallow mind this ghost might have been interpreted even as an effort to prevent the marriage of Miss Everard and Mr. Weston. Therefore Mr. Hatch was instructed to get all the facts possible about you, Mr. Weston, and members of your family. I reasoned that members of your own family would be more likely to know of the lost jewels than anyone else after a lapse of fifty years.

“Well, what Mr. Hatch learned from you and your cousin, George Weston, instantly, in my mind, established a motive for the ghost. It was, as I had supposed possible, an effort to drive workmen away, perhaps only for a time, while a search was made for the jewels. The old tragedy in the house was a good pretext to hang a ghost on. A clever mind conceived it and a clever mind put it into operation.

“Now, what one person knew most about the jewels? Your cousin George, Mr. Weston. Had he recently acquired any new information as to these jewels? I didn’t know. I thought it possible. Why? On his own statement that his mother, then a bride, got the story of the entire affair direct from his grandmother, who remembered more of it than anybody else—who might even have heard his grandfather say where he intended hiding the jewels.”

The Thinking Machine paused for a little while, shifted his position, then went on:

“George Weston refused to go with you, Mr. Weston, and Mr. Hatch, to the ghost party, as you called it, because he said he was going to a ball in Providence that night. He did not go to Providence; I learned that from your correspondent there, Mr. Hatch; so George Weston might, possibly, have gone to the ghost party after all.

“After I looked over the situation down there it occurred to me that the most feasible way for a person, who wished to avoid being seen in the village, as the perpetrator of the ghost did, was to go to and from the place at night in a motor-boat. He could easily run in the dark and land at the foot of the cliff, and no soul in the village would be any the wiser. Did George Weston have a motor-boat? Yes, an electric, which runs almost silently.

“From this point the entire matter was comparatively simple. I knew—the pure logic of it told me—how the ghost was made to appear and disappear; one look at the house inside convinced me beyond all doubt. I knew the motive for the ghost—a search for the jewels. I knew, or thought I knew, the name of the man who was seeking the jewels; the man who had fullest knowledge and fullest opportunity, the man whose brain was clever enough to devise the scheme. Then, the next step to prove what I knew. The first thing to do was to find the jewels.”

“Find the jewels?” Weston repeated, with a slight smile.

“Here they are,” said The Thinking Machine, quietly.

And there, before the astonished eyes of the broker, he drew out the gems which had been lost for fifty years. Mr. Weston was not amazed; he was petrified with astonishment and sat staring at the glittering heap in silence. Finally he recovered his voice.

“How did you do it?” he demanded. “Where?”

“I used my brain, that’s all,” was the reply. “I went into the old house seeking them where the owner, under all conditions, would have been most likely to hide them, and there I found them.”

“But—but—” stammered the broker.

“The man who hid these jewels hid them only temporarily, or at least that was his purpose,” said The Thinking Machine, irritably. “Naturally he would not hide them in the woodwork of the house, because that might burn; he did not bury them in the cellar, because that has been carefully searched. Now, in that house there is nothing except woodwork and chimneys above the cellar. Yet he hid them in the house, proven by the fact that the man he killed was killed in the house, and that the outside ground, covered with snow, showed two sets of tracks into the house and none out. Therefore he did hide them in the cellar. Where? In the stonework. There was no other place.

“Naturally he would not hide them on a level with the eye, because the spot where he took out and replaced a stone would be apparent if a close search were made. He would, therefore, place them either above or below the eye level. He placed them above. A large loose stone in the chimney was taken out and there was the box with these things.”

Mr. Weston stared at The Thinking Machine with a new wonder and admiration in his eyes.

“With the jewels found and disposed of, there remained only to prove the ghost theory by an actual test. I sent for you, Mr. Weston, because I thought possibly, as no actual crime had been committed, it would be better to leave the guilty man to you. When you came I went into the haunted house with a hammer—an ordinary hammer—and waited on the steps.

“At last the ghost laughed and appeared. I crept down the steps where I was sitting in my stocking feet. I knew what it was. Just when I reached the luminous phantom I disposed of it for all time by smashing it with a hammer. It shattered a large sliding mirror which ran in the door inside the frame, as I had thought. The crash startled the man who operated the ghost from the top of a box, giving it the appearance of extreme height, and he started out through the kitchen, as he had entered. The constable had barred that door after the man entered; therefore the ghost turned and came toward the front door of the house. There he ran into and struck down Mr. Hatch, and ran out through the front door, which I afterwards found was not securely fastened. You know the rest of it; how you found the motor-boat and waited there for him; how he came there, and—”

“Tried to stab me,” Weston supplied. “I had to shoot to save myself.”

“Well, the wound is trivial,” said The Thinking Machine. “His arm will heal up in a little while. I think then, perhaps, a little trip of four or five years in Europe, at your expense, in return for the jewels, might restore him to health.”

“I was thinking of that myself,” said the broker, quietly. “Of course, I couldn’t prosecute.”

“The ghost, then, was—?” Hatch began.

“George Weston, my cousin,” said the broker. “There are some things in this story which I hope you may see fit to leave unsaid, if you can do so with justice to yourself.”

Hatch considered it.

“I think there are,” he said, finally, and he turned to The Thinking Machine. “Just where was the man who operated the phantom?”

“In the dining-room, beside the butler’s pantry,” was the reply. “With that pantry door closed he put on the robe already covered with phosphorus, and merely stepped out. The figure was reflected in the tall mirror directly in front, as you enter the dining-room from the back, from there reflected to the mirror on the opposite wall in the living-room, and thence reflected to the sliding mirror in the door which led from the reception-hall to the library. This is the one I smashed.”

“And how was the writing done?”

“Oh, that? Of course that was done by reversed writing on a piece of clear glass held before the apparition as he posed. This made it read straight to anyone who might see the last reflection in the reception-hall.”

“And the blood thrown on the constable and the others when the ghost was in the yard?” Hatch went on.

“Was from a dog. A test I made in the drugstore showed that. It was a desperate effort to drive the villagers away and keep them away. The ghost cat and the tying of the watchman to his bed were easily done.”

All sat silent for a time. At length Mr. Weston arose, thanked the scientist for the recovery of the jewels, bade them all good-night and was about to go out. Mechanically Hatch was following. At the door he turned back for the last question.

“How was it that the shot the constable fired didn’t break the mirror?”

“Because he was nervous and the bullet struck the door beside the mirror,” was the reply. “I dug it out with a knife. Good-night.”

MESSAGE IN THE SAND, by John L. French

They wait until just before the sun goes down, when most of the swimmers and sunbathers have gone in and all that’s left on the beach are a few surfers hoping to catch a decent wave or two. It’s then they come out, old men mostly, equipped with sand pail shovels and plastic cups, a hip pack around their waist, and most importantly, a metal detector, the magic wand with which they hope to find buried treasure.

For some it’s exercise, a way of taking a walk without it seeming a waste of time. For others it’s a way out of the condo, their time alone without the bother of the wife and grandkids, a peaceful time between the activities of the day and yet another round of miniature golf. But some have bought into the dream, the fantasy that somewhere buried beneath the sand amid lost keys, soda cans and dropped pennies lies a real find, something worth, well, maybe not a fortune, but a thing to show off, a story to tell about how one day they found something marvelous.

Each one has his own idea of what that marvelous object would be. To one it’s a rare coin, carried by someone as a good luck piece until he lost it, and the good luck waits to be passed on to the finder. Another’s on the lookout for jewelry—a necklace or a ring. For George Balinski it was a watch. Not just any watch, but a Rolex. One day, he would think as he walked barefoot in the sand, one day I’d like to find such a watch. I’d clean it up and put it on, and it would run perfectly. And whenever somebody saw it on my wrist, he’d say, “Nice watch,” and I’d say, “Found it on the beach, just lying there waiting for me.”

But George was realist enough to know that fantasies were meant to be enjoyed for themselves alone, and not because they’d one day come true. When he was younger he’d had lots of fantasies—of what kind of job he’d have, what kind of wife and house. None of them came true either, but he was happy nonetheless.

What George forgot was that sometime wishes do come true. He and the wife had had the condo for two years now. It was a nice place on 40th St. with two bedrooms and a foldout sofa in the living room, plenty of room for everybody. And of course, everybody was there. And to get away from them all—the wife, the kids, their kids—George started taking the metal detector out in the morning as well.

On the day it happened, George was just walking along, enjoying what to him was quiet—the cry of the gulls, the sound of the surf, the occasional ping that told him his detector was working. Two nice looking young women passed him on the beach. One of them smiled at him. And just as his thoughts of buried treasure gave way to a different kind of fantasy, the pings of his metal detector got louder and more frequent. He’d found something. George stopped, got out his shovel and dug into the sand.

Never had George expected to find anything of real worth in the sands of Ocean City, Maryland. And he certainly never expected to actually find a Rolex. But sometimes a wish comes true, and on that day, it did for George. But you have to be careful for what you wish, and how you wish. For even though George had always dreamed of finding a Rolex, he had never imagined that when he did, it would still be attached to the arm of its former owner.

And it was just the arm, the left arm of an adult male. At first it was thought that arm had come from the victim of a boating accident or shark attack, but no accident had been reported or any shark sighted. It was only when the investigator from the Medical Examiner’s Office observed that the arm appeared to have been severed by a very sharp blade that the State Police crime scene technician said aloud what everyone had been thinking.

She looked first at the spot from which George had exhumed the arm, then up and down the beach, then at the spot again. And then she asked, “If the arm was buried here, where’s the rest of him?”

Despite closing the entire Ocean City beachfront for the first time in recorded or remembered history, despite bringing in body-sniffing dogs, sophisticated sonar and ground radar devices, despite a massive sand-sifting endeavor, the rest of the victim never did turn up.

The next day, fingerprints identified the arm as belonging to a Peter Bondello. This ID created another flurry of activity, since Bondello was a prominent organized crime figure, a very active member on the Baltimore mob scene.

I know, Baltimore’s not supposed to have a mob, not in the criminal syndicate sense of the word that is. But the Outfit is everywhere, and anyone who thinks his city is immune from its influence is just fooling himself. There’s a branch in every decent sized city—supplying product to the drug runners, organizing loan sharking and prostitution, and sinking hooks into legitimate businesses under the guise of “protective services.”

The identification of the arm as Bondello’s brought in the FBI, DEA, ATF and assorted other alphabet agencies. Brenda and I arrived in Ocean City a week after they did.

I wasn’t there for Bondello. I’m just Matthew Grace, a simple PI from Baltimore. Looking for newly one-armed gangsters is not on my list of job services. I knew about the Baltimore mob, of course. Its head man had even hired me once or twice when he needed a job done legally (mostly) by someone he could trust. I’d also worked against the mob on one or two small matters, managing to get the jobs done with no hard feelings. (Well, there was that warning shot fired through my office window, but that may have been an old girlfriend.)

No, I was in Ocean City for a more prosaic reason. I’d been hired by Mike and Betty Tauber to find their daughter.

In addition to being Baltimore’s favorite vacation resort, Ocean City is often a teenager’s first real taste of freedom and responsibility. Fresh out of high school, he goes down the ocean (or as we say in Baltimore, “downy oshun”), finds a job and a place to stay, and is on his own for the first time in his life. In a very short time, he learns about paying bills, cooking, cleaning, getting along with roommates and what it’s like to work for a living. Not the little after-school and weekend jobs he had while in high school, but a real, forty hour a week job, one that leaves him too tired at the end of his shift to hit the beach or clubs like he thought he’d be doing before he drove the 150 miles from home.

Some of these kids handle the pressure and by the fall are more than ready for college. Others can’t take it, and run home to their old protected lives. Others just quit their jobs but stay in OC, getting by however they can.

Smart, blonde and attractive, Darlene Tauber drove down to Ocean City with three of her friends just two weeks after graduation. They’d rented a place together, a walk-up apartment on Caroline St, just a few blocks off the ocean. Her one friend, Tiffany, knew somebody who knew somebody who could get all of them jobs flipping burgers or making pizza at Friendly Bob’s—one of many such carry-out places that line OC’s Boardwalk.

Darlene called her parents as soon as she got settled in her apartment. She called again the next day, and the day after that. But soon the calls started coming every other day, and sometimes every third day. But when a week went by the Taubers started getting worried. That’s when they came to see me.

“Did you try calling her?” I asked the worried couple as they sat in my office.

“Yeah,” Mike Tauber said as his wife nodded. “Thursday night. Her roommate said she hadn’t seen her for a few days. Said she didn’t know where she was.”

“What did you do when you heard that?”

“Drove down there myself. Betty stayed up here in case Darlene called. I took the cell so she could let me know if she did. When I got there, her things were still in her room. Checked with where she was supposed to be working, but her boss said she’d quit two days after she started. After that I didn’t know what to do. I got a room and just walked around looking for her—the beach during the day, the Boardwalk at night. When I came back Sunday Betty and me talked it over and figured it was time to call in a pro at this sort of thing.”

“Did you call the police?”

The anger Tauber had been holding inside came to the surface. “Of course I called the police,” he yelled, “I’m not stupid.”

“Michael.” His wife put a calming hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. There was a rage inside him that had to come out.

“Of course I went to the police, first thing after leaving her place. Do you know what those bastards told me?”

I knew. It was what I’d probably have to tell him in a week or two.

“They told me there was nothing they could do. When I gave one of them her description, you know what he said, ‘Female, eighteen, blonde and good-looking. Yeah, she’ll stand out down here.’ Then that son-of-a-bitch suggested that she’d probably moved in with her boyfriend and that she’d call after ‘the thrill was gone.’”

That was a possibility, but you don’t suggest to an angry father that his sweet little girl is shacked up with some guy. I’d ask Mrs. Tauber later, or better yet, Darlene’s girlfriends when I got down there.

They gave me a picture of Darlene and we came to a financial arrangement. Tauber wasn’t happy when he learned that he’d be paying for my motel stay. “Money for this has gotta come out of Darlene’s college fund,” he grumbled. I stayed quiet as he wrote a check for my first week’s fee and expenses. I promised to leave the next day and report back as soon as I had news, or in a week if I came up dry.

“So when do we leave?”

That was the first question Brenda asked when I called her at home to tell her about my new case. I’d known Brenda for several months, met her on a roving husband case that turned into a lot more. We’d been dating ever since.

“What’s this ‘we’ stuff?”

“We, as in you and me. You’re getting a free stay down Ocean City. Any room you get will come with a double bed. Get the picture?”

“I’ll be working. This isn’t a vacation.”

“It will be for me. I’ll be tanning.”

“All day.”

“Same here.”

“And maybe all night.”

“That much I knew—double bed, remember?”

How could I say no? Brenda drove down with me.

I checked in with the Medical Examiner’s Office before we left. No unidentified females matching Darlene’s description had been received. Same story with the Eastern Shore hospitals and police departments. I also checked with the Delaware cities of Rehoboth and Bethany Beach. Plenty of blondes picked up on charges ranging from DUI and public indecency up to and including assault with intent to maim. All of them identified, none of them Darlene.

We checked into a moderately priced hotel on 1st St. Brenda wasted no time changing into the few bits of cloth she called a swimsuit and hitting the beach. I already had on my OC work clothes—jeans and a polo shirt—so I decided to visit Darlene’s apartment to see if maybe her roommates would tell me something they weren’t willing to tell her dad.

After calling ahead to make sure one of them would be there I took the bus down to Caroline St. (Ride all day for two dollars—beats trying to find a parking space). It was a second floor walk-up over the Swim-n-Surf, a store where you could buy boogie boards, suntan lotion, swimsuits and other beach necessities for twice what you’d pay in Baltimore. Tiffany, the girl who’d organized the whole thing, met me at the door and, after carefully checking my ID, let me in.

The apartment wasn’t much—a small living room, smaller kitchen and two closets someone forced mattresses and box springs into and called bedrooms. Unlike the place I stayed in when I was eighteen and on my own, everything was clean and orderly. But then, four girls were staying here and not three guys whose idea of doing laundry was to go for a walk in the rain.

“Tiffany,” I said after the preliminaries were over, “I know you told Darlene’s father that you didn’t know where she was, but maybe she’s someplace she doesn’t want her father to know about. He doesn’t have to know.”

“You mean, like, with a guy, or something, Mr. Grace?” She shook her head in the way that girls her age do, the way that drives boys her age to distraction, the deferential way she called me “Mr. Grace” only serving to remind me how far away I was from being that age. “No way, she wasn’t like that. And if she was, she’d tell me, we’re almost best friends. And after her father left, I’d have called her and, like told her, call home or something; give ’em a story and let ’em know you’re okay.”

“Darlene have a cell?” I asked. According to her mother she didn’t, but she might have picked one up.

“Don’t know. If she does, I don’t know the number. Or it might be in there.” Tiffany pointed to some copier paper boxes in a corner. One of them had Darlene’s name on it in blue marker. “Not much storage space,” she explained. “We keep our things in there. Clothes we leave in our suitcases or in the closet.”

I went over and took a quick look in the box. I didn’t see a cell phone but there were several cameras there, a well used Nikon and several disposable ones.

“Like, if you want to take that with you and look through it I guess it’s okay, you working for her father and all.”

The Nikon was empty. The disposable cameras hadn’t been used yet. There was nothing else of interest in the box. I was hoping for some pay stubs.

“I’d like to look through her clothes.”

“Eh, sure,” Tiffany said and showed me which coats in the closet and which suitcase were Darlene’s. “Eh, I sort of borrowed this top from her. Do you need it back?”

“I’m not going to take them, Tiffany, I just want to go through the pockets to see if can find a name, phone number, address—anything that could tell me where she might be.” I started looking through the pockets of Darlene’s jackets. “When did you first notice she was missing?” I asked as casually as I could.

“I didn’t. I really didn’t know until her father called. With her working a different job, and with me on all kind of hours at Friendly Bob’s, we really didn’t see each other that much. I thought we each kept missing the other.”

“Where’s she working now?” I was coming up empty with Darlene’s coats and starting to get a bad feeling. I opened her suitcase. There seemed to be too many clothes for a girl who may have moved without notice.

“Don’t know. She didn’t stay at Bob’s long. Her hours sucked—three p.m. to eleven. The work’s so hard you’re too tired to do anything after, and you’re still tired in the morning so you sleep in. You wake up in time for work but not the beach. Darlene left Bob’s and got a job at a pancake house. That was all morning work so she had time at night. But the tips weren’t that good and she missed going to the beach. Last time I talked to her she said was going to quit there too, that she’d found a job perfect for her. But she didn’t say what it was.”

I finished with the suitcase. The bad feeling was getting stronger. “Tiffany, do me a favor. Go through Darlene’s things—closet, suitcase, that box and her bathroom stuff. Let me know if it’s all there, if there’s anything missing except what she might have been wearing the last day you saw her.”

Tiffany did, starting with the box and finishing in the bathroom. “It’s all here,” she said when she came out, “clothes, toothbrush, hair dryer, make-up. Why would she leave without taking … oh no!” Suddenly Tiffany had that bad feeling too.

“She’s probably okay,” I quickly lied. “And wherever she is, I’ll find her. That’s what I do.” That’s what I was being paid to do. It didn’t mean I’d succeed. I gave Tiffany one of my cards. “If you or your friends see her, or hear about her, or remember anything that could help, call my cell.”

Tiffany nodded, on the edge of tears as she started to imagine all the wrongs that could have happened to her friend, wrongs that the Taubers were no doubt imagining as well. She’ll blame herself, I thought, for not noticing sooner. I started to tell her not to, then realized it wouldn’t do either of us any good. Instead I took the easy way out and said a quick goodbye.

The on-duty manager at Friendly Bob’s didn’t remember Darlene.

“Maybe,” he said when I showed him her photo, “So many kids come through here. Some of them are hard workers, putting in as many hours as they can get, trying to make as much money as they can before college. Others,” here he shook his head, “others come thinking it’s going to be one long vacation. They’re shocked when they learn they’re actually expected to work.” He handed back the picture. “Sorry, I can’t help you, but feel free to ask around.”

I did. One of the waitresses, a girl named Lauren, remembered her. “She worked with me the first day or two. After that she never came back.”

By the time I got to the pancake house it was closed. It was strictly a breakfast and lunch kind of place. I’d try the next morning, both there and back at Bob’s. Darlene’s other roommates were scheduled to work then and might know something. Somehow I doubted that they’d be able to tell me anything more than Tiffany had.

I was right. Like Tiffany, neither roommate had even realized that Darlene had been missing. “She was in and out all day, working some kind of crazy schedule,” one of them told me, but working where she couldn’t say. I had the same kind of luck at the pancake house. Like at Bob’s, Darlene had come and gone so fast she didn’t leave behind any impression.

After that it was a long day down the ocean. Darlene hadn’t opened an account at any of the local banks. The police had no record of her filing any kind of complaint or being charged or detained for anything. I was left with going store to store, showing her picture, saying her name, hoping that sooner or later I’d find the place she’d gotten her perfect job.

I got back to the hotel about five. Brenda’s swimsuit was hung on a drying rack near the window. I could hear the shower running. I hoped that Brenda wasn’t planning on a big evening out. After the day I had, all I was up for was a quick burger and then back to the room and some quality time with my laptop, checking for any activity on the credit cards Brenda’s parents told me she had.

I opened the bathroom door and poked my head in. “I’m back,” I said to the silhouette behind the shower curtain.

“Rough day?”

“I’ve had better.”

“Well, there’s a present for you on the night table. Now close the door, it’s getting chilly in here.”

I went to look for my present, presents actually, since there were five of them—telescope pictures.

Telescope pictures have nothing to do with bringing things closer. Imagine a small four-sided tube, about an inch on one end tapering to a half inch at the other. Hold the small end to your eye, there’s a lens to look through. Hold the big end to the light. There’s a picture inside. The pictures are taken by “scope” guys and gals who walk the beach. You call them over and they take your photo. Later that day you go to the scope place and they sell you a telescope with the picture inside, a lasting memento of your trip down the ocean. Mostly they snap kids and grandkids, young couples who’ve just started dating and newlyweds. This time the pics were of Brenda, posing provocatively in her all-too-brief bikini.

“See anything you like?” Brenda asked from behind me as I was trying to decide which of her five poses was my favorite. I turned and there she was, wearing only a robe, her hair still wet from her shower. The burger and laptop could wait, I decided, putting down the scope in favor of the real thing.

Later, with Brenda sleeping quietly and me at the desk running Darlene’s credit cards, my mind drifted back to the telescope pictures. There was something I’d almost thought of before Brenda had come out of the shower. Not of Brenda in her swimsuit, but of how nice it must be to spend your summer walking up and down the beach, just taking pictures and getting paid for it. For someone who likes the sun and has an interest in photography, it would be the perfect job.

Ocean City had three scope shops. I got lucky with the second one.

“Yeah,” the manager said, looking at her picture. “She worked here.”

“Worked?”

He nodded. “Hasn’t been in for a while. Shame too. She was a hard worker. Took lots of pictures. Good ones too, always in focus with nice exposure. Never got the customers in shadow or against the sun. Just about everything she took sold.”

“She make a lot of money?” I asked, hoping he’d know where she cashed her paychecks.

“The harder a kid works, the more money he makes. She worked hard, pulled in about $45-50 a day, and at a dollar a scope that’s a lot of hustle. And before you ask, we pay in cash.”

So much for the bank idea. I tired another angle.

“Why’d she leave?”

He shrugged. “Who knows with these kids? Here one day, gone the next. One night she was all excited about the job, the next day she’s a no-show.”

“When was this?”

He thought a moment. “I think it was the day before the break-in, or maybe right before.”

“What break-in?”

“Somebody smashed the back door, went through the racks with the scopes in ’em.”

I looked at the wall behind the sales counter. It was lined with bins holding bags of scopes waiting to be picked up. “What was taken?”

“Not much. We don’t keep cash here overnight. Just some of the scopes. Who would want somebody else’s pictures?”

Who indeed? The bad feeling that had been growing since my talk with Tiffany suddenly got worse. “Your photographers, are they assigned specific areas of the beach to work?”

“Yeah,” the manager told me. “Each of the scope stores takes a third of the beach. My crew’s got from 28th St. up to 75th. Darlene worked between 35th and 45th.”

“Any of her pictures left?”

“None of the store’s. They went missing along with some others in the break-in. But we have some of hers.”

“Hers?”

“Yeah, she always carried her own camera with her. She saw something she liked, she’s snap it. Sometimes she’d take an extra pic or two of a customer—cute kid, good looking guy, something like that. Most people never knew she’d switched cameras. We’d develop them for her at cost overnight. In fact ….” He disappeared into the back of the shop. Came out with a manila envelope, handed it to me. “We had these in the developer the night of the break-in. You find her, give ’em to her. Tell her she’s welcome back anytime.”

I thanked the man and left.

On the bus ride back to the hotel I resisted the urge to look at the photos. With recent events, Darlene’s interest in photography and the area she worked, the break-in, the fact that there were no photographs to go with the cameras found in her apartment, I knew with a cold certainty what I’d find on at least one of the pictures in the envelope. And the longer I waited to look at them, the longer I had to decide just what to do about it.

Someone had been watching him, probably followed him from Baltimore. Watched as he checked into his hotel, was behind him when he walked the Boardwalk and was close enough to him on the beach to see him have his picture taken by the scope girl. He wouldn’t have been the subject—no, he wasn’t that stupid, none of them were—but he‘d be in the background of one of the shots Darlene took on that beach. He may not have noticed, but the man who followed him from Baltimore, the man who was waiting for just the right time and place to do his job and leave his message, he would have seen. And this man would have acted, would have made sure that this photographic evidence would disappear.

No doubt he followed Darlene back to the scope shop, then followed her home. Her apartment had a simple lock, easy enough to pass through without any signs of tampering. Take the film out of the camera, take any used disposables and any developed prints. Break into the photo shop and steal the scope pictures Darlene took that day. Oh yeah, and somewhere along the way, snatch up Darlene herself, just to be on the safe side.

All this ran through my mind as I looked through the last set of pictures Darlene had taken, the ones the man on the beach, just like her customers, didn’t realize she’d snapped. Hoping I was wrong, I looked at each one through a magnifying glass, looking at the people in the background, looking for a familiar face, one that had been in the paper just about the time Darlene had gone missing.

I found Peter Bondello’s picture midway through the stack of twenty-four exposures. His was with some woman I didn’t recognize. They were laughing, sharing a joke maybe. His arm was around her—the same arm that George Belinski later found buried in the sand.

The picture confirmed it. I was too late. It didn’t matter that it was too late by the time the Taubers had hired me. I’d taken their money and promised to get their little girl back. They’d put all their hope in me and now the best I could do for them was maybe find her body.

For a while I just stared at the picture wondering what to do. Going to the police was an option, just not a very good one. True, tying the disappearance and possible death of a young girl to the brutal murder of a mobster was sure to generate a public outcry, massive news coverage and increased efforts by the police, but it would also drive those involved deeper underground than they already were. The woman in the photo, if she wasn’t already sharing a landfill with the rest of Bondello, would disappear just as Darlene had. And after all the publicity died down, Darlene would be just another missing teenager and Bondello an unsolved piece of OC history. I didn’t care too much about Bondello, but Darlene deserved justice.

No, the police were out. I’d make arrangements to be sure they’d get a copy of the photo in case the plan I had come up with went wrong, but for now Darlene’s connection with the case was my little secret.

Brenda and I left Ocean City that day, stopping at the scope place and the post office before we did. I called the Taubers when we got back to Baltimore, telling them that although I hadn’t found Darlene, there were still a few leads to follow that might tell me where she was. I hated myself for the false hope I left them with, but I couldn’t have them going to the police, not yet anyway.

The call I was expecting came the next day. The whispered voice mentioned a place and time, and strongly suggested I be there. My package had arrived.

When you think of meeting with a mob boss, your imagination no doubt conjures up images of Italian restaurants, dark warehouses or the backroom of a neighborhood bar. Sometimes it’s like that, but my meeting with the man I call “Mr. Louis” was just outside the Pratt St. pavilion in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. I arrived a few minutes early to find him sitting on a bench, watching the tourists go by. As I approached him (slowly), a large man in a “Charm City” T-shirt moved to intercept, but at a nod from Mr. Louis he let me proceed.

“Mr. Louis, thank you …”

“Shh,” he interrupted me, looking at his watch. He pointed to the U.S.S. Constellation, a naval sloop from the Civil War whose permanent berth is now in Baltimore. “Any minute now.”

A cannon went off and white smoke erupted from the bow of the ship. Had the cannon been loaded with shot or ball, pieces of Federal Hill across the harbor would now be missing.

“Everyday at one o’clock, they fire it. A demonstration for the tourists. It used to be louder, but the hotels complained about the noise rattling their windows. Now they just use a half load.”

Must be convenient knowing exactly when a noise like a gunshot was going to go off. I kept this thought to myself and instead said, “You got my presents?”

Mr. Louis reached into his pocket and brought out two telescopes, one in light blue plastic, the other pale green. Both had “Souvenir of Ocean City” written in gold on their sides. Without looking through either he said, “Yes, thank you for thinking of me. I have some of my granddaughters when they were younger, but these, these are quite different.”

They should have been. The green one had Bondello’s face on it, cropped from the photo I’d found. The blue one was the unknown woman. As attention-getters they couldn’t be beat.

“What is it you want of me, Mr. Grace?”

I had to phrase this carefully. I needed this man to be in my debt, and not me in his. “To do you a service, Mr. Louis. A young girl is missing. Her parents hired me to find her. In looking for her I found a photograph she’d taken of Peter Bondello with this woman. Realizing there was a connection, I came to you rather than … going elsewhere.”

Louis knew exactly where “elsewhere” was—a big building with men in uniform blue suits.

“And how does this concern me?”

“Make no mistake, Mr. Louis—I will do whatever it takes to find out what happened to this girl. Make as much noise as I have to. But I thought that, given the circumstances, maybe you’d prefer it if things were done quietly.”

Louis took his time replying. He sat there for a few minutes, toying with the scopes, watching people go by. Finally, he nodded and turned to me with a smile.

“As you say, Mr. Grace, quiet would be better—for both of us. And you have done me a service, but not how you think. Until now, what happened to Peter was as big a mystery to us as to you and the authorities. There had been no approval of … well, let’s just say that Peter’s name had not been discussed. And the way it was done …” Louis shook his head “… such a gesture is now for others.”

He held the blue scope up to the sun. “I have not seen this woman, but perhaps others have. I will ask. Please wait for word from me before … making noise.”

“You have my word, but I can’t speak for the parents. A day or two more, and they’re likely to go public.”

“I understand. And thank you, Mr. Grace.”

Mr. Louis got up and slowly walked away, leaving me on the bench watching the tourists and hoping I’d played my hand right.

The next meeting was in a bar, one of those neighborhood places whose name changes every few years as the guy who bought it realizes that running a bar is way too much work and not as much fun as Sam Malone made it look on television. So he sells the business and license to another guy with a dream and if he breaks even he considers himself lucky.

I got to the bar a few minutes early. Mr. Louis was already waiting for me in the back room. He was sitting at a table which had two other chairs around it, his ever-present bodyguard standing alertly in a corner, one that provided a clear view of the room and an even clearer line of fire.

Louis gestured for me to sit down. “You have news?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Maybe, I believe so. We will know for sure once our guest arrives.” Louis looked at his watch. “He will make it a point to be late, as a demonstration of his independence.”

“But that won’t change the fact that you called and he came, right?”

“It is sometimes best to let people ignore the strings that bind them. You have the photograph, and the negative?”

I passed them over. This was the part I didn’t like. To find out what had happened to Darlene I was giving up the only evidence I had, the only evidence anyone had that would tie her to Bondello’s death. Sure, I had kept a print for myself, and had scanned the image, but without the negative either could be dismissed as photo manipulation. Still, it was the only chance to find out the truth. And tonight that was all I was interested in.

As Louis predicted, our guest arrived twenty minutes late. He entered without knocking. As he moved to our table he shot a glance over to Louis’s bodyguard, sizing him up as if deciding which of them could take the other, then smiled as he figured that he’d probably be the one to walk away. He sat down without any apology for being late.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Louis sad quietly, “thank you for coming, Mr. Wills. This is Matthew Grace. Mr. Grace, Derek Wills.”

I’d heard of Wills. His name had been in the paper a few times. He was usually mentioned as “allegedly” being involved in Baltimore’s drug trade. He’d been arrested several times but never convicted. Witnesses against Wills tended to disappear or suddenly change their testimony on the stand. Word on the street was that if it was illegal and could be sold—narcotics, guns, flesh—Wills had or wanted a part of it.

Wills gave me the same scrutiny he’s given the bodyguard then asked Louis, “What’s up?”

Louis handed Wills the photograph of Bondello and the woman. “I believe you know this couple.” It was a statement not a question.

Wills looked at the photo, shrugged, and threw it back on the table. “Knew them, you mean. She was my lady, before she took off with this piece of dirt.” He smacked the photo, his hand hitting Bondello’s image.

“I take it then that you are responsible for what was found on the beach?”

Wills started to answer, then looked my way. It finally occurred to him that I might not be part of Louis’s organization. “He okay?” he asked Louis.

“Mr. Grace came to me with this photograph. He could have gone to the police. And he promises not to go to them if you will answer some questions.”

I hadn’t promised any such thing, but if that was the price I guess I’d have to pay it.

At Wills’s hesitation, Louis prompted. “We are both of us in his debt.”

“Yeah, what the hell. Bondello took what’s mine. Nobody takes what’s mine. When I heard they were going down the ocean I followed them. Saw them on the beach, watched as they went back to their hotel. That night, I did them right in their room, nice and clean.”

“The police never found his room,” I said.

“Yeah, like any of us use our real names. She probably checked in while he sat in the car.”

“The arm, that only drew attention,” Louis pointed out.

“That was the point. You put a hand on what’s mine, you lose the hand. Some people needed to know that. Now they do.”

“And their bodies?” Louis asked before I could.

“Lots of dumpsters in OC. Who’s gonna notice a few more trash bags?”

That was my cue. “Is that what happened to the girl?” Before he could ask “What girl?” I added, “The one who took this picture.”

Another smile. “Saw her snap the pic. Couldn’t take the chance that it’d turn up on the front page of the Baltimore Sun. Tried to get it back, when I couldn’t I snatched her up, just in case.”

“And where’s her body, another dumpster?”

Wills smiled, then laughed out loud. “Who said she’s dead. Nice piece like that, it was a shame to waste it. Gonna turn her out, make some money.”

I went dead inside. Until then I thought that the worse news I could give the Taubers was that their daughter was gone and that the man responsible was beyond the law. Now I’d have to tell them that for just for taking a picture she’d been sentenced to a life of disease and addiction. To myself I swore that somehow I’d get her back. If she was in Baltimore, I’d find her. If not, I had contacts in other cities. One way or the other I’d get her back. She wouldn’t be their little girl anymore, but I’d bring Darlene back to her family. And once she was safe, Wills would pay. If Louis had to go down too, so be it. I’d pay the price when I had to.

I barely heard Louis ask me if I had other questions. I mumbled out a “No” and he said, “Thank you, Mr. Wills.” There was a hard edge to Louis’s voice, an iciness that hadn’t been there before. “I believe that will be all.”

Wills stood up. “A pleasure, gentlemen.” After another challenging look at Louis’s bodyguard, he walked out. The pictures he left on the table.

When we were alone, Louis asked me, “Mr. Grace, are we done here?” It was the way he said it that made me think we weren’t, that he was waiting for something. I looked at the photo on the table and I knew what it was.

“Mr. Louis, did you mean what you told Wills? About being in my debt?”

“Of course, Mr. Grace. If I said it, I meant it, and I always pay my debts.”

“What Wills did, he should have gotten the okay first?” Louis nodded. I picked up the picture. “The girl who took this was just eighteen. Your granddaughters, they’re about that age now, aren’t they?” Another nod. I called in the favor. It was the one Louis was waiting for. He was happy to oblige.

Derek Wills disappeared from the streets that night. I understand that after some intense questioning, he told of an abandoned motel off of Route 1 in Bel Air where several girls were being held, pending their sale to the highest bidder. Because the condition of the merchandise was an important part of the negotiations, none had suffered more than some rough handling, mild starvation and the fright of their young lives. An anonymous tip led the State Police to them. Darlene Tauber was one of those girls.

A week after Darlene was returned to her parents to try to resume a normal life another anonymous tip led police back to the motel. There, in the same room where the girls had been kept, a severed arm was found, its fingers grasping a crumpled photograph, a message for those that needed to know. The rest of Derek Wills’s body never turned up. There are plenty of dumpsters in Baltimore too.

THE ASSISTANT MURDERER, by Dashiell Hammett

Gold on the door, edged with black, said Alexander Rush, Private Detective. Inside, an ugly man sat tilted back in a chair, his feet on a yellow desk.

The office was in no way lovely. Its furnishings were few and old with the shabby age of second-handdom. A shredding square of dun carpet covered the floor. On one buff wall hung a framed certificate that licensed Alexander Rush to pursue the calling of private detective in the city of Baltimore in accordance with certain red-numbered regulations. A map of the city hung on another wall. Beneath the map a frail bookcase, small as it was, gaped emptily around its contents: a yellowish railway guide, a smaller hotel directory, and street and telephone directories for Baltimore, Washington, and Philadelphia. An insecure oaken clothes-tree held up a black derby and a black overcoat beside a white sink in one corner. The four chairs in the room were unrelated to one another in everything except age. The desk’s scarred top held, in addition to the proprietor’s feet, a telephone, a black-clotted inkwell, a disarray of papers having generally to do with criminals who had escaped from one prison or another, and a grayed ashtray that held as much ash and as many black cigar stumps as a tray of its size could expect to hold.

An ugly office—the proprietor was uglier.

His head was squatly pear-shaped. Excessively heavy, wide, blunt at the jaw, it narrowed as it rose to the close-cropped, erect grizzled hair that sprouted above a low, slanting forehead. His complexion was of a rich darkish red, his skin tough in texture and rounded over thick cushions of fat.

These fundamental inelegancies were by no means all his ugliness. Things had been done to his features.

One way you looked at his nose, you said it was crooked. Another way, you said it could not be crooked; it had no shape at all. Whatever your opinion of its form, you could not deny its colour. Veins had broken to pencil its already florid surface with brilliant red stars and curls and puzzling scrawls that looked as if they must have some secret meanings. His lips were thick, tough-skinned. Between them showed the brassy glint of two solid rows of gold teeth, the lower row lapping the upper, so undershot was the bulging jaw. His eyes—small, deep-set, and pale blue of iris—were bloodshot to a degree that made you think he had a heavy cold. His ears accounted for some of his earlier years: they were the thickened, twisted cauliflower ears of the pugilist.

A man of forty-something, ugly, sitting tilted back in his chair, feet on desk.

The gilt-labelled door opened and another man came into the office. Perhaps ten years younger than the man at the desk, he was, roughly speaking, everything that one was not. Fairly tall, slender, fair-skinned, brown-eyed, he would have been as little likely to catch your eye in a gambling-house as in an art gallery. His clothes—suit and hat were gray—were fresh and properly pressed, and even fashionable in that inconspicuous manner which is one sort of taste. His face was likewise unobtrusive, which was surprising when you considered how narrowly it missed handsomeness through the least meagreness of mouth—a mark of the too-cautious man.

Two steps into the office he hesitated, brown eyes glancing from shabby furnishings to ill-visaged proprietor. So much ugliness seemed to disconcert the man in gray. An apologetic smile began on his lips, as if he were about to murmur, “I beg your pardon, I’m in the wrong office.”

But when he finally spoke it was otherwise. He took another step forward, asking uncertainly:

“You are Mr. Rush?”

“Yeah.” The detective’s voice was hoarse with a choking harshness that seemed to corroborate the heavy-cold testimony of his eyes. He put his feet down on the floor and jerked a fat, red hand at a chair. “Sit down, sir.”

The man in gray sat down, tentatively upright on the chair’s front edge.

“Now what can I do for you?” Alec Rush croaked amiably.

“I want—I wish—I would like—” and further than that the man in gray said nothing.

“Maybe you’d better just tell me what’s wrong,” the detective suggested. “Then I’ll know what you want of me.” He smiled.

There was kindliness in Alec Rush’s smile, and it was not easily resisted. True, his smile was a horrible grimace out of a nightmare, but that was its charm. When your gentle-countenanced man smiles there is small gain: his smile expresses little more than his reposed face. But when Alec Rush distorted his ogre’s mask so that jovial friendliness peeped incongruously from his savage red eyes, from his brutal metal-studded mouth—then that was a heartening, a winning thing.

“Yes, I daresay that would be better.” The man in gray sat back in his chair, more comfortably, less transiently. “Yesterday on Fayette Street, I met—a young woman I know. I hadn’t—we hadn’t met for several months. That isn’t really pertinent, however. But after we separated—we had talked for a few minutes—I saw a man. That is, he came out of a doorway and went down the street in the same direction she had taken, and I got the idea he was following her. She turned into Liberty Street and he did likewise. Countless people walk along that same route, and the idea that he was following her seemed fantastic, so much so that I dismissed it and went on about my business.

“But I couldn’t get the notion out of my head. It seemed to me there had been something peculiarly intent in his carriage, and no matter how much I told myself the notion was absurd, it persisted in worrying me. So last night, having nothing especial to do, I drove out to the neighbourhood of—of the young woman’s house. And I saw the same man again. He was standing on a corner two blocks from her house. It was the same man—I’m certain of it. I tried to watch him, but while I was finding a place for my car he disappeared and I did not see him again. Those are the circumstances. Now will you look into it, learn if he is actually following her, and why?”

“Sure,” the detective agreed hoarsely, “but didn’t you say anything to the lady or to any of her family?”

The man in gray fidgeted in his chair and looked at the stringy dun carpet.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to disturb her, frighten her, and still don’t. After all, it may be no more than a meaningless coincidence, and—and—well—I don’t—That’s impossible! What I had in mind was for you to find out what is wrong, if anything, and remedy it without my appearing in the matter at all.”

“Maybe, but, mind you, I’m not saying I will. I’d want to know more first.”

“More? You mean more—”

“More about you and her.”

“But there is nothing about us!” the man in gray protested. “It is exactly as I have told you. I might add that the young woman is—is married, and that until yesterday I had not seen her since her marriage.”

“Then your interest in her is—?” The detective let the husky interrogation hang incompleted in the air.

“Of friendship—past friendship.”

“Yeah. Now who is this young woman?”

The man in gray fidgeted again.

“See here, Rush,” he said, colouring, “I’m perfectly willing to tell you, and shall, of course, but I don’t want to tell you unless you are going to handle this thing for me. I mean I don’t want to be bringing her name into it if—if you aren’t. Will you?”

Alec Rush scratched his grizzled head with a stubby forefinger.

“I don’t know,” he growled. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I can’t take a hold of a job that might be anything. I’ve got to know that you’re on the up-and-up.”

Puzzlement disturbed the clarity of the younger man’s brown eyes.

“But I didn’t think you’d be—” he broke off and looked away from the ugly man.

“Of course you didn’t.” A chuckle rasped in the detective’s burly throat, the chuckle of a man touched in a once-sore spot that is no longer tender. He raised a big hand to arrest his prospective client in the act of rising from his chair. “What you did, on a guess, was to go to one of the big agencies and tell ’em your story. They wouldn’t touch it unless you cleared up the fishy points. Then you ran across my name, remembered I was chucked out of the department a couple of years ago. ‘There’s my man,’ you said to yourself, ‘a baby who won’t be so choicy!’”

The man in gray protested with head and gesture and voice that this was not so. But his eyes were sheepish.

Alec Rush laughed harshly again and said, “No matter. I ain’t sensitive about it. I can talk about politics, and being made the goat, and all that, but the records show the Board of Police Commissioners gave me the air for a list of crimes that would stretch from here to Canton Hollow. All right, sir! I’ll take your job. It sounds phoney, but maybe it ain’t. It’ll cost you fifteen a day and expenses.”

“I can see that it sounds peculiar,” the younger man assured the detective, “but you’ll find that it’s quite all right. You’ll want a retainer, of course.”

“Yes, say fifty.”

The man in gray took five new ten-dollar bills from a pigskin billfold and put them on the desk. With a thick pen Alec Rush began to make muddy ink-marks on a receipt blank.

“Your name?” he asked.

“I would rather not. I’m not to appear in it, you know. My name would not be of importance, would it?”

Alec Rush put down his pen and frowned at his client.

“Now! Now!” he grumbled good-naturedly. “How am I going to do business with a man like you?”

The man in gray was sorry, even apologetic, but he was stubborn in his reticence. He would not give his name. Alec Rush growled and complained, but pocketed the five ten-dollar bills.

“It’s in your favour, maybe,” the detective admitted as he surrendered, “though it ain’t to your credit. But if you were off-colour I guess you’d have sense enough to fake a name. Now this young woman—who is she?”

“Mrs. Hubert Landow.”

“Well, well, we’ve got a name at last! And where does Mrs. Landow live?”

“On Charles-Street Avenue,” the man in gray said, and gave a number.

“Her description?”

“She is twenty-two or—three years old, rather tall, slender in an athletic way, with auburn hair, blue eyes, and very white skin.”

“And her husband? You know him?”

“I have seen him. He is about my age—thirty—but larger than I, a tall, broad-shouldered man of the clean-cut blond type.”

“And your mystery man? What does he look like?”

“He’s quite young, not more than twenty-two at the most, and not very large—medium size, perhaps, or a little under. He’s very dark, with high cheek-bones and a large nose. High, straight shoulders, too, but not broad. He walks with small, almost mincing, steps.”

“Clothes?”

“He was wearing a brown suit and a tan cap when I saw him on Fayette Street yesterday afternoon. I suppose he wore the same last night, but I’m not positive.”

“I suppose you’ll drop in here for my reports,” the detective wound up, “since I won’t know where to send them to you?”

“Yes.” The man in gray stood up and held out his hand. “I’m very grateful to you for undertaking this, Mr. Rush.”

Alec Rush said that was all right. They shook hands, and the man in gray went out.

The ugly man waited until his client had had time to turn off into the corridor that led to the elevators. Then the detective said, “Now, Mr. Man!” got up from his chair, took his hat from the clothes-tree in the corner, locked his office door behind him, and ran down the back stairs.

He ran with the deceptive heavy agility of a bear. There was something bearlike, too, in the looseness with which his blue suit hung on his stout body, and in the set of his heavy shoulders—sloping, limber-jointed shoulders whose droop concealed much of their bulk.

He gained the ground floor in time to see the gray back of his client issuing into the street. In his wake Alec Rush sauntered. Two blocks, a turn to the left, another block, and a turn to the right. The man in gray went into the office of a trust company that occupied the ground floor of a large office building.

The rest was the mere turning of a hand. Half a dollar to a porter: the man in gray was Ralph Millar, assistant cashier.

Darkness was settling in Charles-Street Avenue when Alec Rush, in a modest black coupe, drove past the address Ralph Millar had given him. The house was large in the dusk, spaced from its fellows as from the paving by moderate expanses of fenced lawn.

Alec Rush drove on, turned to the left at the first crossing, again to the left at the next, and at the next. For half an hour he guided his car along a many-angled turning and returning route until, when finally he stopped beside the curb at some distance from, but within sight of, the Landow house, he had driven through every piece of thoroughfare in the vicinity of that house.

He had not seen Millar’s dark, high-shouldered young man.

Lights burned brightly in Charles-Street Avenue, and the night traffic began to purr southward into the city. Alec Rush’s heavy body slumped against the wheel of his coupe while he filled its interior with pungent fog from a black cigar, and held patient, bloodshot eyes on what he could see of the Landow residence.

Three-quarters of an hour passed, and there was motion in the house. A limousine left the garage in the rear for the front door. A man and a woman, faintly distinguishable at that distance, left the house for the limousine. The limousine moved out into the cityward current. The third car behind it was Alec Rush’s modest coupe.

Except for a perilous moment at North Avenue, when the interfering cross-stream of traffic threatened to separate him from his quarry, Alec Rush followed the limousine without difficulty. In front of a Howard Street theatre it discharged its freight: a youngish man and a young woman, both tall, evening-clad, and assuringly in agreement with the descriptions the detective had got from his client.

The Landows went into the already dark theatre while Alec Rush was buying his ticket. In the light of the first intermission he discovered them again. Leaving his seat for the rear of the auditorium, he found an angle from which he could study them for the remaining five minutes of illumination.

Hubert Landow’s head was rather small for his stature, and the blond hair with which it was covered threatened each moment to escape from its imposed smoothness into crisp curls. His face, healthily ruddy, was handsome in a muscular, very masculine way, not indicative of any great mental nimbleness. His wife had that beauty which needs no cataloguing. However, her hair was auburn, her eyes blue, her skin white, and she looked a year or two older than the maximum twenty-three Millar had allowed her.

While the intermission lasted Hubert Landow talked to his wife eagerly, and his bright eyes were the eyes of a lover. Alec Rush could not see Mrs. Landow’s eyes. He saw her replying now and again to her husband’s words. Her profile showed no answering eagerness. She did not show she was bored.

Midway through the last act, Alec Rush left the theatre to maneuver his coupe into a handy position from which to cover the Landows’ departure. But their limousine did not pick them up when they left the theatre. They turned down Howard Street afoot, going to a rather garish second-class restaurant, where an abbreviated orchestra succeeded by main strength in concealing its smallness from the ear.

His coupe conveniently parked, Alec Rush found a table from which he could watch his subjects without being himself noticeable. Husband still wooed wife with incessant, eager talking. Wife was listless, polite, unkindled. Neither more than touched the food before them. They danced once, the woman’s face as little touched by immediate interest as when she listened to her husband’s words. A beautiful face, but empty.

The minute hand of Alec Rush’s nickel-plated watch had scarcely begun its last climb of the day from where ‘VI’ is inferred to ‘XII’ when the Landows left the restaurant. The limousine—against its side a young Norfolk-jacketed Negro smoking—was two doors away. It bore them back to their house. The detective having seen them into the house, having seen the limousine into the garage, drove his coupe again around and around through the neighbouring thoroughfares. And saw nothing of Millar’s dark young man.

Then Alec Rush went home and to bed.

At eight o’clock the next morning ugly man and modest coupe were stationary in Charles-Street Avenue again. Male Charles-Street Avenue went with the sun on its left toward its offices. As the morning aged and the shadows grew shorter and thicker, so, generally, did the individuals who composed this morning procession. Eight o’clock was frequently young and slender and brisk, Eight-thirty less so, Nine still less, and rear-guard Ten o’clock was preponderantly neither young nor slender, and more often sluggish than brisk.

Into this rear guard, though physically he belonged to no later period than eight-thirty, a blue roadster carried Hubert Landow. His broad shoulders were blue-coated, his blond hair gray-capped, and he was alone in the roadster. With a glance around to make sure Millar’s dark young man was not in sight, Alec Rush turned his coupe in the blue car’s wake.

They rode swiftly into the city, down into its financial centre, where Hubert Landow deserted his roadster before a Redwood Street stockbroker’s office. The morning had become noon before Landow was in the street again, turning his roadster northward.

When shadowed and shadower came to rest again they were in Mount Royal Avenue. Landow got out of his car and strode briskly into a large apartment building. A block distant, Alec Rush lighted a black cigar and sat still in his coupe. Half an hour passed. Alec Rush turned his head and sank his gold teeth deep into his cigar.

Scarcely twenty feet behind the coupe, in the doorway of a garage, a dark young man with high cheek-bones, high, straight shoulders, loitered. His nose was large. His suit was brown, as were the eyes with which he seemed to pay no especial attention to anything through the thin blue drift of smoke from the tip of a drooping cigarette.

Alec Rush took his cigar from his mouth to examine it, took a knife from his pocket to trim the bitten end, restored cigar to mouth and knife to pocket, and thereafter was as indifferent to all Mount Royal Avenue as the dark youth behind him. The one drowsed in his doorway. The other dozed in his car. And the afternoon crawled past one o’clock, past one-thirty.

Hubert Landow came out of the apartment building, vanished swiftly in his blue roadster. His going stirred neither of the motionless men, scarcely their eyes. Not until another fifteen minutes had gone did either of them move.

Then the dark youth left his doorway. He moved without haste, up the street, with short, almost mincing, steps. The back of Alec Rush’s black-derbied head was to the youth when he passed the coupe, which may have been chance, for none could have said that the ugly man had so much as glanced at the other since his first sight of him. The dark young man let his eyes rest on the detective’s back without interest as he passed. He went on up the street toward the apartment building Landow had visited, up its steps, and out of sight into it.

When the dark young man had disappeared, Alec Rush threw away his cigar, stretched, yawned, and awakened the coupe’s engine. Four blocks and two turnings from Mount Royal Avenue, he got out of the automobile, leaving it locked and empty in front of a graystone church. He walked back to Mount Royal Avenue, to halt on a corner two blocks above his earlier position.

He had another half-hour of waiting before the dark young man appeared. Alec Rush was buying a cigar in a glass-fronted cigar store when the other passed. The young man boarded a street car at North Avenue and found a seat. The detective boarded the same car at the next corner and stood on the rear platform. Warned by an indicative forward hitching of the young man’s shoulders and head, Alec Rush was the first passenger off the car at Madison Avenue, and the first aboard a southbound car there. And again, he was off first at Franklin Street.

The dark youth went straight to a rooming-house in this street, while the detective came to rest beside the window of a corner drug store specialising in theatrical make-up. There he loafed until half-past three. When the dark young man came into the street again it was to walk—Alec Rush behind him—to Eutaw Street, board a car, and ride to Camden Station.

There, in the waiting-room, the dark young man met a young woman who frowned and asked:

“Where in the hell have you been at?”

Passing them, the detective heard the petulant greeting, but the young man’s reply was pitched too low for him to catch, nor did he hear anything else the young woman said. They talked for perhaps ten minutes, standing together in a deserted end of the waiting-room, so that Alec Rush could not have approached them without making himself conspicuous.

The young woman seemed to be impatient, urgent. The young man seemed to explain, to reassure. Now and then he gestured with the ugly, deft hands of a skilled mechanic. His companion became more agreeable. She was short, square, as if carved economically from a cube. Consistently, her nose also was short and her chin square. She had, on the whole, now that her earlier displeasure was passing, a merry face, a pert, pugnacious, rich-blooded face that advertised inexhaustible vitality. That advertisement was in every feature, from the live ends of her cut brown hair to the earth-gripping pose of her feet on the cement flooring. Her clothes were dark, quiet, expensive, but none too gracefully worn, hanging just the least bit bunchily here and there on her sturdy body.

Nodding vigorously several times, the young man at length tapped his cap-visor with two careless fingers and went out into the street. Alec Rush let him depart unshadowed. But when, walking slowly out to the iron train-shed gates, along them to the baggage window, thence to the street door, the young woman passed out of the station, the ugly man was behind her. He was still behind her when she joined the four o’clock shopping crowd at Lexington Street.

The young woman shopped with the whole-hearted air of one with nothing else on her mind. In the second department store she visited, Alec Rush left her looking at a display of laces while he moved as swiftly and directly as intervening shoppers would permit toward a tall, thick-shouldered, gray-haired woman in black, who seemed to be waiting for someone near the foot of a flight of stairs.

“Hello, Alec!” she said when he touched her arm, and her humorous eyes actually looked with pleasure at his uncouth face. “What are you doing in my territory?”

“Got a booster for you,” he mumbled. “The chunky girl in blue at the lace counter. Make her?”

The store detective looked and nodded.

“Yes. Thanks, Alec. You’re sure she’s boosting, of course?”

“Now, Minnie!” he complained, his rasping voice throttled down to a metallic growl. “Would I be giving you a bum rumble? She went south with a couple of silk pieces, and it’s more than likely she’s got herself some lace by now.”

“Um-hmm,” said Minnie. “Well, when she sticks her foot on the sidewalk, I’ll be with her.”

Alec Rush put his hand on the store detective’s arm again.

“I want a line on her,” he said. “What do you say we tail her around and see what she’s up to before we knock her over?”

“If it doesn’t take all day,” the woman agreed. And when the chunky girl in blue presently left the lace counter and the store, the detectives followed, into another store, ranging too far behind her to see any thieving she might have done, content to keep her under surveillance. From this last store their prey went down to where Pratt Street was dingiest, into a dingy three-story house of furnished flats.

Two blocks away a policeman was turning a corner.

“Take a plant on the joint while I get a copper,” Alex Rush ordered.

When he returned with the policeman the store detective was waiting in the vestibule.

“Second floor,” she said.

Behind her the house’s street door stood open to show a dark hallway and the foot of a tattered-carpeted flight of steps. Into this dismal hallway appeared a slovenly thin woman in rumpled gray cotton, saying whiningly as she came forward, “What do you want? I keep a respectable house, I’ll have you understand, and I—”

“Chunky, dark-eyed girl living here,” Alec Rush croaked. “Second floor. Take us up.”

The woman’s scrawny face sprang into startled lines, faded eyes wide, as if mistaking the harshness of the detective’s voice for the harshness of great emotion.

“Why—why—” she stammered, and then remembered the first principle of shady rooming-house management—n ever to stand in the way of the police. “I’ll take you up,” she agreed, and, hitching her wrinkled skirt in one hand, led the way up the stairs.

Her sharp fingers tapped on a door near the head of the stairs.

“Who’s that?” a casually curt feminine voice asked.

“Landlady.”

The chunky girl in blue, without her hat now, opened the door. Alec Rush moved a big foot forward to hold it open, while the landlady said, “This is her,” the policeman said, “You’ll have to come along,” and Minnie said, “Dearie, we want to come in and talk to you.”

“My God!” exclaimed the girl. “There’d be just as much sense to it if you’d all jumped out at me and yelled ‘Boo!’”

“This ain’t any way,” Alec Rush rasped, moving forward, grinning his hideous friendly grin. “Let’s go in where we can talk it over.”

Merely by moving his loose-jointed bulk a step this way, a half-step that, turning his ugly face on this one and that one, he herded the little group as he wished, sending the landlady discontentedly away, marshalling the others into the girl’s rooms.

“Remember, I got no idea what this is all about,” said the girl when they were in her living-room, a narrow room where blue fought with red without ever compromising on purple. “I’m easy to get along with, and if you think this is a nice place to talk about whatever you want to talk about, go ahead! But if you’re counting on me talking, too, you’d better smart me up.”

“Boosting, dearie,” Minnie said, leaning forward to pat the girl’s arm. “I’m at Goodbody’s.”

“You think I’ve been shoplifting? Is that the idea?”

“Yeah. Exactly. Uh-huh. That’s what.” Alec Rush left her no doubt on the point.

The girl narrowed her eyes, puckered her red mouth, squinted sidewise at the ugly man.

“It’s all right with me,” she announced, “so long as Goodbody’s is hanging the rap on me—somebody I can sue for a million when it flops. I’ve got nothing to say. Take me for my ride.”

“You’ll get your ride, sister,” the ugly man rasped good-naturedly. “Nobody’s going to beat you out of it. But do you mind if I look around your place a little first?”

“Got anything with a judge’s name on it that says you can?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t get a peep!”

Alec Rush chuckled, thrust his hands into his trouser-pockets, and began to wander through the rooms, of which there were three. Presently he came out of the bedroom carrying a photograph in a silver frame.

“Who’s this?” he asked the girl.

“Try and find out!”

“I am trying,” he lied.

“You big bum!” said she. “You couldn’t find water in the ocean!”

Alec Rush laughed with coarse heartiness. He could afford to. The photograph in his hand was of Hubert Landow.

Twilight was around the graystone church when the owner of the deserted coupe returned to it. The chunky girl—Polly Vanness was the name she had given—had been booked and lodged in a cell in the Southwestern Police Station. Quantities of stolen goods had been found in her flat. Her harvest of that afternoon was still on her person when Minnie and a police matron searched her. She had refused to talk. The detective had said nothing to her about his knowledge of the photograph’s subject, or of her meeting in the railroad station with the dark young man. Nothing found in her rooms threw any light on either of these things.

Having eaten his evening meal before coming back to his car, Alec Rush now drove out to Charles-Street Avenue. Lights glowed normally in the Landow house when he passed it. A little beyond it he turned his coupe so that it pointed toward the city, and brought it to rest in a tree-darkened curb-side spot within sight of the house.

The night went along and no one left or entered the Landow house.

Fingernails clicked on the coupe’s glass door.

A man stood there. Nothing could be said of him in the darkness except that he was not large, and that to have escaped the detective’s notice until now he must have stealthily stalked the car from the rear.

Alec Rush put out a hand and the door swung open.

“Got a match?” the man asked.

The detective hesitated, said, “Yeah,” and held out a box.

A match scraped and flared into a dark young face: large nose, high cheek-bones: the young man Alec Rush had shadowed that afternoon.

But recognition, when it was voiced, was voiced by the dark young man.

“I thought it was you,” he said simply as he applied the flaming match to his cigarette. “Maybe you don’t know me, but I knew you when you were on the force.”

The ex-detective sergeant gave no meaning at all to a husky “Yeah.”

“I thought it was you in the heap on Mount Royal this afternoon, but I couldn’t make sure,” the young man continued, entering the coupe, sitting beside the detective, closing the door. “Scuttle Zeipp’s me. I ain’t as well-known as Napoleon, so if you’ve never heard of me there’s no hard feelings.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the stuff! When you once think up a good answer, stick to it.” Scuttle Zeipp’s face was a sudden bronze mask in the glow of his cigarette. “The same answer’ll do for my next question. You’re interested in these here Landows? Yeah,” he added in hoarse mimicry of the detective’s voice.

Another inhalation lighted his face, and his words came smokily out as the glow faded.

“You ought to want to know what I’m doing hanging around ’em. I ain’t tight. I’ll tell you. I’ve been slipped half a grand to bump off the girl—twice. How do you like that?”

“I hear you,” said Alec Rush. “But anybody can talk that knows the words.”

“Talk? Sure it’s talk,” Zeipp admitted cheerfully. “But so’s it talk when the judge says ‘hanged by the neck until dead and may God have mercy on your soul!’ Lots of things are talk, but that don’t always keep ’em from being real.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, brother, yeah! Now listen to this: it’s one for the cuff. A certain party comes to me a couple of days ago with a knock-down from a party that knows me. See? This certain party asks me what I want to bump off a broad. I thought a grand would be right, and said so. Too stiff. We come together on five hundred. I got two-fifty down and get the rest when the Landow twist is cold. Not so bad for a soft trick—a slug through the side of a car—huh?”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” the detective asked. “You want to make it a fancy caper—kill her on her birthday or a legal holiday?”

Scuttle Zeipp smacked his lips and poked the detective’s chest with a finger in the dark.

“Not any, brother! I’m thinking way ahead of you! Listen to this: I pocket my two-fifty advance and come up here to give the ground a good casing, not wanting to lam into anything I didn’t know was here. While I’m poking around, I run into another party that’s poking around. This second party gives me a tumble, I talk smart, and bingo! First thing you know she’s propositioning me. What do you guess? She wants to know what I want to bump off a broad! Is it the same one she wants stopped? I hope to tell you it is!

“It ain’t so silly! I get my hands on another two hundred and fifty berries, with that much more coming when I put over the fast one. Now do you think I’m going to do anything to that Landow baby? You’re dumb if you do. She’s my meal ticket. If she lives till I pop her, she’ll be older than either you or the bay. I’ve got five hundred out of her so far. What’s the matter with sticking around and waiting for more customers that don’t like her? If two of ’em want to buy her out of the world, why not more? The answer is ‘Yeah!’ And on top of that, here you are snooping around her. Now there it is, brother, for you to look at and taste and smell.”

Silence held for several minutes, in the darkness of the coupe’s interior, and then the detective’s harsh voice put a sceptical question:

“And who are these certain parties that want her out of the way?”

“Be yourself!” Scuttle Zeipp admonished him. “I’m laying down on ’em, right enough, but I ain’t feeding ’em to you.”

“What are you giving me all this for then?”

“What for? Because you’re in on the lay somewhere. Crossing each other, neither of us can make a thin dimmer. If we don’t hook up we’ll just ruin the racket for each other. I’ve already made half a grand off this Landow. That’s mine, but there’s more to be picked up by a couple of men that know what they’re doing. All right. I’m offering to throw in with you on a two-way cut of whatever else we can get. But my parties are out! I don’t mind throwing them down, but I ain’t rat enough to put the finger on them for you.”

Alec Rush grunted and croaked another dubious inquiry.

“How come you trust me so much, Scuttle?”

The hired killer laughed knowingly.

“Why not? You’re a right guy. You can see a profit when it’s showed to you. They didn’t chuck you off the force for forgetting to hang up your stocking. Besides, suppose you want to double-cross me, what can you do? You can’t prove anything. I told you I didn’t mean the woman any harm. I ain’t even packing a gun. But all that’s the bunk. You’re a wise head. You know what’s what. Me and you, Alec, we can get plenty!”

Silence again, until the detectives spoke slowly, thoughtfully.

“The first thing would be to get a line on the reasons your parties want the girl put out. Got anything on that?”

“Not a whisper.”

“Both of ’em women, I take it.”

Scuttle Zeipp hesitated.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But don’t be asking me anything about ’em. In the first place, I don’t know anything, and in the second, I wouldn’t tip their mitts if I did.”

“Yeah,” the detective croaked, as if he quite understood his companion’s perverted idea of loyalty. “Now if they’re women, the chances are the racket hangs on a man. What do you think of Landow? He’s a pretty lad.”

Scuttle Zeipp leaned over to put his finger against the detective’s chest again.

“You’ve got it, Alec! That could be it, damned if it couldn’t!”

“Yeah,” Alec Rush agreed, fumbling with the levers of his car. “We’ll get away from here and stay away until I look into him.”

At Franklin Street, half a block from the rooming-house into which he had shadowed the young man that afternoon, the detective stopped his coupe.

“You want to drop out here?” he asked.

Scuttle Zeipp looked sidewise, speculatively, into the elder man’s ugly face.

“It’ll do,” the young man said, “but you’re a damned good guesser, just the same.” He stopped with a hand on the door. “It’s a go, is it, Alec? Fifty-fifty?”

“I wouldn’t say so.” Alec Rush grinned at him with hideous good nature. “You’re not a bad lad, Scuttle, and if there’s any gravy you’ll get yours, but don’t count on me mobbing up with you.”

Zeipp’s eyes jerked to slits, his lips snarled back from yellow teeth that were set edge to edge.

“You sell me out, you damned gorilla, and I’ll—” He laughed the threat out of being, his dark face young and careless again. “Have it your own way, Alec. I didn’t make no mistake when I throwed in with you. What you say goes.”

“Yeah,” the ugly man agreed. “Lay off that joint out there until I tell you. Maybe you’d better drop in to see me tomorrow. The phone book’ll tell you where my office is. So long, kid.”

“So long, Alec.”

In the morning Alec Rush set about investigating Hubert Landow. First he went to the City Hall, where he examined the gray books in which marriage licenses are indexed. Hubert Britman Landow and Sara Falsoner had been married six months before, he learned.

The bride’s maiden name thickened the red in the detective’s bloodshot eyes. Air hissed sharply from his flattened nostrils. “Yeah! Yeah!” he said to himself, so raspingly that a lawyer’s skinny clerk, fiddling with other records at his elbow, looked frightenedly at him and edged a little away.

From the City Hall, Alec Rush carried the bride’s name to two newspaper offices, where, after studying the files, he bought an armful of six-month-old papers. He took the papers to his office, spread them on his desk, and attacked them with a pair of shears. When the last one had been cut and thrown aside, there remained on his desk a thick sheaf of clippings.

Arranging his clippings in chronological order, Alec Rush lighted a black cigar, put his elbows on the desk, his ugly head between his palms, and began to read a story with which newspaper-reading Baltimore had been familiar half a year before.

Purged of irrelevancies and earlier digressions, the story was essentially this:

Jerome Falsoner, aged forty-five, was a bachelor who lived alone in a flat in Cathedral Street, on an income more than sufficient for his comfort. He was a tall man, but of delicate physique, the result, it may have been, of excessive indulgence in pleasure on a constitution none too strong in the beginning. He was well-known, at least by sight, to all night-living Baltimoreans, and to those who frequented race-track, gambling-house, and the furtive cockpits that now and then materialise for a few brief hours in the forty miles of country that lie between Baltimore and Washington.

One Fanny Kidd, coming as was her custom at ten o’clock one morning to “do” Jerome Falsoner’s rooms, found him lying on his back in his living-room, staring with dead eyes at a spot on the ceiling, a bright spot that was reflected sunlight—reflected from the metal hilt of his paper-knife, which protruded from his chest.

Police investigation established four facts:

First, Jerome Falsoner had been dead for fourteen hours when Fanny Kidd found him, which placed his murder at about eight o’clock the previous evening.

Second, the last persons known to have seen him alive were a woman named Madeline Boudin, with whom he had been intimate, and three of her friends. They had seen him, alive, at some time between seven-thirty and eight o’clock, or less than half an hour before his death. They had been driving down to a cottage on the Severn River, and Madeline Boudin had told the others she wanted to see Falsoner before she went. The others had remained in their car while she rang the bell. Jerome Falsoner opened the street door and she went in. Ten minutes later she came out and rejoined her friends. Jerome Falsoner came to the door with her, waving a hand at one of the men in the car—a Frederick Stoner, who knew Falsoner slightly, and who was connected with the district attorney’s office. Two women, talking on the steps of a house across the street, had also seen Falsoner, and had seen Madeline Boudin and her friends drive away.

Third, Jerome Falsoner’s heir and only near relative was his niece, Sara Falsoner, who, by some vagary of chance, was marrying Hubert Landow at the very hour that Fanny Kidd was finding her employer’s dead body. Niece and uncle had seldom seen one another. The niece—for police suspicion settled on her for a short space—was definitely proved to have been at home, in her apartment in Carey Street, from six o’clock the evening of the murder until eight-thirty the next morning. Her husband, her fiancÃ© then, had been there with her from six until eleven that evening. Prior to her marriage, the girl had been employed as stenographer by the same trust company that employed Ralph Millar.

Fourth, Jerome Falsoner, who had not the most even of dispositions, had quarrelled with an Icelander named Einar Jokumsson in a gambling-house two days before he was murdered. Jokumsson had threatened him. Jokumsson—a short, heavily built man, dark-haired, dark-eyed—had vanished from his hotel, leaving his bags there, the day the body was found, and had not been seen since.

The last of these clippings carefully read, Alec Rush rocked back in his chair and made a thoughtful monster’s face at the ceiling. Presently he leaned forward again to look into the telephone directory, and to call the number of Ralph Millar’s trust company. But when he got his number he changed his mind.

“Never mind,” he said into the instrument, and called a number that was Goodbody’s. Minnie, when she came to the telephone, told him that Polly Vanness had been identified as one Polly Bangs, arrested in Milwaukee two years ago for shoplifting, and given a two-year sentence. Minnie also said that Polly Bangs had been released on bail early that morning.

Alec Rush pushed back the telephone and looked through his clippings again until he found the address of Madeline Boudin, the woman who had visited Falsoner so soon before his death. It was a Madison Avenue number. Thither his coupe carried the detective.

No, Miss Boudin did not live there. Yes, she had lived there, but had moved four months ago. Perhaps Mrs. Blender, on the third floor, would know where she lived now. Mrs. Blender did not know. She knew Miss Boudin had moved to an apartment house in Garrison Avenue, but did not think she was living there now. At the Garrison Avenue house: Miss Boudin had moved away a month and a half ago—somewhere in Mount Royal Avenue, perhaps. The number was not known.

The coupe carried its ugly owner to Mount Royal Avenue, to the apartment building he had seen first Hubert Landow and then Scuttle Zeipp visit the previous day. At the manager’s office he made inquiries about a Walter Boyden, who was thought to live there. Walter Boyden was not known to the manager. There was a Miss Boudin in 604, but her name was B-o-u-d-i-n, and she lived alone.

Alec Rush left the building and got in his car again. He screwed up his savage red eyes, nodded his head in a satisfied way, and with one finger described a small circle in the air. Then he returned to his office.

Calling the trust company’s number again, he gave Ralph Millar’s name, and presently was speaking to the assistant cashier.

“This is Rush. Can you come up to the office right away?”

“What’s that? Certainly. But how—how—? Yes, I’ll be up in a minute.”

None of the surprise that had been in Millar’s telephone voice was apparent when he reached the detective’s office. He asked no questions concerning the detective’s knowledge of his identity. In brown today, he was as neatly inconspicuous as he had been yesterday in gray.

“Come in,” the ugly man welcomed him. “Sit down. I’ve got to have some more facts, Mr. Millar.”

Millar’s thin mouth tightened and his brows drew together with obstinate reticence.

“I thought we settled that point, Rush. I told you—”

Alec Rush frowned at his client with jovial, though frightful exasperation.

“I know what you told me,” he interrupted. “But that was then and this is now. The thing’s coming unwound on me, and I can see just enough to get myself tangled up if I don’t watch Harvey. I found your mysterious man, talked to him. He was following Mrs. Landow, right enough. According to the way he tells it, he’s been hired to kill her.”

Millar leaped from his chair to lean over the yellow desk, his face close to the detective’s.

“My God, Rush, what are you saying? To kill her?”

“Now, now! Take it easy. He’s not going to kill her. I don’t think he ever meant to. But he claims he was hired to do it.”

“You’ve arrested him? You’ve found the man who hired him?”

The detective squinted up his bloodshot eyes and studied the younger man’s passionate face.

“As a matter of fact,” he croaked calmly when he had finished his examination, “I haven’t done either of those things. She’s in no danger just now. Maybe the lad was stringing me, maybe he wasn’t, but either way he wouldn’t have spilled it to me if he meant to do anything. And when it comes right down to it, Mr. Millar, do you want him arrested?”

“Yes! That is—” Millar stepped back from the desk, sagged limply down on the chair again, and put shaking hands over his face. “My God, Rush, I don’t know!” he gasped.

“Exactly,” said Alec Rush. “Now here it is. Mrs. Landow was Jerome Falsoner’s niece and heir. She worked for your trust company. She married Landow the morning her uncle was found dead. Yesterday Landow visited the building where Madeline Boudin lives. She was the last person known to have been in Falsoner’s rooms before he was killed. But her alibi seems to be as air-tight as the Landows’. The man who claims he was hired to kill Mrs. Landow also visited Madeline Boudin’s building yesterday. I saw him go in. I saw him meet another woman. A shoplifter, the second one. In her rooms I found a photograph of Hubert Landow. Your dark man claims he was hired twice to kill Mrs. Landow—by two women neither knowing the other had hired him. He won’t tell me who they are, but he doesn’t have to.”

The hoarse voice stopped and Alec Rush waited for Millar to speak. But Millar was for the time without a voice. His eyes were wide and despairingly empty. Alec Rush raised one big hand, folded it into a fist that was almost perfectly spherical, and thumped his desk softly.

“There it is, Mr. Millar,” he rasped. “A pretty tangle. If you’ll tell me what you know, we’ll get it straightened out, never fear. If you don’t—I’m out!”

Now Millar found words, however jumbled.

“You couldn’t, Rush! You can’t desert me—us—her! It’s not—You’re not—”

But Alec Rush shook his ugly pear-shaped head with slow emphasis.

“There’s murder in this and the Lord knows what all. I’ve got no liking for a blindfolded game. How do I know what you’re up to? You can tell me what you know—everything—or you can find yourself another detective. That’s flat.”

Ralph Millar’s fingers picked at each other, his teeth pulled at his lips, his harassed eyes pleaded with the detective.

“You can’t, Rush,” he begged. “She’s still in danger. Even if you are right about that man not attacking her, she’s not safe. The women who hired him can hire another. You’ve got to protect her, Rush.”

“Yeah? Then you’ve got to talk.”

“I’ve got to—? Yes, I’ll talk, Rush. I’ll tell you anything you ask. But there’s really nothing—or almost nothing—I know beyond what you’ve already learned.”

“She worked for your trust company?”

“Yes, in my department.”

“Left there to be married?”

“Yes. That is—No, Rush, the truth is she was discharged. It was an outrage, but—”

“When was this?”

“It was the day before the—before she was married.”

“Tell me about it.”

“She had—I’ll have to explain her situation to you first, Rush. She is an orphan. Her father, Ben Falsoner, had been wild in his youth—and perhaps not only in his youth—as I believe all the Falsoners have been. However, he had quarrelled with his father—old Howard Falsoner—and the old man had cut him out of the will. But not altogether out. The old man hoped Ben would mend his ways, and he didn’t mean to leave him with nothing in that event. Unfortunately he trusted it to his other son, Jerome.

“Old Howard Falsoner left a will whereby the income from his estate was to go to Jerome during Jerome’s life. Jerome was to provide for his brother, Ben, as he saw fit. That is, he had an absolutely free hand. He could divide the income equally with his brother, or he could give him a pittance, or he could give him nothing, as Ben’s conduct deserved. On Jerome’s death the estate was to be divided equally among the old man’s grandchildren.

“In theory, that was a fairly sensible arrangement, but not in practice—not in Jerome Falsoner’s hands. You didn’t know him? Well, he was the last man you’d ever trust with a thing of that sort. He exercised his power to the utmost. Ben Falsoner never got a cent from him. Three years ago Ben died, and so the girl, his only daughter, stepped into his position in relation to her grandfather’s money. Her mother was already dead. Jerome Falsoner never paid her a cent.

“That was her situation when she came to the trust company two years ago. It wasn’t a happy one. She had at least a touch of the Falsoner recklessness and extravagance. There she was: heiress to some two million dollars—for Jerome had never married and she was the only grandchild—but without any present income at all, except her salary, which was by no means a large one.

“She got in debt. I suppose she tried to economise at times, but there was always that two million dollars ahead to make scrimping doubly distasteful. Finally, the trust company officials heard of her indebtedness. A collector or two came to the office, in fact. Since she was employed in my department, I had the disagreeable duty of warning her. She promised to pay her debts and contract no more, and I suppose she did try, but she wasn’t very successful. Our officials are old-fashioned, ultra-conservative. I did everything I could to save her, but it was no good. They simply would not have an employee who was heels over head in debt.”

Millar paused a moment, looked miserably at the floor, and went on:

“I had the disagreeable task of telling her her services were no longer needed. I tried to—It was awfully unpleasant. That was the day before she married Landow. It—” He paused and, as if he could think of nothing else to say, repeated, “Yes, it was the day before she married Landow,” and fell to staring miserably at the floor again.

Alec Rush, who had sat as still through the recital of this history as a carven monster on an old church, now leaned over his desk and put a husky question:

“And who is this Hubert Landow? What is he?”

Ralph Millar shook his downcast head.

“I don’t know him. I’ve seen him. I know nothing of him.”

“Mrs. Landow ever speak of him? I mean when she was in the trust company?”

“It’s likely, but I don’t remember.”

“So you didn’t know what to make of it when you heard she’d married him?”

The younger man looked up with frightened brown eyes.

“What are you getting at, Rush? You don’t think—Yes, as you say, I was surprised. What are you getting at?”

“The marriage license,” the detective said, ignoring his client’s repeated question, “was issued to Landow four days before the wedding-day, four days before Jerome Falsoner’s body was found.”

Millar chewed a fingernail and shook his head hopelessly.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” he mumbled around the finger. “The whole thing is bewildering.”

“Isn’t it a fact, Mr. Millar,” the detective’s voice filled the office with hoarse insistence, “that you were on more friendly terms with Sara Falsoner than with anyone else in the trust company?”

The younger man raised his head and looked Alec Rush in the eye—held his gaze with brown eyes that were doggedly level.

“The fact is,” he said quietly, “that I asked Sara Falsoner to marry me the day she left.”

“Yeah. And she—?”

“And she—I suppose it was my fault. I was clumsy, crude, whatever you like. God knows what she thought—that I was asking her to marry me out of pity, that I was trying to force her into marriage by discharging her when I knew she was over her head in debt! She might have thought anything. Anyhow, it was—it was disagreeable.”

“You mean she not only refused you, but was—well—disagreeable about it?”

“I do mean that.”

Alec Rush sat back in his chair and brought fresh grotesqueries into his face by twisting his thick mouth crookedly up at one corner. His red eyes were evilly reflective on the ceiling.

“The only thing for it,” he decided, “is to go to Landow and give him what we’ve got.”

“But are you sure he—?” Millar objected indefinitely.

“Unless he’s one whale of an actor, he’s a lot in love with his wife,” the detective said with certainty. “That’s enough to justify taking the story to him.”

Millar was not convinced.

“You’re sure it would be wisest?”

“Yeah. We’ve got to go to one of three people with the tale—him, her, or the police. I think he’s the best bet, but take your choice.”

The younger man nodded reluctantly.

“All right. But you don’t have to bring me into it, do you?” he said with quick alarm. “You can handle it so I won’t be involved. You understand what I mean? She’s his wife, and it would be—”

“Sure,” Alec Rush promised; “I’ll keep you covered up.”

Hubert Landow, twisting the detective’s card in his fingers, received Alec Rush in a somewhat luxuriously furnished room in the second story of the Charles-Street Avenue house. He was standing—tall, blond, boyishly handsome—in the middle of the floor, facing the door, when the detective—fat, grizzled, battered, and ugly—was shown in.

“You wish to see me? Here, sit down.”

Hubert Landow’s manner was neither restrained nor hearty. It was precisely the manner that might be expected of a young man receiving an unexpected call from so savage-visaged a detective.

“Yeah,” said Alec Rush as they sat in facing chairs. “I’ve got something to tell you. It won’t take much time, but it’s kind of wild. It might be a surprise to you, and it might not. But it’s on the level. I don’t want you to think I’m kidding you.”

Hubert Landow bent forward, his face all interest.

“I won’t,” he promised. “Go on.”

“A couple of days ago I got a line on a man who might be tied up in a job I’m interested in. He’s a crook. Trailing him around, I discovered he was interested in your affairs, and your wife’s. He’s shadowed you and he’s shadowed her. He was loafing down the street from a Mount Royal Avenue apartment that you went in yesterday, and he went in there later himself.”

“But what the devil is he up to?” Landow exclaimed. “You think he’s—”

“Wait,” the ugly man advised. “Wait until you’ve heard it all, and then you can tell me what you make of it. He came out of there and went to Camden Station, where he met a young woman. They talked a bit, and later in the afternoon she was picked up in a department store—shoplifting. Her name is Polly Bangs, and she’s done a hitch in Wisconsin for the same racket. Your photograph was on her dresser.”

“My photograph?”

Alec Rush nodded placidly up into the face of the young man, who was now standing.

“Yours. You know this Polly Bangs? A chunky, square-built girl of twenty-six or so, with brown hair and eyes—saucy looking?”

Hubert Landow’s face was a puzzled blank.

“No! What the devil could she be doing with my picture?” he demanded. “Are you sure it was mine?”

“Not dead sure, maybe, but sure enough to need proof that it wasn’t. Maybe she’s somebody you’ve forgotten, or maybe she ran across the picture somewhere and kept it because she liked it.”

“Nonsense!” The blond man squirmed at this tribute to his face, and blushed a vivid red beside which Alec Rush’s complexion was almost colourless. “There must be some sensible reason. She has been arrested, you say?”

“Yeah, but she’s out on bail now. But let me get along with my story. Last night this thug I’ve told you about and I had a talk. He claims he has been hired to kill your wife.”

Hubert Landow, who had returned to his chair, now jerked in it so that its joints creaked strainingly. His face, crimson a second ago, drained paper-white. Another sound than the chair’s creaking was faint in the room: the least of muffled gasps. The blond young man did not seem to hear it, but Alec Rush’s bloodshot eyes flicked sidewise for an instant to focus fleetingly on a closed door across the room.

Landow was out of his chair again, leaning down to the detective, his fingers digging into the ugly man’s loose muscular shoulders.

“This is horrible!” he was crying. “We’ve got to—”

The door at which the detective had looked a moment ago opened. A beautiful tall girl came through—Sara Landow. Her rumpled hair was an auburn cloud around her white face. Her eyes were dead things. She walked slowly toward the men, her body inclined a little forward, as if against a strong wind.

“It’s no use, Hubert.” Her voice was as dead as her eyes. “We may as well face it. It’s Madeline Boudin. She has found out that I killed my uncle.”

“Hush, darling, hush!” Landow caught his wife in his arms and tried to soothe her with a caressing hand on her shoulder. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Oh, but I do.” She shrugged herself listlessly out of his arms and sat in the chair Alec Rush had just vacated. “It’s Madeline Boudin, you know it is. She knows I killed Uncle Jerome.”

Landow whirled to the detective, both hands going out to grip the ugly man’s arm.

“You won’t listen to what she’s saying, Rush?” he pleaded. “She hasn’t been well. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

Sara Landow laughed with weary bitterness.

“Haven’t been well?” she said. “No, I haven’t been well, not since I killed him. How could I be well after that? You are a detective.” Her eyes lifted their emptiness to Alec Rush. “Arrest me. I killed Jerome Falsoner.”

Alec Rush, standing arms akimbo, legs apart, scowled at her, saying nothing.

“You can’t, Rush!” Landow was tugging at the detective’s arm again. “You can’t, man. It’s ridiculous! You—”

“Where does this Madeline Boudin fit in?” Alec Rush’s harsh voice demanded. “I know she was chummy with Jerome, but why should she want your wife killed?”

Landow hesitated, shifting his feet, and when he replied it was reluctantly.

“She was Jerome’s mistress, had a child by him. My wife, when she learned of it, insisted on making her a settlement out of the estate. It was in connection with that that I went to see her yesterday.”

“Yeah. Now to get back to Jerome: you and your wife were supposed to be in her apartment at the time he was killed, if I remember right?”

Sara Landow sighed with spiritless impatience.

“Must there be all this discussion?” she asked in a small, tired voice. “I killed him. No one else killed him. No one else was there when I killed him. I stabbed him with the paper-knife when he attacked me, and he said, ‘Don’t! Don’t!’ and began to cry, down on his knees, and I ran out.”

Alec Rush looked from the girl to the man. Landow’s face was wet with perspiration, his hands were white fists, and something quivered in his chest. When he spoke his voice was as hoarse as the detective’s, if not so loud.

“Sara, will you wait here until I come back? I’m going out for a little while, possibly an hour. You’ll wait here and not do anything until I return?”

“Yes,” the girl said, neither curiosity nor interest in her voice. “But it’s no use, Hubert. I should have told you in the beginning. It’s no use.”

“Just wait for me, Sara,” he pleaded, and then bent his head to the detective’s deformed ear. “Stay with her, Rush, for God’s sake!” he whispered, and went swiftly out of the room.

The front door banged shut. An automobile purred away from the house. Alec Rush spoke to the girl.

“Where’s the phone?”

“In the next room,” she said, without looking up from the handkerchief her fingers were measuring.

The detective crossed to the door through which she had entered the room, found that it opened into a library, where a telephone stood in a corner. On the other side of the room a clock indicated 3:35. The detective went to the telephone and called Ralph Millar’s office, asked for Millar, and told him:

“This is Rush. I’m at the Landows’. Come up right away.”

“But I can’t, Rush. Can’t you understand my—”

“Can’t hell!” croaked Alec Rush. “Get here quick!”

The young woman with dead eyes, still playing with the hem of her handkerchief, did not look up when the ugly man returned to the room. Neither of them spoke. Alec Rush, standing with his back to a window, twice took out his watch to glare savagely at it.

The faint tingling of the doorbell came from below. The detective went across to the hall door and down the front stairs, moving with heavy swiftness. Ralph Millar, his face a field in which fear and embarrassment fought, stood in the vestibule, stammering something unintelligible to the maid who had opened the door. Alec Rush put the girl brusquely aside, brought Millar in, guided him upstairs.

“She says she killed Jerome,” he muttered into his client’s ear as they mounted.

Ralph Millar’s face went dreadfully white, but there was no surprise in it.

“You knew she killed him?” Alec Rush growled.

Millar tried twice to speak and made no sound. They were on the second-floor landing before the words came.

“I saw her on the street that night, going toward his flat!”

Alec Rush snorted viciously and turned the younger man toward the room where Sara Landow sat.

“Landow’s out,” he whispered hurriedly. “I’m going out. Stay with her. She’s shot to, hell—likely to do anything if she’s left alone. If Landow gets back before I do, tell him to wait for me.”

Before Millar could voice the confusion in his face they were across the sill and into the room. Sara Landow raised her head. Her body was lifted from the chair as if by an invisible power. She came up tall and erect on her feet. Millar stood just inside the door. They looked eye into eye, posed each as if in the grip of a force pushing them together, another holding them apart.

Alec Rush hurried clumsily and silently down to the street.

In Mount Royal Avenue, Alec Rush saw the blue roadster at once. It was standing empty before the apartment building in which Madeline Boudin lived. The detective drove past it and turned his coupe in to the curb three blocks below. He had barely come to rest there when Landow ran out of the apartment building, jumped into his car, and drove off. He drove to a Charles Street hotel. Behind him went the detective.

In the hotel, Landow walked straight to the writing-room. For half an hour he sat there, bending over a desk, covering sheet after sheet of paper with rapidly written words, while the detective sat behind a newspaper in a secluded angle of the lobby, watching the writing-room exit. Landow came out of the room stuffing a thick envelope in his pocket, left the hotel, got into his machine, and drove to the office of a messenger service company in St. Paul Street.

He remained in this office for five minutes. When he came out he ignored his roadster at the curb, walking instead to Calvert Street, where he boarded a northbound street car. Alec Rush’s coupe rolled along behind the car. At Union Station, Landow left the street car and went to the ticket-window. He had just asked for a one-way ticket to Philadelphia when Alec Rush tapped him on the shoulder.

Hubert Landow turned slowly, the money for his ticket still in his hand. Recognition brought no expression to his handsome face.

“Yes,” he said coolly, “what is it?”

Alec Rush nodded his ugly head at the ticket-window, at the money in Landow’s hand.

“This is nothing for you to be doing,” he growled.

“Here you are,” the ticket-seller said through his grille. Neither of the men in front paid any attention to him. A large woman in pink, red, and violet, jostling Landow, stepped on his foot and pushed past him to the window. Landow stepped back, the detective following.

“You shouldn’t have left Sara alone,” said Landow. “She’s—”

“She’s not alone. I got somebody to stay with her.”

“Not—?”

“Not the police, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Landow began to pace slowly down the long concourse, the detective keeping step with him. The blond man stopped and looked sharply into the other’s face.

“Is it that fellow Millar who’s with her?” he demanded.

“Yeah.”

“Is he the man you’re working for, Rush?”

“Yeah.”

Landow resumed his walking. When they had reached the northern extremity of the concourse, he spoke again.

“What does he want, this Millar?”

Alec Rush shrugged his thick, limber shoulders and said nothing.

“Well, what do you want?” the young man asked with some heat, facing the detective squarely now.

“I don’t want you going out of town.”

Landow pondered that, scowling.

“Suppose I insist on going,” he asked, “how will you stop me?”

“Accomplice after the fact in Jerome’s murder would be a charge I could hold you on.”

Silence again, until broken by Landow.

“Look here, Rush. You’re working for Millar. He’s out at my house. I’ve just sent a letter out to Sara by messenger. Give them time to read it, and then phone Millar there. Ask him if he wants me held or not.”

Alec Rush shook his head decidedly.

“No good,” he rasped. “Millar’s too rattle-brained for me to take his word for anything like that over the phone. We’ll go back there and have a talk all around.”

Now it was Landow who balked.

“No,” he snapped. “I won’t!” He looked with cool calculation at the detective’s ugly face. “Can I buy you, Rush?”

“No, Landow. Don’t let my looks and my record kid you.”

“I thought not.” Landow looked at the roof and at his feet, and he blew his breath out sharply. “We can’t talk here. Let’s find a quiet place.”

“The heap’s outside,” Alec Rush said, “and we can sit in that.”

Seated in Alec Rush’s coupe, Hubert Landow lighted a cigarette, the detective one of his black cigars.

“That Polly Bangs you were talking about, Rush,” the blond man said without preamble, “is my wife. My name is Henry Bangs. You won’t find my fingerprints anywhere. When Polly was picked up in Milwaukee a couple of years ago and sent over, I came east and fell in with Madeline Boudin. We made a good team. She had brains in chunks, and if I’ve got somebody to do my thinking for me, I’m a pretty good worker myself.”

He smiled at the detective, pointing at his own face with his cigarette. While Alec Rush watched, a tide of crimson surged into the blond man’s face until it was as rosy as a blushing school-girl’s. He laughed again and the blush began to fade.

“That’s my best trick,” he went on. “Easy if you have the gift and keep in practice: fill your lungs, try to force the air out while keeping it shut off at the larynx. It’s a gold mine for a grifter! You’d be surprised how people will trust me after I’ve turned on a blush or two for ’em. So Madeline and I were in the money. She had brains, nerve, and a good front. I have everything but brains. We turned a couple of tricks—one con and one blackmail—and then she ran into Jerome Falsoner. We were going to give him the squeeze at first. But when Madeline found out that Sara was his heiress, that she was in debt, and that she and her uncle were on the outs, we ditched that racket and cooked a juicier one. Madeline found somebody to introduce me to Sara. I made myself agreeable, playing the boob—the shy but worshipful young man.

“Madeline had brains, as I’ve said. She used ’em all this time. I hung around Sara, sending her candy, books, flowers, taking her to shows and dinner. The books and shows were part of Madeline’s work. Two of the books mentioned the fact that a husband can’t be made to testify against his wife in court, nor wife against husband. One of the plays touched the same thing. That was planting the seeds. We planted another with my blushing and mumbling—persuaded Sara, or rather let her discover for herself, that I was the clumsiest liar in the world.

“The planting done, we began to push the game along. Madeline kept on good terms with Jerome. Sara was getting deeper in debt. We helped her in still deeper. We had a burglar clean out her apartment one night—Ruby Sweeger, maybe you know him. He’s in stir now for another caper. He got what money she had and most of the things she could have hocked in a pinch. Then we stirred up some of the people she owed, sent them anonymous letters warning them not to count too much on her being Jerome’s heir. Foolish letters, but they did the trick. A couple of her creditors sent collectors to the trust company.

“Jerome got his income from the estate quarterly. Madeline knew the dates, and Sara knew them. The day before the next one, Madeline got busy on Sara’s creditors again. I don’t know what she told them this time, but it was enough. They descended on the trust company in a flock, with the result that the next day Sara was given two weeks’ pay and discharged. When she came out I met her—by chance—yes, I’d been watching for her since morning. I took her for a drive and got her back to her apartment at six o’clock. There we found more frantic creditors waiting to pounce on her. I chased them out, played the big-hearted boy, making embarrassed offers of all sorts of help. She refused them, of course, and I could see decision coming into her face. She knew this was the day on which Jerome got his quarterly check. She determined to go see him, to demand that he pay her debts at least. She didn’t tell me where she was going, but I could see it plain enough, since I was looking for it.

“I left her and waited across the street from her apartment, in Franklin Square, until I saw her come out. Then I found a telephone, called up Madeline, and told her Sara was on her way to her uncle’s flat.”

Landow’s cigarette scorched his fingers. He dropped it, crushed it under his foot, lighted another.

“This is a long-winded story, Rush,” he apologised, “but it’ll soon be over now.”

“Keep talking, son,” said Alec Rush.

“There were some people in Madeline’s place when I phoned her—people trying to persuade her to go down the country on a party. She agreed now. They would give her an even better alibi than the one she had cooked up. She told them she had to see Jerome before she left, and they drove her over to his place and waited in their car while she went in with him.

“She had a pint bottle of cognac with her, all doped and ready. She poured out a drink of it for Jerome, telling him of the new bootlegger she had found who had a dozen or more cases of this cognac to sell at a reasonable price. The cognac was good enough and the price low enough to make Jerome think she had dropped in to let him in on something good. He gave her an order to pass on to the bootlegger. Making sure his steel paper-knife was in full view on the table, Madeline rejoined her friends, taking Jerome as far as the door so they would see he was still alive, and drove off.

“Now I don’t know what Madeline had put in that cognac. If she told me, I’ve forgotten. It was a powerful drug—not a poison, you understand, but an excitant. You’ll see what I mean when you hear the rest. Sara must have reached her uncle’s flat ten or fifteen minutes after Madeline’s departure. Her uncle’s face, she says, was red, inflamed, when he opened the door for her. But he was a frail man, while she was strong, and she wasn’t afraid of the devil himself, for that matter. She went in and demanded that he settle her debts, even if he didn’t choose to make her an allowance out of his income.

“They were both Falsoners, and the argument must have grown hot. Also the drug was working on Jerome, and he had no will with which to fight it. He attacked her. The paper-knife was on the table, as Madeline had seen. He was a maniac. Sara was not one of your corner-huddling, screaming girls. She grabbed the paper-knife and let him have it. When he fell, she turned and ran.

“Having followed her as soon as I’d finished telephoning to Madeline, I was standing on Jerome’s front steps when she dashed out. I stopped her and she told me she’d killed her uncle. I made her wait there while I went in, to see if he was really dead. Then I took her home, explaining my presence at Jerome’s door by saying, in my boobish, awkward way, that I had been afraid she might do something reckless and had thought it best to keep an eye on her.

“Back in her apartment, she was all for giving herself up to the police. I pointed out the danger in that, arguing that, in debt, admittedly going to her uncle for money, being his heiress, she would most certainly be convicted of having murdered him so she would get the money. Her story of his attack, I persuaded her, would be laughed at as a flimsy yarn. Dazed, she wasn’t hard to convince. The next step was easy. The police would investigate her, even if they didn’t especially suspect her. I was, so far as we knew, the only person whose testimony could convict her. I was loyal enough, but wasn’t I the clumsiest liar in the world? Didn’t the mildest lie make me blush like an auctioneer’s flag? The way around that difficulty lay in what two of the books I had given her, and one of the plays we had seen, had shown: if I was her husband I couldn’t be made to testify against her. We were married the next morning, on a license I had been carrying for nearly a week.

“Well, there we were. I was married to her. She had a couple of million coming when her uncle’s affairs were straightened out. She couldn’t possibly, it seemed, escape arrest and conviction. Even if no one had seen her entering or leaving her uncle’s flat, everything still pointed to her guilt, and the foolish course I had persuaded her to follow would simply ruin her chance of pleading self-defence. If they hanged her, the two million would come to me. If she got a long term in prison, I’d have the handling of the money at least.”

Landow dropped and crushed his second cigarette and stared for a moment straight ahead into distance.

“Do you believe in God, or Providence, or Fate, or any of that, Rush?” he asked. “Well, some believe in one thing and some in another, but listen. Sara was never arrested, never even really suspected. It seems there was some sort of Finn or Swede who had had a run-in with Jerome and threatened him. I suppose he couldn’t account for his whereabouts the night of the killing, so he went into hiding when he heard of Jerome’s murder. The police suspicion settled on him. They looked Sara up, of course, but not very thoroughly. No one seems to have seen her in the street, and the people in her apartment house, having seen her come in at six o’clock with me, and not having seen her—or not remembering if they did—go out or in again, told the police she had been in all evening. The police were too much interested in the missing Finn, or whatever he was, to look any further into Sara’s affairs.

“So there we were again. I was married into the money, but I wasn’t fixed so I could hand Madeline her cut. Madeline said we’d let things run along as they were until the estate was settled up, and then we could tip Sara off to the police. But by the time the money was settled up there was another hitch. This one was my doing. I—I—well, I wanted to go on just as we were. Conscience had nothing to do with it, you understand? It was simply that—well—that living on with Sara was the only thing I wanted. I wasn’t even sorry for what I’d done, because if it hadn’t been for that I would never have had her.

“I don’t know whether I can make this clear to you, Rush, but even now I don’t regret any of it. If it could have been different—but it couldn’t. It had to be this way or none. And I’ve had those six months. I can see that I’ve been a chump. Sara was never for me. I got her by a crime and a trick, and while I held on to a silly hope that some day she’d—she’d look at me as I did at her, I knew in my heart all the time it was no use. There had been a man—your Millar. She’s free now that it’s out about my being married to Polly, and I hope she—I hope—Well, Madeline began to howl for action. I told Sara that Madeline had had a child by Jerome, and Sara agreed to settle some money on her. But that didn’t satisfy Madeline. It wasn’t sentiment with her. I mean, it wasn’t any feeling for me, it was just the money. She wanted every cent she could get, and she couldn’t get enough to satisfy her in a settlement of the kind Sara wanted to make.

“With Polly, it was that too, but maybe a little more. She’s fond of me, I think. I don’t know how she traced me here after she got out of the Wisconsin big house, but I can see how she figured things. I was married to a wealthy woman. If the woman died—shot by a bandit in a hold-up attempt—then I’d have money, and Polly would have both me and money. I haven’t seen her, wouldn’t know she was in Baltimore if you hadn’t told me, but that’s the way it would work out in her mind. The killing idea would have occurred just as easily to Madeline. I had told her I wouldn’t stand for pushing the game through on Sara. Madeline knew that if she went ahead on her own hook and hung the Falsoner murder on Sara I’d blow up the whole racket. But if Sara died, then I’d have the money and Madeline would draw her cut. So that was it.

“I didn’t know that until you told me, Rush. I don’t give a damn for your opinion of me, but it’s God’s truth that I didn’t know that either Polly or Madeline was trying to have Sara killed. Well, that’s about all. Were you shadowing me when I went to the hotel?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so. That letter I wrote and sent home told just about what I’ve told you, spilled the whole story. I was going to run for it, leaving Sara in the clear. She’s clear, all right, but now I’ll have to face it. But I don’t want to see her again, Rush.”

“I wouldn’t think you would,” the detective agreed. “Not after making a killer of her.”

“But I didn’t,” Landow protested. “She isn’t. I forgot to tell you that, but I put it in the letter. Jerome Falsoner was not dead, not even dying, when I went past her into the flat. The knife was too high in his chest. I killed him, driving the knife into the same wound again, but downward. That’s what I went in for, to make sure he was finished!”

Alec Rush screwed up his savage bloodshot eyes, looked long into the confessed murderer’s face.

“That’s a lie,” he croaked at last, “but a decent one. Are you sure you want to stick to it? The truth will be enough to clear the girl, and maybe won’t swing you.”

“What difference does it make?” the younger man asked. “I’m a gone baby anyhow. And I might as well put Sara in the clear with herself as well as with the law. I’m caught to rights and another rap won’t hurt. I told you Madeline had brains. I was afraid of them. She’d have had something up her sleeve to spring on us—to ruin Sara with. She could out-smart me without trying. I couldn’t take any chances.”

He laughed into Alec Rush’s ugly face and, with a somewhat theatrical gesture, jerked one cuff an inch or two out of his coat-sleeve. The cuff was still damp with a maroon stain.

“I killed Madeline an hour ago,” said Henry Bangs, alias Hubert Landow.

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, by C.J. Henderson

A Jack Hagee Story

There was a touch at my shoulder, like a sudden cold breeze on an August night. I stared forward, holding my drink with one hand, steadying myself with the other, hoping that August would go back to being dry and miserable and familiar and that the breeze would drift back to whatever memory of winter from which it had escaped.

It didn’t. It pulled at the edge of my arm again, pleading for notice. Whether I’d had to much to drink or not enough was academic. One or the other I was in the right mood to give in to my darker nature. I slid around on my stool, one hand taking care to make sure I didn’t spill myself onto the floor. The breeze fluttered at the edge of my range, small and tense and brown—wide-eyed scared. He was a Jamaican, too thin, too tall—willowy, like a ballet dancer, but without the muscle or the speed. His hair had been tightened in some way that gave his head the appearance of being covered with hundreds of black, Goldilocks curls. He was Uptown, Society, Connections, and a few other things I don’t care for. He didn’t like where he was, or whatever was on his mind, or me, either. Well, neither did I.

It was destined to be one of those mornings.

“Yeah,” I growled. “Some reason I can’t drink in peace without upsetting you?”

“Oh, no, no, no. Gracious…please, ah,” he got hold of himself and started again. “You are Jack Hagee, the detective, no?”

“Nah,” I told him, “I’m just the urn, waiting for his ashes.”

The breeze stared at me, unblinking. I could tell I hadn’t made much of an impression with my humor. Losing my patience as quickly as my balance, I growled,

“What? What is it?! What’dya want from me now?”

I didn’t know who he was or where he was from. I only knew I was tired and didn’t want to be bothered by anyone else’s problems. He answered:

“We need help.”

“Yeah. Who doesn’t?”

“Listen, my friend. This is a good thing. There is plenty of money in it for you. Plenty—all we have to do…”

It was the wrong time. I’d gone to the Holland bar to drink myself back into the abyss. I’d just come off a case which’d left me tired and nasty. It’d all been finished six weeks earlier, but I still felt grimy and used and not in the least friendly. The red lights started clicking in my brain, and suddenly, before the breeze or I knew what was happening, I was gripping his shirt front, dangling his meager frame with one hand, bouncing him off the wall with the other.

“Who cares?!” I screamed at him. “Who gives a good goddamn about you and your fucking problems? Leave me alone! You puking little shit—I ought to…”

And then, suddenly, my brain cleared as quickly as the tables around us. I glanced about the bar, looking at the people trapped against the walls by nothing more than their own fear. They’d overturned tables, spilled drinks, abandoned their coats, purses and dates, all in a mad rush to hide in the shadows. The bartender was coming for me, Louisville Slugger in hand. Not completely out of my mind yet, I dropped the breeze, holding my palms up to Matt, saying:

“I’m cool. This is bad enough. Let’s not you and me get into it as well.”

Matt wavered for a second and then blew his steam.

“You’re a good guy, Jack,” he admitted. “I like ya. But you’d better get your shit together. Go with this guy, will ya? Do some work. Earn some money. Pay your bills—mine first. You’ll feel better.”

Matt was right. I’d been moping around for weeks because of a feeling I’d been used. That never sits well with me. I had no proof…just the feeling. That always sits worse.

I turned to the breeze, checking out his nerves. He seemed to be calming down, but I still didn’t think he liked me much. Testing out my theory, I asked him, “You still want to hire a private eye?”

“My boss does.”

“And where’s he?”

“In your office.”

“Sure of himself, isn’t he?”

“Fairly. So, shall we go to the limo, or do you want to dance around the room and terrorize me some more first? Men do it all the time. When I’m ready for it, it makes me smile like the sun. Do you want me to smile like the sun for you?”

“Let’s hold off on registering our silver pattern.”

He shrugged.

“Whatever you say, big brutal white person.” Pushing off on one foot to get his hips in motion, the breeze fluttered out the front door, leaving his bruised dignity behind as if nothing had happened. My head was still spinning from having slammed him around, from too many drinks and too much self-pity. Anxious to see if I could make it to ‘the limo’ without throwing up I wobbled off toward the door. As I grabbed the front handle, I steadied myself on the jam, laughing inside in grim consolation at the fact that half the place was still on their feet.

Grateful to be one of them, I went out into the street. After all, it would’ve been a shame to miss seeing a limo pull up to my office. Especially with me in it.

* * * *

I came into my office with the breeze. The driver had stayed with the limo. Made sense in my neighborhood. The boss was sitting in my outer room, scratching at a steno pad. He stood up as we approached, extending his hand.

“Mr. Jack Hagee…p-pleased to meet ya. Your door is fine. Maurice here is a real craftsman and the door’s got a cheap lock.”

We shook hands. He kept yammering. “I used y-your phone for a while. All local calls. Maurice, g-give the man a fifty.”

The breeze peeled off a bill. I took it. Why not? My brain’d looked over all the angles around me on the way downtown and given up trying to get a handle on things. I’d figured meeting with the breeze’s boss would clear things up. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Willowy, smug, irritating Maurice had been a big enough mystery. His boss was a real puzzler. He was short and white and plain—a few years older than me, dressed in a neutral colored suit and a Hawaiian shirt, no tie, wearing black tennis shoes with red laces. His accent was tough to peg. It held a lot of New York, but it had traces of, and words from, a dozen other places, not all of them American. It also cracked and stuttered, making it a chore to listen to him talk. His face looked honest, though, so I figured I’d start asking some questions to see if I could find out what was going on.

“Okay—let’s get down to it. Shall we go in my office, Mister…?”

“Hubert. Call me Hubert—everyone does. Let me tell ya, we’ve got someone else s-stashed inside. Just d-don’t want you to be surprised.” Sitting in the dark in my inner office was another black man. Hubert introduced us.

“Jack Hagee…” came the stutter as the lights snapped on, “m-meet Andrew Taylor Lowe…and visi-versi.”

I shook hands with Lowe, my still clouded brain trying to force me to remember something. Before Lowe could talk, I said, “Look; let’s face a fact here—you’ve got a drunk on your hands.”

“A nasty one, too. Goodness,” added the breeze.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Right. Anyway, I don’t know who you people are, and I don’t frankly much care. I’m going to heat up some coffee from yesterday afternoon that I don’t really suggest any of you drink. I am because I need to punish myself into behaving.”

“Sorta an unpleasant way of d-doin’ things; ain’t it?”

“Sort of guy I am.”

“My, my, my…” he cackled. “An astonishing remark, me lad.”

“I know what he means,” said Andrew Taylor Lowe. “As Dickinson said: ‘Anger as soon fed is dead; ’tis starving makes it fat.’ She was right, you know.”

I stopped for a second, listening. I had to shape up quick. The big boys were slumming again, shopping for muscle. Something was going on that was going to get dirty quick, and I was letting my stupid drunken ass get caught up in it. Damnit, I thought. Goddamnitheshitohellfuckingdamnit! Not again.

Mumbling some polite nonsense about needing my coffee and a cigarette it would only take a second clear the head understand better blahblahblahfuckingblah, I squeezed my brain clear, drying out the gin and the dope as best I could, refining the perceptions they both had to offer while pushing out the poisons. I studied the four I’d met so far. The driver was the quiet type—an efficient man behind the wheel—good, safe, quick, clean ride. He knew the streets—might have shoved in more than a few heads in his time—possibly dangerous. Possibly homicidal. Possibly. I opened the window for some air and to nonchalantly take his position. He was still with the limo. The rest of the street looked normal.

Maurice was a nobody—a hired gopher who made me want to roll my eyes…the kind of whimpy, whining artsie, strutting, 95 pound posturing homo that makes your shame for what men can become an unpalatable reminder you can taste like guilt. I figured if I could stomach him I could stomach the bilge I was boiling up in the pot on my hot plate.

Waiting for the coffee, though, I wished I could get a handle on what was going down. Fear was coming off Lowe like it does a second place man who loses the race halfway around the track and spends the rest of the meet trying to catch up. Knowing he won’t. Like a fighter who’s caught on that he’s going to go down, but who’d like to do it with some dignity. Or without dignity, at least without too much pain.

By the time I could pour the coffee, I was studying Hubert through the steam. He was the focal point of all the characters. The driver was Lowe’s man, Maurice was Hubert’s. Hubert was keeping Lowe alive. It was as simple as that. He’d read about me in the papers. I knew he had. He’d read about me in the papers and was looking to tie two stories together and accomplish a goal. Six weeks earlier, I’d been involved in a case the media briefly picked up on. A murdered rich man’s daughter’d come to me to find her daddy’s killer. I’d done it, too. I’d put together the pieces like a kid’s puzzle. Saved her life—twice. She saved mine killing the bad guy, who turned out to be her own brother. The case’d got me a bundle of publicity, and a number of clients. Friends of hers called me, some of them looking to sink their husbands in a divorce, some of them just wanting to scratch the balls of the big, bad plaything their fellow rich brat heiress’d introduced to the glittering side of New York City.

The reason I was so bitter was I felt I’d been used. I had the gnawing suspicion Lorraine had set me up—killed her father, manipulated her brother and his lover into trying to kill us so we could justifiably kill them, and thus get it all—the family name, property, business—the works. She’d said she’d come to me because I was new in town and that she could trust me not to be in anyone’s pocket like the police were. I felt she’d know if the police were bought or not, for I was sure she’d made a major investment in them herself, just to cover the scratchier details of her plan.

The problem with all of it, of course, was that I had no proof. Not in the least. Just lame conjecture. Over the weeks I’d begun to doubt if I’d ever have any proof at all, which’d made me all the more depressed. As far as I was concerned, I’d sold out, traded my self-respect for some grocery, booze and rent money.

The subsequent depression robbed me of any of the benefits the publicity could’ve garnered me. I’d been surly to the press, shoving them out of my office, hanging up on them, cursing a few, knocking a few around, breaking at least one camera. The booze told me I was a noble guy to throw away the chance to milk the papers and the television for a ride on the gravy express. The dope talked to the back of my brain when Lorraine’s friends came on to me, forcing me to herd them out of my office. One after another. Good looking women, some of them diving for my zipper, biting at my pants as I pushed them toward the door, begging to wear my handcuffs, stripping in the hallway.

Poverty and celibacy—great ways to cheer myself up after Lorraine, great ways to put myself back to square one. When Lorraine had found me I’d been out of cash. I hadn’t had a client since I’d arrived in New York or a meal in three days. She was my last chance and I’d have been an idiot not to take her case. Just like I’d be one not to take the case staring me in the face.

I replaced my coffee pot on my hot plate and sat back behind my desk. I sipped at its gritty, greasy, too-hot foulness with the same knowledge of my actions a Buddhist has when he strikes the match of his own immolation. And suddenly, the last month and a half made sense. I was scared. Scared and embarrassed. Maybe Lorraine had set everything up and used me for her own ends. So what, I asked myself. So bloody, fucking what? I wasn’t upset that one millionaire had perhaps killed two other millionaires so she could steal their millions. I was upset that maybe Lorraine had made a fool out of me; I was embarrassed that a female, like my loving ex-wife, might have found me an easy mark. Might have stuffed my gut, spread her legs, given me a few bucks and sent me on my way so she could claim the big prize for herself.

As if a weight had crashed down from my shoulders, the rage I’d been crippling myself with for weeks fell away so quickly I couldn’t catch it. I could still smell it; it was out there somewhere in the background, but it was in the background, waiting for me to lower my guard so it could rush back in, maybe, but put aside for the moment.

I forced more coffee, breathing through my nose, taking what I had left in my cup down in one long, burning, torturous gulp. The sludge tasted bad, worse each second, but once it was inside it was mine, energy I no longer had to fight, but could use. It was a little victory, but it was enough to give me control of my mood and partially clear my fuzzing brain. Okay, I though. Time to get back to work.

“All right, Hubert. What’s the story?”

“I’ll be b-brief. Andy here is the leading b-black candidate for mayor of New York. He’s been gettin’ some fairly dangerous sounding m-mail lately, enough to make him nervous about his health.”

“With all due respect to Hubert’s interpretations, Mr. Hagee,” interrupted Lowe, “I’d say I was closer to panic. My campaign manager and I have both received threatening letters and calls. Both of our homes have been attacked. I’ve had windows broken in mine—Morris had his burned to the ground. The police haven’t found a clue yet. I’ve had to send my wife and children out of town for their own safety.”

“Doesn’t it hurt a politician’s image to appear in public without his family?”

“Not when he can tell the audience the reason they aren’t present is because their lives have been threatened too many times for him not to take it seriously. It’s bad enough I’ve painted a target on my chest for the lunatics—I don’t need public office bad enough to sacrifice my wife or babies to the crosshairs of hatred.”

“All right. Save the fancy rhetoric for the paying customers. What do you guys want from me?”

Hubert took over again.

“Andy’s got a rally tonight. B-Big one. The real money maker. He has to be there, out front, for hours…”

“Wearing your target?” I asked, admittedly with snide impatience.

“Essentially,” agreed Lowe, loving me more every minute.

“And so you want me to what? Cover an entire auditorium by myself? Put myself between you and every bigot in New York City? That could be more maniacs than even I could stop.”

“Listen, D-Dick Tracy,” answered Hubert, “don’t get t-too cute for us, huuummmm? Right now, you’re still a n-news item. You solved the Millionaire Mugging. Releasing your name as Andy’s bodyguard scares off the halfwits. Make’s Andy’s c-case look more serious. Might even turn a few votes if a famous white tough guy the morons saw on television s-seems to be saying the candidate is worth keeping alive.”

“Hubert presents things so attractively, I find I can not disagree,” added Lowe. “Surrounding me with fifty police officers or even fifty obviously armed plainclothes thugs to satisfy insurance obligations makes people nervous. They forget to reach for checkbooks if they think they might get shot while filling in that last zero.

“Politics is a media event, Mr. Hagee. The only reason we are here is because you are a media event as well—the only recognized gladiator in town, as it were. After tonight, I’ll know by the size of the contributions we take in whether I’m still in this foot race or not.

“Therefore, plain and simple, I’m willing to pay you a thousand dollars to be my bodyguard until the rally is over. There will be plainclothes back-up everywhere—Morris is handling that. But people will only be aware of you—the media hero. If there are any bullets coming my way, you’ll be the only one the shooters think they have to worry about.

“Figure out whether or not it’s worth your time.”

Well, I thought, I finally had the whole story…a thousand bucks to shave and dry out and pose pretty for the cameras. They would use my image to scare off any amateur jokers, and my skills could sit on the shelf. Sure, I told myself, I was a lot better than they were giving me credit for—I was one smart, tough fish—worthy of better treatment than I was getting. But money’s a great lure, and smart, tough fish get reeled in every day, dangling from a piece of steel that cut through their lower lip just because they nibbled. My pride whispered some nonsense about throwing them out of my office, but my common sense started screaming about my landlord’s hungry bank accounts and how they hated to miss meals. My wounded pride had handed me enough damage. If these guys wanted to make me a media star, what the hell—why not? Maybe I could do Energizer commercials when we were done.

“Sure,” I told them. “I’m in. Do I have any say in things at all, or do I just stand around and wait for my money?”

“You’re being hired as my bodyguard. Do whatever you do when someone hires you to be a bodyguard.”

“All right, then. First, I want a run down of where you have to be today and why. Before we do anything else, we map out the rest of the time you and I are going to be around each other—every minute. Then I figure out how to get you from A to B to C, and you do what I say.”

Turning around, I told Hubert, “Go tell little Maurice to have Lowe’s driver take him home. Actually, I don’t care what you tell him, just as long as you shmooze the two of them out of here.”

Hubert winked at me and gave out with a laugh that sounded something like a dying cartoon duck’s. As he went into the outer office, Lowe asked, “And what is this all about?”

“This is getting rid of anyone we don’t need. Trust me to know my job. You can never tell from what angle something’s going to come at you. All it takes is a careless word from one person to another to another and before you know it, the man with the rifle knows where you’re going to be even before you get there.”

“I will not hide,” answered Lowe angrily. “I am not a coward.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” I told him. “Let’s clear a few things up. You want to run for mayor, run for mayor. It doesn’t matter to me. But, please, save the speeches for people stupid enough to think their vote means something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, if it was up to me I’d have all the lawyers and politicians lined up and gunned down as fast as the firing squad could reload.”

“I suppose you’d line up all the blacks, too. And the Jews and the gays, the Native Americans and women…”

“All the ones that were lawyers and judges and politicians.”

Lowe clenched his fists, almost ready to come out of his chair.

“You make me sick.”

“Get real. You’re a black man, a minority that’s been on its way up since the day you were born. My minority, it’s been sinking fast since the same moment. Try waking up with that taste in your mouth every day.”

“You son of a…”

“Je-zuz H. Kay-rist,” shouted Hubert, coming back into the office. “W-What the hell is wrong with you two? Lost your m-minds, or somethin’? Cut the bullshit, already.”

“Watch it, little man.”

“Why, what’re you going to do? G-Gun me down; beat me senseless? Step into the new millennium, Dick Tracy. People don’t g-get away with that shit, anymore. Yes, except for the criminals, and yes,” he turned to Lowe, “Andy, that is the fault of our esteemed courts and lawmakers. And, yes again, I know that’s something you want to do something about. I know. And so would you,” he turned back to me, stabbing a finger into my chest, “if you got your face up out of the booze long enough to read the papers.”

“Now you’re asking me to believe what I read in New York newspapers?” I joked. “You people want a lot for your money.”

Hubert grinned, a wide, ear-to-ear affair leaking the cartoon duck sounds.

“Touché,” he laughed. “Maybe I didn’t make a mistake, after all. Listen, I c-can smell the bug up your ass. You t-think we only came here because of the headlines you generated. Okay; that’s part of it. True enough. But, I’m not that big an idiot. Andy’s my pal. We’re from the dawn of time. I don’t trust his ass t-to a gimmick.

“I checked out your background. Six years in the Army, four of them in Military Intelligence. Four years after that with the Pittsburgh Police Department—last year and a half of that d-doing undercover. You’ve got some interesting stuff in your bio. Enough to make it look like i-if you got that moron-sized chip off your shoulder you might be of some help here.

“What do you think?”

“I think maybe I’m not as sober as I thought. And maybe I sound off a little too much. Okay. Strike the ‘maybe.’ And the ‘little.’ Guess I lost control there. Sorry.

“But how the hell do you know so much about me? Granted, you might have read the Pittsburgh stuff in the papers, but I’ve kept tight-lipped about my M.I. days. Where’d you tumble to that?”

This time Lowe laughed. When I eyed him for a reason, he said:

“Sorry. It’s just been a long time since I’ve ever seen anyone surprised at how much Hubert could tell them about themselves.”

“Information is my business, Dick Tracy. If I can’t find something out, it ain’t happened yet. So when I say you’re a good man to have on our side, don’t go actin’ like some g-goddamned shithead and ruinin’ my reputation.”

“That aside,” interrupted Lowe, “I have to admit to having something to do with the extra heat in here, too. Strike the ‘maybe’ and the ‘little’ for me as well.” He stretched out his hand to me saying, “I’m not used to knowing someone is trying to kill me, Mr. Hagee. I shouldn’t have lost control, either. Hopefully you will allow me to chalk it up to nerves.”

I shook his hand, asking:

“Is this just a politically correct handshake so we can get back to work, or are we kissing and making up?”

“A little of both, I suppose.”

“Okay,” I smiled, tightening my grip. “Honesty I can take.”

We shook hands, and I tried to take Lowe’s measure, feeling his spirit as our palms touched. The contact felt open, and I knew the fight was over. Good, I thought. Maybe it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get back to work.

“So,” I asked as our hands broke contact, “any ideas on who’s got it in for you this week?”

“No. Not really. I can name plenty of groups and individuals that might like to see me disappear, but no one I can point to and say, ‘They’re the ones.’”

“Too bad. Oh well, let me get a grip on this. Why’s so much heat coming at you, anyway?”

Hubert took over.

“’Cause Andy’s the perfect target. He d-don’t want to play ball with the machine. He’s runnin’ on a clean record of good, solid, community service. Not like that tag-along, Jefferson.”

When I looked at the pair for an explanation, Hubert added, “Forgive me, the Reverend tag-along Jefferson.”

“John isn’t a bad sort, really,” said Lowe to Hubert.

“Oh, give it a rest, Andy.” Hubert turned to me, saying, “The guy is a bum. Andy’s logged plenty of public office hours in this town. He really could be on his w-way up. Jefferson’s a two bit carny screamer and bible thumper—a civil rights authority whose idea of equality for all is everything w-white being divided up for all the blacks. W-Why W-Wortzman brought that nickel and dime hate monger into things I’ll never know.”

“Now, Hubert…”

“Awww, now, n-nuthin’. He’s never held office, d-doesn’t have a church—he doesn’t even have a congregation. He’s an opportunist bum!”

“Be all of this as it may,” I interjected, “let’s get back to the discussion at hand.” Looking at Lowe with frank confusion, I said, “I’m sorry if I sound like an idiot, or at the least a cynic, but is this guy serious? Are you really running without any old boy support? I mean, no offense, but how’d you even get through the door?”

“They were looking for this election’s honest face. Someone the downtrodden and the despairing and the unloved poor could vote for; that way when I lose the wretched masses can at least suckle comfort from the illusion that they had a chance.”

“The big boys let Andy in knowin’ he’ll lose,” added Hubert. “They w-were sure he’d be out of the race w-weeks ago. God only knows what they’re thinkin’ now.”

I eyed Hubert carefully. A good information man has everyone in their little book. Why he didn’t have any of the answers left me a little suspicious. I asked, “You’re the info specialist. How come you can’t find anything out?”

“Because there’s a stone wall around this t-that makes the one in China look like a Lego set. Believe me, if one of the organizations in this town could drag one of its competitors down by releasing a little damning evidence—it w-would.

“But, no one’s talkin’. Now, they could all know nothing, or the one that knows could be w-waitin’ for Andy to be dead before they point the doomsday finger…two birds with one stone…or, it might be some loose nut case who doesn’t want a black man with a conscience in Gracie Mansion.”

“Have you thought that someone might be just playing with you?” I asked. “Looking to force you out of the race with some low level gorilla stuff?”

“Yes, I’ve tried to believe that, but I can’t. The letters and attacks were great publicity—better, more consistent press than anything we could have paid for. I’d think it was one of my own people drumming up headlines, except.…” His eyes broke from mine. The candidate was in his own world for the moment. Calling him back, I asked:

“Except…”

“Oh, yes. Except that I don’t think this is a game. I feel someone out there, waiting for their moment. Without trying to go voodoo on you, Mr. Hagee, I just know somebody is going to attempt to take my life. I have an itch at the base of my spine—it screams at me, warning me to take cover. It’s that little voice inside your head that you don’t dare ignore—the one that never lies.”

“I know the one you mean,” I told him. “I’ve spent a lot of time avoiding its advice lately. Explains my swell station in life. All right. Suffice it to say I believe you’ve got troubles. So tell me, what’s our parade route for the day?”

Smiling, Lowe answered, “My agenda for today is simple. Tonight’s speech is too important for me not to be in top form. Today’s docket was cleared weeks ago. Nothing to do but memorize my lines and try to catch a few winks somewhere along the way.”

“Swell. Then get Morrie what’s-his-name…”

“Wortzman.”

“Okay. Wortzman on the phone.”

Lowe punched in the number and then handed the receiver over to me. After a few rings and a properly neutral message, I managed to get Morris Wortzman on the air.

“What do you mean, you have Andrew? Who the hell is this?”

“Calm down, Morrie. You’ll live longer.”

“Calm down? Fuck you. What the hell is this? It’s…it’s six o’fucking clock in the goddamned morning. Are you nuts? What is this?”

“Morrie—listen to me. I’m a private detective. Mr. Lowe and an associate have retained me to act as the candidate’s bodyguard. For Mr. Lowe’s safety, I’ll be keeping him under wraps until tonight.”

“Under wraps? My dick under wraps. Associate, my ass. It’s that no good bastard Hubert. Where are you taking Andy? What’s going on? I have to know…”

“Last chance to shut up and listen, Morrie. You have my word, Mr. Lowe will be at the fund raiser on time. No problem. I’m good at my work. Trust me, bubala. I’m not telling you any more because that way you can’t accidentally get us all into trouble. Capisce?”

“Let me talk to Andy.”

I ran the idea over in my head and then finally handed the phone to Lowe. I’d told him how I wanted to run things. If he wanted to blab what was going on and take an unnecessary chance, I figured, what the hell…it was his neck on the block. He played it cool, though. He calmed Wortzman down without saying any more than I had. Hanging up finally, he asked:

“So what now?”

I pulled my watch from the drawer I’d left it in the last time I’d needed to work by the world’s hours, setting it to match Lowe’s.

“Now,” I told him, “we go to Tony’s.”

* * * *

Tony’s is a small time gym in the neighborhood where I have a standing arrangement; I don’t tell Tony’s wife Lisa about his girl friends and he doesn’t charge me for the gym. She’d hired me to find out if he was cheating on her. It’d only take a few days to gather the proof that he was, but also to see what needed to be done. I could tell she didn’t really want proof Tony was running around—she wanted proof he wasn’t. Tony wanted more attention than one woman and a small life provided. Some people are like that.

The end result was that I confronted Tony and scared him into not being a good boy, but at least a better one. I reminded him that if his wife couldn’t hold her head up in their neighborhood, she might repay him in the middle of the night with a turkey carver. He agreed with a nervous nod, begging me not to tell her what he’d been up to, throwing in a life-time membership to his place. So now, Tony and Lisa have a marriage not quite headed for the rocks, and I have a key to the front door.

I introduced him to Lowe and Hubert when he came in to open up, letting him think they were a mixed bag of pharmacists on the run. With his family background, it wasn’t the first time his storage room’d come in handy. We all caught naps, improving our dispositions greatly. Hubert went out for Kentucky Fried later, warming up our dispositions even more.

Finally, however, we hit the road, needing a little air and sun and open places. It’d been a while since I’d gone outside during the day for no other reason than the medicinal benefits. I wasn’t too worried about crowds gathering—Lowe had admitted his face wasn’t very widely recognized, yet. In fact, he said most people, white or black, had little idea who the city’s black politicians were. I was worried about staying too long in one place, though, so I kept us moving. It was a good day for once, warm, pleasant, almost quiet.

For some reason, the streets were fairly empty. Of course, ‘fairly empty’ on a Manhattan afternoon means being able to move for more than twenty seconds without bumping into someone. It made for an almost pleasant moment. Maybe that was why I missed the tail at first.

Something was nagging at me, worrying my complacency. We didn’t seem to be attracting any attention, and yet I had the urge to check the crowd around us. Maybe it was only Lowe’s speech on those little voices, but something had the edges of my hackles up, so I decided to follow through. Waiting for a good-looking girl to walk by, I used the excuse of checking her out to turn around and survey the crowd. I kept my head angled in her direction but moved my eyes over everyone until I spotted him.

He was good; there was no denying that. He’d kept a minimum of a half block away from us at all times, shielding his presence by not concentrating on us. There’d been nothing in the air to give him away, no heavy feeling of staring eyes on the back of the neck, no sudden chills or corner-of-the-eye glimpses to set me wondering. Actually, I felt not so much immediately threatened as I did scrutinized. As if he were looking me over and not the candidate.

Turning back to Hubert and Lowe, I ran our new playmate over in my mind. His stance, his carriage, at first glance, everything about him seemed almost frail. He looked like a divinity student, or an English Lit. professor—at least under a casual inspection. There was power in his frame, however. It was cloaked, masked off from those around him; perhaps purposely. Perhaps not. It showed if you knew what to look for, though. Especially in his face. His eyes were cut chunks of broken blue glass. Even from a distance they were a signpost for danger. Only a fool could miss the waiting trouble in them. Of course, the world’s filled with fools.

His nose was sharp and decisive. There was a targeting sense to it, like a bird’s beak or an ant’s mandibles. The lines around it showed a sinister capacity for ferocity, like the ones around a woman’s mouth that let you know she sometimes smiles.

Wanting a second opinion, I told Hubert, “There’s a thin, bearded guy in a brown suit about four, five storefronts back. Check him out.”

The information broker bent over to pick up an imaginary piece of change. Upon standing back up, he said, “D-Don’t see anyone like that, Jack boy.”

I turned. He was right. The divinity student was gone. But not the little voices. The back of my mind, although it couldn’t explain why, was screaming at me that I was in big trouble. And, although I couldn’t explain why either, I was willing to agree with it.

* * * *

The dinner sounded like a big success. The noise coming out of the hall seemed to indicate Lowe was making a good impression. I wouldn’t know. Morrie’d sworn by his plainclothed undercovers, sending them in to watch over the candidate during his speech. Me he had other plans for.

“No way we waste you standing around inside,” he said. “I’ve got six guys in there. Andy’s safe as my grandmother’s ass. If you’re here on our payroll, let’s get something tangible for our dough.”

After that he called over the roving press boys who could write their features without the benefit of actually bothering to listen to Lowe’s speech. Introducing me as ‘that guy you all wrote about you know the hero who saved the young heiress and solved the Millionaire Mugging oye how fickle is this press of ours a month ago he was your darling ask him why he’s here…’ That set them all off.

Before I knew it I was telling the microphones I’d been hired to protect the candidate, and yes he’d had death threats and no I don’t have any leads yet and no well I don’t really know the candidate’s platform but yes I do think he’s all right blahblahblahfuckingblah.…

The cameras did not make me comfortable. I’d been stuffed into a rented suit by Wortzman, a beauty of a Hong Kong three-piecer he figured would film well. In a way, it was a little annoying to know I couldn’t buy one like it with the thousand I was getting at the end of the day, but that Wortzman could just call one up from central casting in my size. Poverty and celibacy were beginning to not look so ennobling. Or maybe I’d gotten as noble as I needed.

The media kept at me with the questions, digging to see if they could find anything new that’d happened to make the candidate afraid for his life. With a brainstorm I told them I couldn’t reveal what had happened, and that it was probably best if they asked those questions of Mr. Wortzman. That sent them all back to Lowe’s obnoxious campaign manager, getting them off my back, which is the way it looked Wortzman preferred it. He’d used me to get them all excited, but he wanted them returned so he could deliver the party line. He got all but one.

She was a reporter for one of the city’s chicer news magazines. And a blonde. A real blonde. She had the looks and style and that New York attitude, the one from the movies and the television and the casinos and the lost dreams that looked bored enough to try anything. She was decked out in all black and white. A combination of silk and leather wraps and restraints that worked. Very few women have the legs to pull off black high heels and white stockings and make it look that good. She caught my interest like a dry sponge does water—slowly but completely. She was good enough at the game to make it look as if her interest was just a step behind mine. We talked through the typical press/victim stuff until she finally asked:

“So, you’re really the detective who solved the Ralph Morgan thing?”

“Yeah; at your service.”

“Are you a tough guy…‘Jack,’ isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I’m one of the smart, tough ones, all right.”

“You like being a detective?”

“Probably not much more than you like being a reporter.”

“Oh,” she said, half-coy, half-bored, “and this is where I say, ‘well, why do you do it?’ and you say, ‘I could ask you the same question,’ and then.…”

“And then I say, ‘look, I have work to do.’”

“I was getting to that one.”

“Well,” I told her, “I have to get to it now. Besides, as much as I’d like to kid this along into something, I might as well save us both a lot of time.

“I’m a flat broke bum trying to keep from falling flat on my face. Again. Flattering as attention is from someone who looks like you, in all honesty, I don’t think I could show you much of a fun time right now.

“Hell, I don’t even own this suit.”

I winced slightly as I noticed Wortzman in the background, signaling to me that I had to get out of the rental suit. He’d wanted me dressed up to show off to the press, but didn’t want to take a chance on having to pay for it. Regretting what I figured had to be the inevitable, I said:

“In fact, I’ve got to peel out of it and get back into my working clothes. I’ve done my little sidewalk monkey act for the press. Now it’s time for the real world.”

“Great performance,” she answered coldly. “You charm a lot of women this way?” Digging into my wallet, I pulled out one of my business cards and handed it to her.

“Look,” I told her sincerely, “you want to get together with me—I’m all for it. But, right now, I have to go to work. You want to drop in on me, feel free. Any time.

“I just don’t think you’ll like the address.”

“I could surprise you,” she called out as I walked off to the office where I’d left my bag. I thought of yelling back that nothing surprises me anymore, but then decided against it. Sometimes nothing surprises me; most of the time everything does.

* * * *

It only took a few minutes to change into some comfortable slacks and a sweat and head back to the auditorium. From the size of the parking lot Lowe’d filled, it looked like his candidacy was going to get a hefty send-off. People had paid a thousand a head to attend his speech and be accorded the privilege of pledging more money on top of that. He’d held his rally in the wealthiest part of Brooklyn—a gamble, not holding his big night in Manhattan, but one which had apparently paid off. I was just getting smug in my assessment of how well things were going when the first gun shots went off.

I pulled my .38 and zigged into the parking lot, heading for the auditorium at a crouching run. A body burst out of the front doors, quickly tearing around the building off into the trees. I had a choice, try and find some back-up and risk losing him or head straight after him and risk wasting my time on some panicking citizen. Then, just as he reached the corner, he turned to check on pursuit. I saw his face. It was the divinity student. And I was the only one to see him. Waiting for anyone else to back me up could take too long. Damn, I thought. There was nothing to do but chase him.

Cutting across the lot, I disappeared through the same trees as Divinity. I knew no one’d seen me, either. Which meant if I didn’t catch him, he got away. The back of my mind was reminding me I didn’t know who I was chasing, or why. Maybe he was just someone who’d recognized the candidate on the street and had showed up at the rally…who sat near the back and panicked when the shooting started…and then ran through the trees and across the field toward the parkway. Yeah, sure.

Maybe. But not likely.

At the edge of the field he dodged across the four lanes of exit and entrance ramp traffic to head down a hill toward a small park tucked under the Brooklyn end of the Verranzano Narrows bridge. Suddenly, what he was up to was clear. He’d left his car in the park’s parking lot. He’d known a quick shoot & run would let him clear the auditorium before anyone could figure out what was happening. By putting his car over the hill, he made it fairly impossible for anyone to catch him. I knew the stretch of road he would be headed down. There were five exits all less than a mile apart from each other. If he reached his car, it was over then and there. I redoubled my efforts, realizing in an instant that booze and cigarettes were not helping my wind any.

By the time he hit the parking lot he was walking casually, waving to children. I kept running, straining to shorten the distance between us as fast as I could, trying not to make a noise which would cause him to turn. I was a hundred yards away when he reached into his pocket for his keys. Seventy-five as he selected the right one. Sixty as he slid it into the door. Seeing no choice, I shouted:

“Freeze! Move and you’re dead!”

He turned as I skidded to a lower gear. Closing on him slowly, trying to get my wind back, I kept my .38 ready, watching him study me. Telling him, “Pull the keys out of the door. Toss them to me. Underhand.”

He did. I picked them up cautiously. Very cautiously. Something about Divinity kept me watching him. His stance—his eyes. Especially his eyes. He was laughing at me. Amused. Something was going on I wasn’t catching on to. I looked for possible incoming, but couldn’t see anything. Divinity didn’t have any back-up. No one was aiming a gun at me. I had the only gun. I had Divinity cold. But, his posture, his grin—those eyes—something was telling me he was laughing at me, maybe with reason. The little voice told me I was about to learn a lesson. My hands closed around the keys. School was in session.

I slid the keys into my jacket pocket and then barked at him to “assume the position.” He spread his hands on the hood of his car. I told him “further.” He obliged. I asked for more. He gave in again. I came in then, looking to pat him down. I reached under his coat; my fingers touched an empty shoulder holster and…bang, I was flying. The split second I was as off balance as I was going to be, his foot was in my side, bruising ribs and rolling me across the cement.

I hit sideways, rolling hard, coming up awkwardly. I still had my .38, but no target for it. Divinity had split. I scanned quickly, catching the tail end of him disappearing around the base of the hill we’d just come down. I stood rockily, testing my balance. I felt stunned, but unbroken. Trying to watch the hillside for any surprises, I started after him.

Divinity had things figured right. No one knew where we were. If I didn’t go after him, he would get away. Rubbing my side, I wondered what was going to stop him even if I did. He was fast, rabbit snake fast, and limber, strong and self-confident. Not the best combination one could go up against.

I advanced carefully, trying to watch my step, and above me and behind me and, in the case of the sea wall, below me, too. The path I was following extended underneath the Narrows bridge, showing off its gigantic underside. Daring an upward glance, I took in the size of the thing. It was monstrous, built on a scale usually reserved only for science fiction novels—possibly the last grand giant the human race will ever build. Not that I’m knocking anyone—being alive in this era certainly hasn’t inspired me to any projects of epic design of late.

My reflecting and upward glance had only take a split-second—a moment in time so short they need special machines to measure it. Plenty of time for Divinity to make his move. He came out of the nowhere like the last car a child sees as their fingers grab at their runaway ball. I forgot to block and tried to aim. My .38 went over the rail and into the water below. My left side took it this time, a thudding beef punch that flattened me against the cement walling out of which the rail grew. I went for a breath; Divinity knocked it out of me by grabbing the back of my head and flipping me through the air. I landed in the brush, banging hard, the air flying out of me so fast it burned my throat.

I regained my feet slower than I did the first time. Divinity was gone again. I checked and found I still had his keys. He hadn’t bothered to take them from me when he had the chance. Which meant he wasn’t worried about making his escape. Why should he be, I asked myself. After all, I was the only obstacle in his path, and he’d already proved there wasn’t much difficulty waiting for him on that road.

Pulling myself together, I started down the asphalt pathway again, looking for Divinity. What was going on was becoming obvious. I’d become sport for a bored athlete, fodder for a matched set of dangerous appendages all fueled by a massive storehouse of power and ego. It was rapidly occurring to me that since Divinity had little interest in escaping, he must be interested in something else. Rounding the bend gave me some insight into what that might be.

On the other side of the sea wall, a kind of cement dock jutted out into the Narrows, followed by a curving finger of breaker rocks. Divinity was in the middle of the dock, sitting cross-legged with his back to me—waiting. Part of my brain told me I’d stand a better chance of accomplishing something by running over to the beltway to try and flag down a police car than by facing the rail-thin Buddha on the dock again. The rest of my brain sighed as I busied myself with looking for the easiest way over the wall.

Hitting the sand below with a small thud, I stood straight and headed over toward the dock, saying, “If you don’t mind me saying so, you’ve got me a bit curious. I mean, you could’ve taken off twice now. If you really wanted to, you could’ve left me dead. At least one of the times, anyway.”

As I came up to the dock, I noted the close-set pillars and low ceiling of its underbelly. I wondered if Divinity’s style would be at a disadvantage there. After all, he was the one who’d picked the open area. Although, I thought, maybe he just liked having a stage. As I pulled myself up onto the dock, I said:

“Of course, both times you caught me off guard. That move at the car—real good. Haven’t seen anything like that since the service. Second time, well that was just stupidity. I’ve been dealing with rummy thugs and wise guys so long I guess I’ve forgotten how really silly a gun can be at times.”

Stopping about eight feet from Divinity, I kept talking, waiting for the show to start.

“Anyway, I got to speculating—-why’d this guy get me down here? He doesn’t look queer. Well, not a lot, anyway. And, if he’d been hired to kill me as well as Andy, he’d have done it already. I mean, it is obvious you’re a hired killer—your whole attitude gives that away for…”

Divinity stood—-quick, straight arrow, one movement. I’d hit a nerve—but which one? Turning, his face showed amusement. His thin lips were spread in a knife blade of a smile. He went into a familiar variation of the horse stance, giving me an idea of what was coming next. Without a word he came forward, crossing the distance between us in two close, balanced steps, looking to wedge his way inside my defenses. I stepped off to the left and ducked, neatly avoiding the second half of his one/two. Taking a couple of steps backward at the same time, I got some distance between us again as I searched for whatever it was I’d said that’d irked him before.

“Anyway, like I was saying, you being a hired killer and all, it doesn’t make any sense that you’d do something like this just for sport. Good as you are, I mean, the cops could come swarming over us any minute. Granted, no one knows who we are, but we’re still two guys trying to beat each other’s brains out on public property…”

He came in again, faster. Too fast. I blocked his first blow, and the second, but missed the third. He was younger and apparently far less abusive to his body than I was to mine. I fell back hard, hitting the dock with the grace of an overturned garbage can. He stood above me, waiting for me to get back up. Comfortable where I was, I said, “Oh, man. Good one. Christ, much more of this and I’m going to feel like shit.”

The chatter was getting to him. Not enough to make him careless—just annoyed. It was a start; we were in first gear. I baited him along, trying to get him to third.

“Maybe I’ll just lay here and take my lumps. What’dya say? I mean, you seem to really have it in for me. Hell, why not just get it over with? What’dya think?”

His answer was to try and break my ankle with his heel. Perfect. Pulling my leg out of the way at the last second, I shot it back immediately, knocking Divinity off his pins. He fell next to me, catching himself with his palms. He made to push off again, but was too late. I had him. Before he could clear the ground I managed to wrap my arms around him from behind, pinning his to his sides, squeezing him with all I had in me.

Divinity thrashed madly, rolling us around the pier in circles, sometimes damaging me, sometimes himself. While we crashed around, I huffed:

“So…when did you start…killing people for profit?”

Divinity’s answer was non-verbal. Reaching down with both hands, he dug his fingers into my thighs, tripping a nerve in each that sent me screaming. I couldn’t help letting him go, but as he broke away from me I managed to catch the back of his jacket. Pulling him back to me as we struggled to our knees, I spun him around, putting everything I had into a roundhouse to the side of the head. Divinity spun around twice while still trying to stand, falling badly.

I tried to get to him to press my advantage but, he was on his feet again before I could regain mine. By the time I was standing he was in front of me. I got my arms up just in time for him to grab one. He twisted. I danced. Keeping me at arm’s length, he kicked me twice, once in the side, once in the gut. I made to kick him but he caught it, trading his grip on my wrist for one on my ankle. Not that he kept it long. With a sharp jerk he pulled me toward him and then slammed me with his free hand.

I tripped backwards, stepped blindly, then falling. A second later I was staring up at the sky from the sand. My head was throbbing like a jack hammer. I could see stars and taste blood. Divinity looked down at me, smiling.

“God,” I groaned, stalling for time, hoping for enough seconds to relearn how to breathe, “you’re tough.”

His smile widened almost enough to show teeth. A touch of a nod was the only answer he bothered to give.

“So,” I croaked, sucking oxygen desperately, “you going to kill me, too?”

He raised one eyebrow and changed his smile enough to indicate ‘probably.’ I nodded back, saying:

“Well, fair enough, I guess.” Coughing out a load of bloody phlegm, I added, “You know, though—it’s funny. I don’t even care who hired you to kill Lowe at this point…but I was wondering…who hired you to kill me?”

Divinity’s smile faded. Bingo, I thought. Direct hit. I had no idea why he was so touchy about his occupation, but I was perfectly willing to keep needling him over it. Not at that moment, though. Putting all my energy into getting up, I threw myself forward into the dark recesses under the pier a split second before Divinity hit the sand where I’d been. Spying a soggy two x four the tide had washed in, I grabbed it up and leaned against one of the crumbling pillars, waiting for Divinity to come to me this time.

My labored breathing echoed in the underground retreat, coming at me from all directions at once. I’d positioned myself just to the left of the pier’s center, hoping for a chance to use my newfound weapon and maybe even stay alive. Other sounds rebounded toward me besides my own, letting me know Divinity was in the underworld with me. I knew he realized I was stationary—knew he would be conducting his search looking for an unarmed man waiting to ambush him. Counting on his not expecting the two x four, I kept waiting.

Finally, his shadow edged forward toward me, black moving forward over the grey on the ground. Tensing, I gripped my board, holding out for the right second. He moved a half step closer, his shadow radaring his path, bringing him to me. I shifted my weight. The shadow inched toward me again, and then suddenly, it disappeared backwards. I whirled around quickly. Divinity was behind me already. I dodged wildly, letting him kick away part of the pillar instead of my ribs. Turning, I swung the two x four, missing Divinity, splitting the end of my weapon on another pillar. Divinity punched; I blocked with the board and then drove it upward, catching the ends of his left hand’s fingers, tearing three of them open.

Following up, I swung again, hoping to catch him in the head. No chance. He caught the board with his good hand, stopping it cold. Before I could act he rammed it backwards, catching me in the gut. I staggered, but held on, refusing to let him wrest the two x four away without a fight. Divinity smiled. Setting his feet, he caught the board in both hands and twisted, tearing it away in one motion.

I stumbled back out to the beach as quickly as I could, running straight for the breaker rocks beyond the dock, hoping that reaching the high ground might keep me alive. A small arm I hoped was a doll’s reached for my cuff. I jerked my way upward. Divinity abandoned the two x four to the sand and followed. As he started up the rocks after me, I wheezed:

“I’d have thought you’d had enough by now.”

He kept moving, slightly slower than before, nothing that was going to be of any help to me. As he neared the top, I added:

“Man. Some guys just don’t know when to quit.”

Then I swung. He ducked. I tried to use my size to force him to stay at the lower position, but it was no good. He came in under my attack, pasting me two good ones in a row. As I staggered, he caught my arm and pushed, sending me dancing across the rocks. I almost slipped twice, but managed to catch myself. Divinity followed close behind.

He was forcing me out to the end of the breaker wall. The top of it was too narrow for me to get around him on either side. To try and climb down one of the sides, or even to jump into the water would’ve been suicide. To do either I’d have to turn my back on Divinity, and I knew that was what he was waiting for. I’d picked up on his style—he liked dominance, enjoyed calling the tune. As far as he was concerned, I’d decided to follow him, and now if I changed my mind, I had to be punished. Not that he planned to drag things out forever. I could also see in his eyes that the wrap-up was on its way.

Forcing dry air up to push the words out, I said, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

He hit me. Hard. I fell against the rocks, slamming my left shoulder. The stars came to visit again and I lay where I’d fallen, just too damn tired to move. I’d never thought much about being kicked or beaten to death. Okay, I figured—this way it would be a surprise.

I tried to steady myself, to get ready for whatever was coming, but even that was beyond me—the rock I grabbed with my right hand was loose; trying to hang onto it had almost sent me into the water.

Turning my eyes back to Divinity, I watched him reach into his pocket and pull out a knife. I was shocked. After all we’d gone through, he was going to finish me off with a pig sticker. I went to look him in the eyes to find a clue as to what he was up to, but couldn’t get his to meet mine. He was staring at my chest, smiling, leering, salivating. His tongue was working back and forth, sliding his frothing spittle across his teeth and lips. His mouth was so full he could’ve gargled with it. Instead he swallowed, coming up with the smile of a man who’d just finished a steak in the best place in town and was really looking forward to dessert.

He came at me in one motion, the knife working to carve open my chest, drops of blood from his fingers splattering me in the face. But, the little voice had screamed at me to move—fast. With everything I had, I jerked aside just in time, letting the knife slide past me to shatter against the rocks. He must’ve been sure I was down for the count, sure I wasn’t capable of moving again. Luckily, he’d been wrong.

My right hand caught up the loose rock under it and swung it around. I caught Divinity behind the knees. He went all the way down. Sliding myself upward, I took the rock in both hands and brought it down on his spine. Twice. Twice more. His hands reached for me. I batted one away weakly, but the other caught my wrist. With strength I couldn’t believe, he started dragging me toward him, my chest toward his face—his tongue licking, teeth snapping. He caught a piece of my sweat shirt in his jaws and pulled, dragging hair and skin with it. I howled and smashed him across the face with the rock, knocking him away.

Then, picking up another, heavier stone, I brought it down on his chest, hearing cracks and pops which made me think I might be the one to survive, after all. I brought it down again, smashing harder, bones breaking upward through his clothing. A rib scraped my hand open as I dragged the rock up out of his chest cavity. My hands covered with blood, I shoved the rock upward as high as I could, and then rammed it home again with every ounce of energy I could muster. Scooping the stone up out of his body, I had to pry it loose from the suction grip of the jelly I’d made out of his organs.

I smashed him over and over, tears of rage and pain and humiliation flooding out of me. Maybe it was fear—maybe just relief—I kept breaking his bones until I couldn’t lift my arms anymore. I kept crying long after.

* * * *

Much later, at my office, I sat waiting with Hubert for a visitor I was expecting. I’d gotten released from the hospital a couple of hours earlier. Hubert’d met me, sporting a new Hawaiian shirt and a Panama hat. After several phone calls which allowed me to put a few things into motion, we’d gone back to my office to swap stories and wait.

Hubert told me he had stationed Maurice in the auditorium, telling him to stay close to Lowe and keep his eyes open. He’d done both and topped it all off by throwing himself in front of the candidate when the bullets had cut loose. Divinity hadn’t gotten Lowe, and hadn’t even known it.

The cops had been pleased as punch to get his remains. They didn’t like the shape they were delivered in, but admitted they didn’t know of anyone who could have done a better job. Their admiration wasn’t worth the beating I’d taken to get it, but it was good compensation nonetheless.

The media was awarding the lion’s share of their attention to Maurice. After all, I was only the guy who’d done in the shooter in some back alley or something. Maurice’d had the sense to do his dance of death in front of the cameras. As Hubert said, though:

“Forget it. You need the right people takin’ you serious if you’re gonna l-last in this town. I’ll make sure the story gets to the right people. I mean, you t-took out the Stone. One of the t-toughest hit men anyone ever heard of.”

“Yeah, he was that, all right.”

“So, don’t sweat it. Let the TV monkey up Maurice’s rep. I’ll p-put yours in p-place for you.” Hubert laughed and then took a nip from his hip flask. Wiping his lips, he continued.

“You know, the Stone had a nasty habit, too. Part of what made his r-rep. You see, he hated taking money for hits. W-Went against his trainin’ or somethin’, but anyway…to compensate for doin’ a hit, right after one he would find himself a victim…a worthy opponent, not just some wino or anything, and then he’d beat them down and cut out their l-living heart and eat it while they watched. That was the story, anyway. You c-catch any of that action?”

“Saw the previews. Didn’t stay for the feature.”

“Yeah,” said Hubert, “I was right about you. Another c-couple of weeks and this city’ll know who the t-toughest son’va bitch around is. Don’t worry.”

“I ain’t worried,” I told him. “I hurt too much to worry. You got my money?”

“Yep,” answered Hu. “Andy’s still got reporters c-crawlin’ all over him, elsewise he would’ve delivered it himself—didn’t want to subject you to the media. Unless you want this place filled with camera-asses?”

“No, thanks;” I said. “I can’t see any real trouble makers worrying too much about some guy whose rep got made by the tube. I’ll take back alley whispering any day.” Counting my money, however, gave me a question.

“This is five hundred dollars.”

“Oooough, you can count.”

“Yeah; I can. Where’s the other five hundred?”

“In Maurice’s bank account, with a nice note from you t-tellin’ him to get better soon. You might not believe it, but y-you figured it was the least you could do.” While I eyed him sourly, he added, “Don’t sweat it, D-Dick Tracy. You can afford it. Classy guy like you’s never gonna be hurtin’ for m-money.”

At that point a knock on the door cut off our conversation. It was Morrie Wortzman, Lowe’s campaign manager. Hubert bristled, but kept his comments to himself. Wortzman didn’t seem any happier to see him. After a few terse sentences, Hubert excused himself, shutting the door hard behind him.

“Okay,” I started, “so you’re here. What’s on your mind, Morrie?”

“You called me, Jack. Mighty glad you did, too. Mighty glad. I wanted to talk to you. Yes, sir. Wanted to talk to you about the Stone. Heh. They say you killed him with a rock. Heh. Guess it takes a stone to kill a Stone. Heh.”

“Get to the point, Morrie.”

“Okay, you want this unsubtle, you got it. Fine by me. You called me. Remember?”

“Yeah,” I told him. “I remember. We can lay this out short and sweet. The Stone tried to bargain with me. Told me you hired him to kill Lowe. Okay, I figure. This would be hard to prove to the cops, even if I let the Stone live to testify. So, I finished him off and gave you a call. I figured you and I could work something out. We’re both real smart, tough fish, right?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Whatever you say.”

Getting up out of his chair, Wortzman paced a little, going over to the window first and then circling around for a moment until he finally came back to the front of my desk. Resting his palms on the edge of my blotter, he said:

“Look. Let’s get this cut through. You don’t have any proof of anything—right?” I spread my hands open in front of him.

“Right,” I agreed.

“But, if I don’t pay you off, you’ll make trouble. You’ll get rumors spread, you and that prick Hubert.”

“No. No percentage in that,” I told him. “Wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah, sure, the fuck you say now. I know your type. I’d have you rubbed if I could, but after killing the Stone, your rep as a dangerous bastard is bigger than his was. Stone didn’t have any friends I could turn to, so that makes you an uneasy man to kill at this moment.” I leaned back in my chair, smiling as I told him:

“I won’t argue.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you won’t. So—name it, already. What the hell do you want?”

“What…do…I…want?” I said each word separately, as if no thought at all had gone into my answer. “Well, I guess what I ask for will depend on what you tell me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Why?” I asked. “I want to know ‘why?’ It made sense for you to burn down your own house. From what little Hubert and I could find making a few calls, you could never’ve sold it for what you had it insured for. But you were in the clear on the insurance scam. Why’d you want to go all the way and kill Lowe?”

“You want to know that bad, sure. Why not? You’ve got me on the hot rock. Big deal.” Plopping back into his chair, Wortzman said, “I’ll tell you why. Because he’s honest. He really wants to become the mayor of New York City to try and clean it up.”

The words came out of him in a laugh, one which set him to choking he found the subject so amusing. Wiping away a tear, he continued; “Yeah. I’m serious. Imagine, a jumped-up community service nigger cleaning out the NYC city hall. Oye, shit, that’s a laugh.”

Wortzman looked away from me for a moment and then stared, lighting a cigarette, telling me, “Yeah, he’s serious about it. I fed him the notion that if a big time killer like the Stone was brought in to get rid of him that it must be the mob after him. Afraid he’ll bust the unions and all. Boy, did that puff up the moron. He’s really feeling important now.”

Wortzman took a long drag, sinking into a comfortable mood. Sitting back in his chair, he exhaled, adding, “In a way, this could be the best thing that could’ve happened. See, I wanted to get rid of Andy, after tonight’s dinner, of course, once all the contributions were in, and then move up Andy’s second, the Reverend John Lawrence Jefferson. Don’t you see; it’s perfect.”

He filled the air with smoke again, smiling a content smile. His look said that he had everything all figured out. I let him continue to educate me.

“You see, I had John all set. Andy gets cut down, the reverend runs in and grabs up the bloody body—careful to get handsful of red all over himself—and then declares that this foul deed, this terrible event, some such happy horseshit, must not go unanswered. Yak, yak, you know. So when we throw the whole campaign behind John—in Andy’s memory—of course. We lose; we try again. We lose again; we go to other cities. John preaches and preaches, we raise lots of bucks, we keep running for offices and starting campaigns and it goes on and on and we stay rich for the rest of our lives.

“And so now,” finished Wortzman, turning back to me, “all we need is for someone to finish off Andy and we’ve got it all set.”

“Why bother telling me all this?”

“Come off it, Hagee. You know why I’m here. You want me to pay you off to keep your two cents to yourself. I have a better idea. Why don’t I load you down with money, and you finish the job you fucked up?” I look at him in disbelief, smiling. Fighting back a laugh, I asked:

“You want me to kill your candidate for you?”

“Why not? No one would suspect you. No one! You’re the man who damn near died saving his fucking life. Why would you turn around and kill him? How could anyone ever begin to think you had something to do with it?”

“B-Because,” came Hubert’s voice from the doorway, “the w-walls have ears, Morrie.”

Hubert came into my inner office, followed by several detectives and a Captain Trenkel, head of the local precinct. It took some words and some doing to get Wortzman out of the room, but he finally left…half under his own power, half with the help of others. Trenkel thanked me for my cooperation and let me know he didn’t mind P.I.s in his jurisdiction who played their cards right. I acted suitably grateful and sat by while his boys got their electronic taping hardware out of my office. Trenkel’d told me earlier that due to my injuries I could come down to the station house the next day. Banged up as I was, I could’ve begged off for a week.

As he left, Trenkel eyed Hubert and then looked over to me as if he wanted to say something. He didn’t bother, though, and I didn’t ask. Once he was gone, Hubert sat down and started another line of prattle.

“You know, there was once a p-politician no one could get a straight answer out of. He was a pip—no matter what, he never gave anyone a straight answer. So, at this one press conference, this smart guy gets an idea. He goes, ‘Sir, we’re all gettin’ a bit tired of your refusal to be pinned down on a subject. I was thinkin’, maybe the questions are too hard. So, I ask you, sir, what is your favorite color?’ And the politician replies, ‘Plaid.’”

Hubert began laughing, hissing his cartoon duck noises about my office. I half chuckled, half groaned. Then, before either of us could say anything else, a voice called from the outer office. I directed its owner inside.

“This isn’t such a bad place,” she said.

“Well. Well…wellwellwell;” cackled Hubert. “What dainty little morsel is t-this?”

“Can it, you mutant. I’d introduce you except that A, if I did, the lady would never speak to me again, and B, I don’t know her name.”

She had changed into a pair of tan jeans and a yellow sweater, but she didn’t look any the worse for it. Laughing, she extended her arm to Hubert.

“Hello,” she told him, “I’m Marianne Kennedy. Don’t listen to this guy; I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“You’ll be sorry,” I warned her with a laugh.

“You hush up,” growled Hu at me over his shoulder. “Call me Hubert,” he told Marianne, kissing her hand. “Charmed to death, I’m sure. But, much as it p-pains me to leave you trapped here with this low class operator, I must be on my way. Got a date on Staten Island with a guy who thinks he understands the ins and outs of real estate. See ya in the f-funny papers.”

Dropping his hat onto the back of his head, Hubert headed for the door, reminding us as he disappeared, “Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

And, after he had finally left, I asked, “So, you here as a reporter who wants to finish up the story of the century, or as a woman who doesn’t know when she’s better off?”

“Still strutting the glib words, eh? Surprising you don’t have them lined up around the block with sweet talk like that.”

“Yeah, well, what can I tell you?”

“A few things, I suppose.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I was down at the morgue earlier…”

“Couldn’t get a date there so you thought you’d try here, huh?”

“Can’t help myself. Slumming is my nature.”

I looked into her eyes and read what she wanted.

“It’s time for me to shut up and listen, isn’t it?”

The eyes didn’t change.

“Okay, that puts me in my place,” I admitted, pulling my Gilbey’s bottle out of its hiding place in the big drawer of my desk. “So, what was so fascinating at the icebox?”

I tilted the bottle in her direction, asking. She accepted. While I poured us both a couple of fingers worth, she said, “One of those little men who doesn’t get out much was in charge. You know the type, love to try and make all the girls screech by showing them something awful, or telling them some disgusting story about what he’s seen in the past. Anyway, he had a story to tell me. About the Stone, that hit man you turned into a waffle.”

“Yeah,” I asked after a swallow. “What about him?”

“Seems you did a real job on him. Mashed him up pretty good.”

“You asked if I was a tough guy.”

“So I did. Well,” she smiled, “he told me that there is something going on, and nobody knows what to make of it. Seems a piece of the Stone is ‘missing.’ Most of him is still there…not in good shape…but still accounted for. But, our little ghoul told me, a piece of the Stone’s heart is missing.”

“Do tell?” I said.

“Yes;” she confirmed. “And, interestingly enough, he told us it wasn’t cut out, either. It was ripped out, as if some animal had done it.”

“Well,” I answered, pouring myself a few extra knuckles, “maybe one did.”

She smiled again, and all my bruises hurt a little less. I smiled back at her, happy she’d come, happy for the company, happy for the chance to smile. Then, a thought ran across the far recesses of my brain; wouldn’t it be nice if her underwear was black and white? I puzzled at what the back of my mind could’ve meant by that, but decided not to question it. Relaxing, I smiled back at her and lifted my glass in mock salute, deciding to finally start trusting the little voice.

“A toast,” she said, clinking my hoisted glass with hers, “All’s well that ends well.”

“Yeah.” I half laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”

THE RED THUMB MARK, by R. Austin Freeman

PREFACE

In writing the following story, the author has had in view no purpose other than that of affording entertainment to such readers as are interested in problems of crime and their solutions; and the story itself differs in no respect from others of its class, excepting in that an effort has been made to keep within the probabilities of ordinary life, both in the characters and in the incidents.

Nevertheless it may happen that the book may serve a useful purpose in drawing attention to certain popular misapprehensions on the subject of finger-prints and their evidential value; misapprehensions the extent of which may be judged when we learn from the newspapers that several Continental commercial houses have actually substituted finger-prints for signed initials.

The facts and figures contained in Mr. Singleton’s evidence, including the very liberal estimate of the population of the globe, are, of course, taken from Mr. Galton’s great and important work on finger-prints; to which the reader who is interested in the subject is referred for much curious and valuable information.

In conclusion, the author desires to express his thanks to his friend Mr. Bernard E. Bishop for the assistance rendered to him in certain photographic experiments, and to those officers of the Central Criminal Court who very kindly furnished him with details of the procedure in criminal trials.

CHAPTER I

MY LEARNED BROTHER

“Conflagratam An° 1677. Fabricatam An° 1698. Richardo Powell Armiger Thesaurar.” The words, set in four panels, which formed a frieze beneath the pediment of a fine brick portico, summarised the history of one of the tall houses at the upper end of King’s Bench Walk and as I, somewhat absently, read over the inscription, my attention was divided between admiration of the exquisitely finished carved brickwork and the quiet dignity of the building, and an effort to reconstitute the dead and gone Richard Powell, and the stirring times in which he played his part.

I was about to turn away when the empty frame of the portico became occupied by a figure, and one so appropriate, in its wig and obsolete habiliments, to the old-world surroundings that it seemed to complete the picture, and I lingered idly to look at it. The barrister had halted in the doorway to turn over a sheaf of papers that he held in his hand, and, as he replaced the red tape which bound them together, he looked up and our eyes met. For a moment we regarded one another with the incurious gaze that casual strangers bestow on one another; then there was a flash of mutual recognition; the impassive and rather severe face of the lawyer softened into a genial smile, and the figure, detaching itself from its frame, came down the steps with a hand extended in cordial greeting.

“My dear Jervis,” he exclaimed, as we clasped hands warmly, “this is a great and delightful surprise. How often have I thought of my old comrade and wondered if I should ever see him again, and lo! here he is, thrown up on the sounding beach of the Inner Temple, like the proverbial bread cast upon the waters.”

“Your surprise, Thorndyke, is nothing to mine,” I replied, “for your bread has at least returned as bread; whereas I am in the position of a man who, having cast his bread upon the waters, sees it return in the form of a buttered muffin or a Bath bun. I left a respectable medical practitioner and I find him transformed into a bewigged and begowned limb of the law.”

Thorndyke laughed at the comparison.

“Liken not your old friend unto a Bath bun,” said he. “Say, rather, that you left him a chrysalis and come back to find him a butterfly. But the change is not so great as you think. Hippocrates is only hiding under the gown of Solon, as you will understand when I explain my metamorphosis; and that I will do this very evening, if you have no engagement.”

“I am one of the unemployed at present,” I said, “and quite at your service.”

“Then come round to my chambers at seven,” said Thorndyke, “and we will have a chop and a pint of claret together and exchange autobiographies. I am due in court in a few minutes.”

“Do you reside within that noble old portico?” I asked.

“No,” replied Thorndyke. “I often wish I did. It would add several inches to one’s stature to feel that the mouth of one’s burrow was graced with a Latin inscription for admiring strangers to ponder over. No; my chambers are some doors further down—number 6A”—and he turned to point out the house as we crossed towards Crown Office Row.

At the top of Middle Temple Lane we parted, Thorndyke taking his way with fluttering gown towards the Law Courts, while I directed my steps westward towards Adam Street, the chosen haunt of the medical agent.

The soft-voiced bell of the Temple clock was telling out the hour of seven in muffled accents (as though it apologised for breaking the studious silence) as I emerged from the archway of Mitre Court and turned into King’s Bench Walk.

The paved footway was empty save for a single figure, pacing slowly before the doorway of number 6A, in which, though the wig had now given place to a felt hat and the gown to a jacket, I had no difficulty in recognising my friend.

“Punctual to the moment, as of old,” said he, meeting me half-way. “What a blessed virtue is punctuality, even in small things. I have just been taking the air in Fountain Court, and will now introduce you to my chambers. Here is my humble retreat.”

We passed in through the common entrance and ascended the stone stairs to the first floor, where we were confronted by a massive door, above which my friend’s name was written in white letters.

“Rather a forbidding exterior,” remarked Thorndyke, as he inserted the latchkey, “but it is homely enough inside.”

The heavy door swung outwards and disclosed a baize-covered inner door, which Thorndyke pushed open and held for me to pass in.

“You will find my chambers an odd mixture,” said Thorndyke, “for they combine the attractions of an office, a museum, a laboratory and a workshop.”

“And a restaurant,” added a small, elderly man, who was decanting a bottle of claret by means of a glass syphon: “you forgot that, sir.”

“Yes, I forgot that, Polton,” said Thorndyke, “but I see you have not.” He glanced towards a small table that had been placed near the fire and set out with the requisites for our meal.

“Tell me,” said Thorndyke, as we made the initial onslaught on the products of Polton’s culinary experiments, “what has been happening to you since you left the hospital six years ago?”

“My story is soon told,” I answered, somewhat bitterly. “It is not an uncommon one. My funds ran out, as you know, rather unexpectedly. When I had paid my examination and registration fees the coffer was absolutely empty, and though, no doubt, a medical diploma contains—to use Johnson’s phrase—the potentiality of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, there is a vast difference in practice between the potential and the actual. I have, in fact, been earning a subsistence, sometimes as an assistant, sometimes as a locum tenens. Just now I’ve got no work to do, and so have entered my name on Turcival’s list of eligibles.”

Thorndyke pursed up his lips and frowned.

“It’s a wicked shame, Jervis,” said he presently, “that a man of your abilities and scientific acquirements should be frittering away his time on odd jobs like some half-qualified wastrel.”

“It is,” I agreed. “My merits are grossly undervalued by a stiff-necked and obtuse generation. But what would you have, my learned brother? If poverty steps behind you and claps the occulting bushel over your thirty thousand candle-power luminary, your brilliancy is apt to be obscured.”

“Yes, I suppose that is so,” grunted Thorndyke, and he remained for a time in deep thought.

“And now,” said I, “let us have your promised explanation. I am positively frizzling with curiosity to know what chain of circumstances has converted John Evelyn Thorndyke from a medical practitioner into a luminary of the law.”

Thorndyke smiled indulgently.

“The fact is,” said he, “that no such transformation has occurred. John Evelyn Thorndyke is still a medical practitioner.”

“What, in a wig and gown!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, a mere sheep in wolf’s clothing,” he replied. “I will tell you how it has come about. After you left the hospital, six years ago, I stayed on, taking up any small appointments that were going—assistant demonstrator—or curatorships and such like—hung about the chemical and physical laboratories, the museum and post mortem room, and meanwhile took my M.D. and D.Sc. Then I got called to the bar in the hope of getting a coronership, but soon after this, old Stedman retired unexpectedly—you remember Stedman, the lecturer on medical jurisprudence—and I put in for the vacant post. Rather to my surprise, I was appointed lecturer, whereupon I dismissed the coronership from my mind, took my present chambers and sat down to wait for anything that might come.”

“And what has come?” I asked.

“Why, a very curious assortment of miscellaneous practice,” he replied. “At first I only got an occasional analysis in a doubtful poisoning case, but, by degrees, my sphere of influence has extended until it now includes all cases in which a special knowledge of medicine or physical science can be brought to bear upon law.”

“But you plead in court, I observe,” said I.

“Very seldom,” he replied. “More usually I appear in the character of that bête noir of judges and counsel—the scientific witness. But in most instances I do not appear at all; I merely direct investigations, arrange and analyse the results, and prime the counsel with facts and suggestions for cross-examination.”

“A good deal more interesting than acting as understudy for an absent g.p.,” said I, a little enviously. “But you deserve to succeed, for you were always a deuce of a worker, to say nothing of your capabilities.”

“Yes, I worked hard,” replied Thorndyke, “and I work hard still; but I have my hours of labour and my hours of leisure, unlike you poor devils of general practitioners, who are liable to be dragged away from the dinner table or roused out of your first sleep by—confound it all! who can that be?”

For at this moment, as a sort of commentary on his self-congratulation, there came a smart rapping at the outer door.

“Must see who it is, I suppose,” he continued, “though one expects people to accept the hint of a closed oak.”

He strode across the room and flung open the door with an air of by no means gracious inquiry.

“It’s rather late for a business call,” said an apologetic voice outside, “but my client was anxious to see you without delay.”

“Come in, Mr. Lawley,” said Thorndyke, rather stiffly, and, as he held the door open, the two visitors entered. They were both men—one middle-aged, rather foxy in appearance and of a typically legal aspect, and the other a fine, handsome young fellow of very prepossessing exterior, though at present rather pale and wild-looking, and evidently in a state of profound agitation.

“I am afraid,” said the latter, with a glance at me and the dinner table, “that our visit—for which I am alone responsible—is a most unseasonable one. If we are really inconveniencing you, Dr. Thorndyke, pray tell us, and my business must wait.”

Thorndyke had cast a keen and curious glance at the young man, and he now replied in a much more genial tone—

“I take it that your business is of a kind that will not wait, and as to inconveniencing us, why, my friend and I are both doctors, and, as you are aware, no doctor expects to call any part of the twenty-four hours his own unreservedly.”

I had risen on the entrance of the two strangers, and now proposed to take a walk on the Embankment and return later, but the young man interrupted me.

“Pray don’t go away on my account,” he said. “The facts that I am about to lay before Dr. Thorndyke will be known to all the world by this time tomorrow, so there is no occasion for any show of secrecy.”

“In that case,” said Thorndyke, “let us draw our chairs up to the fire and fall to business forthwith. We had just finished our dinner and were waiting for the coffee, which I hear my man bringing down at this moment.”

We accordingly drew up our chairs, and when Polton had set the coffee on the table and retired, the lawyer plunged into the matter without preamble.

CHAPTER II

THE SUSPECT

“I had better,” said he, “give you a general outline of the case as it presents itself to the legal mind, and then my client, Mr. Reuben Hornby, can fill in the details if necessary, and answer any questions that you may wish to put to him.

“Mr. Reuben occupies a position of trust in the business of his uncle, John Hornby, who is a gold and silver refiner and dealer in precious metals generally. There is a certain amount of outside assay work carried on in the establishment, but the main business consists in the testing and refining of samples of gold sent from certain mines in South Africa.

“About five years ago Mr. Reuben and his cousin Walter—another nephew of John Hornby—left school, and both were articled to their uncle, with the view to their ultimately becoming partners in the house; and they have remained with him ever since, occupying, as I have said, positions of considerable responsibility.

“And now for a few words as to how business is conducted in Mr. Hornby’s establishment. The samples of gold are handed over at the docks to some accredited representative of the firm—generally either Mr. Reuben or Mr. Walter—who has been despatched to meet the ship, and conveyed either to the bank or to the works according to circumstances. Of course every effort is made to have as little gold as possible on the premises, and the bars are always removed to the bank at the earliest opportunity; but it happens unavoidably that samples of considerable value have often to remain on the premises all night, and so the works are furnished with a large and powerful safe or strong room for their reception. This safe is situated in the private office under the eye of the principal, and, as an additional precaution, the caretaker, who acts as night-watchman, occupies a room directly over the office, and patrols the building periodically through the night.

“Now a very strange thing has occurred with regard to this safe. It happens that one of Mr. Hornby’s customers in South Africa is interested in a diamond mine, and, although transactions in precious stones form no part of the business of the house, he has, from time to time, sent parcels of rough diamonds addressed to Mr. Hornby, to be either deposited in the bank or handed on to the diamond brokers.

“A fortnight ago Mr. Hornby was advised that a parcel of stones had been despatched by the Elmina Castle, and it appeared that the parcel was an unusually large one and contained stones of exceptional size and value. Under these circumstances Mr. Reuben was sent down to the docks at an early hour in the hope the ship might arrive in time for the stones to be lodged in the bank at once. Unfortunately, however, this was not the case, and the diamonds had to be taken to the works and locked up in the safe.”

“Who placed them in the safe?” asked Thorndyke.

“Mr. Hornby himself, to whom Mr. Reuben delivered up the package on his return from the docks.”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and what happened next?”

“Well, on the following morning, when the safe was opened, the diamonds had disappeared.”

“Had the place been broken into?” asked Thorndyke.

“No. The place was all locked up as usual, and the caretaker, who had made his accustomed rounds, had heard nothing, and the safe was, outwardly, quite undisturbed. It had evidently been opened with keys and locked again after the stones were removed.”

“And in whose custody were the keys of the safe?” inquired Thorndyke.

“Mr. Hornby usually kept the keys himself, but, on occasions, when he was absent from the office, he handed them over to one of his nephews—whichever happened to be in charge at the time. But on this occasion the keys did not go out of his custody from the time when he locked up the safe, after depositing the diamonds in it, to the time when it was opened by him on the following morning.”

“And was there anything that tended to throw suspicion upon anyone?” asked Thorndyke.

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Lawley, with an uncomfortable glance at his client, “unfortunately there was. It seemed that the person who abstracted the diamonds must have cut or scratched his thumb or finger in some way, for there were two drops of blood on the bottom of the safe and one or two bloody smears on a piece of paper, and, in addition, a remarkably clear imprint of a thumb.”

“Also in blood?” asked Thorndyke.

“Yes. The thumb had apparently been put down on one of the drops and then, while still wet with blood, had been pressed on the paper in taking hold of it or otherwise.”

“Well, and what next?”

“Well,” said the lawyer, fidgeting in his chair, “to make a long story short, the thumb-print has been identified as that of Mr. Reuben Hornby.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “The plot thickens with a vengeance. I had better jot down a few notes before you proceed any further.”

He took from a drawer a small paper-covered notebook, on the cover of which he wrote “Reuben Hornby,” and then, laying the book open on a blotting-pad, which he rested on his knee, he made a few brief notes.

“Now,” he said, when he had finished, “with reference to this thumb-print. There is no doubt, I suppose, as to the identification?”

“None whatever,” replied Mr. Lawley. “The Scotland Yard people, of course, took possession of the paper, which was handed to the director of the finger-print department for examination and comparison with those in their collection. The report of the experts is that the thumb-print does not agree with any of the thumb-prints of criminals in their possession; that it is a very peculiar one, inasmuch as the ridge-pattern on the bulb of the thumb—which is a remarkably distinct and characteristic one—is crossed by the scar of a deep cut, rendering identification easy and infallible; that it agrees in every respect with the thumb-print of Mr. Reuben Hornby, and is, in fact, his thumb-print beyond any possible doubt.”

“Is there any possibility,” asked Thorndyke, “that the paper bearing the thumb-print could have been introduced by any person?”

“No,” answered the lawyer. “It is quite impossible. The paper on which the mark was found was a leaf from Mr. Hornby’s memorandum block. He had pencilled on it some particulars relating to the diamonds, and laid it on the parcel before he closed up the safe.”

“Was anyone present when Mr. Hornby opened the safe in the morning?” asked Thorndyke.

“No, he was alone,” answered the lawyer. “He saw at a glance that the diamonds were missing, and then he observed the paper with the thumb-mark on it, on which he closed and locked the safe and sent for the police.”

“Is it not rather odd that the thief did not notice the thumb-mark, since it was so distinct and conspicuous?”

“No, I think not,” answered Mr. Lawley. “The paper was lying face downwards on the bottom of the safe, and it was only when he picked it up and turned it over that Mr. Hornby discovered the thumb-print. Apparently the thief had taken hold of the parcel, with the paper on it, and the paper had afterwards dropped off and fallen with the marked surface downwards—probably when the parcel was transferred to the other hand.”

“You mentioned,” said Thorndyke, “that the experts at Scotland Yard have identified this thumb-mark as that of Mr. Reuben Hornby. May I ask how they came to have the opportunity of making the comparison?”

“Ah!” said Mr. Lawley. “Thereby hangs a very curious tale of coincidences. The police, of course, when they found that there was so simple a means of identification as a thumb-mark, wished to take thumb-prints of all the employees in the works; but this Mr. Hornby refused to sanction—rather quixotically, as it seems to me—saying that he would not allow his nephews to be subjected to such an indignity. Now it was, naturally, these nephews in whom the police were chiefly interested, seeing that they alone had had the handling of the keys, and considerable pressure was brought to bear upon Mr. Hornby to have the thumb-prints taken.

“However, he was obdurate, scouting the idea of any suspicion attaching to either of the gentlemen in whom he had reposed such complete confidence and whom he had known all their lives, and so the matter would probably have remained a mystery but for a very odd circumstance.

“You may have seen on the bookstalls and in shop windows an appliance called a ‘Thumbograph,’ or some such name, consisting of a small book of blank paper for collecting the thumb-prints of one’s friends, together with an inking pad.”

“I have seen those devices of the Evil One,” said Thorndyke, “in fact, I have one, which I bought at Charing Cross Station.”

“Well, it seems that some months ago Mrs. Hornby, the wife of John Hornby, purchased one of these toys—”

“As a matter of fact,” interrupted Reuben, “it was my cousin Walter who bought the thing and gave it to her.”

“Well, that is not material,” said Mr. Lawley (though I observed that Thorndyke made a note of the fact in his book); “at any rate, Mrs. Hornby became possessed of one of these appliances and proceeded to fill it with the thumb-prints of her friends, including her two nephews. Now it happened that the detective in charge of this case called yesterday at Mr. Hornby’s house when the latter was absent from home, and took the opportunity of urging her to induce her husband to consent to have the thumb-prints of her nephews taken for the inspection of the experts at Scotland Yard. He pointed out that the procedure was really necessary, not only in the interests of justice but in the interests of the young men themselves, who were regarded with considerable suspicion by the police, which suspicion would be completely removed if it could be shown by actual comparison that the thumb-print could not have been made by either of them. Moreover, it seemed that both the young men had expressed their willingness to have the test applied, but had been forbidden by their uncle. Then Mrs. Hornby had a brilliant idea. She suddenly remembered the ‘Thumbograph,’ and thinking to set the question at rest once for all, fetched the little book and showed it to the detective. It contained the prints of both thumbs of Mr. Reuben (among others), and, as the detective had with him a photograph of the incriminating mark, the comparison was made then and there; and you may imagine Mrs. Hornby’s horror and amazement when it was made clear that the print of her nephew Reuben’s left thumb corresponded in every particular with the thumb-print that was found in the safe.

“At this juncture Mr. Hornby arrived on the scene and was, of course, overwhelmed with consternation at the turn events had taken. He would have liked to let the matter drop and make good the loss of the diamonds out of his own funds, but, as that would have amounted practically to compounding a felony, he had no choice but to prosecute. As a result, a warrant was issued for the arrest of Mr. Reuben, and was executed this morning, and my client was taken forthwith to Bow Street and charged with the robbery.”

“Was any evidence taken?” asked Thorndyke.

“No. Only evidence of arrest. The prisoner is remanded for a week, bail having been accepted in two sureties of five hundred pounds each.”

Thorndyke was silent for a space after the conclusion of the narrative. Like me, he was evidently not agreeably impressed by the lawyer’s manner, which seemed to take his client’s guilt for granted, a position indeed not entirely without excuse having regard to the circumstances of the case.

“What have you advised your client to do?” Thorndyke asked presently.

“I have recommended him to plead guilty and throw himself on the clemency of the court as a first offender. You must see for yourself that there is no defence possible.”

The young man flushed crimson, but made no remark.

“But let us be clear how we stand,” said Thorndyke. “Are we defending an innocent man or are we endeavouring to obtain a light sentence for a man who admits that he is guilty?”

Mr. Lawley shrugged his shoulders.

“That question can be best answered by our client himself,” said he.

Thorndyke directed an inquiring glance at Reuben Hornby, remarking—

“You are not called upon to incriminate yourself in any way, Mr. Hornby, but I must know what position you intend to adopt.”

Here I again proposed to withdraw, but Reuben interrupted me.

“There is no need for you to go away, Dr. Jervis,” he said. “My position is that I did not commit this robbery and that I know nothing whatever about it or about the thumb-print that was found in the safe. I do not, of course, expect you to believe me in the face of the overwhelming evidence against me, but I do, nevertheless, declare in the most solemn manner before God, that I am absolutely innocent of this crime and have no knowledge of it whatever.”

“Then I take it that you did not plead ‘guilty’?” said Thorndyke.

“Certainly not; and I never will,” replied Reuben hotly.

“You would not be the first innocent man, by very many, who has entered that plea,” remarked Mr. Lawley. “It is often the best policy, when the defence is hopelessly weak.”

“It is a policy that will not be adopted by me,” rejoined Reuben. “I may be, and probably shall be, convicted and sentenced, but I shall continue to maintain my innocence, whatever happens. Do you think,” he added, turning to Thorndyke, “that you can undertake my defence on that assumption?”

“It is the only assumption on which I should agree to undertake the case,” replied Thorndyke.

“And—if I may ask the question—” pursued Reuben anxiously, “do you find it possible to conceive that I may really be innocent?”

“Certainly I do,” Thorndyke replied, on which I observed Mr. Lawley’s eyebrows rise perceptibly. “I am a man of facts, not an advocate, and if I found it impossible to entertain the hypothesis of your innocence, I should not be willing to expend time and energy in searching for evidence to prove it. Nevertheless,” he continued, seeing the light of hope break out on the face of the unfortunate young man, “I must impress upon you that the case presents enormous difficulties and that we must be prepared to find them insuperable in spite of all our efforts.”

“I expect nothing but a conviction,” replied Reuben in a calm and resolute voice, “and can face it like a man if only you do not take my guilt for granted, but give me a chance, no matter how small, of making a defence.”

“Everything shall be done that I am capable of doing,” said Thorndyke; “that I can promise you. The long odds against us are themselves a spur to endeavour, as far as I am concerned. And now, let me ask you, have you any cuts or scratches on your fingers?”

Reuben Hornby held out both his hands for my colleague’s inspection, and I noticed that they were powerful and shapely, like the hands of a skilled craftsman, though faultlessly kept. Thorndyke set on the table a large condenser such as is used for microscopic work, and taking his client’s hand, brought the bright spot of light to bear on each finger in succession, examining their tips and the parts around the nails with the aid of a pocket lens.

“A fine, capable hand, this,” said he, regarding the member approvingly, as he finished his examination, “but I don’t perceive any trace of a scar on either the right or left. Will you go over them, Jervis? The robbery took place a fortnight ago, so there has been time for a small cut or scratch to heal and disappear entirely. Still, the matter is worth noting.”

He handed me the lens and I scrutinised every part of each hand without being able to detect the faintest trace of any recent wound.

“There is one other matter that must be attended to before you go,” said Thorndyke, pressing the electric bell-push by his chair. “I will take one or two prints of the left thumb for my own information.”

In response to the summons, Polton made his appearance from some lair unknown to me, but presumably the laboratory, and, having received his instructions, retired, and presently returned carrying a box, which he laid on the table. From this receptacle Thorndyke drew forth a bright copper plate mounted on a slab of hard wood, a small printer’s roller, a tube of finger-print ink, and a number of cards with very white and rather glazed surfaces.

“Now, Mr. Hornby,” said he, “your hands, I see, are beyond criticism as to cleanliness, but we will, nevertheless, give the thumb a final polish.”

Accordingly he proceeded to brush the bulb of the thumb with a well-soaked badger-hair nail-brush, and, having rinsed it in water, dried it with a silk handkerchief, and gave it a final rub on a piece of chamois leather. The thumb having been thus prepared, he squeezed out a drop of the thick ink on to the copper plate and spread it out with the roller, testing the condition of the film from time to time by touching the plate with the tip of his finger and taking an impression on one of the cards.

When the ink had been rolled out to the requisite thinness, he took Reuben’s hand and pressed the thumb lightly but firmly on to the inked plate; then, transferring the thumb to one of the cards, which he directed me to hold steady on the table, he repeated the pressure, when there was left on the card a beautifully sharp and clear impression of the bulb of the thumb, the tiny papillary ridges being shown with microscopic distinctness, and even the mouths of the sweat glands, which appeared as rows of little white dots on the black lines of the ridges. This manoeuvre was repeated a dozen times on two of the cards, each of which thus received six impressions. Thorndyke then took one or two rolled prints, i.e. prints produced by rolling the thumb first on the inked slab and then on the card, by which means a much larger portion of the surface of the thumb was displayed in a single print.

“And now,” said Thorndyke, “that we may be furnished with all the necessary means of comparison, we will take an impression in blood.”

The thumb was accordingly cleansed and dried afresh, when Thorndyke, having pricked his own thumb with a needle, squeezed out a good-sized drop of blood on to a card.

“There,” said he, with a smile, as he spread the drop out with the needle into a little shallow pool, “it is not every lawyer who is willing to shed his blood in the interests of his client.”

He proceeded to make a dozen prints as before on two cards, writing a number with his pencil opposite each print as he made it.

“We are now,” said he, as he finally cleansed his client’s thumb, “furnished with the material for a preliminary investigation, and if you will now give me your address, Mr. Hornby, we may consider our business concluded for the present. I must apologise to you, Mr. Lawley, for having detained you so long with these experiments.”

The lawyer had, in fact, been viewing the proceedings with hardly concealed impatience, and he now rose with evident relief that they were at an end.

“I have been highly interested,” he said mendaciously, “though I confess I do not quite fathom your intentions. And, by the way, I should like to have a few words with you on another matter, if Mr. Reuben would not mind waiting for me in the square just a few minutes.”

“Not at all,” said Reuben, who was, I perceived, in no way deceived by the lawyer’s pretence. “Don’t hurry on my account; my time is my own—at present.” He held out his hand to Thorndyke, who grasped it cordially.

“Good-bye, Mr. Hornby,” said the latter. “Do not be unreasonably sanguine, but at the same time, do not lose heart. Keep your wits about you and let me know at once if anything occurs to you that may have a bearing on the case.”

The young man then took his leave, and, as the door closed after him, Mr. Lawley turned towards Thorndyke.

“I thought I had better have a word with you alone,” he said, “just to hear what line you propose to take up, for I confess that your attitude has puzzled me completely.”

“What line would you propose?” asked Thorndyke.

“Well,” said the lawyer, with a shrug of his shoulders, “the position seems to be this: our young friend has stolen a parcel of diamonds and has been found out; at least, that is how the matter presents itself to me.”

“That is not how it presents itself to me,” said Thorndyke drily. “He may have taken the diamonds or he may not. I have no means of judging until I have sifted the evidence and acquired a few more facts. This I hope to do in the course of the next day or two, and I suggest that we postpone the consideration of our plan of campaign until I have seen what line of defence it is possible to adopt.”

“As you will,” replied the lawyer, taking up his hat, “but I am afraid you are encouraging the young rogue to entertain hopes that will only make his fall the harder—to say nothing of our own position. We don’t want to make ourselves ridiculous in court, you know.”

“I don’t, certainly,” agreed Thorndyke. “However, I will look into the matter and communicate with you in the course of a day or two.”

He stood holding the door open as the lawyer descended the stairs, and when the footsteps at length died away, he closed it sharply and turned to me with an air of annoyance.

“The ‘young rogue,’” he remarked, “does not appear to me to have been very happy in his choice of a solicitor. By the way, Jervis, I understand you are out of employment just now?”

“That is so,” I answered.

“Would you care to help me—as a matter of business, of course—to work up this case? I have a lot of other work on hand and your assistance would be of great value to me.”

I said, with great truth, that I should be delighted.

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “come round to breakfast tomorrow and we will settle the terms, and you can commence your duties at once. And now let us light our pipes and finish our yarns as though agitated clients and thick-headed solicitors had no existence.”

CHAPTER III

A LADY IN THE CASE

When I arrived at Thorndyke’s chambers on the following morning, I found my friend already hard at work. Breakfast was laid at one end of the table, while at the other stood a microscope of the pattern used for examining plate-cultures of micro-organisms, on the wide stage of which was one of the cards bearing six thumb-prints in blood. A condenser threw a bright spot of light on the card, which Thorndyke had been examining when I knocked, as I gathered from the position of the chair, which he now pushed back against the wall.

“I see you have commenced work on our problem,” I remarked as, in response to a double ring of the electric bell, Polton entered with the materials for our repast.

“Yes,” answered Thorndyke. “I have opened the campaign, supported, as usual, by my trusty chief-of-staff; eh! Polton?”

The little man, whose intellectual, refined countenance and dignified bearing seemed oddly out of character with the tea-tray that he carried, smiled proudly, and, with a glance of affectionate admiration at my friend, replied—

“Yes, sir. We haven’t been letting the grass grow under our feet. There’s a beautiful negative washing upstairs and a bromide enlargement too, which will be mounted and dried by the time you have finished your breakfast.”

“A wonderful man that, Jervis,” my friend observed as his assistant retired. “Looks like a rural dean or a chancery judge, and was obviously intended by Nature to be a professor of physics. As an actual fact he was first a watchmaker, then a maker of optical instruments, and now he is mechanical factotum to a medical jurist. He is my right-hand, is Polton; takes an idea before you have time to utter it—but you will make his more intimate acquaintance by-and-by.”

“Where did you pick him up?” I asked.

“He was an in-patient at the hospital when I first met him, miserably ill and broken, a victim of poverty and undeserved misfortune. I gave him one or two little jobs, and when I found what class of man he was I took him permanently into my service. He is perfectly devoted to me, and his gratitude is as boundless as it is uncalled for.”

“What are the photographs he was referring to?” I asked.

“He is making an enlarged facsimile of one of the thumb-prints on bromide paper and a negative of the same size in case we want the print repeated.”

“You evidently have some expectation of being able to help poor Hornby,” said I, “though I cannot imagine how you propose to go to work. To me his case seems as hopeless a one as it is possible to conceive. One doesn’t like to condemn him, but yet his innocence seems almost unthinkable.”

“It does certainly look like a hopeless case,” Thorndyke agreed, “and I see no way out of it at present. But I make it a rule, in all cases, to proceed on the strictly classical lines of inductive inquiry—collect facts, make hypotheses, test them and seek for verification. And I always endeavour to keep a perfectly open mind.

“Now, in the present case, assuming, as we must, that the robbery has actually taken place, there are four conceivable hypotheses: (1) that the robbery was committed by Reuben Hornby; (2) that it was committed by Walter Hornby; (3) that it was committed by John Hornby, or (4) that it was committed by some other person or persons.

“The last hypothesis I propose to disregard for the present and confine myself to the examination of the other three.”

“You don’t think it possible that Mr. Hornby could have stolen the diamonds out of his own safe?” I exclaimed.

“I incline at present to no one theory of the matter,” replied Thorndyke. “I merely state the hypotheses. John Hornby had access to the diamonds, therefore it is possible that he stole them.”

“But surely he was responsible to the owners.”

“Not in the absence of gross negligence, which the owners would have difficulty in proving. You see, he was what is called a gratuitous bailee, and in such a case no responsibility for loss lies with the bailee unless there has been gross negligence.”

“But the thumb-mark, my dear fellow!” I exclaimed. “How can you possibly get over that?”

“I don’t know that I can,” answered Thorndyke calmly; “but I see you are taking the same view as the police, who persist in regarding a finger-print as a kind of magical touchstone, a final proof, beyond which inquiry need not go. Now, this is an entire mistake. A finger-print is merely a fact—a very important and significant one, I admit—but still a fact, which, like any other fact, requires to be weighed and measured with reference to its evidential value.”

“And what do you propose to do first?”

“I shall first satisfy myself that the suspected thumb-print is identical in character with that of Reuben Hornby—of which, however, I have very little doubt, for the finger-print experts may fairly be trusted in their own speciality.”

“And then?”

“I shall collect fresh facts, in which I look to you for assistance, and, if we have finished breakfast, I may as well induct you into your new duties.”

He rose and rang the bell, and then, fetching from the office four small, paper-covered notebooks, laid them before me on the table.

“One of these books,” said he, “we will devote to data concerning Reuben Hornby. You will find out anything you can—anything, mind, no matter how trivial or apparently irrelevant—in any way connected with him and enter it in this book.” He wrote on the cover “Reuben Hornby” and passed the book to me. “In this second book you will, in like manner, enter anything that you can learn about Walter Hornby, and, in the third book, data concerning John Hornby. As to the fourth book, you will keep that for stray facts connected with the case but not coming under either of the other headings. And now let us look at the product of Polton’s industry.”

He took from his assistant’s hand a photograph ten inches long by eight broad, done on glazed bromide paper and mounted flatly on stiff card. It showed a greatly magnified facsimile of one of the thumb-prints, in which all the minute details, such as the orifices of the sweat glands and trifling irregularities in the ridges, which, in the original, could be seen only with the aid of a lens, were plainly visible to the naked eye. Moreover, the entire print was covered by a network of fine black lines, by which it was divided into a multitude of small squares, each square being distinguished by a number.

“Excellent, Polton,” said Thorndyke approvingly; “a most admirable enlargement. You see, Jervis, we have photographed the thumb-print in contact with a numbered micrometer divided into square twelfths of an inch. The magnification is eight diameters, so that the squares are here each two-thirds of an inch in diameter. I have a number of these micrometers of different scales, and I find them invaluable in examining cheques, doubtful signatures and such like. I see you have packed up the camera and the microscope, Polton; have you put in the micrometer?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Polton, “and the six-inch objective and the low-power eye-piece. Everything is in the case; and I have put ‘special rapid’ plates into the dark-slides in case the light should be bad.”

“Then we will go forth and beard the Scotland Yard lions in their den,” said Thorndyke, putting on his hat and gloves.

“But surely,” said I, “you are not going to drag that great microscope to Scotland Yard, when you only want eight diameters. Haven’t you a dissecting microscope or some other portable instrument?”

“We have a most delightful instrument of the dissecting type, of Polton’s own make—he shall show it to you. But I may have need of a more powerful instrument—and here let me give you a word of warning: whatever you may see me do, make no comments before the officials. We are seeking information, not giving it, you understand.”

At this moment the little brass knocker on the inner door—the outer oak being open—uttered a timid and apologetic rat-tat.

“Who the deuce can that be?” muttered Thorndyke, replacing the microscope on the table. He strode across to the door and opened it somewhat brusquely, but immediately whisked his hat off, and I then perceived a lady standing on the threshold.

“Dr. Thorndyke?” she inquired, and as my colleague bowed, she continued, “I ought to have written to ask for an appointment but the matter is rather urgent—it concerns Mr. Reuben Hornby and I only learned from him this morning that he had consulted you.”

“Pray come in,” said Thorndyke. “Dr. Jervis and I were just setting out for Scotland Yard on this very business. Let me present you to my colleague, who is working up the case with me.”

Our visitor, a tall handsome girl of twenty or thereabouts, returned my bow and remarked with perfect self-possession, “My name is Gibson—Miss Juliet Gibson. My business is of a very simple character and need not detain you many minutes.”

She seated herself in the chair that Thorndyke placed for her, and continued in a brisk and business-like manner—

“I must tell you who I am in order to explain my visit to you. For the last six years I have lived with Mr. and Mrs. Hornby, although I am no relation to them. I first came to the house as a sort of companion to Mrs. Hornby, though, as I was only fifteen at the time, I need hardly say that my duties were not very onerous; in fact, I think Mrs. Hornby took me because I was an orphan without the proper means of getting a livelihood, and she had no children of her own.

“Three years ago I came into a little fortune which rendered me independent; but I had been so happy with my kind friends that I asked to be allowed to remain with them, and there I have been ever since in the position of an adopted daughter. Naturally, I have seen a great deal of their nephews, who spend a good part of their time at the house, and I need not tell you that the horrible charge against Reuben has fallen upon us like a thunderbolt. Now, what I have come to say to you is this: I do not believe that Reuben stole those diamonds. It is entirely out of character with all my previous experience of him. I am convinced that he is innocent, and I am prepared to back my opinion.”

“In what way?” asked Thorndyke.

“By supplying the sinews of war,” replied Miss Gibson. “I understand that legal advice and assistance involves considerable expense.”

“I am afraid you are quite correctly informed,” said Thorndyke.

“Well, Reuben’s pecuniary resources are, I am sure, quite small, so it is necessary for his friends to support him, and I want you to promise me that nothing shall be left undone that might help to prove his innocence if I make myself responsible for any costs that he is unable to meet. I should prefer, of course, not to appear in the matter, if it could be avoided.”

“Your friendship is of an eminently practical kind, Miss Gibson,” said my colleague, with a smile. “As a matter of fact, the costs are no affair of mine. If the occasion arose for the exercise of your generosity you would have to approach Mr. Reuben’s solicitor through the medium of your guardian, Mr. Hornby, and with the consent of the accused. But I do not suppose the occasion will arise, although I am very glad you called, as you may be able to give us valuable assistance in other ways. For example, you might answer one or two apparently impertinent questions.”

“I should not consider any question impertinent that you considered necessary to ask,” our visitor replied.

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “I will venture to inquire if any special relations exist between you and Mr. Reuben.”

“You look for the inevitable motive in a woman,” said Miss Gibson, laughing and flushing a little. “No, there have been no tender passages between Reuben and me. We are merely old and intimate friends; in fact, there is what I may call a tendency in another direction—Walter Hornby.”

“Do you mean that you are engaged to Mr. Walter?”

“Oh, no,” she replied; “but he has asked me to marry him—he has asked me, in fact, more than once; and I really believe that he has a sincere attachment to me.”

She made this latter statement with an odd air, as though the thing asserted were curious and rather incredible, and the tone was evidently noticed by Thorndyke as well as me for he rejoined—

“Of course he has. Why not?”

“Well, you see,” replied Miss Gibson, “I have some six hundred a year of my own and should not be considered a bad match for a young man like Walter, who has neither property nor expectations, and one naturally takes that into account. But still, as I have said, I believe he is quite sincere in his professions and not merely attracted by my money.”

“I do not find your opinion at all incredible,” said Thorndyke, with a smile, “even if Mr. Walter were quite a mercenary young man—which, I take it, he is not.”

Miss Gibson flushed very prettily as she replied—

“Oh, pray do not trouble to pay me compliments; I assure you I am by no means insensible of my merits. But with regard to Walter Hornby, I should be sorry to apply the term ‘mercenary’ to him, and yet—well, I have never met a young man who showed a stronger appreciation of the value of money. He means to succeed in life and I have no doubt he will.”

“And do I understand that you refused him?”

“Yes. My feelings towards him are quite friendly, but not of such a nature as to allow me to contemplate marrying him.”

“And now, to return for a moment to Mr. Reuben. You have known him for some years?”

“I have known him intimately for six years,” replied Miss Gibson.

“And what sort of character do you give him?”

“Speaking from my own observation of him,” she replied, “I can say that I have never known him to tell an untruth or do a dishonourable deed. As to theft, it is merely ridiculous. His habits have always been inexpensive and frugal, he is unambitious to a fault, and in respect to the ‘main chance’ his indifference is as conspicuous as Walter’s keenness. He is a generous man, too, although careful and industrious.”

“Thank you, Miss Gibson,” said Thorndyke. “We shall apply to you for further information as the case progresses. I am sure that you will help us if you can, and that you can help us if you will, with your clear head and your admirable frankness. If you will leave us your card, Dr. Jervis and I will keep you informed of our prospects and ask for your assistance whenever we need it.”

After our fair visitor had departed, Thorndyke stood for a minute or more gazing dreamily into the fire. Then, with a quick glance at his watch, he resumed his hat and, catching up the microscope, handed the camera case to me and made for the door.

“How the time goes!” he exclaimed, as we descended the stairs; “but it hasn’t been wasted, Jervis, hey?”

“No, I suppose not,” I answered tentatively.

“You suppose not!” he replied. “Why here is as pretty a little problem as you could desire—what would be called in the jargon of the novels, a psychological problem—and it is your business to work it out, too.”

“You mean as to Miss Gibson’s relations with these two young men?”

Thorndyke nodded.

“Is it any concern of ours?” I asked.

“Certainly it is,” he replied. “Everything is a concern of ours at this preliminary stage. We are groping about for a clue and must let nothing pass unscrutinised.”

“Well, then, to begin with, she is not wildly infatuated with Walter Hornby, I should say.”

“No,” agreed Thorndyke, laughing softly; “we may take it that the canny Walter has not inspired a grand passion.”

“Then,” I resumed, “if I were a suitor for Miss Gibson’s hand, I think I would sooner stand in Reuben’s shoes than in Walter’s.”

“There again I am with you,” said Thorndyke. “Go on.”

“Well,” I continued, “our fair visitor conveyed to me the impression that her evident admiration of Reuben’s character was tempered by something that she had heard from a third party. That expression of hers, ‘speaking from my own observation,’ seemed to imply that her observations of him were not in entire agreement with somebody else’s.”

“Good man!” exclaimed Thorndyke, slapping me on the back, to the undissembled surprise of a policeman whom we were passing; “that is what I had hoped for in you—the capacity to perceive the essential underneath the obvious. Yes; somebody has been saying something about our client, and the thing that we have to find out is, what is it that has been said and who has been saying it. We shall have to make a pretext for another interview with Miss Gibson.”

“By the way, why didn’t you ask her what she meant?” I asked foolishly.

Thorndyke grinned in my face. “Why didn’t you?” he retorted.

“No,” I rejoined, “I suppose it is not politic to appear too discerning. Let me carry the microscope for a time; it is making your arm ache, I see.”

“Thanks,” said he, handing the case to me and rubbing his fingers; “it is rather ponderous.”

“I can’t make out what you want with this great instrument,” I said. “A common pocket lens would do all that you require. Besides, a six-inch objective will not magnify more than two or three diameters.”

“Two, with the draw-tube closed,” replied Thorndyke, “and the low-power eye-piece brings it up to four. Polton made them both for me for examining cheques, bank-notes and other large objects. But you will understand when you see me use the instrument, and remember, you are to make no comments.”

We had by this time arrived at the entrance to Scotland Yard, and were passing up the narrow thoroughfare, when we encountered a uniformed official who halted and saluted my colleague.

“Ah, I thought we should see you here before long, doctor,” said he genially. “I heard this morning that you have this thumb-print case in hand.”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “I am going to see what can be done for the defence.”

“Well,” said the officer as he ushered us into the building, “you’ve given us a good many surprises, but you’ll give us a bigger one if you can make anything of this. It’s a foregone conclusion, I should say.”

“My dear fellow,” said Thorndyke, “there is no such thing. You mean that there is a prima facie case against the accused.”

“Put it that way if you like,” replied the officer, with a sly smile, “but I think you will find this about the hardest nut you ever tried your teeth on—and they’re pretty strong teeth too, I’ll say that. You had better come into Mr. Singleton’s office,” and he conducted us along a corridor and into a large, barely-furnished room, where we found a sedate-looking gentleman seated at a large writing table.

“How-d’ye-do, doctor?” said the latter, rising and holding out his hand. “I can guess what you’ve come for. Want to see that thumb-print, eh?”

“Quite right,” answered Thorndyke, and then, having introduced me, he continued: “We were partners in the last game, but we are on opposite sides of the board this time.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Singleton; “and we are going to give you check-mate.”

He unlocked a drawer and drew forth a small portfolio, from which he extracted a piece of paper which he laid on the table. It appeared to be a sheet torn from a perforated memorandum block, and bore the pencilled inscription: “Handed in by Reuben at 7:30 P.M., 9.3.01. J. H.” At one end was a dark, glossy blood-stain, made by the falling of a good-sized drop, and this was smeared slightly, apparently by a finger or thumb having been pressed on it. Near to it were two or three smaller smears and a remarkably distinct and clean print of a thumb.

Thorndyke gazed intently at the paper for a minute or two, scrutinising the thumb-print and the smears in turn, but making no remark, while Mr. Singleton watched his impassive face with expectant curiosity.

“Not much difficulty in identifying that mark,” the official at length observed.

“No,” agreed Thorndyke; “it is an excellent impression and a very distinctive pattern, even without the scar.”

“Yes,” rejoined Mr. Singleton; “the scar makes it absolutely conclusive. You have a print with you, I suppose?”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, and he drew from a wide flap-pocket the enlarged photograph, at the sight of which Mr. Singleton’s face broadened into a smile.

“You don’t want to put on spectacles to look at that,” he remarked; “not that you gain anything by so much enlargement; three diameters is ample for studying the ridge-patterns. I see you have divided it up into numbered squares—not a bad plan; but ours—or rather Galton’s, for we borrowed the method from him—is better for this purpose.”

He drew from the portfolio a half-plate photograph of the thumb-print which appeared magnified to about four inches in length. The print was marked by a number of figures written minutely with a fine-pointed pen, each figure being placed on an “island,” a loop, a bifurcation or some other striking and characteristic portion of the ridge-pattern.

“This system of marking with reference numbers,” said Mr. Singleton, “is better than your method of squares, because the numbers are only placed at points which are important for comparison, whereas your squares or the intersections of the lines fall arbitrarily on important or unimportant points according to chance. Besides, we can’t let you mark our original, you know, though, of course, we can give you a photograph, which will do as well.”

“I was going to ask you to let me take a photograph presently,” said Thorndyke.

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Singleton, “if you would rather have one of your own taking. I know you don’t care to take anything on trust. And now I must get on with my work, if you will excuse me. Inspector Johnson will give you any assistance you may require.”

“And see that I don’t pocket the original,” added Thorndyke, with a smile at the inspector who had shown us in.

“Oh, I’ll see to that,” said the latter, grinning; and, as Mr. Singleton returned to his table, Thorndyke unlocked the microscope case and drew forth the instrument.

“What, are you going to put it under the microscope?” exclaimed Mr. Singleton, looking round with a broad smile.

“Must do something for my fee, you know,” replied Thorndyke, as he set up the microscope and screwed on two extra objectives to the triple nose-piece.

“You observe that there is no deception,” he added to the inspector, as he took the paper from Mr. Singleton’s table and placed it between two slips of glass.

“I’m watching you, sir,” replied the officer, with a chuckle; and he did watch, with close attention and great interest, while Thorndyke laid the glass slips on the microscope stage and proceeded to focus.

I also watched, and was a good deal exercised in my mind by my colleague’s proceedings. After a preliminary glance with the six-inch glass, he swung round the nose-piece to the half-inch objective and slipped in a more powerful eye-piece, and with this power he examined the blood-stains carefully, and then moved the thumb-print into the field of vision. After looking at this for some time with deep attention, he drew from the case a tiny spirit lamp which was evidently filled with an alcoholic solution of some sodium salt, for when he lit it I recognised the characteristic yellow sodium flame. Then he replaced one of the objectives by a spectroscopic attachment, and having placed the little lamp close to the microscope mirror, adjusted the spectroscope. Evidently my friend was fixing the position of the “D” line (or sodium line) in the spectrum.

Having completed the adjustments, he now examined afresh the blood-smears and the thumb-print, both by transmitted and reflected light, and I observed him hurriedly draw one or two diagrams in his notebook. Then he replaced the spectroscope and lamp in the case and brought forth the micrometer—a slip of rather thin glass about three inches by one and a half—which he laid over the thumb-print in the place of the upper plate of glass.

Having secured it in position by the clips, he moved it about, comparing its appearance with that of the lines on the large photograph, which he held in his hand. After a considerable amount of adjustment and readjustment, he appeared to be satisfied, for he remarked to me—

“I think I have got the lines in the same position as they are on our print, so, with Inspector Johnson’s assistance, we will take a photograph which we can examine at our leisure.”

He extracted the camera—a quarter-plate instrument—from its case and opened it. Then, having swung the microscope on its stand into a horizontal position, he produced from the camera case a slab of mahogany with three brass feet, on which he placed the camera, and which brought the latter to a level with the eye-piece of the microscope.

The front of the camera was fitted with a short sleeve of thin black leather, and into this the eye-piece end of the microscope was now passed, the sleeve being secured round the barrel of the microscope by a stout indiarubber band, thus producing a completely light-tight connection.

Everything was now ready for taking the photograph. The light from the window having been concentrated on the thumb-print by means of a condenser, Thorndyke proceeded to focus the image on the ground-glass screen with extreme care and then, slipping a small leather cap over the objective, introduced the dark slide and drew out the shutter.

“I will ask you to sit down and remain quite still while I make the exposure,” he said to me and the inspector. “A very little vibration is enough to destroy the sharpness of the image.”

We seated ourselves accordingly, and Thorndyke then removed the cap, standing motionless, watch in hand, while he exposed the first plate.

“We may as well take a second, in case this should not turn out quite perfect,” he said, as he replaced the cap and closed the shutter.

He reversed the dark slide and made another exposure in the same way, and then, having removed the micrometer and replaced it by a slip of plain glass, he made two more exposures.

“There are two plates left,” he remarked, as he drew out the second dark slide. “I think I will take a record of the blood-stain on them.”

He accordingly made two more exposures—one of the larger blood-stain and one of the smaller smears.

“There,” said he, with an air of satisfaction, as he proceeded to pack up what the inspector described as his ‘box of tricks.’ “I think we have all the data that we can squeeze out of Scotland Yard, and I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Singleton, for giving so many facilities to your natural enemy, the counsel for the defence.”

“Not our natural enemies, doctor,” protested Mr. Singleton. “We work for a conviction, of course, but we don’t throw obstacles in the way of the defence. You know that perfectly well.”

“Of course I do, my dear sir,” replied Thorndyke, shaking the official by the hand. “Haven’t I benefited by your help a score of times? But I am greatly obliged all the same. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, doctor. I wish you luck, though I fear you will find it ‘no go’ this time.”

“We shall see,” replied Thorndyke, and with a friendly wave of the hand to the inspector he caught up the two cases and led the way out of the building.

CHAPTER IV

CONFIDENCES

During our walk home my friend was unusually thoughtful and silent, and his face bore a look of concentration under which I thought I could detect, in spite of his habitually impassive expression, a certain suppressed excitement of a not entirely unpleasurable kind. I forbore, however, from making any remarks or asking questions, not only because I saw that he was preoccupied, but also because, from my knowledge of the man, I judged that he would consider it his duty to keep his own counsel and to make no unnecessary confidences even to me.

On our arrival at his chambers he immediately handed over the camera to Polton with a few curt directions as to the development of the plates, and, lunch being already prepared, we sat down at the table without delay.

We had proceeded with our meal in silence for some time when Thorndyke suddenly laid down his knife and fork and looked into my face with a smile of quiet amusement.

“It has just been borne in upon me, Jervis,” said he, “that you are the most companionable fellow in the world. You have the heaven-sent gift of silence.”

“If silence is the test of companionability,” I answered, with a grin, “I think I can pay you a similar compliment in even more emphatic terms.”

He laughed cheerfully and rejoined—

“You are pleased to be sarcastic, I observe; but I maintain my position. The capacity to preserve an opportune silence is the rarest and most precious of social accomplishments. Now, most men would have plied me with questions and babbled comments on my proceedings at Scotland Yard, whereas you have allowed me to sort out, without interruption, a mass of evidence while it is still fresh and impressive, to docket each item and stow it away in the pigeonholes of my brain. By the way, I have made a ridiculous oversight.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“The ‘Thumbograph.’ I never ascertained whether the police have it or whether it is still in the possession of Mrs. Hornby.”

“Does it matter?” I inquired.

“Not much; only I must see it. And perhaps it will furnish an excellent pretext for you to call on Miss Gibson. As I am busy at the hospital this afternoon and Polton has his hands full, it would be a good plan for you to drop in at Endsley Gardens—that is the address, I think—and if you can see Miss Gibson, try to get a confidential chat with her, and extend your knowledge of the manners and customs of the three Messieurs Hornby. Put on your best bedside manner and keep your weather eye lifting. Find out everything you can as to the characters and habits of those three gentlemen, regardless of all scruples of delicacy. Everything is of importance to us, even to the names of their tailors.”

“And with regard to the ‘Thumbograph’?”

“Find out who has it, and, if it is still in Mrs. Hornby’s possession, get her to lend it to us or—what might, perhaps, be better—get her permission to take a photograph of it.”

“It shall be done according to your word,” said I. “I will furbish up my exterior, and this very afternoon make my first appearance in the character of Paul Pry.”

About an hour later I found myself upon the doorstep of Mr. Hornby’s house in Endsley Gardens listening to the jangling of the bell that I had just set in motion.

“Miss Gibson, sir?” repeated the parlourmaid in response to my question. “She was going out, but I am not sure whether she has gone yet. If you will step in, I will go and see.”

I followed her into the drawing-room, and, threading my way amongst the litter of small tables and miscellaneous furniture by which ladies nowadays convert their special domain into the semblance of a broker’s shop, let go my anchor in the vicinity of the fireplace to await the parlourmaid’s report.

I had not long to wait, for in less than a minute Miss Gibson herself entered the room. She wore her hat and gloves, and I congratulated myself on my timely arrival.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Dr. Jervis,” she said, holding out her hand with a frank and friendly manner, “but you are very welcome all the same. You have come to tell me something?”

“On the contrary,” I replied, “I have come to ask you something.”

“Well, that is better than nothing,” she said, with a shade of disappointment. “Won’t you sit down?”

I seated myself with caution on a dwarf chair of scrofulous aspect, and opened my business without preamble.

“Do you remember a thing called a ‘Thumbograph’?”

“Indeed I do,” she replied with energy. “It was the cause of all this trouble.”

“Do you know if the police took possession of it?”

“The detective took it to Scotland Yard that the finger-print experts might examine it and compare the two thumb-prints; and they wanted to keep it, but Mrs. Hornby was so distressed at the idea of its being used in evidence that they let her have it back. You see, they really had no further need of it, as they could take a print for themselves when they had Reuben in custody; in fact, he volunteered to have a print taken at once, as soon as he was arrested, and that was done.”

“So the ‘Thumbograph’ is now in Mrs. Hornby’s possession?”

“Yes, unless she has destroyed it. She spoke of doing so.”

“I hope she has not,” said I, in some alarm, “for Dr. Thorndyke is extremely anxious, for some reason, to examine it.”

“Well, she will be down in a few minutes, and then we shall know. I told her you were here. Have you any idea what Dr. Thorndyke’s reason is for wanting to see it?”

“None whatever,” I replied. “Dr. Thorndyke is as close as an oyster. He treats me as he treats every one else—he listens attentively, observes closely, and says nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound very agreeable,” mused Miss Gibson; “and yet he seemed very nice and sympathetic.”

“He is very nice and sympathetic,” I retorted with some emphasis, “but he doesn’t make himself agreeable by divulging his clients’ secrets.”

“I suppose not; and I regard myself as very effectively snubbed,” said she, smiling, but evidently somewhat piqued by my not very tactful observation.

I was hastening to repair my error with apologies and self-accusations, when the door opened and an elderly lady entered the room. She was somewhat stout, amiable and placid of mien, and impressed me (to be entirely truthful) as looking rather foolish.

“Here is Mrs. Hornby,” said Miss Gibson, presenting me to her hostess; and she continued, “Dr. Jervis has come to ask about the ‘Thumbograph.’ You haven’t destroyed it, I hope?”

“No, my dear,” replied Mrs. Hornby. “I have it in my little bureau. What did Dr. Jervis wish to know about it?”

Seeing that she was terrified lest some new and dreadful surprise should be sprung upon her, I hastened to reassure her.

“My colleague, Dr. Thorndyke, is anxious to examine it. He is directing your nephew’s defence, you know.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Hornby. “Juliet told me about him. She says he is a dear. Do you agree with her?”

Here I caught Miss Gibson’s eye, in which was a mischievous twinkle, and noted a little deeper pink in her cheeks.

“Well,” I answered dubiously, “I have never considered my colleague in the capacity of a dear, but I have a very high opinion of him in every respect.”

“That, no doubt, is the masculine equivalent,” said Miss Gibson, recovering from the momentary embarrassment that Mrs. Hornby’s artless repetition of her phrase had produced. “I think the feminine expression is more epigrammatic and comprehensive. But to return to the object of Dr. Jervis’s visit. Would you let him have the ‘Thumbograph,’ aunt, to show to Dr. Thorndyke?”

“Oh, my dear Juliet,” replied Mrs. Hornby, “I would do anything—anything—to help our poor boy. I will never believe that he could be guilty of theft—common, vulgar theft. There has been some dreadful mistake—I am convinced there has—I told the detectives so. I assured them that Reuben could not have committed the robbery, and that they were totally mistaken in supposing him to be capable of such an action. But they would not listen to me, although I have known him since he was a little child, and ought to be able to judge, if anyone is. Diamonds, too! Now, I ask you, what could Reuben want with diamonds? and they were not even cut.”

Here Mrs. Hornby drew forth a lace-edged handkerchief and mopped her eyes.

“I am sure Dr. Thorndyke will be very much interested to see this little book of yours,” said I, with a view to stemming the tide of her reflections.

“Oh, the ‘Thumbograph,’” she replied. “Yes, I will let him have it with the greatest pleasure. I am so glad he wishes to see it; it makes one feel hopeful to know that he is taking so much interest in the case. Would you believe it, Dr. Jervis, those detective people actually wanted to keep it to bring up in evidence against the poor boy. My ‘Thumbograph,’ mind you. But I put my foot down there and they had to return it. I was resolved that they should not receive any assistance from me in their efforts to involve my nephew in this horrible affair.”

“Then, perhaps,” said Miss Gibson, “you might give Dr. Jervis the ‘Thumbograph’ and he can hand it to Dr. Thorndyke.”

“Of course I will,” said Mrs. Hornby; “instantly; and you need not return it, Dr. Jervis. When you have finished with it, fling it into the fire. I wish never to see it again.”

But I had been considering the matter, and had come to the conclusion that it would be highly indiscreet to take the book out of Mrs. Hornby’s custody, and this I now proceeded to explain.

“I have no idea,” I said, “for what purpose Dr. Thorndyke wishes to examine the ‘Thumbograph,’ but it occurs to me that he may desire to put it in evidence, in which case it would be better that it should not go out of your possession for the present. He merely commissioned me to ask for your permission to take a photograph of it.”

“Oh, if he wants a photograph,” said Mrs. Hornby, “I could get one done for him without any difficulty. My nephew Walter would take one for us, I am sure, if I asked him. He is so clever, you know—is he not, Juliet, dear?”

“Yes, aunt,” replied Miss Gibson quickly, “but I expect Dr. Thorndyke would rather take the photograph himself.”

“I am sure he would,” I agreed. “In fact, a photograph taken by another person would not be of much use to him.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Hornby in a slightly injured tone, “you think Walter is just an ordinary amateur; but if I were to show you some of the photographs he has taken you would really be surprised. He is remarkably clever, I assure you.”

“Would you like us to bring the book to Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers?” asked Miss Gibson. “That would save time and trouble.”

“It is excessively good of you—” I began.

“Not at all. When shall we bring it? Would you like to have it this evening?”

“We should very much,” I replied. “My colleague could then examine it and decide what is to be done with it. But it is giving you so much trouble.”

“It is nothing of the kind,” said Miss Gibson. “You would not mind coming with me this evening, would you, aunt?”

“Certainly not, my dear,” replied Mrs. Hornby, and she was about to enlarge on the subject when Miss Gibson rose and, looking at her watch, declared that she must start on her errand at once. I also rose to make my adieux, and she then remarked—

“If you are walking in the same direction as I am, Dr. Jervis, we might arrange the time of our proposed visit as we go along.”

I was not slow to avail myself of this invitation, and a few seconds later we left the house together, leaving Mrs. Hornby smiling fatuously after us from the open door.

“Will eight o’clock suit you, do you think?” Miss Gibson asked, as we walked up the street.

“It will do excellently, I should say,” I answered. “If anything should render the meeting impossible I will send you a telegram. I could wish that you were coming alone, as ours is to be a business conference.”

Miss Gibson laughed softly—and a very pleasant and musical laugh it was.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Dear Mrs. Hornby is a little diffuse and difficult to keep to one subject; but you must be indulgent to her little failings; you would be if you had experienced such kindness and generosity from her as I have.”

“I am sure I should,” I rejoined; “in fact, I am. After all, a little diffuseness of speech and haziness of ideas are no great faults in a generous and amiable woman of her age.”

Miss Gibson rewarded me for these highly correct sentiments with a little smile of approval, and we walked on for some time in silence. Presently she turned to me with some suddenness and a very earnest expression, and said—

“I want to ask you a question, Dr. Jervis, and please forgive me if I beg you to put aside your professional reserve just a little in my favour. I want you to tell me if you think Dr. Thorndyke has any kind of hope or expectation of being able to save poor Reuben from the dreadful peril that threatens him.”

This was a rather pointed question, and I took some time to consider it before replying.

“I should like,” I replied at length, “to tell you as much as my duty to my colleague will allow me to; but that is so little that it is hardly worth telling. However, I may say this without breaking any confidence: Dr. Thorndyke has undertaken the case and is working hard at it, and he would, most assuredly, have done neither the one nor the other if he had considered it a hopeless one.”

“That is a very encouraging view of the matter,” said she, “which, had, however, already occurred to me. May I ask if anything came of your visit to Scotland Yard? Oh, please don’t think me encroaching; I am so terribly anxious and troubled.”

“I can tell you very little about the results of our expedition, for I know very little; but I have an idea that Dr. Thorndyke is not dissatisfied with his morning’s work. He certainly picked up some facts, though I have no idea of their nature, and as soon as we reached home he developed a sudden desire to examine the ‘Thumbograph.’”

“Thank you, Dr. Jervis,” she said gratefully. “You have cheered me more than I can tell you, and I won’t ask you any more questions. Are you sure I am not bringing you out of the way?”

“Not at all,” I answered hastily. “The fact is, I had hoped to have a little chat with you when we had disposed of the ‘Thumbograph,’ so I can regard myself as combining a little business with a great deal of pleasure if I am allowed to accompany you.”

She gave me a little ironical bow as she inquired—

“And, in short, I may take it that I am to be pumped?”

“Come, now,” I retorted. “You have been plying the pump handle pretty vigorously yourself. But that is not my meaning at all. You see, we are absolute strangers to all the parties concerned in this case, which, of course, makes for an impartial estimate of their characters. But, after all, knowledge is more useful to us than impartiality. There is our client, for instance. He impressed us both very favourably, I think; but he might have been a plausible rascal with the blackest of records. Then you come and tell us that he is a gentleman of stainless character and we are at once on firmer ground.”

“I see,” said Miss Gibson thoughtfully; “and suppose that I or some one else had told you things that seemed to reflect on his character. Would they have influenced you in your attitude towards him?”

“Only in this,” I replied; “that we should have made it our business to inquire into the truth of those reports and ascertain their origin.”

“That is what one should always do, I suppose,” said she, still with an air of deep thoughtfulness which encouraged me to inquire—

“May I ask if anyone to your knowledge has ever said anything to Mr. Reuben’s disadvantage?”

She pondered for some time before replying, and kept her eyes bent pensively on the ground. At length she said, not without some hesitation of manner—

“It is a small thing and quite without any bearing on this affair. But it has been a great trouble to me since it has to some extent put a barrier between Reuben and me; and we used to be such close friends. And I have blamed myself for letting it influence me—perhaps unjustly—in my opinion of him. I will tell you about it, though I expect you will think me very foolish.

“You must know, then, that Reuben and I used, until about six months ago, to be very much together, though we were only friends, you understand. But we were on the footing of relatives, so there was nothing out of the way in it. Reuben is a keen student of ancient and mediaeval art, in which I also am much interested, so we used to visit the museums and galleries together and get a great deal of pleasure from comparing our views and impressions of what we saw.

“About six months ago, Walter took me aside one day and, with a very serious face, asked me if there was any kind of understanding between Reuben and me. I thought it rather impertinent of him, but nevertheless, I told him the truth, that Reuben and I were just friends and nothing more.

“‘If that is the case,’ said he, looking mighty grave, ‘I would advise you not to be seen about with him quite so much.’

“‘And why not?’ I asked very naturally.

“‘Why, the fact is,’ said Walter, ‘that Reuben is a confounded fool. He has been chattering to the men at the club and seems to have given them the impression that a young lady of means and position has been setting her cap at him very hard, but that he, being a high-souled philosopher above the temptations that beset ordinary mortals, is superior both to her blandishments and her pecuniary attractions. I give you the hint for your own guidance,’ he continued, ‘and I expect this to go no farther. You mustn’t be annoyed with Reuben. The best of young men will often behave like prigs and donkeys, and I have no doubt the fellows have grossly exaggerated what he said; but I thought it right to put you on your guard.’

“Now this report, as you may suppose, made me excessively angry, and I wanted to have it out with Reuben then and there. But Walter refused to sanction this—‘there was no use in making a scene’ he said—and he insisted that the caution was given to me in strict confidence; so what was I to do? I tried to ignore it and treat Reuben as I always had done, but this I found impossible; my womanly pride was much too deeply hurt. And yet I felt it the lowest depth of meanness to harbour such thoughts of him without giving him the opportunity to defend himself. And although it was most unlike Reuben in some respects, it was very like him in others; for he has always expressed the utmost contempt for men who marry for a livelihood. So I have remained on the horns of a dilemma and am there still. What do you think I ought to have done?”

I rubbed my chin in some embarrassment at this question. Needless to say, I was most disagreeably impressed by Walter Hornby’s conduct, and not a little disposed to blame my fair companion for giving an ear to his secret disparagement of his cousin; but I was obviously not in a position to pronounce, offhand, upon the merits of the case.

“The position appears to be this,” I said, after a pause, “either Reuben has spoken most unworthily and untruthfully of you, or Walter has lied deliberately about him.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “that is the position; but which of the two alternatives appears to you the more probable?”

“That is very difficult to say,” I answered. “There is a certain kind of cad who is much given to boastful rhodomontade concerning his conquests. We all know him and can generally spot him at first sight, but I must say that Reuben Hornby did not strike me as that kind of man at all. Then it is clear that the proper course for Walter to have adopted, if he had really heard such rumours, was to have had the matter out with Reuben, instead of coming secretly to you with whispered reports. That is my feeling, Miss Gibson, but, of course, I may be quite wrong. I gather that our two young friends are not inseparable companions?”

“Oh, they are very good friends, but you see, their interests and views of life are quite different. Reuben, although an excellent worker in business hours, is a student, or perhaps rather what one would call a scholar, whereas Walter is more a practical man of affairs—decidedly long-headed and shrewd. He is undoubtedly very clever, as Mrs. Hornby said.”

“He takes photographs, for instance,” I suggested.

“Yes. But not ordinary amateur photographs; his work is more technical and quite excellent of its kind. For example, he did a most beautiful series of micro-photographs of sections of metalliferous rocks which he reproduced for publication by the collotype process, and even printed off the plates himself.”

“I see. He must be a very capable fellow.”

“He is, very,” she assented, “and very keen on making a position; but I am afraid he is rather too fond of money for its own sake, which is not a pleasant feature in a young man’s character, is it?”

I agreed that it was not.

“Excessive keenness in money affairs,” proceeded Miss Gibson oracularly, “is apt to lead a young man into bad ways—oh, you need not smile, Dr. Jervis, at my wise saws; it is perfectly true, and you know it. The fact is, I sometimes have an uneasy feeling that Walter’s desire to be rich inclines him to try what looks like a quick and easy method of making money. He had a friend—a Mr. Horton—who is a dealer on the Stock Exchange and who ‘operates’ rather largely—‘operate’ I believe is the expression used, although it seems to be nothing more than common gambling—and I have more than once suspected Walter of being concerned in what Mr. Horton calls ‘a little flutter.’”

“That doesn’t strike me as a very long-headed proceeding,” I remarked, with the impartial wisdom of the impecunious, and therefore untempted.

“No,” she agreed, “it isn’t. But your gambler always thinks he is going to win—though you mustn’t let me give you the impression that Walter is a gambler. But here is my destination. Thank you for escorting me so far, and I hope you are beginning to feel less like a stranger to the Hornby family. We shall make our appearance tonight at eight punctually.”

She gave me her hand with a frank smile and tripped up the steps leading to the street door; and when I glanced back, after crossing the road, she gave me a little friendly nod as she turned to enter the house.

CHAPTER V

THE ‘THUMBOGRAPH’

“So your net has been sweeping the quiet and pleasant waters of feminine conversation,” remarked Thorndyke when we met at the dinner table and I gave him an outline of my afternoon’s adventures.

“Yes,” I answered, “and here is the catch cleaned and ready for the consumer.”

I laid on the table two of my notebooks in which I had entered such facts as I had been able to extract from my talk with Miss Gibson.

“You made your entries as soon as possible after your return, I suppose?” said Thorndyke—“while the matter was still fresh?”

“I wrote down my notes as I sat on a seat in Kensington Gardens within five minutes after leaving Miss Gibson.”

“Good!” said Thorndyke. “And now let us see what you have collected.”

He glanced quickly through the entries in the two books, referring back once or twice, and stood for a few moments silent and abstracted. Then he laid the little books down on the table with a satisfied nod.

“Our information, then,” he said, “amounts to this: Reuben is an industrious worker at his business and, in his leisure, a student of ancient and medieval art; possibly a babbling fool and a cad or, on the other hand, a maligned and much-abused man.

“Walter Hornby is obviously a sneak and possibly a liar; a keen man of business, perhaps a flutterer round the financial candle that burns in Throgmorton Street; an expert photographer and a competent worker of the collotype process. You have done a very excellent day’s work, Jervis. I wonder if you see the bearing of the facts that you have collected.”

“I think I see the bearing of some of them,” I answered; “at least, I have formed certain opinions.”

“Then keep them to yourself, mon ami, so that I need not feel as if I ought to unbosom myself of my own views.”

“I should be very much surprised if you did, Thorndyke,” I replied, “and should have none the better opinion of you. I realise fully that your opinions and theories are the property of your client and not to be used for the entertainment of your friends.”

Thorndyke patted me on the back playfully, but he looked uncommonly pleased, and said, with evident sincerity, “I am really grateful to you for saying that, for I have felt a little awkward in being so reticent with you who know so much of this case. But you are quite right, and I am delighted to find you so discerning and sympathetic. The least I can do under the circumstances is to uncork a bottle of Pommard, and drink the health of so loyal and helpful a colleague. Ah! Praise the gods! here is Polton, like a sacrificial priest accompanied by a sweet savour of roasted flesh. Rump steak I ween,” he added, sniffing, “food meet for the mighty Shamash (that pun was fortuitous, I need not say) or a ravenous medical jurist. Can you explain to me, Polton, how it is that your rump steak is better than any other steak? Is it that you have command of a special brand of ox?”

The little man’s dry countenance wrinkled with pleasure until it was as full of lines as a ground-plan of Clapham Junction.

“Perhaps it is the special treatment it gets, sir,” he replied. “I usually bruise it in the mortar before cooking, without breaking up the fibre too much, and then I heat up the little cupel furnace to about 600 C, and put the steak in on a tripod.”

Thorndyke laughed outright. “The cupel furnace, too,” he exclaimed. “Well, well, ‘to what base uses’—but I don’t know that it is a base use after all. Anyhow, Polton, open a bottle of Pommard and put a couple of ten by eight ‘process’ plates in your dark slides. I am expecting two ladies here this evening with a document.”

“Shall you bring them upstairs, sir?” inquired Polton, with an alarmed expression.

“I expect I shall have to,” answered Thorndyke.

“Then I shall just smarten the laboratory up a bit,” said Polton, who evidently appreciated the difference between the masculine and feminine view as to the proper appearance of working premises.

“And so Miss Gibson wanted to know our private views on the case?” said Thorndyke, when his voracity had become somewhat appeased.

“Yes,” I answered; and then I repeated our conversation as nearly as I could remember it.

“Your answer was very discreet and diplomatic,” Thorndyke remarked, “and it was very necessary that it should be, for it is essential that we show the backs of our cards to Scotland Yard; and if to Scotland Yard, then to the whole world. We know what their trump card is and can arrange our play accordingly, so long as we do not show our hand.”

“You speak of the police as your antagonists; I noticed that at the ‘Yard’ this morning, and was surprised to find that they accepted the position. But surely their business is to discover the actual offender, not to fix the crime on some particular person.”

“That would seem to be so,” replied Thorndyke, “but in practice it is otherwise. When the police have made an arrest they work for a conviction. If the man is innocent, that is his business, not theirs; it is for him to prove it. The system is a pernicious one—especially since the efficiency of a police officer is, in consequence, apt to be estimated by the number of convictions he has secured, and an inducement is thus held out to him to obtain a conviction, if possible; but it is of a piece with legislative procedure in general. Lawyers are not engaged in academic discussions or in the pursuit of truth, but each is trying, by hook or by crook, to make out a particular case without regard to its actual truth or even to the lawyer’s own belief on the subject. That is what produces so much friction between lawyers and scientific witnesses; neither can understand the point of view of the other. But we must not sit over the table chattering like this; it has gone half-past seven, and Polton will be wanting to make this room presentable.”

“I notice you don’t use your office much,” I remarked.

“Hardly at all, excepting as a repository for documents and stationery. It is very cheerless to talk in an office, and nearly all my business is transacted with solicitors and counsel who are known to me, so there is no need for such formalities. All right, Polton; we shall be ready for you in five minutes.”

The Temple bell was striking eight as, at Thorndyke’s request, I threw open the iron-bound “oak”; and even as I did so the sound of footsteps came up from the stairs below. I waited on the landing for our two visitors, and led them into the room.

“I am so glad to make your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Hornby, when I had done the honours of introduction; “I have heard so much about you from Juliet—”

“Really, my dear aunt,” protested Miss Gibson, as she caught my eye with a look of comical alarm, “you will give Dr. Thorndyke a most erroneous impression. I merely mentioned that I had intruded on him without notice and had been received with undeserved indulgence and consideration.”

“You didn’t put it quite in that way, my dear,” said Mrs. Hornby, “but I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“We are highly gratified by Miss Gibson’s favourable report of us, whatever may have been the actual form of expression,” said Thorndyke, with a momentary glance at the younger lady which covered her with smiling confusion, “and we are deeply indebted to you for taking so much trouble to help us.”

“It is no trouble at all, but a great pleasure,” replied Mrs. Hornby; and she proceeded to enlarge on the matter until her remarks threatened, like the rippling circles produced by a falling stone, to spread out into infinity. In the midst of this discourse Thorndyke placed chairs for the two ladies, and, leaning against the mantelpiece, fixed a stony gaze upon the small handbag that hung from Mrs. Hornby’s wrist.

“Is the ‘Thumbograph’ in your bag?” interrupted Miss Gibson, in response to this mute appeal.

“Of course it is, my dear Juliet,” replied the elder lady. “You saw me put it in yourself. What an odd girl you are. Did you think I should have taken it out and put it somewhere else? Not that these handbags are really very secure, you know, although I daresay they are safer than pockets, especially now that it is the fashion to have the pocket at the back. Still, I have often thought how easy it would be for a thief or a pickpocket or some other dreadful creature of that kind, don’t you know, to make a snatch and—in fact, the thing has actually happened. Why, I knew a lady—Mrs. Moggridge, you know, Juliet—no, it wasn’t Mrs. Moggridge, that was another affair, it was Mrs.—Mrs.—dear me, how silly of me!—now, what was her name? Can’t you help me, Juliet? You must surely remember the woman. She used to visit a good deal at the Hawley-Johnsons’—I think it was the Hawley-Johnsons’, or else it was those people, you know—”

“Hadn’t you better give Dr. Thorndyke the ‘Thumbograph’?” interrupted Miss Gibson.

“Why, of course, Juliet, dear. What else did we come here for?” With a slightly injured expression, Mrs. Hornby opened the little bag and commenced, with the utmost deliberation, to turn out its contents on to the table. These included a laced handkerchief, a purse, a card-case, a visiting list, a packet of papier poudré, and when she had laid the last-mentioned article on the table, she paused abruptly and gazed into Miss Gibson’s face with the air of one who has made a startling discovery.

“I remember the woman’s name,” she said in an impressive voice. “It was Gudge—Mrs. Gudge, the sister-in-law of—”

Here Miss Gibson made an unceremonious dive into the open bag and fished out a tiny parcel wrapped in notepaper and secured with a silk thread.

“Thank you,” said Thorndyke, taking it from her hand just as Mrs. Hornby was reaching out to intercept it. He cut the thread and drew from its wrappings a little book bound in red cloth, with the word “Thumbograph” stamped upon the cover, and was beginning to inspect it when Mrs. Hornby rose and stood beside him.

“That,” said she, as she opened the book at the first page, “is the thumb-mark of a Miss Colley. She is no connection of ours. You see it is a little smeared—she said Reuben jogged her elbow, but I don’t think he did; at any rate he assured me he did not, and, you know—”

“Ah! Here is one we are looking for,” interrupted Thorndyke, who had been turning the leaves of the book regardless of Mrs. Hornby’s rambling comments; “a very good impression, too, considering the rather rough method of producing it.”

He reached out for the reading lens that hung from its nail above the mantelpiece, and I could tell by the eagerness with which he peered through it at the thumb-print that he was looking for something. A moment later I felt sure that he had found that something which he had sought, for, though he replaced the lens upon its nail with a quiet and composed air and made no remark, there was a sparkle of the eye and a scarcely perceptible flush of suppressed excitement and triumph which I had begun to recognise beneath the impassive mask that he presented to the world.

“I shall ask you to leave this little book with me, Mrs. Hornby,” he said, breaking in upon that lady’s inconsequent babblings, “and, as I may possibly put it in evidence, it would be a wise precaution for you and Miss Gibson to sign your names—as small as possible—on the page which bears Mr. Reuben’s thumb-mark. That will anticipate any suggestion that the book has been tampered with after leaving your hands.”

“It would be a great impertinence for anyone to make any such suggestion,” Mrs. Hornby began; but on Thorndyke’s placing his fountain pen in her hand, she wrote her signature in the place indicated and handed the pen to Miss Gibson, who signed underneath.

“And now,” said Thorndyke, “we will take an enlarged photograph of this page with the thumb-mark; not that it is necessary that it should be done now, as you are leaving the book in my possession; but the photograph will be wanted, and as my man is expecting us and has the apparatus ready, we may as well despatch the business at once.”

To this both the ladies readily agreed (being, in fact, devoured by curiosity with regard to my colleague’s premises), and we accordingly proceeded to invade the set of rooms on the floor above, over which the ingenious Polton was accustomed to reign in solitary grandeur.

It was my first visit to these mysterious regions, and I looked about me with as much curiosity as did the two ladies. The first room that we entered was apparently the workshop, for it contained a small woodworker’s bench, a lathe, a bench for metal work and a number of mechanical appliances which I was not then able to examine; but I noticed that the entire place presented to the eye a most unworkmanlike neatness, a circumstance that did not escape Thorndyke’s observation, for his face relaxed into a grim smile as his eye travelled over the bare benches and the clean-swept floor.

From this room we entered the laboratory, a large apartment, one side of which was given up to chemical research, as was shown by the shelves of reagents that covered the wall, and the flasks, retorts and other apparatus that were arranged on the bench, like ornaments on a drawing-room mantelpiece. On the opposite side of the room was a large, massively-constructed copying camera, the front of which, carrying the lens, was fixed, and an easel or copyholder travelled on parallel guides towards, or away, from it, on a long stand.

This apparatus Thorndyke proceeded to explain to our visitors while Polton was fixing the “Thumbograph” in a holder attached to the easel.

“You see,” he said, in answer to a question from Miss Gibson, “I have a good deal to do with signatures, cheques and disputed documents of various kinds. Now a skilled eye, aided by a pocket-lens, can make out very minute details on a cheque or bank-note; but it is not possible to lend one’s skilled eye to a judge or juryman, so that it is often very convenient to be able to hand them a photograph in which the magnification is already done, which they can compare with the original. Small things, when magnified, develop quite unexpected characters; for instance, you have handled a good many postage stamps, I suppose, but have you ever noticed the little white spots in the upper corner of a penny stamp, or even the difference in the foliage on the two sides of the wreath?”

Miss Gibson admitted that she had not.

“Very few people have, I suppose, excepting stamp-collectors,” continued Thorndyke; “but now just glance at this and you will find these unnoticed details forced upon your attention.” As he spoke, he handed her a photograph, which he had taken from a drawer, showing a penny stamp enlarged to a length of eight inches.

While the ladies were marvelling over this production, Polton proceeded with his work. The “Thumbograph” having been fixed in position, the light from a powerful incandescent gas lamp, fitted with a parabolic reflector, was concentrated on it, and the camera racked out to its proper distance.

“What are those figures intended to show?” inquired Miss Gibson, indicating the graduation on the side of one of the guides.

“They show the amount of magnification or reduction,” Thorndyke explained. “When the pointer is opposite 0, the photograph is the same size as the object photographed; when it points to, say, × 4, the photograph will be four times the width and length of the object, while if it should point to, say, ÷ 4, the photograph will be one-fourth the length of the object. It is now, you see, pointing to × 8, so the photograph will be eight times the diameter of the original thumb-mark.”

By this time Polton had brought the camera to an accurate focus and, when we had all been gratified by a glimpse of the enlarged image on the focussing screen, we withdrew to a smaller room which was devoted to bacteriology and microscopical research, while the exposure was made and the plate developed. Here, after an interval, we were joined by Polton, who bore with infinite tenderness the dripping negative on which could be seen the grotesque transparency of a colossal thumb-mark.

This Thorndyke scrutinised eagerly, and having pronounced it satisfactory, informed Mrs. Hornby that the object of her visit was attained, and thanked her for the trouble she had taken.

“I am very glad we came,” said Miss Gibson to me, as a little later we walked slowly up Mitre Court in the wake of Mrs. Hornby and Thorndyke; “and I am glad to have seen these wonderful instruments, too. It has made me realise that something is being done and that Dr. Thorndyke really has some object in view. It has really encouraged me immensely.”

“And very properly so,” I replied. “I, too, although I really know nothing of what my colleague is doing, feel very strongly that he would not take all this trouble and give up so much valuable time if he had not some very definite purpose and some substantial reasons for taking a hopeful view.”

“Thank you for saying that,” she rejoined warmly; “and you will let me have a crumb of comfort when you can, won’t you?” She looked in my face so wistfully as she made this appeal that I was quite moved; and, indeed, I am not sure that my state of mind at that moment did not fully justify my colleague’s reticence towards me.

However, I, fortunately, had nothing to tell, and so, when we emerged into Fleet Street to find Mrs. Hornby already ensconced in a hansom, I could only promise, as I grasped the hand that she offered to me, to see her again at the earliest opportunity—a promise which my inner consciousness assured me would be strictly fulfilled.

“You seem to be on quite confidential terms with our fair friend,” Thorndyke remarked, as we strolled back towards his chambers. “You are an insinuating dog, Jervis.”

“She is very frank and easy to get on with,” I replied.

“Yes. A good girl and a clever girl, and comely to look upon withal. I suppose it would be superfluous for me to suggest that you mind your eye?”

“I shouldn’t, in any case, try to cut out a man who is under a cloud,” I replied sulkily.

“Of course you wouldn’t; hence the need of attention to the ophthalmic member. Have you ascertained what Miss Gibson’s actual relation is to Reuben Hornby?”

“No,” I answered.

“It might be worth while to find out,” said Thorndyke; and then he relapsed into silence.

CHAPTER VI

COMMITTED FOR TRIAL

Thorndyke’s hint as to the possible danger foreshadowed by my growing intimacy with Juliet Gibson had come upon me as a complete surprise, and had, indeed, been resented by me as somewhat of an impertinence. Nevertheless, it gave me considerable food for meditation, and I presently began to suspect that the watchful eyes of my observant friend might have detected something in my manner towards Miss Gibson suggestive of sentiments that had been unsuspected by myself.

Of course it would be absurd to suppose that any real feeling could have been engendered by so ridiculously brief an acquaintance. I had only met the girl three times, and even now, excepting for business relations, was hardly entitled to more than a bow of recognition. But yet, when I considered the matter impartially and examined my own consciousness, I could not but recognise that she had aroused in me an interest which bore no relation to the part that she had played in the drama that was so slowly unfolding. She was undeniably a very handsome girl, and her beauty was of a type that specially appealed to me—full of dignity and character that gave promise of a splendid middle age. And her personality was in other ways not less attractive, for she was frank and open, sprightly and intelligent, and though evidently quite self-reliant, was in nowise lacking in that womanly softness that so strongly engages a man’s sympathy.

In short, I realised that, had there been no such person as Reuben Hornby, I should have viewed Miss Gibson with uncommon interest.

But, unfortunately, Reuben Hornby was a most palpable reality, and, moreover, the extraordinary difficulties of his position entitled him to very special consideration by any man of honour. It was true that Miss Gibson had repudiated any feelings towards Reuben other than those of old-time friendship; but young ladies are not always impartial judges of their own feelings, and, as a man of the world, I could not but have my own opinion on the matter—which opinion I believed to be shared by Thorndyke. The conclusions to which my cogitations at length brought me were: first, that I was an egotistical donkey, and, second, that my relations with Miss Gibson were of an exclusively business character and must in future be conducted on that basis, with the added consideration that I was the confidential agent, for the time being, of Reuben Hornby, and in honour bound to regard his interests as paramount.

“I am hoping,” said Thorndyke, as he held out his hand for my teacup, “that these profound reflections of yours are connected with the Hornby affair; in which case I should expect to hear that the riddle is solved and the mystery made plain.”

“Why should you expect that?” I demanded, reddening somewhat, I suspect, as I met his twinkling eye. There was something rather disturbing in the dry, quizzical smile that I encountered and the reflection that I had been under observation, and I felt as much embarrassed as I should suppose a self-conscious water-flea might feel on finding itself on the illuminated stage of a binocular microscope.

“My dear fellow,” said Thorndyke, “you have not spoken a word for the last quarter of an hour; you have devoured your food with the relentless regularity of a sausage-machine, and you have, from time to time, made the most damnable faces at the coffee-pot—though there I’ll wager the coffee-pot was even with you, if I may judge by the presentment that it offers of my own countenance.”

I roused myself from my reverie with a laugh at Thorndyke’s quaint conceit and a glance at the grotesquely distorted reflection of my face in the polished silver.

“I am afraid I have been a rather dull companion this morning,” I admitted apologetically.

“By no means,” replied Thorndyke, with a grin. “On the contrary, I have found you both amusing and instructive, and I only spoke when I had exhausted your potentialities as a silent entertainer.”

“You are pleased to be facetious at my expense,” said I.

“Well, the expense was not a very heavy one,” he retorted. “I have been merely consuming a by-product of your mental activity—Hallo! that’s Anstey already.”

A peculiar knock, apparently delivered with the handle of a walking-stick on the outer door, was the occasion of this exclamation, and as Thorndyke sprang up and flung the door open, a clear, musical voice was borne in, the measured cadences of which proclaimed at once the trained orator.

“Hail, learned brother!” it exclaimed. “Do I disturb you untimely at your studies?” Here our visitor entered the room and looked round critically. “’Tis even so,” he declared. “Physiological chemistry and its practical applications appears to be the subject. A physico-chemical inquiry into the properties of streaky bacon and fried eggs. Do I see another learned brother?”

He peered keenly at me through his pince-nez, and I gazed at him in some embarrassment.

“This is my friend Jervis, of whom you have heard me speak,” said Thorndyke. “He is with us in this case, you know.”

“The echoes of your fame have reached me, sir,” said Anstey, holding out his hand. “I am proud to know you. I should have recognised you instantly from the portrait of your lamented uncle in Greenwich Hospital.”

“Anstey is a wag, you understand,” explained Thorndyke, “but he has lucid intervals. He’ll have one presently if we are patient.”

“Patient!” snorted our eccentric visitor, “it is I who need to be patient when I am dragged into police courts and other sinks of iniquity to plead for common thieves and robbers like a Kennington Lane advocate.”

“You’ve been talking to Lawley, I see,” said Thorndyke.

“Yes, and he tells me that we haven’t a leg to stand upon.”

“No, we’ve got to stand on our heads, as men of intellect should. But Lawley knows nothing about the case.”

“He thinks he knows it all,” said Anstey.

“Most fools do,” retorted Thorndyke. “They arrive at their knowledge by intuition—a deuced easy road and cheap travelling too. We reserve our defence—I suppose you agree to that?”

“I suppose so. The magistrate is sure to commit unless you have an unquestionable alibi.”

“We shall put in an alibi, but we are not depending on it.”

“Then we had better reserve our defence,” said Anstey; “and it is time that we wended on our pilgrimage, for we are due at Lawley’s at half-past ten. Is Jervis coming with us?”

“Yes, you’d better come,” said Thorndyke. “It’s the adjourned hearing of poor Hornby’s case, you know. There won’t be anything done on our side, but we may be able to glean some hint from the prosecution.”

“I should like to hear what takes place, at any rate,” I said, and we accordingly sallied forth together in the direction of Lincoln’s Inn, on the north side of which Mr. Lawley’s office was situated.

“Ah!” said the solicitor, as we entered, “I am glad you’ve come; I was getting anxious—it doesn’t do to be late on these occasions, you know. Let me see, do you know Mr. Walter Hornby? I don’t think you do.” He presented Thorndyke and me to our client’s cousin, and as we shook hands, we viewed one another with a good deal of mutual interest.

“I have heard about you from my aunt,” said he, addressing himself more particularly to me. “She appears to regard you as a kind of legal Maskelyne and Cooke. I hope, for my cousin’s sake, that you will be able to work the wonders that she anticipates. Poor old fellow! He looks pretty bad, doesn’t he?”

I glanced at Reuben, who was at the moment talking to Thorndyke, and as he caught my eye he held out his hand with a warmth that I found very pathetic. He seemed to have aged since I had last seen him, and was pale and rather thinner, but he was composed in his manner and seemed to me to be taking his trouble very well on the whole.

“Cab’s at the door, sir,” a clerk announced.

“Cab,” repeated Mr. Lawley, looking dubiously at me; “we want an omnibus.”

“Dr. Jervis and I can walk,” Walter Hornby suggested. “We shall probably get there as soon as you, and it doesn’t matter if we don’t.”

“Yes, that will do,” said Mr. Lawley; “you two walk down together. Now let us go.”

We trooped out on to the pavement, beside which a four-wheeler was drawn up, and as the others were entering the cab, Thorndyke stood close beside me for a moment.

“Don’t let him pump you,” he said in a low voice, without looking at me; then he sprang into the cab and slammed the door.

“What an extraordinary affair this is,” Walter Hornby remarked, after we had been walking in silence for a minute or two; “a most ghastly business. I must confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.”

“How is that?” I asked.

“Why, do you see, there are apparently only two possible theories of the crime, and each of them seems to be unthinkable. On the one hand there is Reuben, a man of the most scrupulous honour, as far as my experience of him goes, committing a mean and sordid theft for which no motive can be discovered—for he is not poor, nor pecuniarily embarrassed nor in the smallest degree avaricious. On the other hand, there is this thumb-print, which, in the opinion of the experts, is tantamount to the evidence of an eye-witness that he did commit the theft. It is positively bewildering. Don’t you think so?”

“As you put it,” I answered, “the case is extraordinarily puzzling.”

“But how else would you put it?” he demanded, with ill-concealed eagerness.

“I mean that, if Reuben is the man you believe him to be, the thing is incomprehensible.”

“Quite so,” he agreed, though he was evidently disappointed at my colourless answer.

He walked on silently for a few minutes and then said: “I suppose it would not be fair to ask if you see any way out of the difficulty? We are all, naturally anxious about the upshot of the affair, seeing what poor old Reuben’s position is.”

“Naturally. But the fact is that I know no more than you do, and as to Thorndyke, you might as well cross-examine a Whitstable native as put questions to him.”

“Yes, so I gathered from Juliet. But I thought you might have gleaned some notion of the line of defence from your work in the laboratory—the microscopical and photographic work I mean.”

“I was never in the laboratory until last night, when Thorndyke took me there with your aunt and Miss Gibson; the work there is done by the laboratory assistant, and his knowledge of the case, I should say, is about as great as a type-founder’s knowledge of the books that he is helping to produce. No; Thorndyke is a man who plays a single-handed game and no one knows what cards he holds until he lays them on the table.”

My companion considered this statement in silence while I congratulated myself on having parried, with great adroitness, a rather inconvenient question. But the time was not far distant when I should have occasion to reproach myself bitterly for having been so explicit and emphatic.

“My uncle’s condition,” Walter resumed after a pause, “is a pretty miserable one at present, with this horrible affair added to his own personal worries.”

“Has he any special trouble besides this, then?” I asked.

“Why, haven’t you heard? I thought you knew about it, or I shouldn’t have spoken—not that it is in any way a secret, seeing that it is public property in the city. The fact is that his financial affairs are a little entangled just now.”

“Indeed!” I exclaimed, considerably startled by this new development.

“Yes, things have taken a rather awkward turn, though I think he will pull through all right. It is the usual thing, you know—investments, or perhaps one should say speculations. He appears to have sunk a lot of capital in mines—thought he was ‘in the know,’ not unnaturally; but it seems he wasn’t after all, and the things have gone wrong, leaving him with a deal more money than he can afford locked up and the possibility of a dead loss if they don’t revive. Then there are these infernal diamonds. He is not morally responsible, we know; but it is a question if he is not legally responsible, though the lawyers think he is not. Anyhow, there is going to be a meeting of the creditors tomorrow.”

“And what do you think they will do?”

“Oh, they will, most probably, let him go on for the present; but, of course, if he is made accountable for the diamonds there will be nothing for it but to ‘go through the hoop,’ as the sporting financier expresses it.”

“The diamonds were of considerable value, then?”

“From twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds’ worth vanished with that parcel.”

I whistled. This was a much bigger affair than I had imagined, and I was wondering if Thorndyke had realised the magnitude of the robbery, when we arrived at the police court.

“I suppose our friends have gone inside,” said Walter. “They must have got here before us.”

This supposition was confirmed by a constable of whom we made inquiry, and who directed us to the entrance to the court. Passing down a passage and elbowing our way through the throng of idlers, we made for the solicitor’s box, where we had barely taken our seats when the case was called.

Unspeakably dreary and depressing were the brief proceedings that followed, and dreadfully suggestive of the helplessness of even an innocent man on whom the law has laid its hand and in whose behalf its inexorable machinery has been set in motion.

The presiding magistrate, emotionless and dry, dipped his pen while Reuben, who had surrendered to his bail, was placed in the dock and the charge read over to him. The counsel representing the police gave an abstract of the case with the matter-of-fact air of a house-agent describing an eligible property. Then, when the plea of “not guilty” had been entered, the witnesses were called. There were only two, and when the name of the first, John Hornby, was called, I glanced towards the witness-box with no little curiosity.

I had not hitherto met Mr. Hornby, and as he now entered the box, I saw an elderly man, tall, florid, and well-preserved, but strained and wild in expression and displaying his uncontrollable agitation by continual nervous movements which contrasted curiously with the composed demeanour of the accused man. Nevertheless, he gave his evidence in a perfectly connected manner, recounting the events connected with the discovery of the crime in much the same words as I had heard Mr. Lawley use, though, indeed, he was a good deal more emphatic than that gentleman had been in regard to the excellent character borne by the prisoner.

After him came Mr. Singleton, of the finger-print department at Scotland Yard, to whose evidence I listened with close attention. He produced the paper which bore the thumb-print in blood (which had previously been identified by Mr. Hornby) and a paper bearing the print, taken by himself, of the prisoner’s left thumb. These two thumb-prints, he stated, were identical in every respect.

“And you are of opinion that the mark on the paper that was found in Mr. Hornby’s safe, was made by the prisoner’s left thumb?” the magistrate asked in dry and business-like tones.

“I am certain of it.”

“You are of opinion that no mistake is possible?”

“No mistake is possible, your worship. It is a certainty.”

The magistrate looked at Anstey inquiringly, whereupon the barrister rose.

“We reserve our defence, your worship.”

The magistrate then, in the same placid, business-like manner, committed the prisoner for trial at the Central Criminal Court, refusing to accept bail for his appearance, and, as Reuben was led forth from the dock, the next case was called.

By special favour of the authorities, Reuben was to be allowed to make his journey to Holloway in a cab, thus escaping the horrors of the filthy and verminous prison van, and while this was being procured, his friends were permitted to wish him farewell.

“This is a hard experience, Hornby,” said Thorndyke, when we three were, for a few moments, left apart from the others; and as he spoke the warmth of a really sympathetic nature broke through his habitual impassivity. “But be of good cheer; I have convinced myself of your innocence and have good hopes of convincing the world—though this is for your private ear, you understand, to be mentioned to no one.”

Reuben wrung the hand of this “friend in need,” but was unable, for the moment, to speak; and, as his self-control was evidently strained to the breaking point, Thorndyke, with a man’s natural instinct, wished him a hasty good-bye, and passing his hand through my arm, turned away.

“I wish it had been possible to save the poor fellow from this delay, and especially from the degradation of being locked up in a jail,” he exclaimed regretfully as we walked down the street.

“There is surely no degradation in being merely accused of a crime,” I answered, without much conviction, however. “It may happen to the best of us; and he is still an innocent man in the eyes of the law.”

“That, my dear Jervis, you know, as well as I do, to be mere casuistry,” he rejoined. “The law professes to regard the unconvicted man as innocent; but how does it treat him? You heard how the magistrate addressed our friend; outside the court he would have called him Mr. Hornby. You know what will happen to Reuben at Holloway. He will be ordered about by warders, will have a number label fastened on to his coat, he will be locked in a cell with a spy-hole in the door, through which any passing stranger may watch him; his food will be handed to him in a tin pan with a tin knife and spoon; and he will be periodically called out of his cell and driven round the exercise yard with a mob composed, for the most part, of the sweepings of the London slums. If he is acquitted, he will be turned loose without a suggestion of compensation or apology for these indignities or the losses he may have sustained through his detention.”

“Still I suppose these evils are unavoidable,” I said.

“That may or may not be,” he retorted. “My point is that the presumption of innocence is a pure fiction; that the treatment of an accused man, from the moment of his arrest, is that of a criminal. However,” he concluded, hailing a passing hansom, “this discussion must be adjourned or I shall be late at the hospital. What are you going to do?”

“I shall get some lunch and then call on Miss Gibson to let her know the real position.”

“Yes, that will be kind, I think; baldly stated, the news may seem rather alarming. I was tempted to thrash the case out in the police court, but it would not have been safe. He would almost certainly have been committed for trial after all, and then we should have shown our hand to the prosecution.”

He sprang into the hansom and was speedily swallowed up in the traffic, while I turned back towards the police court to make certain inquiries concerning the regulations as to visitors at Holloway prison. At the door I met the friendly inspector from Scotland Yard, who gave me the necessary information, whereupon with a certain homely little French restaurant in my mind I bent my steps in the direction of Soho.

CHAPTER VII

SHOALS AND QUICKSANDS

When I arrived at Endsley Gardens, Miss Gibson was at home, and to my unspeakable relief, Mrs. Hornby was not. My veneration for that lady’s moral qualities was excessive, but her conversation drove me to the verge of insanity—an insanity not entirely free from homicidal tendencies.

“It is good of you to come—though I thought you would,” Miss Gibson said impulsively, as we shook hands. “You have been so sympathetic and human—both you and Dr. Thorndyke—so free from professional stiffness. My aunt went off to see Mr. Lawley directly we got Walter’s telegram.”

“I am sorry for her,” I said (and was on the point of adding “and him,” but fortunately a glimmer of sense restrained me); “she will find him dry enough.”

“Yes; I dislike him extremely. Do you know that he had the impudence to advise Reuben to plead ‘guilty’?”

“He told us he had done so, and got a well-deserved snubbing from Thorndyke for his pains.”

“I am so glad,” exclaimed Miss Gibson viciously. “But tell me what has happened. Walter simply said ‘Transferred to higher court,’ which we agreed was to mean, ‘Committed for trial.’ Has the defence failed? And where is Reuben?”

“The defence is reserved. Dr. Thorndyke considered it almost certain that the case would be sent for trial, and that being so, decided that it was essential to keep the prosecution in the dark as to the line of defence. You see, if the police knew what the defence was to be they could revise their own plans accordingly.”

“I see that,” said she dejectedly, “but I am dreadfully disappointed. I had hoped that Dr. Thorndyke would get the case dismissed. What has happened to Reuben?”

This was the question that I had dreaded, and now that I had to answer it I cleared my throat and bent my gaze nervously on the floor.

“The magistrate refused bail,” I said after an uncomfortable pause.

“Well?”

“Consequently Reuben has been—er—detained in custody.”

“You don’t mean to say that they have sent him to prison?” she exclaimed breathlessly.

“Not as a convicted prisoner, you know. He is merely detained pending his trial.”

“But in prison?”

“Yes,” I was forced to admit; “in Holloway prison.”

She looked me stonily in the face for some seconds, pale and wide-eyed, but silent; then, with a sudden catch in her breath, she turned away, and, grasping the edge of the mantel-shelf, laid her head upon her arm and burst into a passion of sobbing.

Now I am not, in general, an emotional man, nor even especially impulsive; but neither am I a stock or a stone or an effigy of wood; which I most surely must have been if I could have looked without being deeply moved on the grief, so natural and unselfish, of this strong, brave, loyal-hearted woman. In effect, I moved to her side and, gently taking in mine the hand that hung down, murmured some incoherent words of consolation in a particularly husky voice.

Presently she recovered herself somewhat and softly withdrew her hand, as she turned towards me drying her eyes.

“You must forgive me for distressing you, as I fear I have,” she said; “for you are so kind, and I feel that you are really my friend and Reuben’s.”

“I am indeed, dear Miss Gibson,” I replied, “and so, I assure you, is my colleague.”

“I am sure of it,” she rejoined. “But I was so unprepared for this—I cannot say why, excepting that I trusted so entirely in Dr. Thorndyke—and it is so horrible and, above all, so dreadfully suggestive of what may happen. Up to now the whole thing has seemed like a nightmare—terrifying, but yet unreal. But now that he is actually in prison, it has suddenly become a dreadful reality and I am overwhelmed with terror. Oh! poor boy! What will become of him? For pity’s sake, Dr. Jervis, tell me what is going to happen.”

What could I do? I had heard Thorndyke’s words of encouragement to Reuben and knew my colleague well enough to feel sure that he meant all he had said. Doubtless my proper course would have been to keep my own counsel and put Miss Gibson off with cautious ambiguities. But I could not; she was worthy of more confidence than that.

“You must not be unduly alarmed about the future,” I said. “I have it from Dr. Thorndyke that he is convinced of Reuben’s innocence, and is hopeful of being able to make it clear to the world. But I did not have this to repeat,” I added, with a slight qualm of conscience.

“I know,” she said softly, “and I thank you from my heart.”

“And as to this present misfortune,” I continued, “you must not let it distress you too much. Try to think of it as of a surgical operation, which is a dreadful thing in itself, but is accepted in lieu of something which is immeasurably more dreadful.”

“I will try to do as you tell me,” she answered meekly; “but it is so shocking to think of a cultivated gentleman like Reuben, herded with common thieves and murderers, and locked in a cage like some wild animal. Think of the ignominy and degradation!”

“There is no ignominy in being wrongfully accused,” I said—a little guiltily, I must own, for Thorndyke’s words came back to me with all their force. But regardless of this I went on: “An acquittal will restore him to his position with an unstained character, and nothing but the recollection of a passing inconvenience to look back upon.”

She gave her eyes a final wipe, and resolutely put away her handkerchief.

“You have given me back my courage,” she said, “and chased away my terror. I cannot tell you how I feel your goodness, nor have I any thank-offering to make, except the promise to be brave and patient henceforth, and trust in you entirely.”

She said this with such a grateful smile, and looked withal so sweet and womanly that I was seized with an overpowering impulse to take her in my arms. Instead of this I said with conscious feebleness: “I am more than thankful to have been able to give you any encouragement—which you must remember comes from me second-hand, after all. It is to Dr. Thorndyke that we all look for ultimate deliverance.”

“I know. But it is you who came to comfort me in my trouble, so, you see, the honours are divided—and not divided quite equally, I fear, for women are unreasoning creatures, as, no doubt, your experience has informed you. I think I hear my aunt’s voice, so you had better escape before your retreat is cut off. But before you go, you must tell me how and when I can see Reuben. I want to see him at the earliest possible moment. Poor fellow! He must not be allowed to feel that his friends have forgotten him even for a single instant.”

“You can see him tomorrow, if you like,” I said; and, casting my good resolutions to the winds, I added: “I shall be going to see him myself, and perhaps Dr. Thorndyke will go.”

“Would you let me call at the Temple and go with you? Should I be much in the way? It is rather an alarming thing to go to a prison alone.”

“It is not to be thought of,” I answered. “If you will call at the Temple—it is on the way—we can drive to Holloway together. I suppose you are resolved to go? It will be rather unpleasant, as you are probably aware.”

“I am quite resolved. What time shall I come to the Temple?”

“About two o’clock, if that will suit you.”

“Very well. I will be punctual; and now you must go or you will be caught.”

She pushed me gently towards the door and, holding out her hand, said—

“I haven’t thanked you half enough and I never can. Good-bye!”

She was gone, and I stood alone in the street, up which yellowish wreaths of fog were beginning to roll. It had been quite clear and bright when I entered the house, but now the sky was settling down into a colourless grey, the light was failing and the houses dwindling into dim, unreal shapes that vanished at half their height. Nevertheless I stepped out briskly and strode along at a good pace, as a young man is apt to do when his mind is in somewhat of a ferment. In truth, I had a good deal to occupy my thoughts and, as will often happen both to young men and old, those matters that bore most directly upon my own life and prospects were the first to receive attention.

What sort of relations were growing up between Juliet Gibson and me? And what was my position? As to hers, it seemed plain enough; she was wrapped up in Reuben Hornby and I was her very good friend because I was his. But for myself, there was no disguising the fact that I was beginning to take an interest in her that boded ill for my peace of mind.

Never had I met a woman who so entirely realised my conception of what a woman should be, nor one who exercised so great a charm over me. Her strength and dignity, her softness and dependency, to say nothing of her beauty, fitted her with the necessary weapons for my complete and utter subjugation. And utterly subjugated I was—there was no use in denying the fact, even though I realised already that the time would presently come when she would want me no more and there would remain no remedy for me but to go away and try to forget her.

But was I acting as a man of honour? To this I felt I could fairly answer “yes,” for I was but doing my duty, and could hardly act differently if I wished to. Besides, I was jeopardising no one’s happiness but my own, and a man may do as he pleases with his own happiness. No; even Thorndyke could not accuse me of dishonourable conduct.

Presently my thoughts took a fresh turn and I began to reflect upon what I had heard concerning Mr. Hornby. Here was a startling development, indeed, and I wondered what difference it would make in Thorndyke’s hypothesis of the crime. What his theory was I had never been able to guess, but as I walked along through the thickening fog I tried to fit this new fact into our collection of data and determine its bearings and significance.

In this, for a time, I failed utterly. The red thumb-mark filled my field of vision to the exclusion of all else. To me, as to everyone else but Thorndyke, this fact was final and pointed to a conclusion that was unanswerable. But as I turned the story of the crime over and over, there came to me presently an idea that set in motion a new and very startling train of thought.

Could Mr. Hornby himself be the thief? His failure appeared sudden to the outside world, but he must have seen difficulties coming. There, indeed, was the thumb-mark on the leaf which he had torn from his pocket-block. Yes! but who had seen him tear it off? No one. The fact rested on his bare statement.

But the thumb-mark? Well, it was possible (though unlikely)—still possible—that the mark might have been made accidentally on some previous occasion and forgotten by Reuben, or even unnoticed. Mr. Hornby had seen the “Thumbograph,” in fact his own mark was in it, and so would have had his attention directed to the importance of finger-prints in identification. He might have kept the marked paper for future use, and, on the occasion of the robbery, pencilled a dated inscription on it, and slipped it into the safe as a sure means of diverting suspicion. All this was improbable in the highest degree, but then so was every other explanation of the crime; and as to the unspeakable baseness of the deed, what action is too base for a gambler in difficulties?

I was so much excited and elated by my own ingenuity in having formed an intelligible and practicable theory of the crime, that I was now impatient to reach home that I might impart my news to Thorndyke and see how they affected him. But as I approached the centre of the town the fog grew so dense that all my attention was needed to enable me to thread my way safely through the traffic; while the strange, deceptive aspect that it lent to familiar objects and the obliteration of landmarks made my progress so slow that it was already past six o’clock when I felt my way down Middle Temple Lane and crept through Crown Office Row towards my colleague’s chambers.

On the doorstep I found Polton peering with anxious face into the blank expanse of yellow vapour.

“The Doctor’s late, sir,” said he. “Detained by the fog, I expect. It must be pretty thick in the Borough.”

(I may mention that, to Polton, Thorndyke was The Doctor. Other inferior creatures there were, indeed, to whom the title of “doctor” in a way, appertained; but they were of no account in Polton’s eyes. Surnames were good enough for them.)

“Yes, it must be,” I replied, “judging by the condition of the Strand.”

I entered and ascended the stairs, glad enough of the prospect of a warm and well-lighted room after my comfortless groping in the murky streets, and Polton, with a final glance up and down the walk reluctantly followed.

“You would like some tea, sir, I expect?” said he, as he let me in (though I had a key of my own now).

I thought I should, and he accordingly set about the preparations in his deft methodical way, but with an air of abstraction that was unusual with him.

“The Doctor said he should be home by five,” he remarked, as he laid the tea-pot on the tray.

“Then he is a defaulter,” I answered. “We shall have to water his tea.”

“A wonderful punctual man, sir, is the Doctor,” pursued Polton. “Keeps his time to the minute, as a rule, he does.”

“You can’t keep your time to a minute in a ‘London Particular,’” I said a little impatiently, for I wished to be alone that I might think over matters, and Polton’s nervous flutterings irritated me somewhat. He was almost as bad as a female housekeeper.

The little man evidently perceived my state of mind, for he stole away silently, leaving me rather penitent and ashamed, and, as I presently discovered on looking out of the window, resumed his vigil on the doorstep. From this coign of vantage he returned after a time to take away the tea-things; and thereafter, though it was now dark as well as foggy, I could hear him softly flitting up and down the stairs with a gloomy stealthiness that at length reduced me to a condition as nervously apprehensive as his own.

CHAPTER VIII

A SUSPICIOUS ACCIDENT

The Temple clock had announced in soft and confidential tones that it was a quarter to seven, in which statement it was stoutly supported by its colleague on our mantelpiece, and still there was no sign of Thorndyke. It was really a little strange, for he was the soul of punctuality, and moreover, his engagements were of such a kind as rendered punctuality possible. I was burning with impatience to impart my news to him, and this fact, together with the ghostly proceedings of Polton, worked me up to a state of nervous tension that rendered either rest or thought equally impossible. I looked out of the window at the lamp below, glaring redly through the fog, and then, opening the door, went out on to the landing to listen.

At this moment Polton made a silent appearance on the stairs leading from the laboratory, giving me quite a start; and I was about to retire into the room when my ear caught the tinkle of a hansom approaching from Paper Buildings.

The vehicle drew nearer, and at length stopped opposite the house, on which Polton slid down the stairs with the agility of a harlequin. A few moments later I heard his voice ascending from the hall—

“I do hope, sir, you’re not much hurt?”

I ran down the stairs and met Thorndyke coming up slowly with his right hand on Polton’s shoulder. His clothes were muddy, his left arm was in a sling, and a black handkerchief under his hat evidently concealed a bandage.

“I am not really hurt at all,” Thorndyke replied cheerily, “though very disreputable to look at. Just came a cropper in the mud, Jervis,” he added, as he noted my dismayed expression. “Dinner and a clothes-brush are what I chiefly need.” Nevertheless, he looked very pale and shaken when he came into the light on the landing, and he sank into his easy-chair in the limp manner of a man either very weak or very fatigued.

“How did it happen?” I asked when Polton had crept away on tip-toe to make ready for dinner.

Thorndyke looked round to make sure that his henchman had departed, and said—

“A queer affair, Jervis; a very odd affair indeed. I was coming up from the Borough, picking my way mighty carefully across the road on account of the greasy, slippery mud, and had just reached the foot of London Bridge when I heard a heavy lorry coming down the slope a good deal too fast, considering that it was impossible to see more than a dozen yards ahead, and I stopped on the kerb to see it safely past. Just as the horses emerged from the fog, a man came up behind and lurched violently against me and, strangely enough, at the same moment passed his foot in front of mine. Of course I went sprawling into the road right in front of the lorry. The horses came stamping and sliding straight on to me, and, before I could wriggle out of the way, the hoof of one of them smashed in my hat—that was a new one that I came home in—and half-stunned me. Then the near wheel struck my head, making a dirty little scalp wound, and pinned down my sleeve so that I couldn’t pull away my arm, which is consequently barked all the way down. It was a mighty near thing, Jervis; another inch or two and I should have been rolled out as flat as a starfish.”

“What became of the man?” I asked, wishing I could have had a brief interview with him.

“Lost to sight though to memory dear: he was off like a lamplighter. An alcoholic apple-woman picked me up and escorted me back to the hospital. It must have been a touching spectacle,” he added, with a dry smile at the recollection.

“And I suppose they kept you there for a time to recover?”

“Yes; I went into dry dock in the O. P. room, and then old Langdale insisted on my lying down for an hour or so in case any symptoms of concussion should appear. But I was only a trifle shaken and confused. Still, it was a queer affair.”

“You mean the man pushing you down in that way?”

“Yes; I can’t make out how his foot got in front of mine.”

“You don’t think it was intentional, surely?” I said.

“No, of course not,” he replied, but without much conviction, as it seemed to me; and I was about to pursue the matter when Polton reappeared, and my friend abruptly changed the subject.

After dinner I recounted my conversation with Walter Hornby, watching my colleague’s face with some eagerness to see what effect this new information would produce on him. The result was, on the whole, disappointing. He was interested, keenly interested, but showed no symptoms of excitement.

“So John Hornby has been plunging in mines, eh?” he said, when I had finished. “He ought to know better at his age. Did you learn how long he had been in difficulties?”

“No. But it can hardly have been quite sudden and unforeseen.”

“I should think not,” Thorndyke agreed. “A sudden slump often proves disastrous to the regular Stock Exchange gambler who is paying differences on large quantities of unpaid-for stock. But it looks as if Hornby had actually bought and paid for these mines, treating them as investments rather than speculations, in which case the depreciation would not have affected him in the same way. It would be interesting to know for certain.”

“It might have a considerable bearing on the present case, might it not?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Thorndyke. “It might bear on the case in more ways than one. But you have some special point in your mind, I think.”

“Yes. I was thinking that if these embarrassments had been growing up gradually for some time, they might have already assumed an acute form at the time of the robbery.”

“That is well considered,” said my colleague. “But what is the special bearing on the case supposing it was so?”

“On the supposition,” I replied, “that Mr. Hornby was in actual pecuniary difficulties at the date of the robbery, it seems to me possible to construct a hypothesis as to the identity of the robber.”

“I should like to hear that hypothesis stated,” said Thorndyke, rousing himself and regarding me with lively interest.

“It is a highly improbable one,” I began with some natural shyness at the idea of airing my wits before this master of inductive method; “in fact, it is almost fantastic.”

“Never mind that,” said he. “A sound thinker gives equal consideration to the probable and the improbable.”

Thus encouraged, I proceeded to set forth the theory of the crime as it had occurred to me on my way home in the fog, and I was gratified to observe the close attention with which Thorndyke listened, and his little nods of approval at each point that I made.

When I had finished, he remained silent for some time, looking thoughtfully into the fire and evidently considering how my theory and the new facts on which it was based would fit in with the rest of the data. At length he spoke, without, however, removing his eyes from the red embers—

“This theory of yours, Jervis, does great credit to your ingenuity. We may disregard the improbability, seeing that the alternative theories are almost equally improbable, and the fact that emerges, and that gratifies me more than I can tell you, is that you are gifted with enough scientific imagination to construct a possible train of events. Indeed, the improbability—combined, of course, with possibility—really adds to the achievement, for the dullest mind can perceive the obvious—as, for instance, the importance of a finger-print. You have really done a great thing, and I congratulate you; for you have emancipated yourself, at least to some extent, from the great finger-print obsession, which has possessed the legal mind ever since Galton published his epoch-making monograph. In that work I remember he states that a finger-print affords evidence requiring no corroboration—a most dangerous and misleading statement which has been fastened upon eagerly by the police, who have naturally been delighted at obtaining a sort of magic touchstone by which they are saved the labour of investigation. But there is no such thing as a single fact that ‘affords evidence requiring no corroboration.’ As well might one expect to make a syllogism with a single premise.”

“I suppose they would hardly go so far as that,” I said, laughing.

“No,” he admitted. “But the kind of syllogism that they do make is this—

“‘The crime was committed by the person who made this finger-print.

“‘But John Smith is the person who made the finger-print.

“‘Therefore the crime was committed by John Smith.’”

“Well, that is a perfectly good syllogism, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Perfectly,” he replied. “But, you see, it begs the whole question, which is, ‘Was the crime committed by the person who made this finger-print?’ That is where the corroboration is required.”

“That practically leaves the case to be investigated without reference to the finger-print, which thus becomes of no importance.”

“Not at all,” rejoined Thorndyke; “the finger-print is a most valuable clue as long as its evidential value is not exaggerated. Take our present case, for instance. Without the thumb-print, the robbery might have been committed by anybody; there is no clue whatever. But the existence of the thumb-print narrows the inquiry down to Reuben or some person having access to his finger-prints.”

“Yes, I see. Then you consider my theory of John Hornby as the perpetrator of the robbery as quite a tenable one?”

“Quite,” replied Thorndyke. “I have entertained it from the first; and the new facts that you have gathered increase its probability. You remember I said that four hypotheses were possible: that the robbery was committed either by Reuben, by Walter, by John Hornby, or by some other person. Now, putting aside the ‘some other person’ for consideration only if the first three hypotheses fail, we have left, Reuben, Walter, and John. But if we leave the thumb-print out of the question, the probabilities evidently point to John Hornby, since he, admittedly, had access to the diamonds, whereas there is nothing to show that the others had. The thumb-print, however, transfers the suspicion to Reuben; but yet, as your theory makes evident, it does not completely clear John Hornby. As the case stands, the balance of probabilities may be stated thus: John Hornby undoubtedly had access to the diamonds, and therefore might have stolen them. But if the thumb-mark was made after he closed the safe and before he opened it again, some other person must have had access to them, and was probably the thief.

“The thumb-mark is that of Reuben Hornby, a fact that establishes a prima facie probability that he stole the diamonds. But there is no evidence that he had access to them, and if he had not, he could not have made the thumb-mark in the manner and at the time stated.

“But John Hornby may have had access to the previously-made thumb-mark of Reuben, and may possibly have obtained it; in which case he is almost certainly the thief.

“As to Walter Hornby, he may have had the means of obtaining Reuben’s thumb-mark; but there is no evidence that he had access either to the diamonds or to Mr. Hornby’s memorandum block. The prima facie probabilities in his case, therefore, are very slight.”

“The actual points at issue, then,” I said, “are, whether Reuben had any means of opening the safe, and whether Mr. Hornby ever did actually have the opportunity of obtaining Reuben’s thumb-mark in blood on his memorandum block.”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “Those are the points—with some others—and they are likely to remain unsettled. Reuben’s rooms have been searched by the police, who failed to find any skeleton or duplicate keys; but this proves nothing, as he would probably have made away with them when he heard of the thumb-mark being found. As to the other matter, I have asked Reuben, and he has no recollection of ever having made a thumb-mark in blood. So there the matter rests.”

“And what about Mr. Hornby’s liability for the diamonds?”

“I think we may dismiss that,” answered Thorndyke. “He had undertaken no liability and there was no negligence. He would not be liable at law.”

After my colleague retired, which he did quite early, I sat for a long time pondering upon this singular case in which I found myself involved. And the more I thought about it the more puzzled I became. If Thorndyke had no more satisfactory explanation to offer than that which he had given me this evening, the defence was hopeless, for the court was not likely to accept his estimate of the evidential value of finger-prints. Yet he had given Reuben something like a positive assurance that there would be an adequate defence, and had expressed his own positive conviction of the accused man’s innocence. But Thorndyke was not a man to reach such a conviction through merely sentimental considerations. The inevitable conclusion was that he had something up his sleeve—that he had gained possession of some facts that had escaped my observation; and when I had reached this point I knocked out my pipe and betook myself to bed.

CHAPTER IX

THE PRISONER

On the following morning, as I emerged from my room, I met Polton coming up with a tray (our bedrooms were on the attic floor above the laboratory and workshop), and I accordingly followed him into my friend’s chamber.

“I shan’t go out today,” said Thorndyke, “though I shall come down presently. It is very inconvenient, but one must accept the inevitable. I have had a knock on the head, and, although I feel none the worse, I must take the proper precautions—rest and a low diet—until I see that no results are going to follow. You can attend to the scalp wound and send round the necessary letters, can’t you?”

I expressed my willingness to do all that was required and applauded my friend’s self-control and good sense; indeed, I could not help contrasting the conduct of this busy, indefatigable man, cheerfully resigning himself to most distasteful inaction, with the fussy behaviour of the ordinary patient who, with nothing of importance to do, can hardly be prevailed upon to rest, no matter how urgent the necessity. Accordingly, I breakfasted alone, and spent the morning in writing and despatching letters to the various persons who were expecting visits from my colleague.

Shortly after lunch (a very spare one, by the way, for Polton appeared to include me in the scheme of reduced diet) my expectant ear caught the tinkle of a hansom approaching down Crown Office Row.

“Here comes your fair companion,” said Thorndyke, whom I had acquainted with my arrangements, “Tell Hornby, from me, to keep up his courage, and, for yourself, bear my warning in mind. I should be sorry indeed if you ever had cause to regret that you had rendered me the very valuable services for which I am now indebted to you. Good-bye; don’t keep her waiting.”

I ran down the stairs and came out of the entry just as the cabman had pulled up and flung open the doors.

“Holloway Prison—main entrance,” I said, as I stepped up on to the footboard.

“There ain’t no back door there, sir,” the man responded, with a grin; and I was glad that neither the answer nor the grin was conveyed to my fellow-passenger.

“You are very punctual, Miss Gibson,” I said. “It is not half-past one yet.”

“Yes; I thought I should like to get there by two, so as to have as long a time with him as is possible without shortening your interview.”

I looked at my companion critically. She was dressed with rather more than her usual care, and looked, in fact, a very fine lady indeed. This circumstance, which I noted at first with surprise and then with decided approbation, caused me some inward discomfort, for I had in my mind a very distinct and highly disagreeable picture of the visiting arrangements at a local prison in one of the provinces, at which I had acted temporarily as medical officer.

“I suppose,” I said at length, “it is of no use for me to re-open the question of the advisability of this visit on your part?”

“Not the least,” she replied resolutely, “though I understand and appreciate your motive in wishing to do so.”

“Then,” said I, “if you are really decided, it will be as well for me to prepare you for the ordeal. I am afraid it will give you a terrible shock.”

“Indeed?” said she. “Is it so bad? Tell me what it will be like.”

“In the first place,” I replied, “you must keep in your mind the purpose of a prison like Holloway. We are going to see an innocent man—a cultivated and honourable gentleman. But the ordinary inmates of Holloway are not innocent men; for the most part, the remand cases on the male side are professional criminals, while the women are either petty offenders or chronic inebriates. Most of them are regular customers at the prison—such is the idiotic state of the law—who come into the reception-room like travellers entering a familiar hostelry, address the prison officers by name and demand the usual privileges and extra comforts—the ‘drunks,’ for instance, generally ask for a dose of bromide to steady their nerves and a light in the cell to keep away the horrors. And such being the character of the inmates, their friends who visit them are naturally of the same type—the lowest outpourings of the slums; and it is not surprising to find that the arrangements of the prison are made to fit its ordinary inmates. The innocent man is a negligible quantity, and no arrangements are made for him or his visitors.”

“But shall we not be taken to Reuben’s cell?” asked Miss Gibson.

“Bless you! no,” I answered; and, determined to give her every inducement to change her mind, I continued: “I will describe the procedure as I have seen it—and a very dreadful and shocking sight I found it, I can tell you. It was while I was acting as a prison doctor in the Midlands that I had this experience. I was going my round one morning when, passing along a passage, I became aware of a strange, muffled roar from the other side of the wall.

“‘What is that noise?’ I asked the warder who was with me.

“‘Prisoners seeing their friends,’ he answered. ‘Like to have a look at them, sir?’

“He unlocked a small door and, as he threw it open, the distant, muffled sound swelled into a deafening roar. I passed through the door and found myself in a narrow alley at one end of which a warder was sitting. The sides of the alley were formed by two immense cages with stout wire bars, one for the prisoners and the other for the visitors; and each cage was lined with faces and hands, all in incessant movement, the faces mouthing and grimacing, and the hands clawing restlessly at the bars. The uproar was so terrific that no single voice could be distinguished, though every one present was shouting his loudest to make himself heard above the universal din. The result was a very strange and horrid illusion, for it seemed as if no one was speaking at all, but that the noise came from outside, and that each one of the faces—low, vicious faces, mostly—was silently grimacing and gibbering, snapping its jaws and glaring furiously at the occupants of the opposite cage. It was a frightful spectacle. I could think of nothing but the monkey-house at the Zoo. It seemed as if one ought to walk up the alley and offer nuts and pieces of paper to be torn to pieces.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Miss Gibson. “And do you mean to say that we shall be turned loose into one of these cages with a herd of other visitors?”

“No. You are not turned loose anywhere in a prison. The arrangement is this: each cage is divided by partitions into a number of small boxes or apartments, which are numbered. The prisoner is locked in one box and his visitor in the corresponding box opposite. They are thus confronted, with the width of the alley between them; they can see one another and talk but cannot pass any forbidden articles across—a very necessary precaution, I need hardly say.”

“Yes, I suppose it is necessary, but it is horrible for decent people. Surely they ought to be able to discriminate.”

“Why not give it up and let me take a message to Reuben? He would understand and be thankful to me for dissuading you.”

“No, no,” she said quickly; “the more repulsive it is the greater the necessity for me to go. He must not be allowed to think that a trifling inconvenience or indignity is enough to scare his friends away. What building is that ahead?”

We had just swung round from Caledonian Road into a quiet and prosperous-looking suburban street, at the end of which rose the tower of a castellated building.

“That is the prison,” I replied. “We are looking at it from the most advantageous point of view; seen from the back, and especially from the inside, it is a good deal less attractive.”

Nothing more was said until the cab drove into the courtyard and set us down outside the great front gates. Having directed the cabman to wait for us, I rang the bell and we were speedily admitted through a wicket (which was immediately closed and locked) into a covered court closed in by a second gate, through the bars of which we could see across an inner courtyard to the actual entrance to the prison. Here, while the necessary formalities were gone through, we found ourselves part of a numerous and very motley company, for a considerable assemblage of the prisoners’ friends was awaiting the moment of admission. I noticed that my companion was observing our fellow-visitors with a kind of horrified curiosity, which she strove, however, and not unsuccessfully, to conceal; and certainly the appearance of the majority furnished eloquent testimony to the failure of crime as a means of worldly advancement. Their present position was productive of very varied emotions; some were silent and evidently stricken with grief; a larger number were voluble and excited, while a considerable proportion were quite cheerful and even inclined to be facetious.

At length the great iron gate was unlocked and our party taken in charge by a warder, who conducted us to that part of the building known as “the wing”; and, in the course of our progress, I could not help observing the profound impression made upon my companion by the circumstance that every door had to be unlocked to admit us and was locked again as soon as we had passed through.

“It seems to me,” I said, as we neared our destination, “that you had better let me see Reuben first; I have not much to say to him and shall not keep you waiting long.”

“Why do you think so?” she asked, with a shade of suspicion.

“Well,” I answered, “I think you may be a little upset by the interview, and I should like to see you into your cab as soon as possible afterwards.”

“Yes,” she said; “perhaps you are right, and it is kind of you to be so thoughtful on my account.”

A minute later, accordingly, I found myself shut into a narrow box, like one of those which considerate pawnbrokers provide for their more diffident clients, and in a similar, but more intense, degree, pervaded by a subtle odour of uncleanness. The woodwork was polished to an unctuous smoothness by the friction of numberless dirty hands and soiled garments, and the general appearance—taken in at a glance as I entered—was such as to cause me to thrust my hands into my pockets and studiously avoid contact with any part of the structure but the floor. The end of the box opposite the door was closed in by a strong grating of wire—excepting the lower three feet, which was of wood—and looking through this, I perceived, behind a second grating, Reuben Hornby, standing in a similar attitude to my own. He was dressed in his usual clothes and with his customary neatness, but his face was unshaven and he wore, suspended from a button-hole, a circular label bearing the characters “B.31”; and these two changes in his exterior carried with them a suggestiveness as subtle as it was unpleasant, making me more than ever regretful that Miss Gibson had insisted on coming.

“It is exceedingly good of you, Dr. Jervis, to come and see me,” he said heartily, making himself heard quite easily, to my surprise, above the hubbub of the adjoining boxes; “but I didn’t expect you here. I was told I could see my legal advisers in the solicitor’s box.”

“So you could,” I answered. “But I came here by choice because I have brought Miss Gibson with me.”

“I am sorry for that,” he rejoined, with evident disapproval; “she oughtn’t to have come among these riff-raff.”

“I told her so, and that you wouldn’t like it, but she insisted.”

“I know,” said Reuben. “That’s the worst of women—they will make a beastly fuss and sacrifice themselves when nobody wants them to. But I mustn’t be ungrateful; she means it kindly, and she’s a deuced good sort, is Juliet.”

“She is indeed,” I exclaimed, not a little disgusted at his cool, unappreciative tone; “a most noble-hearted girl, and her devotion to you is positively heroic.”

The faintest suspicion of a smile appeared on the face seen through the double grating; on which I felt that I could have pulled his nose with pleasure—only that a pair of tongs of special construction would have been required for the purpose.

“Yes,” he answered calmly, “we have always been very good friends.”

A rejoinder of the most extreme acidity was on my lips. Damn the fellow! What did he mean by speaking in that supercilious tone of the loveliest and sweetest woman in the world? But, after all, one cannot trample on a poor devil locked up in a jail on a false charge, no matter how great may be the provocation. I drew a deep breath, and, having recovered myself, outwardly at least, said—

“I hope you don’t find the conditions here too intolerable?”

“Oh, no,” he answered. “It’s beastly unpleasant, of course, but it might easily be worse. I don’t mind if it’s only for a week or two; and I am really encouraged by what Dr. Thorndyke said. I hope he wasn’t being merely soothing.”

“You may take it that he was not. What he said, I am sure he meant. Of course, you know I am not in his confidence—nobody is—but I gather that he is satisfied with the defence he is preparing.”

“If he is satisfied, I am,” said Reuben, “and, in any case, I shall owe him an immense debt of gratitude for having stood by me and believed in me when all the world—except my aunt and Juliet—had condemned me.”

He then went on to give me a few particulars of his prison life, and when he had chatted for a quarter of an hour or so, I took my leave to make way for Miss Gibson.

Her interview with him was not as long as I had expected, though, to be sure, the conditions were not very favourable either for the exchange of confidences or for utterances of a sentimental character. The consciousness that one’s conversation could be overheard by the occupants of adjacent boxes destroyed all sense of privacy, to say nothing of the disturbing influence of the warder in the alley-way.

When she rejoined me, her manner was abstracted and very depressed, a circumstance that gave me considerable food for reflection as we made our way in silence towards the main entrance. Had she found Reuben as cool and matter-of-fact as I had? He was assuredly a very calm and self-possessed lover, and it was conceivable that his reception of the girl, strung up, as she was, to an acute pitch of emotion, might have been somewhat in the nature of an anticlimax. And then, was it possible that the feeling was on her side only? Could it be that the priceless pearl of her love was cast before—I was tempted to use the colloquial singular and call him an “unappreciative swine!” The thing was almost unthinkable to me, and yet I was tempted to dwell upon it; for when a man is in love—and I could no longer disguise my condition from myself—he is inclined to be humble and to gather up thankfully the treasure that is rejected of another.

I was brought up short in these reflections by the clank of the lock in the great iron gate. We entered together the gloomy vestibule, and a moment later were let out through the wicket into the courtyard; and as the lock clicked behind us, we gave a simultaneous sigh of relief to find ourselves outside the precincts of the prison, beyond the domain of bolts and bars.

I had settled Miss Gibson in the cab and given her address to the driver, when I noticed her looking at me, as I thought, somewhat wistfully.

“Can’t I put you down somewhere?” she said, in response to a half-questioning glance from me.

I seized the opportunity with thankfulness and replied—

“You might set me down at King’s Cross if it is not delaying you;” and giving the word to the cabman, I took my place by her side as the cab started and a black-painted prison van turned into the courtyard with its freight of squalid misery.

“I don’t think Reuben was very pleased to see me,” Miss Gibson remarked presently, “but I shall come again all the same. It is a duty I owe both to him and to myself.”

I felt that I ought to endeavour to dissuade her, but the reflection that her visits must almost of necessity involve my companionship, enfeebled my will. I was fast approaching a state of infatuation.

“I was so thankful,” she continued, “that you prepared me. It was a horrible experience to see the poor fellow caged like a wild beast, with that dreadful label hanging from his coat; but it would have been overwhelming if I had not known what to expect.”

As we proceeded, her spirits revived somewhat, a circumstance that she graciously ascribed to the enlivening influence of my society; and I then told her of the mishap that had befallen my colleague.

“What a terrible thing!” she exclaimed, with evidently unaffected concern. “It is the merest chance that he was not killed on the spot. Is he much hurt? And would he mind, do you think, if I called to inquire after him?”

I said that I was sure he would be delighted (being, as a matter of fact, entirely indifferent as to his sentiments on the subject in my delight at the proposal), and when I stepped down from the cab at King’s Cross to pursue my way homewards, there already opened out before me the prospect of the renewal of this bitter-sweet and all too dangerous companionship on the morrow.

CHAPTER X

POLTON IS MYSTIFIED

A couple of days sufficed to prove that Thorndyke’s mishap was not to be productive of any permanent ill consequences; his wounds progressed favourably and he was able to resume his ordinary avocations.

Miss Gibson’s visit—but why should I speak of her in these formal terms? To me, when I thought of her, which I did only too often, she was Juliet, with perhaps an adjective thrown in; and as Juliet I shall henceforth speak of her (but without the adjective) in this narrative, wherein nothing has been kept back from the reader—Juliet’s visit, then, had been a great success, for my colleague was really pleased by the attention, and displayed a quiet geniality that filled our visitor with delight.

He talked a good deal of Reuben, and I could see that he was endeavouring to settle in his own mind the vexed question of her relations with and sentiments towards our unfortunate client; but what conclusions he arrived at I was unable to discover, for he was by no means communicative after she had left. Nor was there any repetition of the visit—greatly to my regret—since, as I have said, he was able, in a day or two, to resume his ordinary mode of life.

The first evidence I had of his renewed activity appeared when I returned to the chambers at about eleven o’clock in the morning, to find Polton hovering dejectedly about the sitting-room, apparently perpetrating as near an approach to a “spring clean” as could be permitted in a bachelor establishment.

“Hallo, Polton!” I exclaimed, “have you contrived to tear yourself away from the laboratory for an hour or two?”

“No, sir,” he answered gloomily. “The laboratory has torn itself away from me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The Doctor has shut himself in and locked the door, and he says I am not to disturb him. It will be a cold lunch today.”

“What is he doing in there?” I inquired.

“Ah!” said Polton, “that’s just what I should like to know. I’m fair eaten up with curiosity. He is making some experiments in connection with some of his cases, and when the Doctor locks himself in to make experiments, something interesting generally follows. I should like to know what it is this time.”

“I suppose there is a keyhole in the laboratory door?” I suggested, with a grin.

“Sir!” he exclaimed indignantly. “Dr. Jervis, I am surprised at you.” Then, perceiving my facetious intent, he smiled also and added: “But there is a keyhole if you’d like to try it, though I’ll wager the Doctor would see more of you than you would of him.”

“You are mighty secret about your doings, you and the Doctor,” I said.

“Yes,” he answered. “You see, it’s a queer trade this of the Doctor’s, and there are some queer secrets in it. Now, for instance, what do you make of this?”

He produced from his pocket a leather case, whence he took a piece of paper which he handed to me. On it was a neatly executed drawing of what looked like one of a set of chessmen, with the dimensions written on the margin.

“It looks like a pawn—one of the Staunton pattern,” I said.

“Just what I thought; but it isn’t. I’ve got to make twenty-four of them, and what the Doctor is going to do with them fairly beats me.”

“Perhaps he has invented some new game,” I suggested facetiously.

“He is always inventing new games and playing them mostly in courts of law, and then the other players generally lose. But this is a puzzler, and no mistake. Twenty-four of these to be turned up in the best-seasoned boxwood! What can they be for? Something to do with the experiments he is carrying on upstairs at this very moment, I expect.” He shook his head, and, having carefully returned the drawing to his pocket-book, said, in a solemn tone—“Sir, there are times when the Doctor makes me fairly dance with curiosity. And this is one of them.”

Although not afflicted with a curiosity so acute as that of Polton, I found myself speculating at intervals on the nature of my colleague’s experiments and the purpose of the singular little objects which he had ordered to be made; but I was unacquainted with any of the cases on which he was engaged, excepting that of Reuben Hornby, and with the latter I was quite unable to connect a set of twenty-four boxwood chessmen. Moreover, on this day, I was to accompany Juliet on her second visit to Holloway, and that circumstance gave me abundant mental occupation of another kind.

At lunch, Thorndyke was animated and talkative but not communicative. He “had some work in the laboratory that he must do himself,” he said, but gave no hint as to its nature; and as soon as our meal was finished, he returned to his labours, leaving me to pace up and down the walk, listening with ridiculous eagerness for the sound of the hansom that was to transport me to the regions of the blest, and—incidentally—to Holloway Prison.

When I returned to the Temple, the sitting-room was empty and hideously neat, as the result of Polton’s spring-cleaning efforts. My colleague was evidently still at work in the laboratory, and, from the circumstance that the tea-things were set out on the table and a kettle of water placed in readiness on the gas-ring by the fireplace, I gathered that Polton also was full of business and anxious not to be disturbed.

Accordingly, I lit the gas and made my tea, enlivening my solitude by turning over in my mind the events of the afternoon.

Juliet had been charming—as she always was—frank, friendly and unaffectedly pleased to have my companionship. She evidently liked me and did not disguise the fact—why should she indeed?—but treated me with a freedom, almost affectionate, as though I had been a favourite brother; which was very delightful, and would have been more so if I could have accepted the relationship. As to her feelings towards me, I had not the slightest misgiving, and so my conscience was clear; for Juliet was as innocent as a child, with the innocence that belongs to the direct, straightforward nature that neither does evil itself nor looks for evil motives in others. For myself, I was past praying for. The thing was done and I must pay the price hereafter, content to reflect that I had trespassed against no one but myself. It was a miserable affair, and many a heartache did it promise me in the lonely days that were to come, when I should have said “good-bye” to the Temple and gone back to my old nomadic life; and yet I would not have had it changed if I could; would not have bartered the bitter-sweet memories for dull forgetfulness.

But other matters had transpired in the course of our drive than those that loomed so large to me in the egotism of my love. We had spoken of Mr. Hornby and his affairs, and from our talk there had emerged certain facts of no little moment to the inquiry on which I was engaged.

“Misfortunes are proverbially sociable,” Juliet had remarked, in reference to her adopted uncle. “As if this trouble about Reuben were not enough, there are worries in the city. Perhaps you have heard of them.”

I replied that Walter had mentioned the matter to me.

“Yes,” said Juliet rather viciously; “I am not quite clear as to what part that good gentleman has played in the matter. It has come out, quite accidentally, that he had a large holding in the mines himself, but he seems to have ‘cut his loss,’ as the phrase goes, and got out of them; though how he managed to pay such large differences is more than we can understand. We think he must have raised money somehow to do it.”

“Do you know when the mines began to depreciate?” I asked.

“Yes, it was quite a sudden affair—what Walter calls ‘a slump’—and it occurred only a few days before the robbery. Mr. Hornby was telling me about it only yesterday, and he recalled it to me by a ridiculous accident that happened on that day.”

“What was that?” I inquired.

“Why, I cut my finger and nearly fainted,” she answered, with a shamefaced little laugh. “It was rather a bad cut, you know, but I didn’t notice it until I found my hand covered with blood. Then I turned suddenly faint, and had to lie down on the hearthrug—it was in Mr. Hornby’s study, which I was tidying up at the time. Here I was found by Reuben, and a dreadful fright it gave him at first; and then he tore up his handkerchief to tie up the wounded finger, and you never saw such an awful mess as he got his hands in. He might have been arrested as a murderer, poor boy, from the condition he was in. It will make your professional gorge rise to learn that he fastened up the extemporised bandage with red tape, which he got from the writing table after rooting about among the sacred papers in the most ruthless fashion.

“When he had gone I tried to put the things on the table straight again, and really you might have thought some horrible crime had been committed; the envelopes and papers were all smeared with blood and marked with the print of gory fingers. I remembered it afterwards, when Reuben’s thumb-mark was identified, and thought that perhaps one of the papers might have got into the safe by accident; but Mr. Hornby told me that was impossible; he tore the leaf off his memorandum block at the time when he put away the diamonds.”

Such was the gist of our conversation as the cab rattled through the streets on the way to the prison; and certainly it contained matter sufficiently important to draw away my thoughts from other subjects, more agreeable, but less relevant to the case. With a sudden remembrance of my duty, I drew forth my notebook, and was in the act of committing the statements to writing, when Thorndyke entered the room.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, Jervis,” said he. “I will make myself a cup of tea while you finish your writing, and then you shall exhibit the day’s catch and hang your nets out to dry.”

I was not long in finishing my notes, for I was in a fever of impatience to hear Thorndyke’s comments on my latest addition to our store of information. By the time the kettle was boiling my entries were completed, and I proceeded forthwith to retail to my colleague those extracts from my conversation with Juliet that I have just recorded.

He listened, as usual, with deep and critical attention.

“This is very interesting and important,” he said, when I had finished; “really, Jervis, you are a most invaluable coadjutor. It seems that information, which would be strictly withheld from the forbidding Jorkins, trickles freely and unasked into the ear of the genial Spenlow. Now, I suppose you regard your hypothesis as having received very substantial confirmation?”

“Certainly, I do.”

“And very justifiably. You see now how completely you were in the right when you allowed yourself to entertain this theory of the crime in spite of its apparent improbability. By the light of these new facts it has become quite a probable explanation of the whole affair, and if it could only be shown that Mr. Hornby’s memorandum block was among the papers on the table, it would rise to a high degree of probability. The obvious moral is, never disregard the improbable. By the way, it is odd that Reuben failed to recall this occurrence when I questioned him. Of course, the bloody finger-marks were not discovered until he had gone, but one would have expected him to recall the circumstance when I asked him, pointedly, if he had never left bloody finger-prints on any papers.”

“I must try to find out if Mr. Hornby’s memorandum block was on the table and among the marked papers,” I said.

“Yes, that would be wise,” he answered, “though I don’t suppose the information will be forthcoming.”

My colleague’s manner rather disappointed me. He had heard my report with the greatest attention, he had discussed it with animation, but yet he seemed to attach to the new and—as they appeared to me—highly important facts an interest that was academic rather than practical. Of course, his calmness might be assumed; but this did not seem likely, for John Thorndyke was far too sincere and dignified a character to cultivate in private life the artifices of the actor. To strangers, indeed, he presented habitually a calm and impassive exterior; but this was natural to him, and was but the outward sign of his even and judicial habit of mind.

No; there was no doubt that my startling news had left him unmoved, and this must be for one of two reasons: either he already knew all that I had told him (which was perfectly possible), or he had some other and better means of explaining the crime. I was turning over these two alternatives, not unobserved by my watchful colleague, when Polton entered the room; a broad grin was on his face, and a drawing-board, that he carried like a tray, bore twenty-four neatly turned boxwood pieces.

Thorndyke at once entered into the unspoken jest that beamed from the countenance of his subordinate.

“Here is Polton with a problem for you, Jervis,” he said. “He assumes that I have invented a new parlour game, and has been trying to work out the moves. Have you succeeded yet, Polton?”

“No, sir, I haven’t; but I suspect that one of the players will be a man in a wig and gown.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Thorndyke; “but that doesn’t take you very far. Let us hear what Dr. Jervis has to say.”

“I can make nothing of them,” I answered. “Polton showed me the drawing this morning, and then was terrified lest he had committed a breach of confidence, and I have been trying ever since, without a glimmer of success, to guess what they can be for.”

“H’m,” grunted Thorndyke, as he sauntered up and down the room, teacup in hand, “to guess, eh? I like not that word ‘guess’ in the mouth of a man of science. What do you mean by a ‘guess’?”

His manner was wholly facetious, but I professed to take his question seriously, and replied—

“By a guess, I mean a conclusion arrived at without data.”

“Impossible!” he exclaimed, with mock sternness. “Nobody but an utter fool arrives at a conclusion without data.”

“Then I must revise my definition instantly,” I rejoined. “Let us say that a guess is a conclusion drawn from insufficient facts.”

“That is better,” said he; “but perhaps it would be better still to say that a guess is a particular and definite conclusion deduced from facts which properly yield only a general and indefinite one. Let us take an instance,” he continued. “Looking out of the window, I see a man walking round Paper Buildings. Now suppose I say, after the fashion of the inspired detective of the romances, ‘That man is a stationmaster or inspector,’ that would be a guess. The observed facts do not yield the conclusion, though they do warrant a conclusion less definite and more general.”

“You’d have been right though, sir!” exclaimed Polton, who had stepped forward with me to examine the unconscious subject of the demonstration. “That gent used to be the stationmaster at Camberwell. I remember him well.”

The little man was evidently greatly impressed.

“I happen to be right, you see,” said Thorndyke; “but I might as easily have been wrong.”

“You weren’t though, sir,” said Polton. “You spotted him at a glance.”

In his admiration of the result he cared not a fig for the correctness of the means by which it had been attained.

“Now why do I suggest that he is a stationmaster?” pursued Thorndyke, disregarding his assistant’s comment.

“I suppose you were looking at his feet,” I answered. “I seem to have noticed that peculiar, splay-footed gait in stationmasters, now that you mention it.”

“Quite so. The arch of the foot has given way; the plantar ligaments have become stretched and the deep calf muscles weakened. Then, since bending of the weakened arch causes discomfort, the feet have become turned outwards, by which the bending of the foot is reduced to a minimum; and as the left foot is the more flattened, so it is turned out more than the right. Then the turning out of the toes causes the legs to splay outward from the knees downwards—a very conspicuous condition in a tall man like this one—and you notice that the left leg splays out more than the other.

“But we know that depression of the arch of the foot is brought about by standing for long periods. Continuous pressure on a living structure weakens it, while intermittent pressure strengthens it; so the man who stands on his feet continuously develops a flat instep and a weak calf, while the professional dancer or runner acquires a high instep and a strong calf. Now there are many occupations which involve prolonged standing and so induce the condition of flat foot: waiters, hall-porters, hawkers, policemen, shop-walkers, salesmen, and station officials are examples. But the waiter’s gait is characteristic—a quick, shuffling walk which enables him to carry liquids without spilling them. This man walks with a long, swinging stride; he is obviously not a waiter. His dress and appearance in general exclude the idea of a hawker or even a hall-porter; he is a man of poor physique and so cannot be a policeman. The shop-walker or salesman is accustomed to move in relatively confined spaces, and so acquires a short, brisk step, and his dress tends to rather exuberant smartness; the station official patrols long platforms, often at a rapid pace, and so tends to take long strides, while his dress is dignified and neat rather than florid. The last-mentioned characteristics, you see, appear in the subject of our analysis; he agrees with the general description of a stationmaster. But if we therefore conclude that he is a stationmaster, we fall into the time-honoured fallacy of the undistributed middle term—the fallacy that haunts all brilliant guessers, including the detective, not only of romance, but too often also of real life. All that the observed facts justify us in inferring is that this man is engaged in some mode of life that necessitates a good deal of standing; the rest is mere guess-work.”

“It’s wonderful,” said Polton, gazing at the now distant figure; “perfectly wonderful. I should never have known he was a stationmaster.” With this and a glance of deep admiration at his employer, he took his departure.

“You will also observe,” said Thorndyke, with a smile, “that a fortunate guess often brings more credit than a piece of sound reasoning with a less striking result.”

“Yes, that is unfortunately the case, and it is certainly true in the present instance. Your reputation, as far as Polton is concerned, is now firmly established even if it was not before. In his eyes you are a wizard from whom nothing is hidden. But to return to these little pieces, as I must call them, for the lack of a better name. I can form no hypothesis as to their use. I seem to have no ‘departure,’ as the nautical phrase goes, from which to start an inquiry. I haven’t even the material for guess-work. Ought I to be able to arrive at any opinion on the subject?”

Thorndyke picked up one of the pieces, fingering it delicately and inspecting with a critical eye the flat base on which it stood, and reflected for a few moments.

“It is easy to trace a connection when one knows all the facts,” he said at length, “but it seems to me that you have the materials from which to form a conjecture. Perhaps I am wrong, but I think, when you have had more experience, you will find yourself able to work out a problem of this kind. What is required is constructive imagination and a rigorous exactness in reasoning. Now, you are a good reasoner, and you have recently shown me that you have the necessary imagination; you merely lack experience in the use of your faculties. When you learn my purpose in having these things made—as you will before long—you will probably be surprised that their use did not occur to you. And now let us go forth and take a brisk walk to refresh ourselves (or perhaps I should say myself) after the day’s labour.

CHAPTER XI

THE AMBUSH

“I am going to ask for your collaboration in another case,” said Thorndyke, a day or two later. “It appears to be one of suicide, but the solicitors to the ‘Griffin’ office have asked me to go down to the place, which is in the neighbourhood of Barnet, and be present at the post-mortem and the inquest. They have managed to arrange that the inquest shall take place directly after the post-mortem, so that we shall be able to do the whole business in a single visit.”

“Is the case one of any intricacy?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” he answered. “It looks like a common suicide; but you can never tell. The importance of the case at present arises entirely from the heavy insurance; a verdict of suicide will mean a gain of ten thousand pounds to the ‘Griffin,’ so, naturally, the directors are anxious to get the case settled and not inclined to boggle over a little expense.”

“Naturally. And when will the expedition take place?” I asked.

“The inquest is fixed for tomorrow—what is the matter? Does that fall foul of any arrangement of yours?”

“Oh, nothing of any importance,” I replied hastily, deeply ashamed of the momentary change of countenance that my friend had been so quick to observe.

“Well, what is it?” persisted Thorndyke. “You have got something on.”

“It is nothing, I tell you, but what can be quite easily arranged to suit your plans.”

“Cherchez la—h’m?” queried Thorndyke, with an exasperating grin.

“Yes,” I answered, turning as red as a pickled cabbage; “since you are so beastly inquisitive. Miss Gibson wrote, on behalf of Mrs. Hornby, asking me to dine with them en famille tomorrow evening, and I sent off an acceptance an hour ago.”

“And you call that ‘nothing of any importance’!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Alas! and likewise alackaday (which is an approximately synonymous expression)! The age of chivalry is past, indeed. Of course you must keep your appointment; I can manage quite well alone.”

“We shouldn’t be back early enough for me to go to Kensington from the station, I suppose?”

“No; certainly not. I find that the trains are very awkward; we should not reach King’s Cross until nearly one in the morning.”

“Then, in that case, I shall write to Miss Gibson and excuse myself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” said Thorndyke; “it will disappoint them, and really it is not necessary.”

“I shall write forthwith,” I said firmly, “so please don’t try to dissuade me. I have been feeling quite uncomfortable at the thought that, all the time I have been in your employ, I seem to have done nothing but idle about and amuse myself. The opportunity of doing something tangible for my wage is too precious to be allowed to slip.”

Thorndyke chuckled indulgently. “You shall do as you please, my dear boy,” he said; “but don’t imagine that you have been eating the bread of idleness. When you see this Hornby case worked out in detail, you will be surprised to find how large a part you have taken in unravelling it. Your worth to me has been far beyond your poor little salary, I can assure you.”

“It is very handsome of you to say that,” I said, highly gratified to learn that I was really of use, and not, as I had begun to suspect, a mere object of charity.

“It is perfectly true,” he answered; “and now, since you are going to help me in this case, I will set you your task. The case, as I have said, appears to be quite simple, but it never does to take the simplicity for granted. Here is the letter from the solicitors giving the facts as far as they are known at present. On the shelves there you will find Casper, Taylor, Guy and Ferrier, and the other authorities on medical jurisprudence, and I will put out one or two other books that you may find useful. I want you to extract and make classified notes of everything that may bear on such a case as the present one may turn out to be. We must go prepared to meet any contingency that may arise. This is my invariable practice, and even if the case turns out to be quite simple, the labour is never wasted, for it represents so much experience gained.”

“Casper and Taylor are pretty old, aren’t they?” I objected.

“So is suicide,” he retorted drily. “It is a capital mistake to neglect the old authorities. ‘There were strong men before Agamemnon,’ and some of them were uncommonly strong, let me tell you. Give your best attention to the venerable Casper and the obsolete Taylor and you will not be without your reward.”

As a result of these injunctions, I devoted the remainder of the day to the consideration of the various methods by which a man might contrive to effect his exit from the stage of human activities. And a very engrossing study I found it, and the more interesting in view of the problem that awaited solution on the morrow; but yet not so engrossing but that I was able to find time to write a long, rather intimate and minutely explanatory letter to Miss Gibson, in which I even mentioned the hour of our return as showing the impossibility of my keeping my engagement. Not that I had the smallest fear of her taking offence, for it is an evidence of my respect and regard for her that I cancelled the appointment without a momentary doubt that she would approve of my action; but it was pleasant to write to her at length and to feel the intimacy of keeping her informed of the details of my life.

The case, when we came to inquire into it on the spot, turned out to be a suicide of the most transparent type; whereat both Thorndyke and I were, I think, a little disappointed—he at having apparently done so little for a very substantial fee, and I at having no opportunity for applying my recently augmented knowledge.

“Yes,” said my colleague, as we rolled ourselves up in our rugs in adjacent corners of the railway carriage, “it has been a flat affair, and the whole thing could have been managed by the local solicitor. But it is not a waste of time after all, for, you see, I have to do many a day’s work for which I get not a farthing of payment, nor even any recognition, so that I do not complain if I occasionally find myself receiving more payment than my actual services merit. And as to you, I take it that you have acquired a good deal of valuable knowledge on the subject of suicide, and knowledge, as the late Lord Bacon remarked with more truth than originality, is power.”

To this I made no reply, having just lit my pipe and feeling uncommonly drowsy; and, my companion having followed my example, we smoked in silence, becoming more and more somnolent, until the train drew up in the terminus and we turned out, yawning and shivering, on to the platform.

“Bah!” exclaimed Thorndyke, drawing his rug round his shoulders; “this is a cheerless hour—a quarter past one. See how chilly and miserable all these poor devils of passengers look. Shall we cab it or walk?”

“I think a sharp walk would rouse our circulation after sitting huddled up in the carriage for so long,” I answered.

“So do I,” said Thorndyke, “so let us away; hark forward! and also Tally Ho! In fact one might go so far as to say Yoicks! That gentleman appears to favour the strenuous life, if one may judge by the size of his sprocket-wheel.”

He pointed to a bicycle that was drawn up by the kerb in the approach—a machine of the road-racer type, with an enormous sprocket-wheel, indicating a gear of, at least, ninety.

“Some scorcher or amateur racer, probably,” I said, “who takes the opportunity of getting a spin on the wood pavement when the streets are empty.” I looked round to see if I could identify the owner, but the machine appeared to be, for the moment, taking care of itself.

King’s Cross is one of those districts of which the inhabitants are slow in settling down for the night, and even at a quarter past one in the morning its streets are not entirely deserted. Here and there the glimmer of a street lamp or the far-reaching ray from a tall electric light reveals the form of some nocturnal prowler creeping along with cat-like stealthiness, or bursting, cat-like, into unmelodious song. Not greatly desirous of the society of these roysterers, we crossed quickly from the station into the Gray’s Inn Road, now silent and excessively dismal in aspect, and took our way along the western side. We had turned the curve and were crossing Manchester Street, when a series of yelps from ahead announced the presence of a party of merry-makers, whom we were not yet able to see, however, for the night was an exceptionally dark one; but the sounds of revelry continued to increase in volume as we proceeded, until, as we passed Sidmouth Street, we came in sight of the revellers. They were some half-dozen in number, all of them roughs of the hooligan type, and they were evidently in boisterous spirits, for, as they passed the entrance to the Royal Free Hospital, they halted and battered furiously at the gate. Shortly after this exploit they crossed the road on to our side, whereupon Thorndyke caught my arm and slackened his pace.

“Let them draw ahead,” said he. “It is a wise precaution to give all hooligan gangs a very wide berth at this time of night. We had better turn down Heathcote Street and cross Mecklenburgh Square.”

We continued to walk on at reduced speed until we reached Heathcote Street, into which we turned and so entered Mecklenburgh Square, where we mended our pace once more.

“The hooligan,” pursued Thorndyke, as we walked briskly across the silent square, “covers a multitude of sins, ranging from highway robbery with violence and paid assassination (technically known as ‘bashing’) down to the criminal folly of the philanthropic magistrate, who seems to think that his function in the economy of nature is to secure the survival of the unfittest. There goes a cyclist along Guildford Street. I wonder if that is our strenuous friend from the station. If so, he has slipped past the hooligans.”

We were just entering Doughty Street, and, as Thorndyke spoke, a man on a bicycle was visible for an instant at the crossing of the two streets. When we reached Guildford Street we both looked down the long, lamp-lighted vista, but the cyclist had vanished.

“We had better go straight on into Theobald’s Road,” said Thorndyke, and we accordingly pursued our way up the fine old-world street, from whose tall houses our footfalls echoed, so that we seemed to be accompanied by an invisible multitude, until we reached that part where it unaccountably changes its name and becomes John Street.

“There always seems to me something very pathetic about these old Bloomsbury streets,” said Thorndyke, “with their faded grandeur and dignified seediness. They remind me of some prim and aged gentlewoman in reduced circumstances who—Hallo! What was that?”

A faint, sharp thud from behind had been followed instantly by the shattering of a ground-floor window in front.

We both stopped dead and remained, for a couple of seconds, staring into the gloom, from whence the first sound had come; then Thorndyke darted diagonally across the road at a swift run and I immediately followed.

At the moment when the affair happened we had gone about forty yards up John Street, that is, from the place where it is crossed by Henry Street, and we now raced across the road to the further corner of the latter street. When we reached it, however, the little thoroughfare was empty, and, as we paused for a moment, no sound of retreating footsteps broke the silence.

“The shot certainly came from here!” said Thorndyke; “come on,” and he again broke into a run. A few yards up the street a mews turns off to the left, and into this my companion plunged, motioning me to go straight on, which I accordingly did, and in a few paces reached the top of the street. Here a narrow thoroughfare, with a broad, smooth pavement, bears off to the left, parallel with the mews, and, as I arrived at the corner and glanced up the little street, I saw a man on a bicycle gliding swiftly and silently towards Little James’ Street.

With a mighty shout of “Stop thief!” I started in hot pursuit, but, though the man’s feet were moving in an apparently leisurely manner, he drew ahead at an astonishing pace, in spite of my efforts to overtake him; and it then dawned upon me that the slow revolutions of his feet were due, in reality, to the unusually high gear of the machine that he was riding. As I realised this, and at the same moment recalled the bicycle that we had seen in the station, the fugitive swung round into Little James’ Street and vanished.

The speed at which the man was travelling made further pursuit utterly futile, so I turned and walked back, panting and perspiring from the unwonted exertion. As I re-entered Henry Street, Thorndyke emerged from the mews and halted on seeing me.

“Cyclist?” he asked laconically, as I came up.

“Yes,” I answered; “riding a machine geared up to about ninety.”

“Ah! he must have followed us from the station,” said Thorndyke. “Did you notice if he was carrying anything?”

“He had a walking-stick in his hand. I didn’t see anything else.”

“What sort of walking-stick?”

“I couldn’t see very distinctly. It was a stoutish stick—I should say a Malacca, probably—and it had what looked like a horn handle. I could see that as he passed a street lamp.”

“What kind of lamp had he?”

“I couldn’t see; but, as he turned the corner, I noticed that it seemed to burn very dimly.”

“A little vaseline, or even oil, smeared on the outside of the glass will reduce the glare of a lamp very appreciably,” my companion remarked, “especially on a dusty road. Ha! here is the proprietor of the broken window. He wants to know, you know.”

We had once more turned into John Street and now perceived a man, standing on the wide doorstep of the house with the shattered window, looking anxiously up and down the street.

“Do either of you gents know anything about this here?” he asked, pointing to the broken pane.

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “we happened to be passing when it was done; in fact,” he added, “I rather suspect that the missile, whatever it was, was intended for our benefit.”

“Oh!” said the man. “Who done it?”

“That I can’t say,” replied Thorndyke. “Whoever he was, he made off on a bicycle and we were unable to catch him.”

“Oh!” said the man once more, regarding us with growing suspicion. “On a bicycle, hay! Dam funny, ain’t it? What did he do it with?”

“That is what I should like to find out,” said Thorndyke. “I see this house is empty.”

“Yes, it’s empty—leastways it’s to let. I’m the caretaker. But what’s that got to do with it?”

“Merely this,” answered Thorndyke, “that the object—stone, bullet or whatever it may have been—was aimed, I believe, at me, and I should like to ascertain its nature. Would you do me the favour of permitting me to look for it?”

The caretaker was evidently inclined to refuse this request, for he glanced suspiciously from my companion to me once or twice before replying, but, at length, he turned towards the open door and gruffly invited us to enter.

A paraffin lamp was on the floor in a recess of the hall, and this our conductor took up when he had elosed the street door.

“This is the room,” he said, turning the key and thrusting the door open; “the library they call it, but it’s the front parlour in plain English.” He entered and, holding the lamp above his head, stared balefully at the broken window.

Thorndyke glanced quickly along the floor in the direction that the missile would have taken, and then said—

“Do you see any mark on the wall there?”

As he spoke, he indicated the wall opposite the window, which obviously could not have been struck by a projectile entering with such extreme obliquity; and I was about to point out this fact when I fortunately remembered the great virtue of silence.

Our friend approached the wall, still holding up the lamp, and scrutinised the surface with close attention; and while he was thus engaged, I observed Thorndyke stoop quickly and pick up something, which he deposited carefully, and without remark, in his waistcoat pocket.

“I don’t see no bruise anywhere,” said the caretaker, sweeping his hand over the wall.

“Perhaps the thing struck this wall,” suggested Thorndyke, pointing to the one that was actually in the line of fire. “Yes, of course,” he added, “it would be this one—the shot came from Henry Street.”

The caretaker crossed the room and threw the light of his lamp on the wall thus indicated.

“Ah! here we are!” he exclaimed, with gloomy satisfaction, pointing to a small dent in which the wall-paper was turned back and the plaster exposed; “looks almost like a bullet mark, but you say you didn’t hear no report.”

“No,” said Thorndyke, “there was no report; it must have been a catapult.”

The caretaker set the lamp down on the floor and proceeded to grope about for the projectile, in which operation we both assisted; and I could not suppress a faint smile as I noted the earnestness with which Thorndyke peered about the floor in search of the missile that was quietly reposing in his waistcoat pocket.

We were deep in our investigations when there was heard an uncompromising double knock at the street door, followed by the loud pealing of a bell in the basement.

“Bobby, I suppose,” growled the caretaker. “Here’s a blooming fuss about nothing.” He caught up the lamp and went out, leaving us in the dark.

“I picked it up, you know,” said Thorndyke, when we were alone.

“I saw you,” I answered.

“Good; I applaud your discretion,” he rejoined. The caretaker’s supposition was correct. When he returned, he was accompanied by a burly constable, who saluted us with a cheerful smile and glanced facetiously round the empty room.

“Our boys,” said he, nodding towards the broken window; “they’re playful lads, that they are. You were passing when it happened, sir, I hear.”

“Yes,” answered Thorndyke; and he gave the constable a brief account of the occurrence, which the latter listened to, notebook in hand.

“Well,” said he when the narrative was concluded, “if those hooligan boys are going to take to catapults they’ll make things lively all round.”

“You ought to run some of ’em in,” said the caretaker.

“Run ’em in!” exclaimed the constable in a tone of disgust; “yes! And then the magistrate will tell ’em to be good boys and give ’em five shillings out of the poor-box to buy illustrated Testaments. I’d Testament them, the worthless varmints!”

He rammed his notebook fiercely into his pocket and stalked out of the room into the street, whither we followed.

“You’ll find that bullet or stone when you sweep up the room,” he said, as he turned on to his beat; “and you’d better let us have it. Good night, sir.”

He strolled off towards Henry Street, while Thorndyke and I resumed our journey southward.

“Why were you so secret about that projectile?” I asked my friend as we walked up the street.

“Partly to avoid discussion with the caretaker,” he replied; “but principally because I thought it likely that a constable would pass the house and, seeing the light, come in to make inquiries.”

“And then?”

“Then I should have had to hand over the object to him.”

“And why not? Is the object a specially interesting one?”

“It is highly interesting to me at the present moment,” replied Thorndyke, with a chuckle, “because I have not examined it. I have a theory as to its nature, which theory I should like to test before taking the police into my confidence.”

“Are you going to take me into your confidence?” I asked.

“When we get home, if you are not too sleepy,” he replied.

On our arrival at his chambers, Thorndyke desired me to light up and clear one end of the table while he went up to the workshop to fetch some tools. I turned back the table cover, and, having adjusted the gas so as to light this part of the table, waited in some impatience for my colleague’s return. In a few minutes he re-entered bearing a small vice, a metal saw and a wide-mouthed bottle.

“What have you got in that bottle?” I asked, perceiving a metal object inside it.

“That is the projectile, which I have thought fit to rinse in distilled water, for reasons that will presently appear.”

He agitated the bottle gently for a minute or so, and then, with a pair of dissecting forceps, lifted out the object and held it above the surface of the water to drain, after which he laid it carefully on a piece of blotting-paper.

I stooped over the projectile and examined it with great curiosity, while Thorndyke stood by regarding me with almost equal interest.

“Well,” he said, after watching me in silence for some time, “what do you see?”

“I see a small brass cylinder,” I answered, “about two inches long and rather thicker than an ordinary lead pencil. One end is conical, and there is a small hole at the apex which seems to contain a steel point; the other end is flat, but has in the centre a small square projection such as might fit a watch-key. I notice also a small hole in the side of the cylinder close to the flat end. The thing looks like a miniature shell, and appears to be hollow.”

“It is hollow,” said Thorndyke. “You must have observed that, when I held it up to drain, the water trickled out through the hole at the pointed end.”

“Yes, I noticed that.”

“Now take it up and shake it.”

I did so and felt some heavy object rattle inside it.

“There is some loose body inside it,” I said, “which fits it pretty closely, as it moves only in the long diameter.”

“Quite so; your description is excellent. And now, what is the nature of this projectile?”

“I should say it is a miniature shell or explosive bullet.”

“Wrong!” said Thorndyke. “A very natural inference, but a wrong one.”

“Then what is the thing?” I demanded, my curiosity still further aroused.

“I will show you,” he replied. “It is something much more subtle than an explosive bullet—which would really be a rather crude appliance—admirably thought out and thoroughly well executed. We have to deal with a most ingenious and capable man.”

I was fain to laugh at his enthusiastic appreciation of the methods of his would-be assassin, and the humour of the situation then appeared to dawn on him, for he said, with an apologetic smile—

“I am not expressing approval, you must understand, but merely professional admiration. It is this class of criminal that creates the necessity for my services. He is my patron, so to speak; my ultimate employer. For the common crook can be dealt with quite efficiently by the common policeman!”

While he was speaking he had been fitting the little cylinder between two pads of tissue-paper in the vice, which he now screwed up tight. Then, with the fine metal saw, he began to cut the projectile, lengthwise, into two slightly unequal parts. This operation took some time, especially since he was careful not to cut the loose body inside, but at length the section was completed and the interior of the cylinder exposed, when he released it from the vice and held it up before me with an expression of triumph.

“Now, what do you make it?” he demanded.

I took the object in my fingers and looked at it closely, but was at first more puzzled than before. The loose body I now saw to be a cylinder of lead about half an inch long, accurately fitting the inside of the cylinder but capable of slipping freely backwards and forwards. The steel point which I had noticed in the hole at the apex of the conical end, was now seen to be the pointed termination of a slender steel rod which projected fully an inch into the cavity of the cylinder, and the conical end itself was a solid mass of lead.

“Well?” queried Thorndyke, seeing that I was still silent.

“You tell me it is not an explosive bullet,” I replied, “otherwise I should have been confirmed in that opinion. I should have said that the percussion cap was carried by this lead plunger and struck on the end of that steel rod when the flight of the bullet was suddenly arrested.”

“Very good indeed,” said Thorndyke. “You are right so far that this is, in fact, the mechanism of a percussion shell.

“But look at this. You see this little rod was driven inside the bullet when the latter struck the wall. Let us replace it in its original position.”

He laid the end of a small flat file against the end of the rod and pressed it firmly, when the rod slid through the hole until it projected an inch beyond the apex of the cone. Then he handed the projectile back to me.

A single glance at the point of the steel rod made the whole thing clear, and I gave a whistle of consternation; for the “rod” was a fine tube with a sharply pointed end.

“The infernal scoundrel!” I exclaimed; “it is a hypodermic needle.”

“Yes. A veterinary hypodermic, of extra large bore. Now you see the subtlety and ingenuity of the whole thing. If he had had a reasonable chance he would certainly have succeeded.”

“You speak quite regretfully,” I said, laughing again at the oddity of his attitude towards the assassin.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I have the character of a single-handed player, but even the most self-reliant man can hardly make a post-mortem on himself. I am merely appreciating an admirable piece of mechanical design most efficiently carried out. Observe the completeness of the thing, and the way in which all the necessities of the case are foreseen and met. This projectile was discharged from a powerful air-gun—the walking-stick form—provided with a force-pump and key. The barrel of that gun was rifled.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Well, to begin with, it would be useless to fit a needle to the projectile unless the latter was made to travel with the point forwards; but there is direct evidence that the barrel was rifled. You notice the little square projection on the back surface of the cylinder. That was evidently made to fit a washer or wad—probably a thin plate of soft metal which would be driven by the pressure from behind into the grooves of the rifling and thus give a spinning motion to the bullet. When the latter left the barrel, the wad would drop off, leaving it free.”

“I see. I was wondering what the square projection was for. It is, as you say, extremely ingenious.”

“Highly ingenious,” said Thorndyke, enthusiastically, “and so is the whole device. See how perfectly it would have worked but for a mere fluke and for the complication of your presence. Supposing that I had been alone, so that he could have approached to a shorter distance. In that case he would not have missed, and the thing would have been done. You see how it was intended to be done, I suppose?”

“I think so,” I answered; “but I should like to hear your account of the process.”

“Well, you see, he first finds out that I am returning by a late train—which he seems to have done—and he waits for me at the terminus. Meanwhile he fills the cylinder with a solution of a powerful alkaloidal poison, which is easily done by dipping the needle into the liquid and sucking at the small hole near the back end, when the piston will be drawn up and the liquid will follow it. You notice that the upper side of the piston is covered with vaseline—introduced through the hole, no doubt—which would prevent the poison from coming out into the mouth, and make the cylinder secure from leakage. On my arrival, he follows me on his bicycle until I pass through a sufficiently secluded neighbourhood. Then he approaches me, or passes me and waits round a corner, and shoots at pretty close range. It doesn’t matter where he hits me; all parts are equally vital, so he can aim at the middle of my back. Then the bullet comes spinning through the air point foremost; the needle passes through the clothing and enters the flesh, and, as the bullet is suddenly stopped, the heavy piston flies down by its own great momentum and squirts out a jet of the poison into the tissues. The bullet then disengages itself and drops on to the ground.

“Meanwhile, our friend has mounted his bicycle and is off, and when I feel the prick of the needle, I turn, and, without stopping to look for the bullet, immediately give chase. I am, of course, not able to overtake a man on a racing machine, but still I follow him some distance. Then the poison begins to take effect—the more rapidly from the violent exercise—and presently I drop insensible. Later on, my body is found. There are no marks of violence, and probably the needle-puncture escapes observation at the post-mortem, in which case the verdict will be death from heart-failure. Even if the poison and the puncture are discovered, there is no clue. The bullet lies some streets away, and is probably picked up by some boy or passing stranger, who cannot conjecture its use, and who would never connect it with the man who was found dead. You will admit that the whole plan has been worked out with surprising completeness and foresight.”

“Yes,” I answered; “there is no doubt that the fellow is a most infernally clever scoundrel. May I ask if you have any idea who he is?”

“Well,” Thorndyke replied, “seeing that, as Carlyle has unkindly pointed out, clever people are not in an overwhelming majority, and that, of the clever people whom I know, only a very few are interested in my immediate demise, I am able to form a fairly probable conjecture.”

“And what do you mean to do?”

“For the present I shall maintain an attitude of masterly inactivity and avoid the night air.”

“But, surely,” I exclaimed, “you will take some measures to protect yourself against attempts of this kind. You can hardly doubt now that your accident in the fog was really an attempted murder.”

“I never did doubt it, as a matter of fact, although I prevaricated at the time. But I have not enough evidence against this man at present, and, consequently, can do nothing but show that I suspect him, which would be foolish. Whereas, if I lie low, one of two things will happen; either the occasion for my removal (which is only a temporary one) will pass, or he will commit himself—will put a definite clue into my hands. Then we shall find the air-cane, the bicycle, perhaps a little stock of poison, and certain other trifles that I have in my mind, which will be good confirmatory evidence, though insufficient in themselves. And now, I think, I must really adjourn this meeting, or we shall be good for nothing tomorrow.”

CHAPTER XII

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

It was now only a week from the date on which the trial was to open. In eight days the mystery would almost certainly be solved (if it was capable of solution), for the trial promised to be quite a short one, and then Reuben Hornby would be either a convicted felon or a free man, clear of the stigma of the crime.

For several days past, Thorndyke had been in almost constant possession of the laboratory, while his own small room, devoted ordinarily to bacteriology and microscopical work was kept continually locked; a state of things that reduced Polton to a condition of the most extreme nervous irritation, especially when, as he told me indignantly, he met Mr. Anstey emerging from the holy of holies, grinning and rubbing his hands and giving utterance to genial but unparliamentary expressions of amused satisfaction.

I had met Anstey on several occasions lately, and each time liked him better than the last; for his whimsical, facetious manner covered a nature (as it often does) that was serious and thoughtful; and I found him, not only a man of considerable learning, but one also of a lofty standard of conduct. His admiration for Thorndyke was unbounded, and I could see that the two men collaborated with the utmost sympathy and mutual satisfaction.

But although I regarded Mr. Anstey with feelings of the liveliest friendship, I was far from gratified when, on the morning of which I am writing, I observed him from our sitting-room window crossing the gravelled space from Crown Office Row and evidently bearing down on our chambers. For the fact is that I was awaiting the arrival of Juliet, and should greatly have preferred to be alone at the moment, seeing that Thorndyke had already gone out. It is true that my fair enslaver was not due for nearly half-an-hour, but then, who could say how long Anstey would stay, or what embarrassments might arise from my efforts to escape? By all of which it may be perceived that my disease had reached a very advanced stage, and that I was unequal to those tactics of concealment that are commonly attributed to the ostrich.

A sharp rap of the knocker announced the arrival of the disturber of my peace, and when I opened the door Anstey walked in with the air of a man to whom an hour more or less is of no consequence whatever. He shook my hand with mock solemnity, and, seating himself upon the edge of the table, proceeded to roll a cigarette with exasperating deliberation.

“I infer,” said he, “that our learned brother is practising parlour magic upstairs, or peradventure he has gone on a journey?”

“He has a consultation this morning,” I answered. “Was he expecting you?”

“Evidently not, or he would have been here. No, I just looked in to ask a question about the case of your friend Hornby. You know it comes on for trial next week?”

“Yes; Thorndyke told me. What do you think of Hornby’s prospects? Is he going to be convicted, or will he get an acquittal?”

“He will be entirely passive,” replied Anstey, “but we”—here he slapped his chest impressively—“are going to secure an acquittal. You will be highly entertained, my learned friend, and Mr. The Enemy will be excessively surprised.” He inspected the newly-made cigarette with a critical air and chuckled softly.

“You seem pretty confident,” I remarked.

“I am,” he answered, “though Thorndyke considers failure possible—which, of course, it is if the jury-box should chance to be filled with microcephalic idiots and the judge should prove incapable of understanding simple technical evidence. But we hope that neither of these things will happen, and, if they do not, we feel pretty safe. By the way, I hope I am not divulging your principal’s secrets?”

“Well,” I replied, with a smile, “you have been more explicit than Thorndyke ever has.”

“Have I?” he exclaimed, with mock anxiety; “then I must swear you to secrecy. Thorndyke is so very close—and he is quite right too. I never cease admiring his tactics of allowing the enemy to fortify and barricade the entrance that he does not mean to attack. But I see you are wishing me at the devil, so give me a cigar and I will go—though not to that particular destination.”

“Will you have one of Thorndyke’s special brand?” I asked malignantly.

“What! those foul Trichinopolies? Not while brown paper is to be obtained at every stationer’s; I’d sooner smoke my own wig.”

I tendered my own case, from which he selected a cigar with anxious care and much sniffing; then he bade me a ceremonious adieu and departed down the stairs, blithely humming a melody from the latest comic opera.

He had not left more than five minutes when a soft and elaborate rat-tat from the little brass knocker brought my heart into my mouth. I ran to the door and flung it open, revealing Juliet standing on the threshold.

“May I come in?” she asked. “I want to have a few words with you before we start.”

I looked at her with some anxiety, for she was manifestly agitated, and the hand that she held out to me trembled.

“I am greatly upset, Dr. Jervis,” she said, ignoring the chair that I had placed for her. “Mr. Lawley has been giving us his views of poor Reuben’s case, and his attitude fills me with dismay.”

“Hang Mr. Lawley!” I muttered, and then apologised hastily. “What made you go to him, Miss Gibson?”

“I didn’t go to him; he came to us. He dined with us last night—he and Walter—and his manner was gloomy in the extreme. After dinner Walter took him apart with me and asked him what he really thought of the case. He was most pessimistic. ‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘the only advice I can give you is that you prepare yourself to contemplate disaster as philosophically as you can. In my opinion your cousin is almost certain to be convicted.’ ‘But,’ said Walter, ‘what about the defence? I understood that there was at least a plausible case.’ Mr. Lawley shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have a sort of alibi that will go for nothing, but I have no evidence to offer in answer to that of the prosecution, and no case; and I may say, speaking in confidence, that I do not believe there is any case. I do not see how there can be any case, and I have heard nothing from Dr. Thorndyke to lead me to suppose that he has really done anything in the matter.’ Is this true, Dr. Jervis? Oh! do tell me the real truth about it! I have been so miserable and terrified since I heard this, and I was so full of hope before. Tell me, is it true? Will Reuben be sent to prison after all?”

In her agitation she laid her hands on my arm and looked up into my face with her grey eyes swimming with tears, and was so piteous, so trustful, and, withal, so bewitching that my reserve melted like snow before a July sun.

“It is not true,” I answered, taking her hands in mine and speaking perforce in a low tone that I might not betray my emotion. “If it were, it would mean that I have wilfully deceived you, that I have been false to our friendship; and how much that friendship has been to me, no one but myself will ever know.”

She crept a little closer to me with a manner at once penitent and wheedling.

“You are not going to be angry with me, are you? It was foolish of me to listen to Mr. Lawley after all you have told me, and it did look like a want of trust in you, I know. But you, who are so strong and wise, must make allowance for a woman who is neither. It is all so terrible that I am quite unstrung; but say you are not really displeased with me, for that would hurt me most of all.”

Oh! Delilah! That concluding stroke of the shears severed the very last lock, and left me—morally speaking—as bald as a billiard ball. Henceforth I was at her mercy and would have divulged, without a scruple, the uttermost secrets of my principal, but that that astute gentleman had placed me beyond the reach of temptation.

“As to being angry with you,” I answered, “I am not, like Thorndyke, one to essay the impossible, and if I could be angry it would hurt me more than it would you. But, in fact, you are not to blame at all, and I am an egotistical brute. Of course you were alarmed and distressed; nothing could be more natural. So now let me try to chase away your fears and restore your confidence.

“I have told you what Thorndyke said to Reuben: that he had good hopes of making his innocence clear to everybody. That alone should have been enough.”

“I know it should,” murmured Juliet remorsefully; “please forgive me for my want of faith.”

“But,” I continued, “I can quote you the words of one to whose opinions you will attach more weight. Mr. Anstey was here less than half-an-hour ago—”

“Do you mean Reuben’s counsel?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he say? Oh, do tell me what he said.”

“He said, in brief, that he was quite confident of obtaining an acquittal, and that the prosecution would receive a great surprise. He seemed highly pleased with his brief, and spoke with great admiration of Thorndyke.”

“Did he really say that—that he was confident of an acquittal?” Her voice was breathless and unsteady, and she was clearly, as she had said, quite unstrung. “What a relief it is,” she murmured incoherently; “and so very, very kind of you!” She wiped her eyes and laughed a queer, shaky little laugh; then, quite suddenly, she burst into a passion of sobbing.

Hardly conscious of what I did, I drew her gently towards me, and rested her head on my shoulder whilst I whispered into her ear I know not what words of consolation; but I am sure that I called her “dear Juliet,” and probably used other expressions equally improper and reprehensible. Presently she recovered herself, and, having dried her eyes, regarded me somewhat shamefacedly, blushing hotly, but smiling very sweetly nevertheless.

“I am ashamed of myself,” she said, “coming here and weeping on your bosom like a great baby. It is to be hoped that your other clients do not behave in this way.”

Whereat we both laughed heartily, and, our emotional equilibrium being thus restored, we began to think of the object of our meeting.

“I am afraid I have wasted a great deal of time,” said Juliet, looking at her watch. “Shall we be too late, do you think?”

“I hope not,” I replied, “for Reuben will be looking for us; but we must hurry.”

I caught up my hat, and we went forth, closing the oak behind us, and took our way up King’s Bench Walk in silence, but with a new and delightful sense of intimate comradeship. I glanced from time to time at my companion, and noted that her cheek still bore a rosy flush, and when she looked at me there was a sparkle in her eye, and a smiling softness in her glance, that stirred my heart until I trembled with the intensity of the passion that I must needs conceal. And even while I was feeling that I must tell her all, and have done with it, tell her that I was her abject slave, and she my goddess, my queen; that in the face of such a love as mine no man could have any claim upon her; even then, there arose the still, small voice that began to call me an unfaithful steward and to remind me of a duty and trust that were sacred even beyond love.

In Fleet Street I hailed a cab, and, as I took my seat beside my fair companion, the voice began to wax and speak in bolder and sterner accents.

“Christopher Jervis,” it said, “what is this that you are doing? Are you a man of honour or nought but a mean, pitiful blackguard? You, the trusted agent of this poor, misused gentleman, are you not planning in your black heart how you shall rob him of that which, if he is a man at all, must be more to him than his liberty, or even his honour? Shame on you for a miserable weakling! Have done with these philanderings and keep your covenants like a gentleman—or, at least, an honest man!”

At this point in my meditations Juliet turned towards me with a coaxing smile.

“My legal adviser seems to be revolving some deep and weighty matter,” she said.

I pulled myself together and looked at her—at her sparkling eyes and rosy, dimpling cheeks, so winsome and lovely and lovable.

“Come,” I thought, “I must put an end to this at once, or I am lost.” But it cost me a very agony of effort to do it—which agony, I trust, may be duly set to my account by those who may sit in judgement on me.

“Your legal adviser, Miss Gibson,” I said (and at that “Miss Gibson” I thought she looked at me a little queerly), “has been reflecting that he has acted considerably beyond his jurisdiction.”

“In what respect?” she asked.

“In passing on to you information which was given to him in very strict confidence, and, in fact, with an implied promise of secrecy on his part.”

“But the information was not of a very secret character, was it?”

“More so than it appeared. You see, Thorndyke thinks it so important not to let the prosecution suspect that he has anything up his sleeve, that he has kept even Mr. Lawley in the dark, and he has never said as much to me as Anstey did this morning.”

“And now you are sorry you told me; you think I have led you into a breach of trust. Is it not so?” She spoke without a trace of petulance, and her tone of dignified self-accusation made me feel a veritable worm.

“My dear Miss Gibson,” I expostulated, “you entirely misunderstand me. I am not in the least sorry that I told you. How could I have done otherwise under the circumstances? But I want you to understand that I have taken the responsibility of communicating to you what is really a professional secret, and that you are to consider it as such.”

“That was how I understood it,” replied Juliet; “and you may rely upon me not to utter a syllable on the subject to anyone.”

I thanked her for this promise, and then, by way of making conversation, gave her an account in detail of Anstey’s visit, not even omitting the incident of the cigar.

“And are Dr. Thorndyke’s cigars so extraordinarily bad?” she asked.

“Not at all,” I replied; “only they are not to every man’s taste. The Trichinopoly cheroot is Thorndyke’s one dissipation, and, I must say, he takes it very temperately. Under ordinary circumstances he smokes a pipe; but after a specially heavy day’s work, or on any occasion of festivity or rejoicing, he indulges in a Trichinopoly, and he smokes the very best that can be got.”

“So even the greatest men have their weaknesses,” Juliet moralised; “but I wish I had known Dr. Thorndyke’s sooner, for Mr. Hornby had a large box of Trichinopoly cheroots given to him, and I believe they were exceptionally fine ones. However, he tried one and didn’t like it, so he transferred the whole consignment to Walter, who smokes all sorts and conditions of cigars.”

So we talked on from one commonplace to another, and each more conventional than the last. In my nervousness, I overdid my part, and having broken the ice, proceeded to smash it to impalpable fragments. Endeavouring merely to be unemotional and to avoid undue intimacy of manner, I swung to the opposite extreme and became almost stiff; and perhaps the more so since I was writhing with the agony of repression.

Meanwhile a corresponding change took place in my companion. At first her manner seemed doubtful and bewildered; then she, too, grew more distant and polite and less disposed for conversation. Perhaps her conscience began to rebuke her, or it may be that my coolness suggested to her that her conduct had not been quite of the kind that would have commended itself to Reuben. But however that may have been, we continued to draw farther and farther apart; and in that short half-hour we retraced the steps of our growing friendship to such purpose that, when we descended from the cab at the prison gate, we seemed more like strangers than on the first day that we met. It was a miserable ending to all our delightful comradeship, and yet what other end could one expect in this world of cross purposes and things that might have been? In the extremity of my wretchedness I could have wept on the bosom of the portly warder who opened the wicket, even as Juliet had wept upon mine; and it was almost a relief to me, when our brief visit was over, to find that we should not return together to King’s Cross as was our wont, but that Juliet would go back by omnibus that she might do some shopping in Oxford Street, leaving me to walk home alone.

I saw her into her omnibus, and stood on the pavement looking wistfully at the lumbering vehicle as it dwindled in the distance. At last, with a sigh of deepest despondency, I turned my face homeward, and, walking like one in a dream, retraced the route over which I had journeyed so often of late and with such different sensations.

CHAPTER XIII

MURDER BY POST

The next few days were perhaps the most unhappy that I have known. My life, indeed, since I had left the hospital had been one of many disappointments and much privation. Unfulfilled desires and ambitions unrealised had combined with distaste for the daily drudgery that had fallen to my lot to embitter my poverty and cause me to look with gloomy distrust upon the unpromising future. But no sorrow that I had hitherto experienced could compare with the grief that I now felt in contemplating the irretrievable ruin of what I knew to be the great passion of my life. For to a man like myself, of few friends and deep affections, one great emotional upheaval exhausts the possibilities of nature; leaving only the capacity for feeble and ineffective echoes. The edifice of love that is raised upon the ruins of a great passion can compare with the original no more than can the paltry mosque that perches upon the mound of Jonah with the glories of the palace that lies entombed beneath.

I had made a pretext to write to Juliet and had received a reply quite frank and friendly in tone, by which I knew that she had not—as some women would have done—set the blame upon me for our temporary outburst of emotion. And yet there was a subtle difference from her previous manner of writing that only emphasised the finality of our separation.

I think Thorndyke perceived that something had gone awry, though I was at great pains to maintain a cheerful exterior and keep myself occupied, and he probably formed a pretty shrewd guess at the nature of the trouble; but he said nothing, and I only judged that he had observed some change in my manner by the fact that there was blended with his usual quiet geniality an almost insensible note of sympathy and affection.

A couple of days after my last interview with Juliet, an event occurred which served, certainly, to relieve the tension and distract my thoughts, though not in a very agreeable manner.

It was the pleasant, reposeful hour after dinner when it was our custom to sit in our respective easy chairs and, as we smoked our pipes, discuss some of the many topics in which we had a common interest. The postman had just discharged into the capacious letter-box an avalanche of letters and circulars, and as I sat glancing through the solitary letter that had fallen to my share, I looked from time to time at Thorndyke and noticed, as I had often done before, with some surprise, a curious habit that he had of turning over and closely scrutinising every letter and package before he opened it.

“I observe, Thorndyke,” I now ventured to remark, “that you always examine the outside of a letter before looking at the inside. I have seen other people do the same, and it has always appeared to me a singularly foolish proceeding. Why speculate over an unopened letter when a glance at the contents will tell you all there is to know?”

“You are perfectly right,” he answered, “if the object of the inspection is to discover who is the sender of the letter. But that is not my object. In my case the habit is one that has been deliberately cultivated—not in reference to letters only, but to everything that comes into my hands—the habit of allowing nothing to pass without a certain amount of conscious attention. The observant man is, in reality, the attentive man, and the so-called power of observation is simply the capacity for continuous attention. As a matter of fact, I have found in practice, that the habit is a useful one even in reference to letters; more than once I have gleaned a hint from the outside of a letter that has proved valuable when applied to the contents. Here, for instance, is a letter which has been opened after being fastened up—apparently by the aid of steam. The envelope is soiled and rubbed, and smells faintly of stale tobacco, and has evidently been carried in a pocket along with a well-used pipe. Why should it have been opened? On reading it I perceive that it should have reached me two days ago, and that the date has been skilfully altered from the thirteenth to the fifteenth. The inference is that my correspondent has a highly untrustworthy clerk.”

“But the correspondent may have carried the letter in his own pocket,” I objected.

“Hardly,” replied Thorndyke. “He would not have troubled to steam his own letter open and close it again; he would have cut the envelope and addressed a fresh one. This the clerk could not do, because the letter was confidential and was addressed in the principal’s handwriting. And the principal would have almost certainly added a postscript; and, moreover, he does not smoke. This, however, is all very obvious; but here is something rather more subtle which I have put aside for more detailed examination. What do you make of it?”

He handed me a small parcel to which was attached by string a typewritten address label, the back of which bore the printed inscription, “James Bartlett and Sons, Cigar Manufacturers, London and Havana.”

“I am afraid,” said I, after turning the little packet over and examining every part of it minutely, “that this is rather too subtle for me. The only thing that I observe is that the typewriter has bungled the address considerably. Otherwise this seems to me a very ordinary packet indeed.”

“Well, you have observed one point of interest, at any rate,” said Thorndyke, taking the packet from me. “But let us examine the thing systematically and note down what we see. In the first place, you will notice that the label is an ordinary luggage label such as you may buy at any stationer’s, with its own string attached. Now, manufacturers commonly use a different and more substantial pattern, which is attached by the string of the parcel. But that is a small matter. What is much more striking is the address on the label. It is typewritten and, as you say, typed very badly. Do you know anything about typewriters?”

“Very little.”

“Then you do not recognise the machine? Well, this label was typed with a Blickensderfer—an excellent machine, but not the form most commonly selected for the rough work of a manufacturer’s office; but we will let that pass. The important point is this: the Blickensderfer Company make several forms of machine, the smallest and lightest of which is the literary, specially designed for the use of journalists and men of letters. Now this label was typed with the literary machine, or, at least, with the literary typewheel; which is really a very remarkable circumstance indeed.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“By this asterisk, which has been written by mistake, the inexpert operator having pressed down the figure lever instead of the one for capitals. The literary typewheel is the only one that has an asterisk, as I noticed when I was thinking of purchasing a machine. Here, then, we have a very striking fact, for even if a manufacturer chose to use a ‘Blick’ in his factory, it is inconceivable that he should select the literary form in preference to the more suitable ‘commercial’ machine.”

“Yes,” I agreed; “it is certainly very singular.”

“And now,” pursued Thorndyke, “to consider the writing itself. It has been done by an absolute beginner. He has failed to space in two places, he has written five wrong letters, and he has written figures instead of capitals in two instances.”

“Yes; he has made a shocking muddle of it. I wonder he didn’t throw the label away and type another.”

“Precisely,” said Thorndyke. “And if we wish to find out why he did not, we have only to look at the back of the label. You see that the name of the firm, instead of being printed on the label itself in the usual manner, is printed on a separate slip of paper which is pasted on the label—a most foolish and clumsy arrangement, involving an immense waste of time. But if we look closely at the printed slip itself we perceive something still more remarkable; for that slip has been cut down to fit the label, and has been cut with a pair of scissors. The edges are not quite straight, and in one place the ‘overlap,’ which is so characteristic of the cut made with scissors, can be seen quite plainly.”

He handed the packet to me with a reading-lens, through which I could distinctly make out the points he had mentioned.

“Now I need not point out to you,” he continued, “that these slips would, ordinarily, have been trimmed by the printer to the correct size in his machine, which would leave an absolutely true edge; nor need I say that no sane business man would adopt such a device as this. The slip of paper has been cut with scissors to fit the label, and it has then been pasted on to the surface that it has been made to fit, when all this waste of time and trouble—which, in practice, means money—could have been saved by printing the name on the label itself.”

“Yes, that is so; but I still do not see why the fellow should not have thrown away this label and typed another.”

“Look at the slip again,” said Thorndyke. “It is faintly but evenly discoloured and, to me, has the appearance of having been soaked in water. Let us, for the moment, assume that it has been. That would look as if it had been removed from some other package, which again would suggest that the person using it had only the one slip, which he had soaked off the original package, dried, cut down and pasted on the present label. If he pasted it on before typing the address—which he would most probably have done—he might well be unwilling to risk destroying it by soaking it a second time.”

“You think, then, there is a suspicion that the package may have been tampered with?”

“There is no need to jump to conclusions,” replied Thorndyke. “I merely gave this case as an instance showing that careful examination of the outside of a package or letter may lead us to bestow a little extra attention on the contents. Now let us open it and see what those contents are.”

With a sharp knife he divided the outside cover, revealing a stout cardboard box wrapped in a number of advertisement sheets. The box, when the lid was raised, was seen to contain a single cigar—a large cheroot—packed in cotton wool.

“A ‘Trichy,’ by Jove!” I exclaimed. “Your own special fancy, Thorndyke.”

“Yes; and another anomaly, at once, you see, which might have escaped our notice if we had not been on the qui vive.”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t see,” said I. “You will think me an awful blockhead, but I don’t perceive anything singular in a cigar manufacturer sending a sample cigar.”

“You read the label, I think?” replied Thorndyke. “However, let us look at one of these leaflets and see what they say. Ah! here we are: ‘Messrs. Bartlett and Sons, who own extensive plantations on the island of Cuba, manufacture their cigars exclusively from selected leaves grown by themselves.’ They would hardly make a Trichinopoly cheroot from leaf grown in the West Indies, so we have here a striking anomaly of an East Indian cigar sent to us by a West Indian grower.”

“And what do you infer from that?”

“Principally that this cigar—which, by the way, is an uncommonly fine specimen and which I would not smoke for ten thousand pounds—is deserving of very attentive examination.” He produced from his pocket a powerful doublet lens, with the aid of which he examined every part of the surface of the cigar, and finally, both ends.

“Look at the small end,” he said, handing me the cigar and the lens, “and tell me if you notice anything.”

I focussed the lens on the flush-cut surface of closely-rolled leaf, and explored every part of it minutely.

“It seems to me,” I said, “that the leaf is opened slightly in the centre, as if a fine wire had been passed up it.”

“So it appeared to me,” replied Thorndyke; “and, as we are in agreement so far, we will carry our investigations a step further.”

He laid the cigar down on the table, and, with the keen, thin-bladed penknife, neatly divided it lengthwise into two halves.

“Ecce signum!” exclaimed Thorndyke, as the two parts fell asunder; and for a few moments we stood silently regarding the dismembered cheroot. For, about half an inch from the small end, there appeared a little circular patch of white, chalky material which, by the even manner in which it was diffused among the leaf, had evidently been deposited from a solution.

“Our ingenious friend again, I surmise,” said Thorndyke at length, taking up one of the halves and examining the white patch through his lens. “A thoughtful soul, Jervis, and original too. I wish his talents could be applied in some other direction. I shall have to remonstrate with him if he becomes troublesome.”

“It is your duty to society, Thorndyke,” I exclaimed passionately, “to have this infernal, cold-blooded scoundrel arrested instantly. Such a man is a standing menace to the community. Do you really know who sent this thing?”

“I can form a pretty shrewd guess, which, however, is not quite the same thing. But, you see, he has not been quite so clever this time, for he has left one or two traces by which his identity might be ascertained.”

“Indeed! What traces has he left?”

“Ah! now there is a nice little problem for us to consider.” He settled himself in his easy chair and proceeded to fill his pipe with the air of a man who is about to discuss a matter of merely general interest.

“Let us consider what information this ingenious person has given us about himself. In the first place, he evidently has a strong interest in my immediate decease. Now, why should he feel so urgent a desire for my death? Can it be a question of property? Hardly; for I am far from a rich man, and the provisions of my will are known to me alone. Can it then be a question of private enmity or revenge? I think not. To the best of my belief I have no private enemies whatever. There remains only my vocation as an investigator in the fields of legal and criminal research. His interest in my death must, therefore, be connected with my professional activities. Now, I am at present conducting an exhumation which may lead to a charge of murder; but if I were to die tonight the inquiry would be carried out with equal efficiency by Professor Spicer or some other toxicologist. My death would not affect the prospects of the accused. And so in one or two other cases that I have in hand; they could be equally well conducted by someone else. The inference is that our friend is not connected with any of these cases, but that he believes me to possess some exclusive information concerning him—believes me to be the one person in the world who suspects and can convict him. Let us assume the existence of such a person—a person of whose guilt I alone have evidence. Now this person, being unaware that I have communicated my knowledge to a third party, would reasonably suppose that by making away with me he had put himself in a position of security.

“Here, then, is our first point. The sender of this offering is probably a person concerning whom I hold certain exclusive information.

“But see, now, the interesting corollary that follows from this. I, alone, suspect this person; therefore I have not published my suspicions, or others would suspect him too. Why, then, does he suspect me of suspecting him, since I have not spoken? Evidently, he too must be in possession of exclusive information. In other words, my suspicions are correct; for if they were not, he could not be aware of their existence.

“The next point is the selection of this rather unusual type of cigar. Why should he have sent a Trichinopoly instead of an ordinary Havana such as Bartletts actually manufacture? It looks as if he were aware of my peculiar predilection, and, by thus consulting my personal tastes, had guarded against the chance of my giving the cigar to some other person. We may, therefore, infer that our friend probably has some knowledge of my habits.

“The third point is, What is the social standing of this gentle stranger, whom we will call X? Now, Bartletts do not send their advertisements and samples to Thomas, Richard and Henry. They send, chiefly, to members of the professions and men of means and position. It is true that the original package might have been annexed by a clerk, office boy or domestic servant; but the probabilities are that X received the package himself, and this is borne out by the fact that he was able to obtain access to a powerful alkaloidal poison—such as this undoubtedly is.”

“In that case he would probably be a medical man or a chemist,” I suggested.

“Not necessarily,” replied Thorndyke. “The laws relating to poisons are so badly framed and administered that any well-to-do person, who has the necessary knowledge, can obtain almost any poison that he wants. But social position is an important factor, whence we may conclude that X belongs, at least, to the middle class.

“The fourth point relates to the personal qualities of X. Now it is evident, from this instance alone, that he is a man of exceptional intelligence, of considerable general information, and both ingenious and resourceful. This cigar device is not only clever and original, but it has been adapted to the special circumstances with remarkable forethought. Thus the cheroot was selected, apparently, for two excellent reasons: first, that it was the most likely form to be smoked by the person intended, and second, that it did not require to have the end cut off—which might have led to a discovery of the poison. The plan also shows a certain knowledge of chemistry; the poison was not intended merely to be dissolved in the moisture of the mouth. The idea evidently was that the steam generated by the combustion of the leaf at the distal end, would condense in the cooler part of the cigar and dissolve the poison, and the solution would then be drawn into the mouth. Then the nature of the poison and certain similarities of procedure seem to identify X with the cyclist who used that ingenious bullet. The poison in this case is a white, non-crystalline solid; the poison contained in the bullet was a solution of a white, non-crystalline solid, which analysis showed to be the most poisonous of all akaloids.

“The bullet was virtually a hypodermic syringe; the poison in this cigar has been introduced, in the form of an alcoholic or ethereal solution, by a hypodermic syringe. We shall thus be justified in assuming that the bullet and the cigar came from the same person; and, if this be so, we may say that X is a person of considerable knowledge, of great ingenuity and no mean skill as a mechanician—as shown by the manufacture of the bullet.

“These are our principal facts—to which we may add the surmise that he has recently purchased a second-hand Blickensderfer of the literary form or, at least, fitted with a literary typewheel.”

“I don’t quite see how you arrive at that,” I said, in some surprise.

“It is merely a guess, you know,” he replied, “though a probable one. In the first place he is obviously unused to typing, as the numerous mistakes show; therefore he has not had the machine very long. The type is that which is peculiar to the Blickensderfer, and, in one of the mistakes, an asterisk has been printed in place of a letter. But the literary typewheel is the only one that has the asterisk. As to the age of the machine, there are evident signs of wear, for some of the letters have lost their sharpness, and this is most evident in the case of those letters which are the most used—the ‘e,’ you will notice, for instance, is much worn; and ‘e’ occurs more frequently than any other letter of the alphabet. Hence the machine, if recently purchased, was bought second-hand.”

“But,” I objected, “it may not have been his own machine at all.”

“That is quite possible,” answered Thorndyke, “though, considering the secrecy that would be necessary, the probabilities are in favour of his having bought it. But, in any case, we have here a means of identifying the machine, should we ever meet with it.”

He picked up the label and handed it to me, together with his pocket lens.

“Look closely at the ‘e’ that we have been discussing; it occurs five times; in ‘Thorndyke,’ in ‘Bench,’ in ‘Inner,’ and in ‘Temple.’ Now in each case you will notice a minute break in the loop, just at the summit. That break corresponds to a tiny dent in the type—caused, probably, by its striking some small, hard object.”

“I can make it out quite distinctly,” I said, “and it should be a most valuable point for identification.”

“It should be almost conclusive,” Thorndyke replied, “especially when joined to other facts that would be elicited by a search of his premises. And now let us just recapitulate the facts which our friend X has placed at our disposal.

“First: X is a person concerning whom I possess certain exclusive information.

“Second: He has some knowledge of my personal habits.

“Third: He is a man of some means and social position.

“Fourth: He is a man of considerable knowledge, ingenuity and mechanical skill.

“Fifth: He has probably purchased, quite recently, a second-hand ‘Blick’ fitted with a literary typewheel.

“Sixth: That machine, whether his own or some other person’s property, can be identified by a characteristic mark on the small ‘e.’

“If you will note down those six points and add that X is probably an expert cyclist and a fairly good shot with a rifle, you may possibly be able, presently, to complete the equation, X = ?”

“I am afraid,” I said, “I do not possess the necessary data; but I suspect you do, and if it is so, I repeat that it is your duty to society—to say nothing of your clients, whose interests would suffer by your death—to have this fellow laid by the heels before he does any mischief.”

“Yes; I shall have to interfere if he becomes really troublesome, but I have reasons for wishing to leave him alone at present.”

“You do really know who he is, then?”

“Well, I think I can solve the equation that I have just offered to you for solution. You see, I have certain data, as you suggest, which you do not possess. There is, for instance, a certain ingenious gentleman concerning whom I hold what I believe to be exclusive information, and my knowledge of him does not make it appear unlikely that he might be the author of these neat little plans.”

“I am much impressed,” I said, as I put away my notebook, after having jotted down the points that Thorndyke had advised me to consider—“I am much impressed by your powers of observation and your capacity for reasoning from apparently trivial data; but I do not see, even now, why you viewed that cigar with such immediate and decided suspicion. There was nothing actually to suggest the existence of poison in it, and yet you seemed to form the suspicion at once and to search for it as though you expected to find it.”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “to a certain extent you are right. The idea of a poisoned cigar was not new to me—and thereby hangs a tale.”

He laughed softly and gazed into the fire with eyes that twinkled with quiet amusement. “You have heard me say,” he resumed, after a short pause, “that when I first took these chambers I had practically nothing to do. I had invented a new variety of medico-legal practice and had to build it up by slow degrees, and the natural consequence was that, for a long time, it yielded nothing but almost unlimited leisure. Now, that leisure was by no means wasted, for I employed it in considering the class of cases in which I was likely to be employed, and in working out theoretical examples; and seeing that crimes against the person have nearly always a strong medical interest, I gave them special attention. For instance, I planned a series of murders, selecting royal personages and great ministers as the victims, and on each murder I brought to bear all the special knowledge, skill and ingenuity at my command. I inquired minutely into the habits of my hypothetical victims; ascertained who were their associates, friends, enemies and servants; considered their diet, their residences, their modes of conveyance, the source of their clothing and, in fact, everything which it was necessary to know in order to achieve their deaths with certainty and with absolute safety to the murderer.”

“How deeply gratified and flattered those great personages would have felt,” I remarked, “if they had known how much attention they were receiving.”

“Yes; I suppose it would have been somewhat startling, to the Prime Minister, for instance, to have learned that he was being watched and studied by an attentive observer and that the arrangements for his decease had been completed down to the minutest detail. But, of course, the application of the method to a particular case was the essential thing, for it brought into view all the incidental difficulties, in meeting which all the really interesting and instructive details were involved. Well, the particulars of these crimes I wrote out at length, in my private shorthand, in a journal which I kept for the purpose—and which, I need not say, I locked up securely in my safe when I was not using it. After completing each case, it was my custom to change sides and play the game over again from the opposite side of the board; that is to say, I added, as an appendix to each case, an analysis with a complete scheme for the detection of the crime. I have in my safe at the present moment six volumes of cases, fully indexed; and I can assure you that they are not only highly instructive reading, but are really valuable as works of reference.”

“That I can readily believe,” I replied, laughing heartily, nevertheless, at the grotesqueness of the whole proceeding, “though they might have proved rather incriminating documents if they had passed out of your possession.”

“They would never have been read,” rejoined Thorndyke. “My shorthand is, I think, quite undecipherable; it has been so made intentionally with a view to secrecy.”

“And have any of your theoretical cases ever turned up in real life?”

“Several of them have, though very imperfectly planned and carried out as a rule. The poisoned cigar is one of them, though, of course I should never have adopted such a conspicuous device for presenting it; and the incident of the other night is a modification—for the worse—of another. In fact, most of the intricate and artistic crimes with which I have had to deal professionally have had their more complete and elaborate prototypes in my journals.”

I was silent for some time, reflecting on the strange personality of my gifted friend and the singular fitness that he presented for the part he had chosen to play in the drama of social life; but presently my thoughts returned to the peril that overshadowed him, and I came back, once more, to my original question.

“And now, Thorndyke,” I said, “that you have penetrated both the motives and the disguise of this villain, what are you going to do? Is he to be put safely under lock and key, or is he to be left in peace and security to plan some other, and perhaps more successful, scheme for your destruction?”

“For the present,” replied Thorndyke, “I am going to put these things in a place of safety. Tomorrow you shall come with me to the hospital and see me place the ends of the cigar in the custody of Dr. Chandler, who will make an analysis and report on the nature of the poison. After that we shall act in whatever way seems best.”

Unsatisfactory as this conclusion appeared, I knew it was useless to raise further objections, and, accordingly, when the cigar with its accompanying papers and wrappings had been deposited in a drawer, we dismissed it, if not from our thoughts, at least from our conversation.

CHAPTER XIV

A STARTLING DISCOVERY

The morning of the trial, so long looked forward to, had at length arrived, and the train of events which it has been my business to chronicle in this narrative was now fast drawing to an end. To me those events had been in many ways of the deepest moment. Not only had they transported me from a life of monotonous drudgery into one charged with novelty and dramatic interest; not only had they introduced me to a renascence of scientific culture and revived under new conditions my intimacy with the comrade of my student days; but, far more momentous than any of these, they had given me the vision—all too fleeting—of happiness untold, with the reality of sorrow and bitter regret that promised to be all too enduring.

Whence it happened that on this morning my thoughts were tinged with a certain greyness. A chapter in my life that had been both bitter and sweet was closing, and already I saw myself once more an Ishmaelite and a wanderer among strangers.

This rather egotistical frame of mind, however, was soon dispelled when I encountered Polton, for the little man was in a veritable twitter of excitement at the prospect of witnessing the clearing up of the mysteries that had so severely tried his curiosity; and even Thorndyke, beneath his habitual calm, showed a trace of expectancy and pleasurable anticipation.

“I have taken the liberty of making certain little arrangements on your behalf,” he said, as we sat at breakfast, “of which I hope you will not disapprove. I have written to Mrs. Hornby, who is one of the witnesses, to say that you will meet her at Mr. Lawley’s office and escort her and Miss Gibson to the court. Walter Hornby may be with them, and, if he is, you had better leave him, if possible, to come on with Lawley.”

“You will not come to the office, then?”

“No. I shall go straight to the court with Anstey. Besides, I am expecting Superintendent Miller from Scotland Yard, who will probably walk down with us.”

“I am glad to hear that,” I said; “for I have been rather uneasy at the thought of your mixing in the crowd without some kind of protection.”

“Well, you see that I am taking precautions against the assaults of the too-ingenious X, and, to tell the truth—and also to commit a flagrant bull—I should never forgive myself if I allowed him to kill me before I had completed Reuben Hornby’s defence. Ah, here is Polton—that man is on wires this morning; he has been wandering in and out of the rooms ever since he came, like a cat in a new house.”

“It’s quite true, sir,” said Polton, smiling and unabashed, “so it’s no use denying it. I have come to ask what we are going to take with us to the court.”

“You will find a box and a portfolio on the table in my room,” replied Thorndyke. “We had better also take a microscope and the micrometers, though we are not likely to want them; that is all, I think.”

“A box and a portfolio,” repeated Polton in a speculative tone. “Yes, sir, I will take them with me.” He opened the door and was about to pass out, when, perceiving a visitor ascending the stairs, he turned back.

“Here’s Mr. Miller, from Scotland Yard, sir; shall I show him in?”

“Yes, do.” He rose from his chair as a tall, military-looking man entered the room and saluted, casting, at the same time, an inquiring glance in my direction.

“Good morning, Doctor,” he said briskly. “I got your letter and couldn’t make such of it, but I have brought down a couple of plain-clothes men and a uniform man, as you suggested. I understand you want a house watched?”

“Yes, and a man, too. I will give you the particulars presently—that is, if you think you can agree to my conditions.”

“That I act entirely on my own account and make no communication to anybody? Well, of course, I would rather you gave me all the facts and let me proceed in the regular way; but if you make conditions I have no choice but to accept them, seeing that you hold the cards.”

Perceiving that the matter in hand was of a confidential nature, I thought it best to take my departure, which I accordingly did, as soon as I had ascertained that it wanted yet half-an-hour to the time at which Mrs. Hornby and Juliet were due at the lawyer’s office.

Mr. Lawley received me with stiffness that bordered on hostility. He was evidently deeply offended at the subordinate part that he had been compelled to play in the case, and was at no great pains to conceal the fact.

“I am informed,” said he, in a frosty tone, when I had explained my mission, “that Mrs. Hornby and Miss Gibson are to meet you here. The arrangement is none of my making; none of the arrangements in this case are of my making. I have been treated throughout with a lack of ceremony and confidence that is positively scandalous. Even now, I—the solicitor for the defence—am completely in the dark as to what defence is contemplated, though I fully expect to be involved in some ridiculous fiasco. I only trust that I may never again be associated with any of your hybrid practitioners. Ne sutor ultra crepidam, sir, is an excellent motto; let the medical cobbler stick to his medical last.”

“It remains to be seen what kind of boot he can turn out on the legal last,” I retorted.

“That is so,” he rejoined; “but I hear Mrs. Hornby’s voice in the outer office, and as neither you nor I have any time to waste in idle talk, I suggest that you make your way to the court without delay. I wish you good morning!”

Acting on this very plain hint, I retired to the clerks’ office, where I found Mrs. Hornby and Juliet, the former undisguisedly tearful and terrified, and the latter calm, though pale and agitated.

“We had better start at once,” I said, when we had exchanged greetings. “Shall we take a cab, or walk?”

“I think we will walk, if you don’t mind,” said Juliet. “Mrs. Hornby wants to have a few words with you before we go into court. You see, she is one of the witnesses, and she is terrified lest she should say something damaging to Reuben.”

“By whom was the subpoena served?” I asked.

“Mr. Lawley sent it,” replied Mrs. Hornby, “and I went to see him about it the very next day, but he wouldn’t tell me anything—he didn’t seem to know what I was wanted for, and he wasn’t at all nice—not at all.”

“I expect your evidence will relate to the ‘Thumbograph,’” I said. “There is really nothing else in connection with the case that you have any knowledge of.”

“That is just what Walter said,” exclaimed Mrs. Hornby. “I went to his rooms to talk the matter over with him. He is very upset about the whole affair, and I am afraid he thinks very badly of poor Reuben’s prospects. I only trust he may be wrong! Oh dear! What a dreadful thing it is, to be sure!” Here the poor lady halted to mop her eyes elaborately, to the surprise and manifest scorn of a passing errand boy.

“He was very thoughtful and sympathetic—Walter, I mean, you know,” pursued Mrs. Hornby, “and most helpful. He asked me all I knew about that horrid little book, and took down my answers in writing. Then he wrote out the questions I was likely to be asked, with my answers, so that I could read them over and get them well into my head. Wasn’t it good of him! And I made him print them with his machine so that I could read them without my glasses, and he did it beautifully. I have the paper in my pocket now.”

“I didn’t know Mr. Walter went in for printing,” I said. “Has he a regular printing press?”

“It isn’t a printing press exactly,” replied Mrs. Hornby; “it is a small thing with a lot of round keys that you press down—Dickensblerfer, I think it is called—ridiculous name, isn’t it? Walter bought it from one of his literary friends about a week ago; but he is getting quite clever with it already, though he does make a few mistakes still, as you can see.”

She halted again, and began to search for the opening of a pocket which was hidden away in some occult recess of her clothing, all unconscious of the effect that her explanation had produced on me. For, instantly, as she spoke, there flashed into my mind one of the points that Thorndyke had given me for the identification of the mysterious X. “He has probably purchased, quite recently, a second-hand Blickensderfer, fitted with a literary typewheel.” The coincidence was striking and even startling, though a moment’s reflection convinced me that it was nothing more than a coincidence; for there must be hundreds of second-hand “Blicks” on the market, and, as to Walter Hornby, he certainly could have no quarrel with Thorndyke, but would rather be interested in his preservation on Reuben’s account.

These thoughts passed through my mind so rapidly that by the time Mrs. Hornby had run her pocket to earth I had quite recovered from the momentary shock.

“Ah! here it is,” she exclaimed triumphantly, producing an obese Morocco purse. “I put it in here for safety, knowing how liable one is to get one’s pocket picked in these crowded London streets.” She opened the bulky receptacle and drew it out after the manner of a concertina, exhibiting multitudinous partitions, all stuffed with pieces of paper, coils of tape and sewing silk, buttons, samples of dress materials and miscellaneous rubbish, mingled indiscriminately with gold, silver, and copper coins.

“Now just run your eye through that, Dr. Jervis,” she said, handing me a folded paper, “and give me your advice on my answers.”

I opened the paper and read: “The Committee of the Society for the Protection of Paralysed Idiots, in submitting this—”

“Oh! that isn’t it; I have given you the wrong paper. How silly of me! That is the appeal of—you remember, Juliet, dear, that troublesome person—I had, really, to be quite rude, you know, Dr. Jervis; I had to tell him that charity begins at home, although, thank Heaven! none of us are paralysed, but we must consider our own, mustn’t we? And then—”

“Do you think this is the one, dear?” interposed Juliet, in whose pale cheek the ghost of a dimple had appeared. “It looks cleaner than most of the others.”

She selected a folded paper from the purse which Mrs. Hornby was holding with both hands extended to its utmost, as though she were about to produce a burst of music, and, opening it, glanced at its contents.

“Yes, this is your evidence,” she said, and passed the paper to me.

I took the document from her hand and, in spite of the conclusion at which I had arrived, examined it with eager curiosity. And at the very first glance I felt my head swim and my heart throb violently. For the paper was headed: “Evidence respecting the Thumbograph,” and in every one of the five small “e’s” that occurred in that sentence I could see plainly by the strong out-door light a small break or interval in the summit of the loop.

I was thunderstruck.

One coincidence was quite possible and even probable; but the two together, and the second one of so remarkable a character, were beyond all reasonable limits of probability. The identification did not seem to admit of a doubt, and yet—

“Our legal adviser appears to be somewhat preoccupied,” remarked Juliet, with something of her old gaiety of manner; and, in fact, though I held the paper in my hand, my gaze was fixed unmeaningly on an adjacent lamp-post. As she spoke, I pulled myself together, and, scanning the paper hastily, was fortunate enough to find in the first paragraph matter requiring comment.

“I observe, Mrs. Hornby,” I said, “that in answer to the first question, ‘Whence did you obtain the “Thumbograph”?’ you say, ‘I do not remember clearly; I think I must have bought it at a railway bookstall.’ Now I understood that it was brought home and given to you by Walter himself.”

“That was what I thought,” replied Mrs. Hornby, “but Walter tells me that it was not so, and, of course, he would remember better than I should.”

“But, my dear aunt, I am sure he gave it to you,” interposed Juliet. “Don’t you remember? It was the night the Colleys came to dinner, and we were so hard pressed to find amusement for them, when Walter came in and produced the ‘Thumbograph.’”

“Yes, I remember quite well now,” said Mrs. Hornby. “How fortunate that you reminded me. We must alter that answer at once.”

“If I were you, Mrs. Hornby,” I said, “I would disregard this paper altogether. It will only confuse you and get you into difficulties. Answer the questions that are put, as well as you can, and if you don’t remember, say so.”

“Yes, that will be much the wisest plan,” said Juliet. “Let Dr. Jervis take charge of the paper and rely on your own memory.”

“Very well, my dear,” replied Mrs. Hornby, “I will do what you think best, and you can keep the paper, Dr. Jervis, or throw it away.”

I slipped the document into my pocket without remark, and we proceeded on our way, Mrs. Hornby babbling inconsequently, with occasional outbursts of emotion, and Juliet silent and abstracted. I struggled to concentrate my attention on the elder lady’s conversation, but my thoughts continually reverted to the paper in my pocket, and the startling solution that it seemed to offer of the mystery of the poisoned cigar.

Could it be that Walter Hornby was in reality the miscreant X? The thing seemed incredible, for, hitherto, no shadow of suspicion had appeared to fall on him. And yet there was no denying that his description tallied in a very remarkable manner with that of the hypothetical X. He was a man of some means and social position; he was a man of considerable knowledge and mechanical skill, though as to his ingenuity I could not judge. He had recently bought a second-hand Blickensderfer which probably had a literary typewheel, since it was purchased from a literary man; and that machine showed the characteristic mark on the small “e.” The two remaining points, indeed, were not so clear. Obviously I could form no opinion as to whether or not Thorndyke held any exclusive information concerning him, and, with reference to his knowledge of my friend’s habits, I was at first inclined to be doubtful until I suddenly recalled, with a pang of remorse and self-accusation, the various details that I had communicated to Juliet and that she might easily, in all innocence, have handed on to Walter. I had, for instance, told her of Thorndyke’s preference for the Trichinopoly cheroot, and of this she might very naturally have spoken to Walter, who possessed a supply of them. Again, with regard to the time of our arrival at King’s Cross, I had informed her of this in a letter which was in no way confidential, and again there was no reason why the information should not have been passed on to Walter, who was to have been one of the party at the family dinner. The coincidence seemed complete enough, in all truth; yet it was incredible that Reuben’s cousin could be so blackhearted a villain or could have any motive for these dastardly crimes.

Suddenly a new idea struck me. Mrs Hornby had obtained access to this typewriting machine; and if Mrs. Hornby could do so, why not John Hornby? The description would, for the most part, fit the elder man as well as the younger, though I had no evidence of his possessing any special mechanical skill; but my suspicions had already fastened upon him, and I remembered that Thorndyke had by no means rejected my theory which connected him with the crime.

At this point, my reflections were broken in upon by Mrs. Hornby, who grasped my arm and uttered a deep groan. We had reached the corner of the Old Bailey, and before us were the frowning walls of Newgate. Within those walls, I knew—though I did not mention the fact—that Reuben Hornby was confined with the other prisoners who were awaiting their trial; and a glance at the massive masonry, stained to a dingy grey by the grime of the city, put an end to my speculations and brought me back to the drama that was so nearly approaching its climax.

Down the old thoroughfare, crowded with so many memories of hideous tragedy; by the side of the gloomy prison; past the debtors’ door with its forbidding spiked wicket; past the gallows gate with its festoons of fetters; we walked in silence until we reached the entrance to the Sessions House.

Here I was not a little relieved to find Thorndyke on the look-out for us, for Mrs. Hornby, in spite of really heroic efforts to control her emotion, was in a state of impending hysteria, while Juliet, though outwardly calm and composed, showed by the waxen pallor of her cheeks and a certain wildness of her eyes that all her terror was reviving; and I was glad that they were spared the unpleasantness of contact with the policemen who guarded the various entrances.

“We must be brave,” said Thorndyke gently, as he took Mrs. Hornby’s hand, “and show a cheerful face to our friend who has so much to bear and who bears it so patiently. A few more hours, and I hope we shall see restored, not only his liberty, but his honour. Here is Mr. Anstey, who, we trust, will be able to make his innocence apparent.”

Anstey, who, unlike Thorndyke, had already donned his wig and gown, bowed gravely, and, together, we passed through the mean and grimy portals into a dark hall. Policemen in uniform and unmistakable detectives stood about the various entries, and little knots of people, evil-looking and unclean for the most part, lurked in the background or sat on benches and diffused through the stale, musty air that distinctive but indescribable odour that clings to police vans and prison reception rooms; an odour that, in the present case, was pleasantly mingled with the suggestive aroma of disinfectants. Through the unsavoury throng we hurried, and up a staircase to a landing from which several passages diverged. Into one of these passages—a sort of “dark entry,” furnished with a cage-like gate of iron bars—we passed to a black door, on which was painted the inscription, “Old Court. Counsel and clerks.”

Anstey held the door open for us, and we passed through into the court, which at once struck me with a sense of disappointment. It was smaller than I had expected, and plain and mean to the point of sordidness. The woodwork was poor, thinly disguised by yellow graining, and slimy with dirt wherever a dirty hand could reach it. The walls were distempered a pale, greenish grey; the floor was of bare and dirty planking, and the only suggestions of dignity or display were those offered by the canopy over the judge’s seat—lined with scarlet baize and surmounted by the royal arms—the scarlet cushions of the bench, and the large, circular clock in the gallery, which was embellished with a gilded border and asserted its importance by a loud, aggressive tick.

Following Anstey and Thorndyke into the well of the court, we were ushered into one of the seats reserved for counsel—the third from the front—where we sat down and looked about us, while our two friends seated themselves in the front bench next to the central table. Here, at the extreme right, a barrister—presumably the counsel for the prosecution—was already in his place and absorbed in the brief that lay on the desk before him. Straight before us were the seats for the jury, rising one above the other, and at their side the witness-box. Above us on the right was the judge’s seat, and immediately below it a structure somewhat resembling a large pew or a counting-house desk, surmounted by a brass rail, in which a person in a grey wig—the clerk of the court—was mending a quill pen. On our left rose the dock—suggestively large and roomy—enclosed at the sides with high glazed frames; and above it, near the ceiling, was the spectators’ gallery.

“What a hideous place!” exclaimed Juliet, who separated me from Mrs. Hornby. “And how sordid and dirty everything looks!”

“Yes,” I answered. “The uncleanness of the criminal is not confined to his moral being; wherever he goes, he leaves a trail of actual, physical dirt. It is not so long ago that the dock and the bench alike used to be strewn with medicinal herbs, and I believe the custom still survives of furnishing the judge with a nosegay as a preventive of jail-fever.”

“And to think that Reuben should be brought to a place like this!” Juliet continued bitterly; “to be herded with such people as we saw downstairs!”

She sighed and looked round at the benches that rose behind us, where a half-dozen reporters were already seated and apparently in high spirits at the prospect of a sensational case.

Our conversation was now interrupted by the clatter of feet on the gallery stairs, and heads began to appear over the wooden parapet. Several junior counsel filed into the seats in front of us; Mr. Lawley and his clerk entered the attorney’s bench; the ushers took their stand below the jury-box; a police officer seated himself at a desk in the dock; and inspectors, detectives and miscellaneous officers began to gather in the entries or peer into the court through the small glazed openings in the doors.

CHAPTER XV

THE FINGER-PRINT EXPERTS

The hum of conversation that had been gradually increasing as the court filled suddenly ceased. A door at the back of the dais was flung open; counsel, solicitors, and spectators alike rose to their feet; and the judge entered, closely followed by the Lord Mayor, the sheriff, and various civic magnates, all picturesque and gorgeous in their robes and chains of office. The Clerk of Arraigns took his place behind his table under the dais; the counsel suspended their conversation and fingered their briefs; and, as the judge took his seat, lawyers, officials, and spectators took their seats, and all eyes were turned towards the dock.

A few moments later Reuben Hornby appeared in the enclosure in company with a warder, the two rising, apparently, from the bowels of the earth, and, stepping forward to the bar, stood with a calm and self-possessed demeanour, glancing somewhat curiously around the court. For an instant his eye rested upon the group of friends and well-wishers seated behind the counsel, and the faintest trace of a smile appeared on his face; but immediately he turned his eyes away and never again throughout the trial looked in our direction.

The Clerk of Arraigns now rose and, reading from the indictment which lay before him on the table, addressed the prisoner—

“Reuben Hornby, you stand indicted for that you did, on the ninth or tenth day of March, feloniously steal a parcel of diamonds of the goods and chattels of John Hornby. Are you guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” replied Reuben.

The Clerk of Arraigns, having noted the prisoner’s reply, then proceeded—

“The gentlemen whose names are about to be called will form the jury who are to try you. If you wish to object to any of them, you must do so as each comes to the book to be sworn, and before he is sworn. You will then be heard.”

In acknowledgment of this address, which was delivered in clear, ringing tones, and with remarkable distinctness, Reuben bowed to the clerk, and the process of swearing-in the jury was commenced, while the counsel opened their briefs and the judge conversed facetiously with an official in a fur robe and a massive neck chain.

Very strange, to unaccustomed eyes and ears, was the effect of this function—half solemn and half grotesque, with an effect intermediate between that of a religious rite and that of a comic opera. Above the half-suppressed hum of conversation the clerk’s voice arose at regular intervals, calling out the name of one of the jurymen, and, as its owner stood up, the court usher, black-gowned and sacerdotal of aspect, advanced and proffered the book. Then, as the juryman took the volume in his hand, the voice of the usher resounded through the court like that of a priest intoning some refrain or antiphon—an effect that was increased by the rhythmical and archaic character of the formula—

“Samuel Seppings!”

A stolid-looking working-man rose and, taking the Testament in his hand, stood regarding the usher while that official sang out in a solemn monotone—

“You shall well and truly try and true deliverance make between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the bar, whom you shall have in charge, and a true verdict give according to the evidence. So help you God!”

“James Piper!” Another juryman rose and was given the Book to hold; and again the monotonous sing-song arose—

“You shall well and truly try and true deliverance make, etc.”

“I shall scream aloud if that horrible chant goes on much longer,” Juliet whispered. “Why don’t they all swear at once and have done with it?”

“That would not meet the requirements,” I answered. “However, there are only two more, so you must have patience.”

“And you will have patience with me, too, won’t you? I am horribly frightened. It is all so solemn and dreadful.”

“You must try to keep up your courage until Dr. Thorndyke has given his evidence,” I said. “Remember that, until he has spoken, everything is against Reuben; so be prepared.”

“I will try,” she answered meekly; “but I can’t help being terrified.”

The last of the jurymen was at length sworn, and when the clerk had once more called out the names one by one, the usher counting loudly as each man answered to his name, the latter officer turned to the Court and spectators, and proclaimed in solemn tones—

“If anyone can inform my Lords the King’s justices, the King’s attorney-general, or the King’s serjeant, ere this inquest be now taken between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the bar, of any treason, murder, felony or misdemeanour, committed or done by him, let him come forth and he shall be heard; for the prisoner stands at the bar upon his deliverance.”

This proclamation was followed by a profound silence, and after a brief interval the Clerk of Arraigns turned towards the jury and addressed them collectively—

“Gentlemen of the jury, the prisoner at the bar stands indicted by the name of Reuben Hornby, for that he, on the ninth or tenth of March, feloniously did steal, take and carry away a parcel of diamonds of the goods of John Hornby. To this indictment he has pleaded that he is not guilty, and your charge is to inquire whether he be guilty or not and to hearken to the evidence.”

When he had finished his address the clerk sat down, and the judge, a thin-faced, hollow-eyed elderly man, with bushy grey eyebrows and a very large nose, looked attentively at Reuben for some moments over the tops of his gold-rimmed pince-nez. Then he turned towards the counsel nearest the bench and bowed slightly.

The barrister bowed in return and rose, and for the first time I obtained a complete view of Sir Hector Trumpler, K.C., the counsel for the prosecution. His appearance was not prepossessing nor—though he was a large man and somewhat florid as to his countenance—particularly striking, except for a general air of untidiness. His gown was slipping off one shoulder, his wig was perceptibly awry, and his pince-nez threatened every moment to drop from his nose.

“The case that I have to present to you, my lord and gentlemen of the jury,” he began in a clear, though unmusical voice, “is one the like of which is but too often met with in this court. It is one in which we shall see unbounded trust met by treacherous deceit, in which we shall see countless benefactions rewarded by the basest ingratitude, and in which we shall witness the deliberate renunciation of a life of honourable effort in favour of the tortuous and precarious ways of the criminal. The facts of the case are briefly as follows: The prosecutor in this case—most unwilling prosecutor, gentlemen—is Mr. John Hornby, who is a metallurgist and dealer in precious metals. Mr. Hornby has two nephews, the orphan sons of his two elder brothers, and I may tell you that since the decease of their parents he has acted the part of a father to both of them. One of these nephews is Mr. Walter Hornby, and the other is Reuben Hornby, the prisoner at the bar. Both of these nephews were received by Mr. Hornby into his business with a view to their succeeding him when he should retire, and both, I need not say, occupied positions of trust and responsibility.

“Now, on the evening of the ninth of March there was delivered to Mr. Hornby a parcel of rough diamonds of which one of his clients asked him to take charge pending their transfer to the brokers. I need not burden you with irrelevant details concerning this transaction. It will suffice to say that the diamonds, which were of the aggregate value of about thirty thousand pounds, were delivered to him, and the unopened package deposited by him in his safe, together with a slip of paper on which he had written in pencil a memorandum of the circumstances. This was on the evening of the ninth of March, as I have said. Having deposited the parcel, Mr. Hornby locked the safe, and shortly afterwards left the premises and went home, taking the keys with him.

“On the following morning, when he unlocked the safe, he perceived with astonishment and dismay that the parcel of diamonds had vanished. The slip of paper, however, lay at the bottom of the safe, and on picking it up Mr. Hornby perceived that it bore a smear of blood, and in addition, the distinct impression of a human thumb. On this he closed and locked the safe and sent a note to the police station, in response to which a very intelligent officer—Inspector Sanderson—came and made a preliminary examination. I need not follow the case further, since the details will appear in the evidence, but I may tell you that, in effect, it has been made clear, beyond all doubt, that the thumb-print on that paper was the thumb-print of the prisoner, Reuben Hornby.”

He paused to adjust his glasses, which were in the very act of falling from his nose, and hitch up his gown, while he took a leisurely survey of the jury, as though he were estimating their impressionability. At this moment I observed Walter Hornby enter the court and take up a position at the end of our bench nearest the door; and, immediately after, Superintendent Miller came in and seated himself on one of the benches opposite.

“The first witness whom I shall call,” said Sir Hector Trumpler, “is John Hornby.”

Mr. Hornby, looking wild and agitated, stepped into the witness-box, and the usher, having handed him the Testament, sang out—

“The evidence you shall give to the court and jury sworn, between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the bar shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; so help you God!”

Mr. Hornby kissed the Book, and, casting a glance of unutterable misery at his nephew, turned towards the counsel.

“Your name is John Hornby, is it not?” asked Sir Hector.

“It is.”

“And you occupy premises in St. Mary Axe?”

“Yes. I am a dealer in precious metals, but my business consists principally in the assaying of samples of ore and quartz and bars of silver and gold.”

“Do you remember what happened on the ninth of March last?”

“Perfectly. My nephew Reuben—the prisoner—delivered to me a parcel of diamonds which he had received from the purser of the Elmina Castle, to whom I had sent him as my confidential agent. I had intended to deposit the diamonds with my banker, but when the prisoner arrived at my office, the banks were already closed, so I had to put the parcel, for the night, in my own safe. I may say that the prisoner was not in any way responsible for the delay.”

“You are not here to defend the prisoner,” said Sir Hector. “Answer my questions and make no comments, if you please. Was anyone present when you placed the diamonds in the safe?”

“No one was present but myself.”

“I did not ask if you were present when you put them in,” said Sir Hector (whereupon the spectators sniggered and the judge smiled indulgently). “What else did you do?”

“I wrote in pencil on a leaf of my pocket memorandum block, ‘Handed in by Reuben at 7:30 P.M., 9.3.01,’ and initialled it. Then I tore the leaf from the block and laid it on the parcel, after which I closed the safe and locked it.”

“How soon did you leave the premises after this?”

“Almost immediately. The prisoner was waiting for me in the outer office—”

“Never mind where the prisoner was; confine your answers to what is asked. Did you take the keys with you?”

“Yes.”

“When did you next open the safe?”

“On the following morning at ten o’clock.”

“Was the safe locked or unlocked when you arrived?”

“It was locked. I unlocked it.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about the safe?”

“No.”

“Had the keys left your custody in the interval?”

“No. They were attached to a key-chain, which I always wear.”

“Are there any duplicates of those keys?—the keys of the safe, I mean.”

“No, there are no duplicates.”

“Have the keys ever gone out of your possession?”

“Yes. If I have had to be absent from the office for a considerable time, it has been my custom to hand the keys to one of my nephews, whichever has happened to be in charge at the time.”

“And never to any other person?”

“Never to any other person.”

“What did you observe when you opened the safe?”

“I observed that the parcel of diamonds had disappeared.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

“Yes. I found the leaf from my memorandum block lying at the bottom of the safe. I picked it up and turned it over, and then saw that there were smears of blood on it and what looked like the print of a thumb in blood. The thumb-mark was on the under-surface, as the paper lay at the bottom of the safe.”

“What did you do next?”

“I closed and locked the safe, and sent a note to the police station saying that a robbery had been committed on my premises.”

“You have known the prisoner several years, I believe?”

“Yes; I have known him all his life. He is my eldest brother’s son.”

“Then you can tell us, no doubt, whether he is left-handed or right-handed?”

“I should say he was ambidextrous, but he uses his left hand by preference.”

“A fine distinction, Mr. Hornby; a very fine distinction. Now tell me, did you ascertain beyond all doubt that the diamonds were really gone?”

“Yes; I examined the safe thoroughly, first by myself and afterwards with the police. There was no doubt that the diamonds had really gone.”

“When the detective suggested that you should have the thumb-prints of your two nephews taken, did you refuse?”

“I refused.”

“Why did you refuse?”

“Because I did not choose to subject my nephews to the indignity. Besides, I had no power to make them submit to the proceeding.”

“Had you any suspicions of either of them?”

“I had no suspicions of anyone.”

“Kindly examine this piece of paper, Mr. Hornby,” said Sir Hector, passing across a small oblong slip, “and tell us if you recognise it.”

Mr. Hornby glanced at the paper for a moment, and then said—

“This is the memorandum slip that I found lying at the bottom of the safe.”

“How do you identify it?”

“By the writing on it, which is in my own hand, and bears my initials.”

“Is it the memorandum that you placed on the parcel of diamonds?”

“Yes.”

“Was there any thumb-mark or blood-smear on it when you placed it in the safe?”

“No.”

“Was it possible that there could have been any such marks?”

“Quite impossible. I tore it from my memorandum block at the time I wrote upon it.”

“Very well.” Sir Hector Trumpler sat down, and Mr. Anstey stood up to cross-examine the witness.

“You have told us, Mr. Hornby,” said he, “that you have known the prisoner all his life. Now what estimate have you formed of his character?”

“I have always regarded him as a young man of the highest character—honourable, truthful, and in every way trustworthy. I have never, in all my experience of him, known him to deviate a hair’s-breadth from the strictest honour and honesty of conduct.”

“You regarded him as a man of irreproachable character. Is that so?”

“That is so; and my opinion of him is unchanged.”

“Has he, to your knowledge, any expensive or extravagant habits?”

“No. His habits are simple and rather thrifty.”

“Have you ever known him to bet, gamble, or speculate?”

“Never.”

“Has he ever seemed to be in want of money?”

“No. He has a small private income, apart from his salary, which I know he does not spend, since I have occasionally employed my broker to invest his savings.”

“Apart from the thumb-print which was found in the safe, are you aware of any circumstances that would lead you to suspect the prisoner of having stolen the diamonds?”

“None whatever.”

Mr. Anstey sat down, and as Mr. Hornby left the witness-box, mopping the perspiration from his forehead, the next witness was called.

“Inspector Sanderson!”

The dapper police officer stepped briskly into the box, and having been duly sworn, faced the prosecuting counsel with the air of a man who was prepared for any contingency.

“Do you remember,” said Sir Hector, after the usual preliminaries had been gone through, “what occurred on the morning of the tenth of March?”

“Yes. A note was handed to me at the station at 10:23 A.M. It was from Mr. John Hornby, and stated that a robbery had occurred at his premises in St. Mary Axe. I went to the premises and arrived there at 10:31 A.M. There I saw the prosecutor, Mr. John Hornby, who told me that a parcel of diamonds had been stolen from the safe. At his request I examined the safe. There were no signs of its having been forced open; the locks seemed to be quite uninjured and in good order. Inside the safe, on the bottom, I found two good-sized drops of blood, and a slip of paper with pencil-writing on it. The paper bore two blood-smears and a print of a human thumb in blood.”

“Is this the paper?” asked the counsel, passing a small slip across to the witness.

“Yes,” replied the inspector, after a brief glance at the document.

“What did you do next?”

“I sent a message to Scotland Yard acquainting the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department with the facts, and then went back to the station. I had no further connection with the case.”

Sir Hector sat down, and the judge glanced at Anstey.

“You tell us,” said the latter, rising, “that you observed two good-sized drops of blood on the bottom of the safe. Did you notice the condition of the blood, whether moist or dry?”

“The blood looked moist, but I did not touch it. I left it undisturbed for the detective officers to examine.”

The next witness called was Sergeant Bates, of the Criminal Investigation Department. He stepped into the box with the same ready, business-like air as the other officer, and, having been sworn, proceeded to give his evidence with a fluency that suggested careful preparation, holding an open notebook in his hand but making no references to it.

“On the tenth of March, at 12:08 P.M., I received instructions to proceed to St. Mary Axe to inquire into a robbery that had taken place there. Inspector Sanderson’s report was handed to me, and I read it in the cab on my way to the premises. On arriving at the premises at 12:30 P.M., I examined the safe carefully. It was quite uninjured, and there were no marks of any kind upon it. I tested the locks and found them perfect; there were no marks or indications of any picklock having been used. On the bottom of the inside I observed two rather large drops of a dark fluid. I took up some of the fluid on a piece of paper and found it to be blood. I also found, in the bottom of the safe, the burnt head of a wax match, and, on searching the floor of the office, I found, close by the safe, a used wax match from which the head had fallen. I also found a slip of paper which appeared to have been torn from a perforated block. On it was written in pencil, ‘Handed in by Reuben at 7:30 P.M. 9.3.01. J.H.’ There were two smears of blood on the paper and the impression of a human thumb in blood. I took possession of the paper in order that it might be examined by the experts. I inspected the office doors and the outer door of the premises, but found no signs of forcible entrance on any of them. I questioned the housekeeper, but obtained no information from him. I then returned to headquarters, made my report and handed the paper with the marks on it to the Superintendent.”

“Is this the paper that you found in the safe?” asked the counsel, once more handing the leaflet across.

“Yes; this is the paper.”

“What happened next?”

“The following afternoon I was sent for by Mr. Singleton, of the Finger-print Department. He informed me that he had gone through the files and had not been able to find any thumb-print resembling the one on the paper, and recommended me to endeavour to obtain prints of the thumbs of any persons who might have been concerned in the robbery. He also gave me an enlarged photograph of the thumb-print for reference if necessary. I accordingly went to St. Mary Axe and had an interview with Mr. Hornby, when I requested him to allow me to take prints of the thumbs of all the persons employed on the premises, including his two nephews. This he refused, saying that he distrusted finger-prints and that there was no suspicion of anyone on the premises. I asked if he would allow his nephews to furnish their thumb-prints privately, to which he replied, ‘Certainly not.’”

“Had you then any suspicion of either of the nephews?”

“I thought they were both open to some suspicion. The safe had certainly been opened with false keys, and as they had both had the real keys in their possession it was possible that one of them might have taken impressions in wax and made counterfeit keys.”

“Yes.”

“I called on Mr. Hornby several times and urged him, for the sake of his nephews’ reputations, to sanction the taking of the thumb-prints; but he refused very positively and forbade them to submit, although I understood that they were both willing. It then occurred to me to try if I could get any help from Mrs. Hornby, and on the fifteenth of March I called at Mr. Hornby’s private house and saw her. I explained to her what was wanted to clear her nephews from the suspicion that rested on them, and she then said that she could dispose of those suspicions at once, for she could show me the thumb-prints of the whole family: she had them all in a ‘Thumbograph.’”

“A ‘Thumbograph’?” repeated the judge. “What is a ‘Thumbograph’?”

Anstey rose with the little red-covered volume in his hand.

“A ‘Thumbograph,’ my lord,” said he, “is a book, like this, in which foolish people collect the thumb-prints of their more foolish acquaintances.”

He passed the volume up to the judge, who turned over the leaves curiously and then nodded to the witness.

“Yes. She said she had them all in a ‘Thumbograph.’”

“Then she fetched from a drawer a small red-covered book which she showed to me. It contained the thumb-prints of all the family and some of her friends.”

“Is this the book?” asked the judge, passing the volume down to the witness.

The sergeant turned over the leaves until he came to one which he apparently recognised, and said—

“Yes, m’lord; this is the book. Mrs. Hornby showed me the thumb-prints of various members of the family, and then found those of the two nephews. I compared them with the photograph that I had with me and discovered that the print of the left thumb of Reuben Hornby was in every respect identical with the thumb-print shown in the photograph.”

“What did you do then?”

“I asked Mrs. Hornby to lend me the ‘Thumbograph’ so that I might show it to the Chief of the Finger-print Department, to which she consented. I had not intended to tell her of my discovery, but, as I was leaving, Mr. Hornby arrived home, and when he heard of what had taken place, he asked me why I wanted the book, and then I told him. He was greatly astonished and horrified, and wished me to return the book at once. He proposed to let the whole matter drop and take the loss of the diamonds on himself; but I pointed out that this was impossible as it would practically amount to compounding a felony. Seeing that Mrs. Hornby was so distressed at the idea of her book being used in evidence against her nephew, I promised her that I would return it to her if I could obtain a thumb-print in any other way.

“I then took the ‘Thumbograph’ to Scotland Yard and showed it to Mr. Singleton, who agreed that the print of the left thumb of Reuben Hornby was in every respect identical with the thumb-print on the paper found in the safe. On this I applied for a warrant for the arrest of Reuben Hornby, which I executed on the following morning. I told the prisoner what I had promised Mrs. Hornby, and he then offered to allow me to take a print of his left thumb so that his aunt’s book should not have to be used in evidence.”

“How is it, then,” asked the judge, “that it has been put in evidence?”

“It has been put in by the defence, my lord,” said Sir Hector Trumpler.

“I see,” said the judge. “‘A hair of the dog that bit him.’ The ‘Thumbograph’ is to be applied as a remedy on the principle that similia similibus curantur. Well?”

“When I arrested him, I administered the usual caution, and the prisoner then said, ‘I am innocent. I know nothing about the robbery.’”

The counsel for the prosecution sat down, and Anstey rose to cross-examine.

“You have told us,” said he, in his clear musical voice, “that you found at the bottom of the safe two rather large drops of a dark fluid which you considered to be blood. Now, what led you to believe that fluid to be blood?”

“I took some of the fluid up on a piece of white paper, and it had the appearance and colour of blood.”

“Was it examined microscopically or otherwise?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Was it quite liquid?”

“Yes, I should say quite liquid.”

“What appearance had it on paper?”

“It looked like a clear red liquid of the colour of blood, and was rather thick and sticky.”

Anstey sat down, and the next witness, an elderly man, answering to the name of Francis Simmons, was called.

“You are the housekeeper at Mr. Hornby’s premises in St. Mary Axe?” asked Sir Hector Trumpler.

“I am.”

“Did you notice anything unusual on the night of the ninth of March?”

“I did not.”

“Did you make your usual rounds on that occasion?”

“Yes. I went all over the premises several times during the night, and the rest of the time I was in a room over the private office.”

“Who arrived first on the morning of the tenth?”

“Mr. Reuben. He arrived about twenty minutes before anybody else.”

“What part of the building did he go to?”

“He went into the private office, which I opened for him. He remained there until a few minutes before Mr. Hornby arrived, when he went up to the laboratory.”

“Who came next?”

“Mr. Hornby, and Mr. Walter came in just after him.”

The counsel sat down, and Anstey proceeded to cross-examine the witness.

“Who was the last to leave the premises on the evening of the ninth?”

“I am not sure.”

“Why are you not sure?”

“I had to take a note and a parcel to a firm in Shoreditch. When I started, a clerk named Thomas Holker was in the outer office and Mr. Walter Hornby was in the private office. When I returned they had both gone.”

“Was the outer door locked?”

“Yes.”

“Had Holker a key of the outer door?”

“No. Mr. Hornby and his two nephews had each a key, and I have one. No one else had a key.”

“How long were you absent?”

“About three-quarters of an hour.”

“Who gave you the note and the parcel?”

“Mr. Walter Hornby.”

“When did he give them to you?”

“He gave them to me just before I started, and told me to go at once for fear the place should be closed before I got there.”

“And was the place closed?”

“Yes. It was all shut up, and everybody had gone.”

Anstey resumed his seat, the witness shuffled out of the box with an air of evident relief, and the usher called out, “Henry James Singleton.”

Mr. Singleton rose from his seat at the table by the solicitors for the prosecution and entered the box. Sir Hector adjusted his glasses, turned over a page of his brief, and cast a steady and impressive glance at the jury.

“I believe, Mr. Singleton,” he said at length, “that you are connected with the Finger-print Department at Scotland Yard?”

“Yes. I am one of the chief assistants in that department.”

“What are your official duties?”

“My principal occupation consists in the examination and comparison of the finger-prints of criminals and suspected persons. These finger-prints are classified by me according to their characters and arranged in files for reference.”

“I take it that you have examined a great number of finger-prints?”

“I have examined many thousands of finger-prints, and have studied them closely for purposes of identification.”

“Kindly examine this paper, Mr. Singleton” (here the fatal leaflet was handed to him by the usher); “have you ever seen it before?”

“Yes. It was handed to me for examination at my office on the tenth of March.”

“There is a mark upon it—the print of a finger or thumb. Can you tell us anything about that mark?”

“It is the print of the left thumb of Reuben Hornby, the prisoner at the bar.”

“You are quite sure of that?”

“I am quite sure.”

“Do you swear that the mark upon that paper was made by the thumb of the prisoner?”

“I do.”

“Could it not have been made by the thumb of some other person?”

“No; it is impossible that it could have been made by any other person.”

At this moment I felt Juliet lay a trembling hand on mine, and, glancing at her, I saw that she was deathly pale. I took her hand in mine and, pressing it gently, whispered to her, “Have courage; there is nothing unexpected in this.”

“Thank you,” she whispered in reply, with a faint smile; “I will try; but it is all so horribly unnerving.”

“You consider,” Sir Hector proceeded, “that the identity of this thumb-print admits of no doubt?”

“It admits of no doubt whatever,” replied Mr. Singleton.

“Can you explain to us, without being too technical, how you have arrived at such complete certainty?”

“I myself took a print of the prisoner’s thumb—having first obtained the prisoner’s consent after warning him that the print would be used in evidence against him—and I compared that print with the mark on this paper. The comparison was made with the greatest care and by the most approved method, point by point and detail by detail, and the two prints were found to be identical in every respect.

“Now it has been proved by exact calculations—which calculations I have personally verified—that the chance that the print of a single finger of any given person will be exactly like the print of the same finger of any other given person is as one to sixty-four thousand millions. That is to say that, since the number of the entire human race is about sixteen thousand millions, the chance is about one to four that the print of a single finger of any one person will be identical with that of the same finger of any other member of the human race.

“It has been said by a great authority—and I entirely agree with the statement—that a complete, or nearly complete, accordance between two prints of a single finger affords evidence requiring no corroboration that the persons from whom they were made are the same.

“Now, these calculations apply to the prints of ordinary and normal fingers or thumbs. But the thumb from which these prints were taken is not ordinary or normal. There is upon it a deep but clean linear scar—the scar of an old incised wound—and this scar passes across the pattern of the ridges, intersecting the latter at certain places and disturbing their continuity at others. Now this very characteristic scar is an additional feature, having a set of chances of its own. So that we have to consider not only the chance that the print of the prisoner’s left thumb should be identical with the print of some other person’s left thumb—which is as one to sixty-four thousand millions—but the further chance that these two identical thumb-prints should be traversed by the impression of a scar identical in size and appearance, and intersecting the ridges at exactly the same places and producing failures of continuity in the ridges of exactly the same character. But these two chances, multiplied into one another, yield an ultimate chance of about one to four thousand trillions that the prisoner’s left thumb will exactly resemble the print of some other person’s thumb, both as to the pattern and the scar which crosses the pattern; in other words such a coincidence is an utter impossibility.”

Sir Hector Trumpler took off his glasses and looked long and steadily at the jury as though he should say, “Come, my friends; what do you think of that?” Then he sat down with a jerk and turned towards Anstey and Thorndyke with a look of triumph.

“Do you propose to cross-examine the witness?” inquired the judge, seeing that the counsel for the defence made no sign.

“No, my lord,” replied Anstey.

Thereupon Sir Hector Trumpler turned once more towards the defending counsel, and his broad, red face was illumined by a smile of deep satisfaction. That smile was reflected on the face of Mr. Singleton as he stepped from the box, and, as I glanced at Thorndyke, I seemed to detect, for a single instant, on his calm and immovable countenance, the faintest shadow of a smile.

“Herbert John Nash!”

A plump, middle-aged man, of keen, though studious, aspect, stepped into the box, and Sir Hector rose once more.

“You are one of the chief assistants in the Finger-print Department, I believe, Mr. Nash?”

“I am.”

“Have you heard the evidence of the last witness?”

“I have.”

“Do you agree with the statements made by that witness?”

“Entirely. I am prepared to swear that the print on the paper found in the safe is that of the left thumb of the prisoner, Reuben Hornby.”

“And you are certain that no mistake is possible?”

“I am certain that no mistake is possible.”

Again Sir Hector glanced significantly at the jury as he resumed his seat, and again Anstey made no sign beyond the entry of a few notes on the margin of his brief.

“Are you calling any more witnesses?” asked the judge, dipping his pen in the ink.

“No, my lord,” replied Sir Hector. “That is our case.”

Upon this Anstey rose and, addressing the judge, said—

“I call witnesses, my lord.”

The judge nodded and made an entry in his notes while Anstey delivered his brief introductory speech—

“My lord and gentlemen of the jury, I shall not occupy the time of the Court with unnecessary appeals at this stage, but shall proceed to take the evidence of my witnesses without delay.”

There was a pause of a minute or more, during which the silence was broken only by the rustle of papers and the squeaking of the judge’s quill pen. Juliet turned a white, scared face to me and said in a hushed whisper—

“This is terrible. That last man’s evidence is perfectly crushing. What can possibly be said in reply? I am in despair; oh! poor Reuben! He is lost, Dr. Jervis! He hasn’t a chance now.”

“Do you believe that he is guilty?” I asked.

“Certainly not!” she replied indignantly. “I am as certain of his innocence as ever.”

“Then,” said I, “if he is innocent, there must be some means of proving his innocence.”

“Yes. I suppose so,” she rejoined in a dejected whisper. “At any rate we shall soon know now.”

At this moment the usher’s voice was heard calling out the name of the first witness for the defence.

“Edmund Horford Rowe!”

A keen-looking, grey-haired man, with a shaven face and close-cut side-whiskers, stepped into the box and was sworn in due form.

“You are a doctor of medicine, I believe,” said Anstey, addressing the witness, “and lecturer on Medical Jurisprudence at the South London Hospital?”

“I am.”

“Have you had occasion to study the properties of blood?”

“Yes. The properties of blood are of great importance from a medico-legal point of view.”

“Can you tell us what happens when a drop of blood—say from a cut finger—falls upon a surface such as the bottom of an iron safe?”

“A drop of blood from a living body falling upon any non-absorbent surface will, in the course of a few minutes, solidify into a jelly which will, at first, have the same bulk and colour as the liquid blood.”

“Will it undergo any further change?”

“Yes. In a few minutes more the jelly will begin to shrink and become more solid so that the blood will become separated into two parts, the solid and the liquid. The solid part will consist of a firm, tough jelly of a deep red colour, and the liquid part will consist of a pale yellow, clear, watery liquid.”

“At the end, say, of two hours, what will be the condition of the drop of blood?”

“It will consist of a drop of clear, nearly colourless liquid, in the middle of which will be a small, tough, red clot.”

“Supposing such a drop to be taken up on a piece of white paper, what would be its appearance?”

“The paper would be wetted by the colourless liquid, and the solid clot would probably adhere to the paper in a mass.”

“Would the blood on the paper appear as a clear, red liquid?”

“Certainly not. The liquid would appear like water, and the clot would appear as a solid mass sticking to the paper.”

“Does blood always behave in the way you have described?”

“Always, unless some artificial means are taken to prevent it from clotting.”

“By what means can blood be prevented from clotting or solidifying?”

“There are two principal methods. One is to stir or whip the fresh blood rapidly with a bundle of fine twigs. When this is done, the fibrin—the part of the blood that causes solidification—adheres to the twigs, and the blood that remains, though it is unchanged in appearance, will remain liquid for an indefinite time. The other method is to dissolve a certain proportion of some alkaline salt in the fresh blood, after which it no longer has any tendency to solidify.”

“You have heard the evidence of Inspector Sanderson and Sergeant Bates?”

“Yes.”

“Inspector Sanderson has told us that he examined the safe at 10:31 A.M. and found two good-sized drops of blood on the bottom. Sergeant Bates has told us that he examined the safe two hours later, and that he took up one of the drops of blood on a piece of white paper. The blood was then quite liquid, and, on the paper, it looked like a clear, red liquid of the colour of blood. What should you consider the condition and nature of that blood to have been?”

“If it was really blood at all, I should say that it was either defibrinated blood—that is, blood from which the fibrin has been extracted by whipping—or that it had been treated with an alkaline salt.”

“You are of opinion that the blood found in the safe could not have been ordinary blood shed from a cut or wound?”

“I am sure it could not have been.”

“Now, Dr. Rowe, I am going to ask you a few questions on another subject. Have you given any attention to finger-prints made by bloody fingers?”

“Yes. I have recently made some experiments on the subject.”

“Will you give us the results of those experiments?”

“My object was to ascertain whether fingers wet with fresh blood would yield distinct and characteristic prints. I made a great number of trials, and as a result found that it is extremely difficult to obtain a clear print when the finger is wetted with fresh blood. The usual result is a mere red blot showing no ridge pattern at all, owing to the blood filling the furrows between the ridges. But if the blood is allowed to dry almost completely on the finger, a very clear print is obtained.”

“Is it possible to recognise a print that has been made by a nearly dry finger?”

“Yes; quite easily. The half-dried blood is nearly solid and adheres to the paper in a different way from the liquid, and it shows minute details, such as the mouths of the sweat glands, which are always obliterated by the liquid.”

“Look carefully at this paper, which was found in the safe, and tell me what you see.”

The witness took the paper and examined it attentively, first with the naked eye and then with a pocket-lens.

“I see,” said he, “two blood-marks and a print, apparently of a thumb. Of the two marks, one is a blot, smeared slightly by a finger or thumb; the other is a smear only. Both were evidently produced with quite liquid blood. The thumb-print was also made with liquid blood.”

“You are quite sure that the thumb-print was made with liquid blood?”

“Quite sure.”

“Is there anything unusual about the thumb-print?”

“Yes. It is extraordinarily clear and distinct. I have made a great number of trials and have endeavoured to obtain the clearest prints possible with fresh blood; but none of my prints are nearly as distinct as this one.”

Here the witness produced a number of sheets of paper, each of which was covered with the prints of bloody fingers, and compared them with the memorandum slip.

The papers were handed to the judge for his inspection, and Anstey sat down, when Sir Hector Trumpler rose, with a somewhat puzzled expression on his face, to cross-examine.

“You say that the blood found in the safe was defibrinated or artificially treated. What inference do you draw from that fact?”

“I infer that it was not dropped from a bleeding wound.”

“Can you form any idea how such blood should have got into the safe?”

“None whatever.”

“You say that the thumb-print is a remarkably distinct one. What conclusion do you draw from that?”

“I do not draw any conclusion. I cannot account for its distinctness at all.”

The learned counsel sat down with rather a baffled air, and I observed a faint smile spread over the countenance of my colleague.

“Arabella Hornby.”

A muffled whimpering from my neighbour on the left hand was accompanied by a wild rustling of silk. Glancing at Mrs. Hornby, I saw her stagger from the bench, shaking like a jelly, mopping her eyes with her handkerchief and grasping her open purse. She entered the witness-box, and, having gazed wildly round the court, began to search the multitudinous compartments of her purse.

“The evidence you shall give,” sang out the usher—whereat Mrs. Hornby paused in her search and stared at him apprehensively—“to the court and jury sworn, between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the bar shall be the truth—”

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Hornby stiffly, “I—”

“—the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; so help you God!”

He held out the Testament, which she took from him with a trembling hand and forthwith dropped with a resounding bang on to the floor of the witness-box, diving after it with such precipitancy that her bonnet jammed violently against the rail of the box.

She disappeared from view for a moment, and then rose from the depths with a purple face and her bonnet flattened and cocked over one ear like an artillery-man’s forage cap.

“Kiss the Book, if you please,” said the usher, suppressing a grin by an heroic effort, as Mrs. Hornby, encumbered by her purse, her handkerchief and the Testament, struggled to unfasten her bonnet-strings. She clawed frantically at her bonnet, and, having dusted the Testament with her handkerchief, kissed it tenderly and laid it on the rail of the box, whence it fell instantly on to the floor of the court.

“I am really very sorry!” exclaimed Mrs. Hornby, leaning over the rail to address the usher as he stooped to pick up the Book, and discharging on to his back a stream of coins, buttons and folded bills from her open purse; “you will think me very awkward, I’m afraid.”

She mopped her face and replaced her bonnet rakishly on one side, as Anstey rose and passed a small red book across to her.

“Kindly look at that book, Mrs. Hornby.”

“I’d rather not,” said she, with a gesture of repugnance. “It is associated with matters of so extremely disagreeable a character—”

“Do you recognise it?”

“Do I recognise it! How can you ask me such a question when you must know—”

“Answer the question,” interposed the judge. “Do you or do you not recognise the book in your hand?”

“Of course I recognise it. How could I fail to—”

“Then say so,” said the judge.

“I have said so,” retorted Mrs. Hornby indignantly.

The judge nodded to Anstey, who then continued—“It is called a ‘Thumbograph,’ I believe.”

“Yes: the name ‘Thumbograph’ is printed on the cover, so I suppose that is what it is called.”

“Will you tell us, Mrs. Hornby, how the ‘Thumbograph’ came into your possession?”

For one moment Mrs. Hornby stared wildly at her interrogator; then she snatched a paper from her purse, unfolded it, gazed at it with an expression of dismay, and crumpled it up in the palm of her hand.

“You are asked a question,” said the judge.

“Oh! yes,” said Mrs. Hornby. “The Committee of the Society—no, that is the wrong one—I mean Walter, you know—at least—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Anstey, with polite gravity.

“You were speaking of the committee of some society,” interposed the judge. “What society were you referring to?”

Mrs. Hornby spread out the paper and, after a glance at it, replied—

“The Society of Paralysed Idiots, your worship,” whereat a rumble of suppressed laughter arose from the gallery.

“But what has that society to do with the ‘Thumbograph’?” inquired the judge.

“Nothing, your worship. Nothing at all.”

“Then why did you refer to it?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Hornby, wiping her eyes with the paper and then hastily exchanging it for her handkerchief.

The judge took off his glasses and gazed at Mrs. Hornby with an expression of bewilderment. Then he turned to the counsel and said in a weary voice—“Proceed, if you please, Mr. Anstey.”

“Can you tell us, Mrs. Hornby, how the ‘Thumbograph’ came into your possession?” said the latter in persuasive accents.

“I thought it was Walter, and so did my niece, but Walter says it was not, and he ought to know, being young and having a most excellent memory, as I had myself when I was his age, and really, you know, it can’t possibly matter where I got the thing—”

“But it does matter,” interrupted Anstey. “We wish particularly to know.”

“If you mean that you wish to get one like it—”

“We do not,” said Anstey. “We wish to know how that particular ‘Thumbograph’ came into your possession. Did you, for instance, buy it yourself, or was it given to you by someone?”

“Walter says I bought it myself, but I thought he gave it to me, but he says he did not, and you see—”

“Never mind what Walter says. What is your own impression?”

“Why I still think that he gave it to me, though, of course, seeing that my memory is not what it was—”

“You think that Walter gave it to you?”

“Yes, in fact I feel sure he did, and so does my niece.”

“Walter is your nephew, Walter Hornby?”

“Yes, of course. I thought you knew.”

“Can you recall the occasion on which the ‘Thumbograph’ was given to you?”

“Oh yes, quite distinctly. We had some people to dinner—some people named Colley—not the Dorsetshire Colleys, you know, although they are exceedingly nice people, as I have no doubt the other Colleys are, too, when you know them, but we don’t. Well, after dinner we were a little dull and rather at a loss, because Juliet, my niece, you know, had cut her finger and couldn’t play the piano excepting with the left hand, and that is so monotonous as well as fatiguing, and the Colleys are not musical, excepting Adolphus, who plays the trombone, but he hadn’t got it with him, and then, fortunately, Walter came in and brought the ‘Thumbograph’ and took all our thumb-prints and his own as well, and we were very much amused, and Matilda Colley—that is the eldest daughter but one—said that Reuben jogged her elbow, but that was only an excuse—”

“Exactly,” interrupted Anstey. “And you recollect quite clearly that your nephew Walter gave you the ‘Thumbograph’ on that occasion?”

“Oh, distinctly; though, you know, he is really my husband’s nephew—”

“Yes. And you are sure that he took the thumb-prints?”

“Quite sure.”

“And you are sure that you never saw the ‘Thumbograph’ before that?”

“Never. How could I? He hadn’t brought it.”

“Have you ever lent the ‘Thumbograph’ to anyone?”

“No, never. No one has ever wanted to borrow it, because, you see—”

“Has it never, at any time, gone out of your possession?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that; in fact, I have often thought, though I hate suspecting people, and I really don’t suspect anybody in particular, you know, but it certainly was very peculiar and I can’t explain it in any other way. You see, I kept the ‘Thumbograph’ in a drawer in my writing table, and in the same drawer I used to keep my handkerchief-bag—in fact I do still, and it is there at this very moment, for in my hurry and agitation, I forgot about it until we were in the cab, and then it was too late, because Mr. Lawley—”

“Yes. You kept it in a drawer with your handkerchief-bag.”

“That was what I said. Well, when Mr. Hornby was staying at Brighton he wrote to ask me to go down for a week and bring Juliet—Miss Gibson, you know—with me. So we went, and, just as we were starting, I sent Juliet to fetch my handkerchief-bag from the drawer, and I said to her, ‘Perhaps we might take the thumb-book with us; it might come in useful on a wet day.’ So she went, and presently she came back and said that the ‘Thumbograph’ was not in the drawer. Well, I was so surprised that I went back with her and looked myself, and sure enough the drawer was empty. Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time, but when we came home again, as soon as we got out of the cab, I gave Juliet my handkerchief-bag to put away, and presently she came running to me in a great state of excitement. ‘Why, Auntie,’ she said,’ the “Thumbograph” is in the drawer; somebody must have been meddling with your writing table.’ I went with her to the drawer, and there, sure enough, was the ‘Thumbograph.’ Somebody must have taken it out and put it back while we were away.”

“Who could have had access to your writing table?”

“Oh, anybody, because, you see, the drawers were never locked. We thought it must have been one of the servants.”

“Had anyone been to the house during your absence?”

“No. Nobody, except, of course, my two nephews; and neither of them had touched it, because we asked them, and they both said they had not.”

“Thank you.” Anstey sat down, and Mrs. Hornby having given another correcting twist to her bonnet, was about to step down from the box when Sir Hector rose and bestowed upon her an intimidating stare.

“You made some reference,” said he, “to a society—the Society of Paralysed Idiots, I think, whatever that may be. Now what caused you to make that reference?”

“It was a mistake; I was thinking of something else.”

“I know it was a mistake. You referred to a paper that was in your hand.”

“I did not refer to it, I merely looked at it. It is a letter from the Society of Paralysed Idiots. It is nothing to do with me really, you know; I don’t belong to the society, or anything of that sort.”

“Did you mistake that paper for some other paper?”

“Yes, I took it for a paper with some notes on it to assist my memory.”

“What kind of notes?”

“Oh, just the questions I was likely to be asked.”

“Were the answers that you were to give to those questions also written on the paper?”

“Of course they were. The questions would not have been any use without the answers.”

“Have you been asked the questions that were written on the paper?”

“Yes; at least, some of them.”

“Have you given the answers that were written down?”

“I don’t think I have—in fact, I am sure I haven’t, because, you see—”

“Ah! you don’t think you have.” Sir Hector Trumpler smiled significantly at the jury, and continued—

“Now who wrote down those questions and answers?”

“My nephew, Walter Hornby. He thought, you know—”

“Never mind what he thought. Who advised or instructed him to write them down?”

“Nobody. It was entirely his own idea, and very thoughtful of him, too, though Dr. Jervis took the paper away from me and said I must rely on my memory.”

Sir Hector was evidently rather taken aback by this answer, and sat down suddenly, with a distinctly chapfallen air.

“Where is this paper on which the questions and answers are written?” asked the judge. In anticipation of this inquiry I had already handed it to Thorndyke, and had noted by the significant glance that he bestowed on me that he had not failed to observe the peculiarity in the type. Indeed the matter was presently put beyond all doubt, for he hastily passed to me a scrap of paper, on which I found, when I opened it out, that he had written “X = W.H.”

As Anstey handed the rather questionable document up to the judge, I glanced at Walter Hornby and observed him to flush angrily, though he strove to appear calm and unconcerned, and the look that he directed at his aunt was very much the reverse of benevolent.

“Is this the paper?” asked the judge, passing it down to the witness.

“Yes, your worship,” answered Mrs. Hornby, in a tremulous voice; whereupon the document was returned to the judge, who proceeded to compare it with his notes.

“I shall order this document to be impounded,” said he sternly, after making a brief comparison. “There has been a distinct attempt to tamper with witnesses. Proceed with your case, Mr. Anstey.”

There was a brief pause, during which Mrs. Hornby tottered across the court and resumed her seat, gasping with excitement and relief; then the usher called out—

“John Evelyn Thorndyke!”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Juliet, clasping her hands. “Oh! will he be able to save Reuben? Do you think he will, Dr. Jervis?”

“There is someone who thinks he will,” I replied, glancing towards Polton, who, clasping in his arms the mysterious box and holding on to the microscope case, gazed at his master with a smile of ecstasy. “Polton has more faith than you have, Miss Gibson.”

“Yes, the dear, faithful little man!” she rejoined. “Well, we shall know the worst very soon now, at any rate.”

“The worst or the best,” I said. “We are now going to hear what the defence really is.”

“God grant that it may be a good defence,” she exclaimed in a low voice; and I—though not ordinarily a religious man—murmured “Amen!”

CHAPTER XVI

THORNDYKE PLAYS HIS CARD

As Thorndyke took his place in the box I looked at him with a sense of unreasonable surprise, feeling that I had never before fully realised what manner of man my friend was as to his externals. I had often noted the quiet strength of his face, its infinite intelligence, its attractiveness and magnetism; but I had never before appreciated what now impressed me most: that Thorndyke was actually the handsomest man I had ever seen. He was dressed simply, his appearance unaided by the flowing gown or awe-inspiring wig, and yet his presence dominated the court. Even the judge, despite his scarlet robe and trappings of office, looked commonplace by comparison, while the jurymen, who turned to look at him, seemed like beings of an inferior order. It was not alone the distinction of the tall figure, erect and dignified, nor the power and massive composure of his face, but the actual symmetry and comeliness of the face itself that now arrested my attention; a comeliness that made it akin rather to some classic mask, wrought in the ivory-toned marble of Pentelicus, than to the eager faces that move around us in the hurry and bustle of a life at once strenuous and trivial.

“You are attached to the medical school at St. Margaret’s Hospital, I believe, Dr. Thorndyke?” said Anstey.

“Yes. I am the lecturer on Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology.”

“Have you had much experience of medico-legal inquiries?”

“A great deal. I am engaged exclusively in medico-legal work.”

“You heard the evidence relating to the two drops of blood found in the safe?”

“I did.”

“What is your opinion as to the condition of that blood?”

“I should say there is no doubt that it had been artificially treated—probably by defibrination.”

“Can you suggest any explanation of the condition of that blood?”

“I can.”

“Is your explanation connected with any peculiarities in the thumb-print on the paper that was found in the safe?”

“It is.”

“Have you given any attention to the subject of finger-prints?”

“Yes. A great deal of attention.”

“Be good enough to examine that paper” (here the usher handed to Thorndyke the memorandum slip). “Have you seen it before?”

“Yes. I saw it at Scotland Yard.”

“Did you examine it thoroughly?”

“Very thoroughly. The police officials gave me every facility and, with their permission, I took several photographs of it.”

“There is a mark on that paper resembling the print of a human thumb?”

“There is.”

“You have heard two expert witnesses swear that that mark was made by the left thumb of the prisoner, Reuben Hornby?”

“I have.”

“Do you agree to that statement?”

“I do not.”

“In your opinion, was the mark upon that paper made by the thumb of the prisoner?”

“No. I am convinced that it was not made by the thumb of Reuben Hornby.”

“Do you think that it was made by the thumb of some other person?”

“No. I am of opinion that it was not made by a human thumb at all.”

At this statement the judge paused for a moment, pen in hand, and stared at Thorndyke with his mouth slightly open, while the two experts looked at one another with raised eyebrows.

“By what means do you consider that the mark was produced?”

“By means of a stamp, either of indiarubber or, more probably, of chromicized gelatine.”

Here Polton, who had been, by degrees, rising to an erect posture, smote his thigh a resounding thwack and chuckled aloud, a proceeding that caused all eyes, including those of the judge, to be turned on him.

“If that noise is repeated,” said the judge, with a stony stare at the horrified offender—who had shrunk into the very smallest space that I have ever seen a human being occupy—“I shall cause the person who made it to be removed from the court.”

“I understand, then,” pursued Anstey, “that you consider the thumb-print, which has been sworn to as the prisoner’s, to be a forgery?”

“Yes. It is a forgery.”

“But is it possible to forge a thumb-print or a finger-print?”

“It is not only possible, but quite easy to do.”

“As easy as to forge a signature, for instance?”

“Much more so, and infinitely more secure. A signature, being written with a pen, requires that the forgery should also be written with a pen, a process demanding very special skill and, after all, never resulting in an absolute facsimile. But a finger-print is a stamped impression—the finger-tip being the stamp; and it is only necessary to obtain a stamp identical in character with the finger-tip, in order to produce an impression which is an absolute facsimile, in every respect, of the original, and totally indistinguishable from it.”

“Would there be no means at all of detecting the difference between a forged finger-print and the genuine original?”

“None whatever; for the reason that there would be no difference to detect.”

“But you have stated, quite positively, that the thumb-print on this paper is a forgery. Now, if the forged print is indistinguishable from the original, how are you able to be certain that this particular print is a forgery?”

“I was speaking of what is possible with due care, but, obviously, a forger might, through inadvertence, fail to produce an absolute facsimile and then detection would be possible. That is what has happened in the present case. The forged print is not an absolute facsimile of the true print. There is a slight discrepancy. But, in addition to this, the paper bears intrinsic evidence that the thumb-print on it is a forgery.”

“We will consider that evidence presently, Dr. Thorndyke. To return to the possibility of forging a finger-print, can you explain to us, without being too technical, by what methods it would be possible to produce such a stamp as you have referred to?”

“There are two principal methods that suggest themselves to me. The first, which is rather crude though easy to carry out, consists in taking an actual cast of the end of the finger. A mould would be made by pressing the finger into some plastic material, such as fine modelling clay or hot sealing wax, and then, by pouring a warm solution of gelatine into the mould, and allowing it to cool and solidify, a cast would be produced which would yield very perfect finger-prints. But this method would, as a rule, be useless for the purpose of the forger, as it could not, ordinarily, be carried out without the knowledge of the victim; though in the case of dead bodies and persons asleep or unconscious or under an anaesthetic, it could be practised with success, and would offer the advantage of requiring practically no technical skill or knowledge and no special appliances. The second method, which is much more efficient, and is the one, I have no doubt, that has been used in the present instance, requires more knowledge and skill.

“In the first place it is necessary to obtain possession of, or access to, a genuine finger-print. Of this finger-print a photograph is taken, or rather, a photographic negative, which for this purpose requires to be taken on a reversed plate, and the negative is put into a special printing frame, with a plate of gelatine which has been treated with potassium bichromate, and the frame is exposed to light.

“Now gelatine treated in this way—chromicized gelatine, as it is called—has a very peculiar property. Ordinary gelatine, as is well known, is easily dissolved in hot water, and chromicized gelatine is also soluble in hot water as long as it is not exposed to light; but on being exposed to light, it undergoes a change and is no longer capable of being dissolved in hot water. Now the plate of chromicized gelatine under the negative is protected from the light by the opaque parts of the negative, whereas the light passes freely through the transparent parts; but the transparent parts of the negative correspond to the black marks on the finger-print, and these correspond to the ridges on the finger. Hence it follows that the gelatine plate is acted upon by light only on the parts corresponding to the ridges; and in these parts the gelatine is rendered insoluble, while all the rest of the gelatine is soluble. The gelatine plate, which is cemented to a thin plate of metal for support, is now carefully washed with hot water, by which the soluble part of the gelatine is dissolved away leaving the insoluble part (corresponding to the ridges) standing up from the surface. Thus there is produced a facsimile in relief of the finger-print having actual ridges and furrows identical in character with the ridges and furrows of the finger-tip. If an inked roller is passed over this relief, or if the relief is pressed lightly on an inked slab, and then pressed on a sheet of paper, a finger-print will be produced which will be absolutely identical with the original, even to the little white spots which mark the orifices of the sweat glands. It will be impossible to discover any difference between the real finger-print and the counterfeit because, in fact, no difference exists.”

“But surely the process you have described is a very difficult and intricate one?”

“Not at all; it is very little more difficult than ordinary carbon printing, which is practised successfully by numbers of amateurs. Moreover, such a relief as I have described—which is practically nothing more than an ordinary process block—could be produced by any photo-engraver. The process that I have described is, in all essentials, that which is used in the reproduction of pen-and-ink drawings, and any of the hundreds of workmen who are employed in that industry could make a relief-block of a finger-print, with which an undetectable forgery could be executed.”

“You have asserted that the counterfeit finger-print could not be distinguished from the original. Are you prepared to furnish proof that this is the case?”

“Yes. I am prepared to execute a counterfeit of the prisoner’s thumb-print in the presence of the Court.”

“And do you say that such a counterfeit would be indistinguishable from the original, even by the experts?”

“I do.”

Anstey turned towards the judge. “Would your lordship give your permission for a demonstration such as the witness proposes?”

“Certainly,” replied the judge. “The evidence is highly material. How do you propose that the comparison should be made?” he added, addressing Thorndyke.

“I have brought, for the purpose, my lord,” answered Thorndyke, “some sheets of paper, each of which is ruled into twenty numbered squares. I propose to make on ten of the squares counterfeits of the prisoner’s thumb-mark, and to fill the remaining ten with real thumb-marks. I propose that the experts should then examine the paper and tell the Court which are the real thumb-prints and which are the false.”

“That seems a fair and efficient test,” said his lordship. “Have you any objection to offer, Sir Hector?”

Sir Hector Trumpler hastily consulted with the two experts, who were sitting in the attorney’s bench, and then replied, without much enthusiasm—

“We have no objection to offer, my lord.”

“Then, in that case, I shall direct the expert witnesses to withdraw from the court while the prints are being made.”

In obedience to the judge’s order, Mr. Singleton and his colleague rose and left the court with evident reluctance, while Thorndyke took from a small portfolio three sheets of paper which he handed up to the judge.

“If your lordship,” said he, “will make marks in ten of the squares on two of these sheets, one can be given to the jury and one retained by your lordship to check the third sheet when the prints are made on it.”

“That is an excellent plan,” said the judge; “and, as the information is for myself and the jury, it would be better if you came up and performed the actual stamping on my table in the presence of the foreman of the jury and the counsel for the prosecution and defence.”

In accordance with the judge’s direction Thorndyke stepped up on the dais, and Anstey, as he rose to follow, leaned over towards me.

“You and Polton had better go up too,” said he: “Thorndyke will want your assistance, and you may as well see the fun. I will explain to his lordship.”

He ascended the stairs leading to the dais and addressed a few words to the judge, who glanced in our direction and nodded, whereupon we both gleefully followed our counsel, Polton carrying the box and beaming with delight.

The judge’s table was provided with a shallow drawer which pulled out at the side and which accommodated the box comfortably, leaving the small table-top free for the papers. When the lid of the box was raised, there were displayed a copper inking-slab, a small roller and the twenty-four “pawns” which had so puzzled Polton, and on which he now gazed with a twinkle of amusement and triumph.

“Are those all stamps?” inquired the judge, glancing curiously at the array of turned-wood handles.

“They are all stamps, my lord,” replied Thorndyke, “and each is taken from a different impression of the prisoner’s thumb.”

“But why so many?” asked the judge.

“I have multiplied them,” answered Thorndyke, as he squeezed out a drop of finger-print ink on to the slab and proceeded to roll it out into a thin film, “to avoid the tell-tale uniformity of a single stamp. And I may say,” he added, “that it is highly important that the experts should not be informed that more than one stamp has been used.”

“Yes, I see that,” said the judge. “You understand that, Sir Hector,” he added, addressing the counsel, who bowed stiffly, clearly regarding the entire proceeding with extreme disfavour.

Thorndyke now inked one of the stamps and handed it to the judge, who examined it curiously and then pressed it on a piece of waste paper, on which there immediately appeared a very distinct impression of a human thumb.

“Marvellous!” he exclaimed. “Most ingenious! Too ingenious!” He chuckled softly and added, as he handed the stamp and the paper to the foreman of the jury: “It is well, Dr. Thorndyke, that you are on the side of law and order, for I am afraid that, if you were on the other side, you would be one too many for the police. Now, if you are ready, we will proceed. Will you, please, stamp an impression in square number three.”

Thorndyke drew a stamp from its compartment, inked it on the slab, and pressed it neatly on the square indicated, leaving there a sharp, clear thumb-print.

The process was repeated on nine other squares, a different stamp being used for each impression. The judge then marked the ten corresponding squares of the other two sheets of paper, and having checked them, directed the foreman to exhibit the sheet bearing the false thumb-prints to the jury, together with the marked sheet which they were to retain, to enable them to check the statements of the expert witnesses. When this was done, the prisoner was brought from the dock and stood beside the table. The judge looked with a curious and not unkindly interest at the handsome, manly fellow who stood charged with a crime so sordid and out of character with his appearance, and I felt, as I noted the look, that Reuben would, at least, be tried fairly on the evidence, without prejudice or even with some prepossession in his favour.

With the remaining part of the operation Thorndyke proceeded carefully and deliberately. The inking-slab was rolled afresh for each impression, and, after each, the thumb was cleansed with petrol and thoroughly dried; and when the process was completed and the prisoner led back to the dock, the twenty squares on the paper were occupied by twenty thumb-prints, which, to my eye, at any rate, were identical in character.

The judge sat for near upon a minute poring over this singular document with an expression half-way between a frown and a smile. At length, when we had all returned to our places, he directed the usher to bring in the witnesses.

I was amused to observe the change that had come over the experts in the short interval. The confident smile, the triumphant air of laying down a trump card, had vanished, and the expression of both was one of anxiety, not unmixed with apprehension. As Mr. Singleton advanced hesitatingly to the table, I recalled the words that he had uttered in his room at Scotland Yard; evidently his scheme of the game that was to end in an easy checkmate, had not included the move that had just been made.

“Mr. Singleton,” said the judge, “here is a paper on which there are twenty thumb-prints. Ten of them are genuine prints of the prisoner’s left thumb and ten are forgeries. Please examine them and note down in writing which are the true prints and which are the forgeries. When you have made your notes the paper will be handed to Mr. Nash.”

“Is there any objection to my using the photograph that I have with me for comparison, my lord?” asked Mr. Singleton.

“I think not,” replied the judge. “What do you say, Mr. Anstey?”

“No objection whatever, my lord,” answered Anstey.

Mr. Singleton accordingly drew from his pocket an enlarged photograph of the thumb-print and a magnifying glass, with the aid of which he explored the bewildering array of prints on the paper before him; and as he proceeded I remarked with satisfaction that his expression became more and more dubious and worried. From time to time he made an entry on a memorandum slip beside him, and, as the entries accumulated, his frown grew deeper and his aspect more puzzled and gloomy.

At length he sat up, and taking the memorandum slip in his hand, addressed the judge.

“I have finished my examination, my lord.”

“Very well. Mr. Nash, will you kindly examine the paper and write down the results of your examination?”

“Oh! I wish they would make haste,” whispered Juliet. “Do you think they will be able to tell the real from the false thumb-prints?”

“I can’t say,” I replied; “but we shall soon know. They looked all alike to me.”

Mr. Nash made his examination with exasperating deliberateness, and preserved throughout an air of stolid attention; but at length he, too, completed his notes and handed the paper back to the usher.

“Now, Mr. Singleton,” said the judge, “let us hear your conclusions. You have been sworn.”

Mr. Singleton stepped into the witness-box, and, laying his notes on the ledge, faced the judge.

“Have you examined the paper that was handed to you?” asked Sir Hector Trumpler.

“I have.”

“What did you see on the paper?”

“I saw twenty thumb-prints, of which some were evident forgeries, some were evidently genuine, and some were doubtful.”

“Taking the thumb-prints seriatim, what have you noted about them?”

Mr. Singleton examined his notes and replied—“The thumb-print on square one is evidently a forgery, as is also number two, though it is a passable imitation. Three and four are genuine; five is an obvious forgery. Six is a genuine thumb-print; seven is a forgery, though a good one; eight is genuine; nine is, I think, a forgery, though it is a remarkably good imitation. Ten and eleven are genuine thumb-marks; twelve and thirteen are forgeries; but as to fourteen I am very doubtful, though I am inclined to regard it as a forgery. Fifteen is genuine, and I think sixteen is also; but I will not swear to it. Seventeen is certainly genuine Eighteen and nineteen I am rather doubtful about, but I am disposed to consider them both forgeries. Twenty is certainly a genuine thumb-print.”

As Mr. Singleton’s evidence proceeded, a look of surprise began to make its appearance on the judge’s face, while the jury glanced from the witness to the notes before them and from their notes to one another in undisguised astonishment.

As to Sir Hector Trumpler, that luminary of British jurisprudence was evidently completely fogged; for, as statement followed statement, he pursed up his lips and his broad, red face became overshadowed by an expression of utter bewilderment.

For a few seconds he stared blankly at his witness and then dropped on to his seat with a thump that shook the court.

“You have no doubt,” said Anstey, “as to the correctness of your conclusions? For instance, you are quite sure that the prints one and two are forgeries?”

“I have no doubt.”

“You swear that those two prints are forgeries?”

Mr. Singleton hesitated for a moment. He had been watching the judge and the jury and had apparently misinterpreted their surprise, assuming it to be due to his own remarkable powers of discrimination; and his confidence had revived accordingly.

“Yes,” he answered; “I swear that they are forgeries.”

Anstey sat down, and Mr. Singleton, having passed his notes up to the judge, retired from the box, giving place to his colleague.

Mr. Nash, who had listened with manifest satisfaction to the evidence, stepped into the box with all his original confidence restored. His selection of the true and the false thumb-prints was practically identical with that of Mr. Singleton, and his knowledge of this fact led him to state his conclusions with an air that was authoritative and even dogmatic.

“I am quite satisfied of the correctness of my statements,” he said, in reply to Anstey’s question, “and I am prepared to swear, and do swear, that those thumb-prints which I have stated to be forgeries, are forgeries, and that their detection presents no difficulty to an observer who has an expert acquaintance with finger-prints.”

“There is one question that I should like to ask,” said the judge, when the expert had left the box and Thorndyke had re-entered it to continue his evidence. “The conclusions of the expert witnesses—manifestly bona fide conclusions, arrived at by individual judgement, without collusion or comparison of results—are practically identical. They are virtually in complete agreement. Now, the strange thing is this: their conclusions are wrong in every instance” (here I nearly laughed aloud, for, as I glanced at the two experts, the expression of smug satisfaction on their countenances changed with lightning rapidity to a ludicrous spasm of consternation); “not sometimes wrong and sometimes right, as would have been the case if they had made mere guesses, but wrong every time. When they are quite certain, they are quite wrong; and when they are doubtful, they incline to the wrong conclusion. This is a very strange coincidence, Dr. Thorndyke. Can you explain it?”

Thorndyke’s face, which throughout the proceedings had been as expressionless as that of a wooden figurehead, now relaxed into a dry smile.

“I think I can, my lord,” he replied. “The object of a forger in executing a forgery is to produce deception on those who shall examine the forgery.”

“Ah!” said the judge; and his face relaxed into a dry smile, while the jury broke out into unconcealed grins.

“It was evident to me,” continued Thorndyke, “that the experts would be unable to distinguish the real from the forged thumb-prints, and, that being so, that they would look for some collateral evidence to guide them. I, therefore, supplied that collateral evidence. Now, if ten prints are taken, without special precautions, from a single finger, it will probably happen that no two of them are exactly alike; for the finger being a rounded object of which only a small part touches the paper, the impressions produced will show little variations according to the part of the finger by which the print is made. But a stamp such as I have used has a flat surface like that of a printer’s type, and, like a type, it always prints the same impression. It does not reproduce the finger-tip, but a particular print of the finger, and so, if ten prints are made with a single stamp, each print will be a mechanical repetition of the other nine. Thus, on a sheet bearing twenty finger-prints, of which ten were forgeries made with a single stamp, it would be easy to pick out the ten forged prints by the fact that they would all be mechanical repetitions of one another; while the genuine prints could be distinguished by the fact of their presenting trifling variations in the position of the finger.

“Anticipating this line of reasoning, I was careful to make each print with a different stamp and each stamp was made from a different thumb-print, and I further selected thumb-prints which varied as widely as possible when I made the stamps. Moreover, when I made the real thumb-prints, I was careful to put the thumb down in the same position each time as far as I was able; and so it happened that, on the sheet submitted to the experts, the real thumb-prints were nearly all alike, while the forgeries presented considerable variations. The instances in which the witnesses were quite certain were those in which I succeeded in making the genuine prints repeat one another, and the doubtful cases were those in which I partially failed.”

“Thank you, that is quite clear,” said the judge, with a smile of deep content, such as is apt to appear on the judicial countenance when an expert witness is knocked off his pedestal. “We may now proceed, Mr. Anstey.”

“You have told us,” resumed Anstey, “and have submitted proofs, that it is possible to forge a thumb-print so that detection is impossible. You have also stated that the thumb-print on the paper found in Mr. Hornby’s safe is a forgery. Do you mean that it may be a forgery, or that it actually is one?”

“I mean that it actually is a forgery.”

“When did you first come to the conclusion that it was a forgery?”

“When I saw it at Scotland Yard. There are three facts which suggested this conclusion. In the first place the print was obviously produced with liquid blood, and yet it was a beautifully clear and distinct impression. But such an impression could not be produced with liquid blood without the use of a slab and roller, even if great care were used, and still less could it have been produced by an accidental smear.

“In the second place, on measuring the print with a micrometer, I found that it did not agree in dimensions with a genuine thumb-print of Reuben Hornby. It was appreciably larger. I photographed the print with the micrometer in contact and on comparing this with a genuine thumb-print, also photographed with the same micrometer in contact, I found that the suspected print was larger by the fortieth of an inch, from one given point on the ridge-pattern to another given point. I have here enlargements of the two photographs in which the disagreement in size is clearly shown by the lines of the micrometer. I have also the micrometer itself and a portable microscope, if the Court wishes to verify the photographs.”

“Thank you,” said the judge, with a bland smile; “we will accept your sworn testimony unless the learned counsel for the prosecution demands verification.”

He received the photographs which Thorndyke handed up and, having examined them with close attention, passed them on to the jury.

“The third fact,” resumed Thorndyke, “is of much more importance, since it not only proves the print to be a forgery, but also furnishes a very distinct clue to the origin of the forgery, and so to the identity of the forger.” (Here the court became hushed until the silence was so profound that the ticking of the clock seemed a sensible interruption. I glanced at Walter, who sat motionless and rigid at the end of the bench, and perceived that a horrible pallor had spread over his face, while his forehead was covered with beads of perspiration.) “On looking at the print closely, I noticed at one part a minute white mark or space. It was of the shape of a capital S and had evidently been produced by a defect in the paper—a loose fibre which had stuck to the thumb and been detached by it from the paper, leaving a blank space where it had been. But, on examining the paper under a low power of the microscope, I found the surface to be perfect and intact. No loose fibre had been detached from it, for if it had, the broken end or, at least, the groove in which it had lain, would have been visible. The inference seemed to be that the loose fibre had existed, not in the paper which was found in the safe, but in the paper on which the original thumb-mark had been made. Now, as far as I knew, there was only one undoubted thumb-print of Reuben Hornby’s in existence—the one in the ‘Thumbograph.’ At my request, the ‘Thumbograph’ was brought to my chambers by Mrs. Hornby, and, on examining the print of Reuben Hornby’s left thumb, I perceived on it a minute, S-shaped white space occupying a similar position to that in the red thumb-mark; and when I looked at it through a powerful lens, I could clearly see the little groove in the paper in which the fibre had lain and from which it had been lifted by the inked thumb. I subsequently made a systematic comparison of the marks in the two thumb-prints; I found that the dimensions of the mark were proportionally the same in each—that is to say, the mark in the ‘Thumbograph’ print had an extreme length of 26/1000 of an inch and an extreme breadth of 14.5/1000 of an inch, while that in the red thumb-mark was one-fortieth larger in each dimension, having an extreme length of 26.65/1000 of an inch and an extreme breadth of 14.86/1000 of an inch; that the shape was identical, as was shown by superimposing tracings of greatly enlarged photographs of each mark on similar enlargements of the other; and that the mark intersected the ridges of the thumb-print in the same manner and at exactly the same parts in the two prints.”

“Do you say that—having regard to the facts which you have stated—it is certain that the red thumb-mark is a forgery?”

“I do; and I also say that it is certain that the forgery was executed by means of the ‘Thumbograph.’”

“Might not the resemblances be merely a coincidence?”

“No. By the law of probabilities which Mr. Singleton explained so clearly in his evidence, the adverse chances would run into untold millions. Here are two thumb-prints made in different places and at different times—an interval of many weeks intervening. Each of them bears an accidental mark which is due not to any peculiarity of the thumb, but to a peculiarity of the paper. On the theory of coincidences it is necessary to suppose that each piece of paper had a loose fibre of exactly identical shape and size and that this fibre came, by accident, in contact with the thumb at exactly the same spot. But such a supposition would be more opposed to probabilities even than the supposition that two exactly similar thumb-prints should have been made by different persons. And then there is the further fact that the paper found in the safe had no loose fibre to account for the mark.”

“What is your explanation of the presence of defibrinated blood in the safe?”

“It was probably used by the forger in making the thumb-print, for which purpose fresh blood would be less suitable by reason of its clotting. He would probably have carried a small quantity in a bottle, together with the pocket slab and roller invented by Mr. Galton. It would thus be possible for him to put a drop on the slab, roll it out into a thin film and take a clean impression with his stamp. It must be remembered that these precautions were quite necessary, since he had to make a recognisable print at the first attempt. A failure and a second trial would have destroyed the accidental appearance, and might have aroused suspicion.”

“You have made some enlarged photographs of the thumb-prints, have you not?”

“Yes. I have here two enlarged photographs, one of the ‘Thumbograph’ print and one of the red thumb-print. They both show the white mark very clearly and will assist comparison of the originals, in which the mark is plainly visible through a lens.”

He handed the two photographs up to the judge, together with the ‘Thumbograph,’ the memorandum slip, and a powerful doublet lens with which to examine them.

The judge inspected the two original documents with the aid of the lens and compared them with the photographs, nodding approvingly as he made out the points of agreement. Then he passed them on to the jury and made an entry in his notes.

While this was going on my attention was attracted by Walter Hornby. An expression of terror and wild despair had settled on his face, which was ghastly in its pallor and bedewed with sweat. He looked furtively at Thorndyke and, as I noted the murderous hate in his eyes, I recalled our midnight adventure in John Street and the mysterious cigar.

Suddenly he rose to his feet, wiping his brow and steadying himself against the bench with a shaking hand; then he walked quietly to the door and went out. Apparently, I was not the only onlooker who had been interested in his doings, for, as the door swung to after him, Superintendent Miller rose from his seat and went out by the other door.

“Are you cross-examining this witness?” the judge inquired, glancing at Sir Hector Trumpler.

“No, my lord,” was the reply.

“Are you calling any more witnesses, Mr. Anstey?”

“Only one, my lord,” replied Anstey—“the prisoner, whom I shall put in the witness-box, as a matter of form, in order that he may make a statement on oath.”

Reuben was accordingly conducted from the dock to the witness-box, and, having been sworn, made a solemn declaration of his innocence. A brief cross-examination followed, in which nothing was elicited, but that Reuben had spent the evening at his club and gone home to his rooms about half-past eleven and had let himself in with his latchkey. Sir Hector at length sat down; the prisoner was led back to the dock, and the Court settled itself to listen to the speeches of the counsel.

“My lord and gentlemen of the jury,” Anstey commenced in his clear, mellow tones, “I do not propose to occupy your time with a long speech. The evidence that has been laid before you is at once so intelligible, so lucid, and so conclusive, that you will, no doubt, arrive at your verdict uninfluenced by any display of rhetoric either on my part or on the part of the learned counsel for the prosecution.

“Nevertheless, it is desirable to disentangle from the mass of evidence those facts which are really vital and crucial.

“Now the one fact which stands out and dominates the whole case is this: The prisoner’s connection with this case rests solely upon the police theory of the infallibility of finger-prints. Apart from the evidence of the thumb-print there is not, and there never was, the faintest breath of suspicion against him. You have heard him described as a man of unsullied honour, as a man whose character is above reproach; a man who is trusted implicitly by those who have had dealings with him. And this character was not given by a casual stranger, but by one who has known him from childhood. His record is an unbroken record of honourable conduct; his life has been that of a clean-living, straightforward gentleman. And now he stands before you charged with a miserable, paltry theft; charged with having robbed that generous friend, the brother of his own father, the guardian of his childhood and the benefactor who has planned and striven for his well-being; charged, in short, gentlemen, with a crime which every circumstance connected with him and every trait of his known character renders utterly inconceivable. Now upon what grounds has this gentleman of irreproachable character been charged with this mean and sordid crime? Baldly stated, the grounds of the accusation are these: A certain learned and eminent man of science has made a statement, which the police have not merely accepted but have, in practice, extended beyond its original meaning. That statement is as follows: ‘A complete, or nearly complete, accordance between two prints of a single finger…affords evidence requiring no corroboration, that the persons from whom they were made are the same.’

“That statement, gentlemen, is in the highest degree misleading, and ought not to have been made without due warning and qualification. So far is it from being true, in practice, that its exact contrary is the fact; the evidence of a finger-print, in the absence of corroboration, is absolutely worthless. Of all forms of forgery, the forgery of a finger-print is the easiest and most secure, as you have seen in this court today. Consider the character of the high-class forger—his skill, his ingenuity, his resource. Think of the forged banknotes, of which not only the engraving, the design and the signature, but even the very paper with its private watermarks, is imitated with a perfection that is at once the admiration and the despair of those who have to distinguish the true from the false; think of the forged cheque, in which actual perforations are filled up, of which portions are cut out bodily and replaced by indistinguishable patches; think of these, and then of a finger-print, of which any photo-engraver’s apprentice can make you a forgery that the greatest experts cannot distinguish from the original, which any capable amateur can imitate beyond detection after a month’s practice; and then ask yourselves if this is the kind of evidence on which, without any support or corroboration, a gentleman of honour and position should be dragged before a criminal court and charged with having committed a crime of the basest and most sordid type.

“But I must not detain you with unnecessary appeals. I will remind you briefly of the salient facts. The case for the prosecution rests upon the assertion that the thumb-print found in the safe was made by the thumb of the prisoner. If that thumb-print was not made by the prisoner, there is not only no case against him but no suspicion of any kind.

“Now, was that thumb-print made by the prisoner’s thumb? You have had conclusive evidence that it was not. That thumb-print differed in the size, or scale, of the pattern from a genuine thumb-print of the prisoner’s. The difference was small, but it was fatal to the police theory; the two prints were not identical.

“But, if not the prisoner’s thumb-print, what was it? The resemblance of the pattern was too exact for it to be the thumb-print of another person, for it reproduced not only the pattern of the ridges on the prisoner’s thumb, but also the scar of an old wound. The answer that I propose to this question is, that it was an intentional imitation of the prisoner’s thumb-print, made with the purpose of fixing suspicion on the prisoner, and so ensuring the safety of the actual criminal. Are there any facts which support this theory? Yes, there are several facts which support it very strongly.

“First, there are the facts that I have just mentioned. The red thumb-print disagreed with the genuine print in its scale or dimensions. It was not the prisoner’s thumb-print; but neither was it that of any other person. The only alternative is that it was a forgery.

“In the second place, that print was evidently made with the aid of certain appliances and materials, and one of those materials, namely defibrinated blood, was found in the safe.

“In the third place, there is the coincidence that the print was one which it was possible to forge. The prisoner has ten digits—eight fingers and two thumbs. But there were in existence actual prints of the two thumbs, whereas no prints of the fingers were in existence; hence it would have been impossible to forge a print of any of the fingers. So it happens that the red thumb-print resembled one of the two prints of which forgery was possible.

“In the fourth place, the red thumb-print reproduces an accidental peculiarity of the ‘Thumbograph’ print. Now, if the red thumb-print is a forgery, it must have been made from the ‘Thumbograph’ print, since there exists no other print from which it could have been made. Hence we have the striking fact that the red thumb-print is an exact replica—including accidental peculiarities—of the only print from which a forgery could have been made. The accidental S-shaped mark in the ‘Thumbograph’ print is accounted for by the condition of the paper; the occurrence of this mark in the red thumb-print is not accounted for by any peculiarity of the paper, and can be accounted for in no way, excepting by assuming the one to be a copy of the other. The conclusion is thus inevitable that the red thumb-print is a photo-mechanical reproduction of the ‘Thumbograph’ print.

“But there is yet another point. If the red thumb-print is a forgery reproduced from the ‘Thumbograph’ print, the forger must at some time have had access to the ‘Thumbograph.’ Now, you have heard Mrs. Hornby’s remarkable story of the mysterious disappearance of the ‘Thumbograph’ and its still more mysterious reappearance. That story can have left no doubt in your minds that some person had surreptitiously removed the ‘Thumbograph’ and, after an unknown interval, secretly replaced it. Thus the theory of forgery receives confirmation at every point, and is in agreement with every known fact; whereas the theory that the red thumb-print was a genuine thumb-print, is based upon a gratuitous assumption, and has not had a single fact advanced in its support.

“Accordingly, gentlemen, I assert that the prisoner’s innocence has been proved in the most complete and convincing manner, and I ask you for a verdict in accordance with that proof.”

As Anstey resumed his seat, a low rumble of applause was heard from the gallery. It subsided instantly on a gesture of disapproval from the judge, and a silence fell upon the court, in which the clock, with cynical indifference, continued to record in its brusque monotone the passage of the fleeting seconds.

“He is saved, Dr. Jervis! Oh! surely he is saved!” Juliet exclaimed in an agitated whisper. “They must see that he is innocent now.”

“Have patience a little longer,” I answered. “It will soon be over now.”

Sir Hector Trumpler was already on his feet and, after bestowing on the jury a stern hypnotic stare, he plunged into his reply with a really admirable air of conviction and sincerity.

“My lord and gentlemen of the jury: The case which is now before this Court is one, as I have already remarked, in which human nature is presented in a highly unfavourable light. But I need not insist upon this aspect of the case, which will already, no doubt, have impressed you sufficiently. It is necessary merely for me, as my learned friend has aptly expressed it, to disentangle the actual facts of the case from the web of casuistry that has been woven around them.

“Those facts are of extreme simplicity. A safe has been opened and property of great value abstracted from it. It has been opened by means of false keys. Now there are two men who have, from time to time, had possession of the true keys, and thus had the opportunity of making copies of them. When the safe is opened by its rightful owner, the property is gone, and there is found the print of the thumb of one of these two men. That thumb-print was not there when the safe was closed. The man whose thumb-print is found is a left-handed man; the print is the print of a left thumb. It would seem, gentlemen, as if the conclusion were so obvious that no sane person could be found to contest it; and I submit that the conclusion which any sane person would arrive at—the only possible conclusion—is, that the person whose thumb-print was found in the safe is the person who stole the property from the safe. But the thumb-print was, admittedly, that of the prisoner at the bar, and therefore the prisoner at the bar is the person who stole the diamonds from the safe.

“It is true that certain fantastic attempts have been made to explain away these obvious facts. Certain far-fetched scientific theories have been propounded and an exhibition of legerdemain has taken place which, I venture to think, would have been more appropriate to some place of public entertainment than to a court of justice. That exhibition has, no doubt, afforded you considerable amusement. It has furnished a pleasing relaxation from the serious business of the court. It has even been instructive, as showing to what extent it is possible for plain facts to be perverted by misdirected ingenuity. But unless you are prepared to consider this crime as an elaborate hoax—as a practical joke carried out by a facetious criminal of extraordinary knowledge, skill and general attainments—you must, after all, come to the only conclusion that the facts justify: that the safe was opened and the property abstracted by the prisoner. Accordingly, gentlemen, I ask you, having regard to your important position as the guardians of the well-being and security of your fellow-citizens, to give your verdict in accordance with the evidence, as you have solemnly sworn to do; which verdict, I submit, can be no other than that the prisoner is guilty of the crime with which he is charged.”

Sir Hector sat down, and the jury, who had listened to his speech with solid attention, gazed expectantly at the judge, as though they should say: “Now, which of these two are we to believe?”

The judge turned over his notes with an air of quiet composure, writing down a word here and there as he compared the various points in the evidence. Then he turned to the jury with a manner at once persuasive and confidential—

“It is not necessary, gentlemen,” he commenced, “for me to occupy your time with an exhaustive analysis of the evidence. That evidence you yourselves have heard, and it has been given, for the most part, with admirable clearness. Moreover, the learned counsel for the defence has collated and compared that evidence so lucidly, and, I may say, so impartially, that a detailed repetition on my part would be superfluous. I shall therefore confine myself to a few comments which may help you in the consideration of your verdict.

“I need hardly point out to you that the reference made by the learned counsel for the prosecution to far-fetched scientific theories is somewhat misleading. The only evidence of a theoretical character was that of the finger-print experts. The evidence of Dr. Rowe and of Dr. Thorndyke dealt exclusively with matters of fact. Such inferences as were drawn by them were accompanied by statements of the facts which yielded such inferences.

“Now, an examination of the evidence which you have heard shows, as the learned counsel for the defence has justly observed, that the entire case resolves itself into a single question, which is this: ‘Was the thumb-print that was found in Mr. Hornby’s safe made by the thumb of the prisoner, or was it not?’ If that thumb-print was made by the prisoner’s thumb, then the prisoner must, at least, have been present when the safe was unlawfully opened. If that thumb-print was not made by the prisoner’s thumb, there is nothing to connect him with the crime. The question is one of fact upon which it will be your duty to decide; and I must remind you, gentlemen, that you are the sole judges of the facts of the case, and that you are to consider any remarks of mine as merely suggestions which you are to entertain or to disregard according to your judgement.

“Now let us consider this question by the light of the evidence. This thumb-print was either made by the prisoner or it was not. What evidence has been brought forward to show that it was made by the prisoner? Well, there is the evidence of the ridge-pattern. That pattern is identical with the pattern of the prisoner’s thumb-print, and even has the impression of a scar which crosses the pattern in a particular manner in the prisoner’s thumb-print. There is no need to enter into the elaborate calculations as to the chances of agreement; the practical fact, which is not disputed, is that if this red thumb-print is a genuine thumb-print at all, it was made by the prisoner’s thumb. But it is contended that it is not a genuine thumb-print; that it is a mechanical imitation—in fact a forgery.

“The more general question thus becomes narrowed down to the more particular question: ‘Is this a genuine thumb-print or is it a forgery?’ Let us consider the evidence. First, what evidence is there that it is a genuine thumb-print? There is none. The identity of the pattern is no evidence on this point, because a forgery would also exhibit identity of pattern. The genuineness of the thumb-print was assumed by the prosecution, and no evidence has been offered.

“But now what evidence is there that the red thumb-print is a forgery?

“First, there is the question of size. Two different-sized prints could hardly be made by the same thumb. Then there is the evidence of the use of appliances. Safe-robbers do not ordinarily provide themselves with inking-slabs and rollers with which to make distinct impressions of their own fingers. Then there is the accidental mark on the print which also exists on the only genuine print that could have been used for the purpose of forgery, which is easily explained on the theory of a forgery, but which is otherwise totally incomprehensible. Finally, there is the strange disappearance of the ‘Thumbograph’ and its strange reappearance. All this is striking and weighty evidence, to which must be added that adduced by Dr. Thorndyke as showing how perfectly it is possible to imitate a finger-print.

“These are the main facts of the case, and it is for you to consider them. If, on careful consideration, you decide that the red thumb-print was actually made by the prisoner’s thumb, then it will be your duty to pronounce the prisoner guilty; but if, on weighing the evidence, you decide that the thumb-print is a forgery, then it will be your duty to pronounce the prisoner not guilty. It is now past the usual luncheon hour, and, if you desire it, you can retire to consider your verdict while the Court adjourns.”

The jurymen whispered together for a few moments and then the foreman stood up.

“We have agreed on our verdict, my lord,” he said.

The prisoner, who had just been led to the back of the dock, was now brought back to the bar. The grey-wigged clerk of the court stood up and addressed the jury.

“Are you all agreed upon your verdict, gentlemen?”

“We are,” replied the foreman.

“What do you say, gentlemen? Is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” replied the foreman, raising his voice and glancing at Reuben.

A storm of applause burst from the gallery and was, for the moment, disregarded by the judge. Mrs. Hornby laughed aloud—a strange, unnatural laugh—and then crammed her handkerchief into her mouth, and so sat gazing at Reuben with the tears coursing down her face, while Juliet laid her head upon the desk and sobbed silently.

After a brief space the judge raised an admonitory hand, and, when the commotion had subsided, addressed the prisoner, who stood at the bar, calm and self-possessed, though his face bore a slight flush—

“Reuben Hornby, the jury, after duly weighing the evidence in this case, have found you to be not guilty of the crime with which you were charged. With that verdict I most heartily agree. In view of the evidence which has been given, I consider that no other verdict was possible, and I venture to say that you leave this court with your innocence fully established, and without a stain upon your character. In the distress which you have recently suffered, as well as in your rejoicing at the verdict of the jury, you have the sympathy of the Court, and of everyone present, and that sympathy will not be diminished by the consideration that, with a less capable defence, the result might have been very different.

“I desire to express my admiration at the manner in which that defence was conducted, and I desire especially to observe that not you alone, but the public at large, are deeply indebted to Dr. Thorndyke, who, by his insight, his knowledge and his ingenuity, has probably averted a very serious miscarriage of justice. The Court will now adjourn until half-past two.”

The judge rose from his seat and everyone present stood up; and, amidst the clamour of many feet upon the gallery stairs, the door of the dock was thrown open by a smiling police officer and Reuben came down the stairs into the body of the court.

CHAPTER XVII

AT LAST

“We had better let the people clear off,” said Thorndyke, when the first greetings were over and we stood around Reuben in the fast-emptying court. “We don’t want a demonstration as we go out.”

“No; anything but that, just now,” replied Reuben. He still held Mrs. Hornby’s hand, and one arm was passed through that of his uncle, who wiped his eyes at intervals, though his face glowed with delight.

“I should like you to come and have a little quiet luncheon with me at my chambers—all of us friends together,” continued Thorndyke.

“I should be delighted,” said Reuben, “if the programme would include a satisfactory wash.”

“You will come, Anstey?” asked Thorndyke.

“What have you got for lunch?” demanded Anstey, who was now disrobed and in his right mind—that is to say, in his usual whimsical, pseudo-frivolous character.

“That question savours of gluttony,” answered Thorndyke. “Come and see.”

“I will come and eat, which is better,” answered Anstey, “and I must run off now, as I have to look in at my chambers.”

“How shall we go?” asked Thorndyke, as his colleague vanished through the doorway. “Polton has gone for a four-wheeler, but it won’t hold us all.”

“It will hold four of us,” said Reuben, “and Dr. Jervis will bring Juliet; won’t you, Jervis?”

The request rather took me aback, considering the circumstances, but I was conscious, nevertheless, of an unreasonable thrill of pleasure and answered with alacrity: “If Miss Gibson will allow me, I shall be very delighted.” My delight was, apparently, not shared by Juliet, to judge by the uncomfortable blush that spread over her face. She made no objection, however, but merely replied rather coldly: “Well, as we can’t sit on the roof of the cab, we had better go by ourselves.”

The crowd having by this time presumably cleared off, we all took our way downstairs. The cab was waiting at the kerb, surrounded by a group of spectators, who cheered Reuben as he appeared at the doorway, and we saw our friends enter and drive away. Then we turned and walked quickly down the Old Bailey towards Ludgate Hill.

“Shall we take a hansom?” I asked.

“No; let us walk,” replied Juliet; “a little fresh air will do us good after that musty, horrible court. It all seems like a dream, and yet what a relief—oh! what a relief it is.”

“It is rather like the awakening from a nightmare to find the morning sun shining,” I rejoined.

“Yes; that is just what it is like,” she agreed; “but I still feel dazed and shaken.”

We turned presently down New Bridge Street, towards the Embankment, walking side by side without speaking, and I could not help comparing, with some bitterness, our present stiff and distant relations with the intimacy and comradeship that had existed before the miserable incident of our last meeting.

“You don’t look so jubilant over your success as I should have expected,” she said at length, with a critical glance at me; “but I expect you are really very proud and delighted, aren’t you?”

“Delighted, yes; not proud. Why should I be proud? I have only played jackal, and even that I have done very badly.”

“That is hardly a fair statement of the facts,” she rejoined, with another quick, inquisitive look at me; “but you are in low spirits today—which is not at all like you. Is it not so?”

“I am afraid I am a selfish, egotistical brute,” was my gloomy reply. “I ought to be as gay and joyful as everyone else today, whereas the fact is that I am chafing over my own petty troubles. You see, now that this case is finished, my engagement with Dr. Thorndyke terminates automatically, and I relapse into my old life—a dreary repetition of journeying amongst strangers—and the prospect is not inspiriting. This has been a time of bitter trial to you, but to me it has been a green oasis in the desert of a colourless, monotonous life. I have enjoyed the companionship of a most lovable man, whom I admire and respect above all other men, and with him have moved in scenes full of colour and interest. And I have made one other friend whom I am loth to see fade out of my life, as she seems likely to do.”

“If you mean me,” said Juliet, “I may say that it will be your own fault if I fade out of your life. I can never forget all that you have done for us, your loyalty to Reuben, your enthusiasm in his cause, to say nothing of your many kindnesses to me. And, as to your having done your work badly, you wrong yourself grievously. I recognised in the evidence by which Reuben was cleared today how much you had done, in filling in the details, towards making the case complete and convincing. I shall always feel that we owe you a debt of the deepest gratitude, and so will Reuben, and so, perhaps, more than either of us, will someone else.”

“And who is that?” I asked, though with no great interest. The gratitude of the family was a matter of little consequence to me.

“Well, it is no secret now,” replied Juliet. “I mean the girl whom Reuben is going to marry. What is the matter, Dr. Jervis?” she added, in a tone of surprise.

We were passing through the gate that leads from the Embankment to Middle Temple Lane, and I had stopped dead under the archway, laying a detaining hand upon her arm and gazing at her in utter amazement.

“The girl that Reuben is going to marry!” I repeated. “Why, I had always taken it for granted that he was going to marry you.”

“But I told you, most explicitly, that was not so!” she exclaimed with some impatience.

“I know you did,” I admitted ruefully; “but I thought—well, I imagined that things had, perhaps, not gone quite smoothly and—”

“Did you suppose that if I had cared for a man, and that man had been under a cloud, I should have denied the relation or pretended that we were merely friends?” she demanded indignantly.

“I am sure you wouldn’t,” I replied hastily. “I was a fool, an idiot—by Jove, what an idiot I have been!”

“It was certainly very silly of you,” she admitted; but there was a gentleness in her tone that took away all bitterness from the reproach.

“The reason of the secrecy was this,” she continued; “they became engaged the very night before Reuben was arrested, and, when he heard of the charge against him, he insisted that no one should be told unless, and until, he was fully acquitted. I was the only person who was in their confidence, and as I was sworn to secrecy, of course I couldn’t tell you; nor did I suppose that the matter would interest you. Why should it?”

“Imbecile that I am,” I murmured. “If I had only known!”

“Well, if you had known,” said she; “what difference could it have made to you?”

This question she asked without looking at me, but I noted that her cheek had grown a shade paler.

“Only this,” I answered. “That I should have been spared many a day and night of needless self-reproach and misery.”

“But why?” she asked, still keeping her face averted. “What had you to reproach yourself with?”

“A great deal,” I answered, “if you consider my supposed position. If you think of me as the trusted agent of a man, helpless and deeply wronged—a man whose undeserved misfortunes made every demand upon chivalry and generosity; if you think of me as being called upon to protect and carry comfort to the woman whom I regarded as, virtually, that man’s betrothed wife; and then if you think of me as proceeding straightway, before I had known her twenty-four hours, to fall hopelessly in love with her myself, you will admit that I had something to reproach myself with.”

She was still silent, rather pale and very thoughtful, and she seemed to breathe more quickly than usual.

“Of course,” I continued, “you may say that it was my own look-out, that I had only to keep my own counsel, and no one would be any the worse. But there’s the mischief of it. How can a man who is thinking of a woman morning, noon and night; whose heart leaps at the sound of her coming, whose existence is a blank when she is away from him—a blank which he tries to fill by recalling, again and again, all that she has said and the tones of her voice, and the look that was in her eyes when she spoke—how can he help letting her see, sooner or later, that he cares for her? And if he does, when he has no right to, there is an end of duty and chivalry and even common honesty.”

“Yes, I understand now,” said Juliet softly. “Is this the way?” She tripped up the steps leading to Fountain Court and I followed cheerfully. Of course it was not the way, and we both knew it, but the place was silent and peaceful, and the plane-trees cast a pleasant shade on the gravelled court. I glanced at her as we walked slowly towards the fountain. The roses were mantling in her cheeks now and her eyes were cast down, but when she lifted them to me for an instant, I saw that they were shining and moist.

“Did you never guess?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied in a low voice, “I guessed; but—but then,” she added shyly, “I thought I had guessed wrong.”

We walked on for some little time without speaking again until we came to the further side of the fountain, where we stood listening to the quiet trickle of the water, and watching the sparrows as they took their bath on the rim of the basin. A little way off another group of sparrows had gathered with greedy joy around some fragments of bread that had been scattered abroad by the benevolent Templars, and hard by a more sentimentally-minded pigeon, unmindful of the crumbs and the marauding sparrows, puffed out his breast and strutted and curtsied before his mate with endearing gurgles.

Juliet had rested her hand on one of the little posts that support the chain by which the fountain is enclosed and I had laid my hand on hers. Presently she turned her hand over so that mine lay in its palm; and so we were standing hand-in-hand when an elderly gentleman, of dry and legal aspect, came up the steps and passed by the fountain. He looked at the pigeons and then he looked at us, and went his way smiling and shaking his head.

“Juliet,” said I.

She looked up quickly with sparkling eyes and a frank smile that was yet a little shy, too.

“Yes.”

“Why did he smile—that old gentleman—when he looked at us?”

“I can’t imagine,” she replied mendaciously.

“It was an approving smile,” I said. “I think he was remembering his own spring-time and giving us his blessing.”

“Perhaps he was,” she agreed. “He looked a nice old thing.” She gazed fondly at the retreating figure and then turned again to me. Her cheeks had grown pink enough by now, and in one of them a dimple displayed itself to great advantage in its rosy setting.

“Can you forgive me, dear, for my unutterable folly?” I asked presently, as she glanced up at me again.

“I am not sure,” she answered. “It was dreadfully silly of you.”

“But remember, Juliet, that I loved you with my whole heart—as I love you now and shall love you always.”

“I can forgive you anything when you say that,” she answered softly.

Here the voice of the distant Temple clock was heard uttering a polite protest. With infinite reluctance we turned away from the fountain, which sprinkled us with a parting benediction, and slowly retraced our steps to Middle Temple Lane and thence into Pump Court.

“You haven’t said it, Juliet,” I whispered, as we came through the archway into the silent, deserted court.

“Haven’t I, dear?” she answered; “but you know it, don’t you? You know I do.”

“Yes, I know,” I said; “and that knowledge is all my heart’s desire.”

She laid her hand in mine for a moment with a gentle pressure and then drew it away; and so we passed through into the cloisters.

MONSIEUR LECOQ, by Emile Gaboriau

I

At about eleven o’clock in the evening of the 20th of February, 186—, which chanced to be Shrove Sunday, a party of detectives left the police station near the old Barriere d’Italie to the direct south of Paris. Their mission was to explore the district extending on the one hand between the highroad to Fontainebleau and the Seine, and on the other between the outer boulevards and the fortifications.

This quarter of the city had at that time anything but an enviable reputation. To venture there at night was considered so dangerous that the soldiers from the outlying forts who came in to Paris with permission to go to the theatre, were ordered to halt at the barriere, and not to pass through the perilous district excepting in parties of three or four.

After midnight, these gloomy, narrow streets became the haunt of numerous homeless vagabonds, and escaped criminals and malefactors, moreover, made the quarter their rendezvous. If the day had been a lucky one, they made merry over their spoils, and when sleep overtook them, hid in doorways or among the rubbish in deserted houses. Every effort had been made to dislodge these dangerous guests, but the most energetic measures had failed to prove successful. Watched, hunted, and in imminent danger of arrest though they were, they always returned with idiotic obstinacy, obeying, as one might suppose, some mysterious law of attraction. Hence, the district was for the police an immense trap, constantly baited, and to which the game came of their own accord to be caught.

The result of a tour of inspection of this locality was so certain, that the officer in charge of the police post called to the squad as they departed: “I will prepare lodgings for our guests. Good luck to you and much pleasure!”

This last wish was pure irony, for the weather was the most disagreeable that could be imagined. A very heavy snow storm had prevailed for several days. It was now beginning to thaw, and on all the frequented thoroughfares the slush was ankle-deep. It was still cold, however; a damp chill filled the air, and penetrated to the very marrow of one’s bones. Besides, there was a dense fog, so dense that one could not see one’s hands before one’s face.

“What a beastly job!” growled one of the agents.

“Yes,” replied the inspector who commanded the squad; “if you had an income of thirty thousand francs, I don’t suppose you’d be here.” The laugh that greeted this common-place joke was not so much flattery as homage to a recognized and established superiority.

The inspector was, in fact, one of the most esteemed members of the force, a man who had proved his worth. His powers of penetration were not, perhaps, very great; but he thoroughly understood his profession, its resources, its labyrinths, and its artifices. Long practise had given him imperturbable coolness, a great confidence in himself, and a sort of coarse diplomacy that supplied the place of shrewdness. To his failings and his virtues he added incontestable courage, and he would lay his hand upon the collar of the most dangerous criminal as tranquilly as a devotee dips his fingers in a basin of holy water.

He was a man about forty-six years of age, strongly built, with rugged features, a heavy mustache, and rather small, gray eyes, hidden by bushy eyebrows. His name was Gevrol, but he was universally known as “the General.” This sobriquet was pleasing to his vanity, which was not slight, as his subordinates well knew; and, doubtless, he felt that he ought to receive from them the same consideration as was due to a person of that exalted rank.

“If you begin to complain already,” he added, gruffly, “what will you do by and by?”

In fact, it was too soon to complain. The little party were then passing along the Rue de Choisy. The people on the footways were orderly; and the lights of the wine-shops illuminated the street. All these places were open. There is no fog or thaw that is potent enough to dismay lovers of pleasure. And a boisterous crowd of maskers filled each tavern, and public ballroom. Through the open windows came alternately the sounds of loud voices and bursts of noisy music. Occasionally, a drunken man staggered along the pavement, or a masked figure crept by in the shadow cast by the houses.

Before certain establishments Gevrol commanded a halt. He gave a peculiar whistle, and almost immediately a man came out. This was another member of the force. His report was listened to, and then the squad passed on.

“To the left, boys!” ordered Gevrol; “we will take the Rue d’Ivry, and then cut through the shortest way to the Rue de Chevaleret.”

From this point the expedition became really disagreeable. The way led through an unfinished, unnamed street, full of puddles and deep holes, and obstructed with all sorts of rubbish. There were no longer any lights or crowded wine-shops. No footsteps, no voices were heard; solitude, gloom, and an almost perfect silence prevailed; and one might have supposed oneself a hundred leagues from Paris, had it not been for the deep and continuous murmur that always arises from a large city, resembling the hollow roar of a torrent in some cavern depth.

All the men had turned up their trousers and were advancing slowly, picking their way as carefully as an Indian when he is stealing upon his prey. They had just passed the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers when suddenly a wild shriek rent the air. At this place, and at this hour, such a cry was so frightfully significant, that all the men paused as if by common impulse.

“Did you hear that, General?” asked one of the detectives, in a low voice.

“Yes, there is murder going on not far from here—but where? Silence! let us listen.”

They all stood motionless, holding their breath, and anxiously listening. Soon a second cry, or rather a wild howl, resounded.

“Ah!” exclaimed the inspector, “it is at the Poivriere.”

This peculiar appellation “Poivriere” or “pepper-box” was derived from the term “peppered” which in French slang is applied to a man who has left his good sense at the bottom of his glass. Hence, also, the sobriquet of “pepper thieves” given to the rascals whose specialty it is to plunder helpless, inoffensive drunkards.

“What!” added Gevrol to his companions, “don’t you know Mother Chupin’s drinking-shop there on the right. Run.”

And, setting the example, he dashed off in the direction indicated. His men followed, and in less than a minute they reached a hovel of sinister aspect, standing alone, in a tract of waste ground. It was indeed from this den that the cries had proceeded. They were now repeated, and were immediately followed by two pistol shots. The house was hermetically closed, but through the cracks in the window-shutters, gleamed a reddish light like that of a fire. One of the police agents darted to one of these windows, and raising himself up by clinging to the shutters with his hands, endeavored to peer through the cracks, and to see what was passing within.

Gevrol himself ran to the door. “Open!” he commanded, striking it heavily. No response came. But they could hear plainly enough the sound of a terrible struggle—of fierce imprecations, hollow groans, and occasionally the sobs of a woman.

“Horrible!” cried the police agent, who was peering through the shutters; “it is horrible!”

This exclamation decided Gevrol. “Open, in the name of the law!” he cried a third time.

And no one responding, with a blow of the shoulder that was as violent as a blow from a battering-ram, he dashed open the door. Then the horror-stricken accent of the man who had been peering through the shutters was explained. The room presented such a spectacle that all the agents, and even Gevrol himself, remained for a moment rooted to the threshold, shuddering with unspeakable horror.

Everything denoted that the house had been the scene of a terrible struggle, of one of those savage conflicts which only too often stain the barriere drinking dens with blood. The lights had been extinguished at the beginning of the strife, but a blazing fire of pine logs illuminated even the furthest corners of the room. Tables, glasses, decanters, household utensils, and stools had been overturned, thrown in every direction, trodden upon, shivered into fragments. Near the fireplace two men lay stretched upon the floor. They were lying motionless upon their backs, with their arms crossed. A third was extended in the middle of the room. A woman crouched upon the lower steps of a staircase leading to the floor above. She had thrown her apron over her head, and was uttering inarticulate moans. Finally, facing the police, and with his back turned to an open door leading into an adjoining room, stood a young man, in front of whom a heavy oaken table formed, as it were, a rampart.

He was of medium stature, and wore a full beard. His clothes, not unlike those of a railway porter, were torn to fragments, and soiled with dust and wine and blood. This certainly was the murderer. The expression on his face was terrible. A mad fury blazed in his eyes, and a convulsive sneer distorted his features. On his neck and cheek were two wounds which bled profusely. In his right hand, covered with a handkerchief, he held a pistol, which he aimed at the intruders.

“Surrender!” cried Gevrol.

The man’s lips moved, but in spite of a visible effort he could not articulate a syllable.

“Don’t do any mischief,” continued the inspector, “we are in force, you can not escape; so lay down your arms.”

“I am innocent,” exclaimed the man, in a hoarse, strained voice.

“Naturally, but we do not see it.”

“I have been attacked; ask that old woman. I defended myself; I have killed—I had a right to do so; it was in self-defense!”

The gesture with which he enforced these words was so menacing that one of the agents drew Gevrol violently aside, saying, as he did so; “Take care, General, take care! The revolver has five barrels, and we have heard but two shots.”

But the inspector was inaccessible to fear; he freed himself from the grasp of his subordinate and again stepped forward, speaking in a still calmer tone. “No foolishness, my lad; if your case is a good one, which is possible, after all, don’t spoil it.”

A frightful indecision betrayed itself on the young man’s features. He held Gevrol’s life at the end of his finger, was he about to press the trigger? No, he suddenly threw his weapon to the floor, exclaiming: “Come and take me!” And turning as he spoke he darted into the adjoining room, hoping doubtless to escape by some means of egress which he knew of.

Gevrol had expected this movement. He sprang after him with outstretched arms, but the table retarded his pursuit. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “the wretch escapes us!”

But the fate of the fugitive was already decided. While Gevrol parleyed, one of the agents—he who had peered through the shutters—had gone to the rear of the house and effected an entrance through the back door. As the murderer darted out, this man sprang upon him, seized him, and with surprising strength and agility dragged him back. The murderer tried to resist; but in vain. He had lost his strength: he tottered and fell upon the table that had momentarily protected him, murmuring loud enough for every one to hear: “Lost! It is the Prussians who are coming!”

This simple and decisive maneuvre on the part of the subordinate had won the victory, and at first it greatly delighted the inspector. “Good, my boy,” said he, “very good! Ah! you have a talent for your business, and you will do well if ever an opportunity—”

But he checked himself; all his followers so evidently shared his enthusiasm that a feeling of jealousy overcame him. He felt his prestige diminishing, and hastened to add: “The idea had occurred to me; but I could not give the order without warning the scoundrel himself.”

This remark was superfluous. All the police agents had now gathered around the murderer. They began by binding his feet and hands, and then fastened him securely to a chair. He offered no resistance. His wild excitement had given place to that gloomy prostration that follows all unnatural efforts, either of mind or body. Evidently he had abandoned himself to his fate.

When Gevrol saw that the men had finished their task, he called on them to attend to the other inmates of the den, and in addition ordered the lamps to be lit for the fire was going out. The inspector began his examination with the two men lying near the fireplace. He laid his hand on their hearts, but no pulsations were to be detected. He then held the face of his watch close to their lips, but the glass remained quite clear. “Useless,” he murmured, after several trials, “useless; they are dead! They will never see morning again. Leave them in the same position until the arrival of the public prosecutor, and let us look at the other one.”

The third man still breathed. He was a young fellow, wearing the uniform of a common soldier of the line. He was unarmed, and his large bluish gray cloak was partly open, revealing his bare chest. The agents lifted him very carefully—for he groaned piteously at the slightest movement—and placed him in an upright position, with his back leaning against the wall. He soon opened his eyes, and in a faint voice asked for something to drink. They brought him a glass of water, which he drank with evident satisfaction. He then drew a long breath, and seemed to regain some little strength.

“Where are you wounded?” asked Gevrol.

“In the head, there,” he responded, trying to raise one of his arms. “Oh! how I suffer.”

The police agent, who had cut off the murderer’s retreat now approached, and with a dexterity that an old surgeon might have envied, made an examination of the gaping wound which the young man had received in the back of the neck. “It is nothing,” declared the police agent, but as he spoke there was no mistaking the movement of his lower lip. It was evident that he considered the wound very dangerous, probably mortal.

“It will be nothing,” affirmed Gevrol in his turn; “wounds in the head, when they do not kill at once, are cured in a month.”

The wounded man smiled sadly. “I have received my death blow,” he murmured.

“Nonsense!”

“Oh! it is useless to say anything; I feel it, but I do not complain. I have only received my just deserts.”

All the police agents turned toward the murderer on hearing these words, presuming that he would take advantage of this opportunity to repeat his protestations of innocence. But their expectations were disappointed; he did not speak, although he must certainly have heard the words.

“It was that brigand, Lacheneur, who enticed me here,” continued the wounded man, in a voice that was growing fainter.

“Lacheneur?”

“Yes, Jean Lacheneur, a former actor, who knew me when I was rich—for I had a fortune, but I spent it all; I wished to amuse myself. He, knowing I was without a single sou in the world, came and promised me money enough to begin life over again. Fool that I was to believe him, for he brought me to die here like a dog! Oh! I will have my revenge on him!” At this thought the wounded man clenched his hands threateningly. “I will have my revenge,” he resumed. “I know much more than he believes. I will reveal everything.”

But he had presumed too much upon his strength. Anger had given him a moment’s energy, but at the cost of his life which was ebbing away. When he again tried to speak, he could not. Twice did he open his lips, but only a choking cry of impotent rage escaped them. This was his last manifestation of intelligence. A bloody foam gathered upon his lips, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, his body stiffened, and he fell face downward in a terrible convulsion.

“It is over,” murmured Gevrol.

“Not yet,” replied the young police agent, who had shown himself so proficient; “but he can not live more than two minutes. Poor devil! he will say nothing.”

The inspector of police had risen from the floor as if he had just witnessed the commonest incident in the world, and was carefully dusting the knees of his trousers. “Oh, well,” he responded, “we shall know all we need to know. This fellow is a soldier, and the number of his regiment will be given on the buttons of his cloak.”

A slight smile curved the lips of the subordinate. “I think you are mistaken, General,” said he.

“How—”

“Yes, I understand. Seeing him attired in a military coat, you supposed—But no; this poor wretch was no soldier. Do you wish for an immediate proof? Is his hair the regulation cut? Where did you ever see soldiers with their hair falling over their shoulders?”

This objection silenced the General for a moment; but he replied bruskly: “Do you think that I keep my eyes in my pocket? What you have remarked did not escape my notice; only I said to myself, here is a young man who has profited by leave of absence to visit the wig maker.”

“At least—”

But Gevrol would permit no more interruptions. “Enough talk,” he declared. “We will now hear what has happened. Mother Chupin, the old hussy, is not dead!”

As he spoke, he advanced toward the old woman, who was still crouching upon the stairs. She had not moved nor ventured so much as a look since the entrance of the police, but her moans had not been discontinued. With a sudden movement, Gevrol tore off the apron which she had thrown over her head, and there she stood, such as years, vice, poverty, and drink had made her; wrinkled, shriveled, toothless, and haggard, her skin as yellow and as dry as parchment and drawn tightly over her bones.

“Come, stand up!” ordered the inspector. “Your lamentations don’t affect me. You ought to be sent to prison for putting such vile drugs into your liquors, thus breeding madness in the brains of your customers.”

The old woman’s little red eyes traveled slowly round the room, and then in tearful tones she exclaimed: “What a misfortune! what will become of me? Everything is broken—I am ruined!” She only seemed impressed by the loss of her table utensils.

“Now tell us how this trouble began,” said Gevrol.

“Alas! I know nothing about it. I was upstairs mending my son’s clothes, when I heard a dispute.”

“And after that?”

“Of course I came down, and I saw those three men that are lying there picking a quarrel with the young man you have arrested; the poor innocent! For he is innocent, as truly as I am an honest woman. If my son Polyte had been here he would have separated them; but I, a poor widow, what could I do! I cried ‘Police!’ with all my might.”

After giving this testimony she resumed her seat, thinking she had said enough. But Gevrol rudely ordered her to stand up again. “Oh! we have not done,” said he. “I wish for other particulars.”

“What particulars, dear Monsieur Gevrol, since I saw nothing?”

Anger crimsoned the inspector’s ears. “What would you say, old woman, if I arrested you?”

“It would be a great piece of injustice.”

“Nevertheless, it is what will happen if you persist in remaining silent. I have an idea that a fortnight in Saint Lazare would untie your tongue.”

These words produced the effect of an electric shock on the Widow Chupin. She suddenly ceased her hypocritical lamentations, rose, placed her hands defiantly on her hips, and poured forth a torrent of invective upon Gevrol and his agents, accusing them of persecuting her family ever since they had previously arrested her son, a good-for-nothing fellow. Finally, she swore that she was not afraid of prison, and would be only too glad to end her days in jail beyond the reach of want.

At first the General tried to impose silence upon the terrible termagant: but he soon discovered that he was powerless; besides, all his subordinates were laughing. Accordingly he turned his back upon her, and, advancing toward the murderer, he said: “You, at least, will not refuse an explanation.”

The man hesitated for a moment. “I have already said all that I have to say,” he replied, at last. “I have told you that I am innocent; and this woman and a man on the point of death who was struck down by my hand, have both confirmed my declaration. What more do you desire? When the judge questions me, I will, perhaps, reply; until then do not expect another word from me.”

It was easy to see that the fellow’s resolution was irrevocable; and that he was not to be daunted by any inspector of police. Criminals frequently preserve an absolute silence, from the very moment they are captured. These men are experienced and shrewd, and lawyers and judges pass many sleepless nights on their account. They have learned that a system of defense can not be improvised at once; that it is, on the contrary, a work of patience and meditation; and knowing what a terrible effect an apparently insignificant response drawn from them at the moment of detection may produce on a court of justice, they remain obstinately silent. So as to see whether the present culprit was an old hand or not, Gevrol was about to insist on a full explanation when some one announced that the soldier had just breathed his last.

“As that is so, my boys,” the inspector remarked, “two of you will remain here, and I will leave with the others. I shall go and arouse the commissary of police, and inform him of the affair; he will take the matter in hand: and we can then do whatever he commands. My responsibility will be over, in any case. So untie our prisoner’s legs and bind Mother Chupin’s hands, and we will drop them both at the station-house as we pass.”

The men hastened to obey, with the exception of the youngest among them, the same who had won the General’s passing praise. He approached his chief, and motioning that he desired to speak with him, drew him outside the door. When they were a few steps from the house, Gevrol asked him what he wanted.

“I wish to know, General, what you think of this affair.”

“I think, my boy, that four scoundrels encountered each other in this vile den. They began to quarrel; and from words they came to blows. One of them had a revolver, and he killed the others. It is as clear as daylight. According to his antecedents, and according to the antecedents of the victims, the assassin will be judged. Perhaps society owes him some thanks.”

“And you think that any investigation—any further search is unnecessary.”

“Entirely unnecessary.”

The younger man appeared to deliberate for a moment. “It seems to me, General,” he at length replied, “that this affair is not perfectly clear. Have you noticed the murderer, remarked his demeanor, and observed his look? Have you been surprised as I have been—?”

“By what?”

“Ah, well! it seems to me—I may, of course, be mistaken—but I fancy that appearances are deceitful, and—Yes, I suspect something.”

“Bah!—explain yourself, please.”

“How can you explain the dog’s faculty of scent?”

Gevrol shrugged his shoulders. “In short,” he replied, “you scent a melodrama here—a rendezvous of gentlemen in disguise, here at the Poivriere, at Mother Chupin’s house. Well, hunt after the mystery, my boy; search all you like, you have my permission.”

“What! you will allow me?”

“I not only allow you, I order you to do it. You are going to remain here with any one of your comrades you may select. And if you find anything that I have not seen, I will allow you to buy me a pair of spectacles.”

II

The young police agent to whom Gevrol abandoned what he thought an unnecessary investigation was a debutant in his profession. His name was Lecoq. He was some twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, almost beardless, very pale, with red lips, and an abundance of wavy black hair. He was rather short but well proportioned; and each of his movements betrayed unusual energy. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance, if we except his eyes, which sparkled brilliantly or grew extremely dull, according to his mood; and his nose, the large full nostrils of which had a surprising mobility.

The son of a respectable, well-to-do Norman family, Lecoq had received a good and solid education. He was prosecuting his law studies in Paris, when in the same week, blow following blow, he learned that his father had died, financially ruined, and that his mother had survived him only a few hours. He was left alone in the world, destitute of resources, obliged to earn his living. But how? He had an opportunity of learning his true value, and found that it amounted to nothing; for the university, on bestowing its diploma of bachelor, does not give an annuity with it. Hence of what use is a college education to a poor orphan boy? He envied the lot of those who, with a trade at the ends of their fingers, could boldly enter the office of any manufacturer, and say: “I would like to work.” Such men were working and eating. Lecoq sought bread by all the methods employed by people who are in reduced circumstances! Fruitless labor! There are a hundred thousand people in Paris who have seen better days. No matter! He gave proofs of undaunted energy. He gave lessons, and copied documents for a lawyer. He made his appearance in a new character almost every day, and left no means untried to earn an honest livelihood. At last he obtained employment from a well-known astronomer, the Baron Moser, and spent his days in solving bewildering and intricate problems, at the rate of a hundred francs a month.

But a season of discouragement came. After five years of constant toil, he found himself at the same point from which he had started. He was nearly crazed with rage and disappointment when he recapitulated his blighted hopes, his fruitless efforts, and the insults he had endured. The past had been sad, the present was intolerable, the future threatened to be terrible. Condemned to constant privations, he tried to escape from the horrors of his real life by taking refuge in dreams.

Alone in his garret, after a day of unremitting toil, assailed by the thousand longings of youth, Lecoq endeavored to devise some means of suddenly making himself rich. All reasonable methods being beyond his reach, it was not long before he was engaged in devising the worst expedients. In short, this naturally moral and honest young man spent much of his time in perpetrating—in fancy—the most abominable crimes. Sometimes he himself was frightened by the work of his imagination: for an hour of recklessness might suffice to make him pass from the idea to the fact, from theory to practise. This is the case with all monomaniacs; an hour comes in which the strange conceptions that have filled their brains can be no longer held in check.

One day he could not refrain from exposing to his patron a little plan he had conceived, which would enable him to obtain five or six hundred francs from London. Two letters and a telegram were all that was necessary, and the game was won. It was impossible to fail, and there was no danger of arousing suspicion.

The astronomer, amazed at the simplicity of the plan, could but admire it. On reflection, however, he concluded that it would not be prudent for him to retain so ingenious a secretary in his service. This was why, on the following day, he gave him a month’s pay in advance, and dismissed him, saying: “When one has your disposition, and is poor, one may either become a famous thief or a great detective. Choose.”

Lecoq retired in confusion; but the astronomer’s words bore fruit in his mind. “Why should I not follow good advice?” he asked himself. Police service did not inspire him with repugnance—far from it. He had often admired that mysterious power whose hand is everywhere, and which, although unseen and unheard, still manages to hear and see everything. He was delighted with the prospect of being the instrument of such a power. He considered that the profession of detective would enable him to employ the talents with which he had been endowed in a useful and honorable fashion; besides opening out a life of thrilling adventure with fame as its goal.

In short, this profession had a wonderful charm for him. So much so, that on the following week, thanks to a letter from Baron Moser, he was admitted into the service. A cruel disenchantment awaited him. He had seen the results, but not the means. His surprise was like that of a simple-minded frequenter of the theatre, when he is admitted for the first time behind the scenes, and is able to pry into the decorations and tinsel that are so dazzling at a distance.

However, the opportunity for which he had so ardently longed, for which he had been waiting during many weary months, had come, he thought, at last, as he reached the Poivriere with Gevrol and the other police agents. While he was clinging to the window shutters he saw by the light of his ambition a pathway to success. It was at first only a presentiment, but it soon became a supposition, and then a conviction based upon actual facts, which had escaped his companions, but which he had observed and carefully noted. He recognized that fortune had, at last, turned in his favor when he saw Gevrol neglect all but the merest formalities of examination, and when he heard him declare peremptorily that this triple murder was merely the result of one of those ferocious quarrels so frequent among vagrants in the outskirts of the city.

“Ah, well!” he thought; “have it your own way—trust in appearances, since you will see nothing beneath them! But I will prove to you that my youthful theory is better than all your experience.”

The inspector’s carelessness gave Lecoq a perfect right to secretly seek information on his own account; but by warning his superior officers before attempting anything on his own responsibility, he would protect himself against any accusation of ambition or of unduly taking advantage of his comrade. Such charges might prove most dangerous for his future prospects in a profession where so much rivalry is seen, and where wounded vanity has so many opportunities to avenge itself by resorting to all sorts of petty treason. Accordingly, he spoke to his superior officer—saying just enough to be able to remark, in case of success: “Ah! I warned you!”—just enough so as not to dispel any of Gevrol’s doubts.

The permission which Lecoq obtained to remain in charge of the bodies was his first triumph of the best possible augury; but he knew how to dissimulate, and it was in a tone of the utmost indifference that he requested one of his comrades to remain with him. Then, while the others were making ready to depart, he seated himself upon the corner of the table, apparently oblivious of all that was passing around. He did not dare to lift his head, for fear of betraying his joy, so much did he fear that his companions might read his hopes and plans in the expression of his face.

Inwardly he was wild with impatience. Though the murderer submitted with good grace to the precautions that were taken to prevent his escape, it required some time to bind the hands of the Widow Chupin, who fought and howled as if they were burning her alive. “They will never go!” Lecoq murmured to himself.

They did so at last, however. Gevrol gave the order to start, and left the house, addressing a laughing good-by to his subordinate. The latter made no reply. He followed his comrades as far as the threshold to make sure that they were really going, for he trembled at the thought that Gevrol might reflect, change his mind, and return to solve the mystery, as was his right.

His anxiety was needless, however. The squad gradually faded away in the distance, and the cries of Widow Chupin died away in the stillness of the night. It was only then that Lecoq reentered the room. He could no longer conceal his delight; his eyes sparkled as might those of a conqueror taking possession of some vast empire: he stamped his foot upon the floor and exclaimed with exultation: “Now the mystery belongs to us two alone!”

Authorized by Gevrol to choose one of his comrades to remain with him at the Poivriere, Lecoq had requested the least intelligent of the party to keep him company. He was not influenced by a fear of being obliged to share the fruits of success with his companion, but by the necessity of having an assistant from whom he could, in case of need, exact implicit obedience.

The comrade Lecoq selected was a man of about fifty, who, after a term of cavalry service, had become an agent of the prefecture. In the humble office that he occupied he had seen prefect succeed prefect, and might probably have filled an entire prison with the culprits he had arrested with his own hands. Experience had not, however, made him any the shrewder or any the more zealous. Still he had this merit, when he received an order he executed it with military exactitude, so far as he understood it. Of course if he had failed to understand it, so much the worse. It might, indeed, be said of him, that he discharged his duties like a blind man, like an old horse trained for a riding school.

When he had a moment’s leisure, and a little money in his pocket, he invariably got drunk. Indeed, he spent his life between two fits of intoxication, without ever rising above a condition of semi-lucidity. His comrades had known, but had forgotten, his name, and his partiality for a certain beverage had accordingly induced them to call him “Father Absinthe.”

With his limited powers of observation, he naturally did not observe the tone of triumph in his young companion’s voice. “Upon my word,” he remarked, when they were alone, “your idea of keeping me here was a good one, and I thank you for it. While the others spend the night paddling about in the slush, I shall get a good sleep.”

Here he stood, in a room that was splashed with blood, that was shuddering, so to speak, with crime, and yet face to face with the still warm bodies of three murdered men he could talk of sleep!

But, after all, what did it matter to him? He had seen so many similar scenes in his time. And does not habit infallibly lead to professional indifference, making the soldier cool and composed in the midst of conflict, and rendering the surgeon impassible when the patient shrieks and writhes beneath his operating knife.

“I have been upstairs, looking about,” pursued Father Absinthe; “I saw a bed up there, and we can mount guard here, by turns.”

With an imperious gesture, Lecoq interrupted him. “You must give up that idea, Father Absinthe,” he said, “we are not here to sleep, but to collect information—to make the most careful researches, and to note all the probabilities. In a few hours the commissary of police, the legal physician, and the public prosecutor will be here. I wish to have a report ready for them.”

This proposition seemed anything but pleasing to the old police agent. “Eh! what is the use of that?” he exclaimed. “I know the General. When he goes in search of the commissary, as he has gone this evening, there is nothing more to be done. Do you think you can see anything that he didn’t see?”

“I think that Gevrol, like every one else, is liable to be mistaken. I think that he believes too implicitly in what seems to him evidence. I could swear that this affair is not what it seems to be; and I am sure that if we like we can discover the mystery which is concealed beneath present appearances.”

Although Lecoq’s vehemence was intense, he did not succeed in making any impression upon his companion, who with a yawn that threatened to dislocate his jaws replied: “Perhaps you are right; but I am going to bed. This need not prevent you from searching around, however; and if you find anything you can wake me.”

Lecoq made no sign of impatience: nor in reality was he impatient. These words afforded him the opportunity for which he was longing. “You will give me a moment first,” he remarked. “In five minutes, by your watch, I promise to let you put your finger on the mystery that I suspect here.”

“Well, go on for five minutes.”

“After that you shall be free, Father Absinthe. Only it is clear that if I unravel the mystery alone, I alone ought to pocket the reward that a solution will certainly bring.”

At the word “reward” the old police agent pricked up his ears. He was dazzled by the vision of an infinite number of bottles of the greenish liquor whose name he bore. “Convince me, then,” said he, taking a seat upon a stool, which he had lifted from the floor.

Lecoq remained standing in front of him. “To begin with,” he remarked, “whom do you suppose the person we have just arrested to be?”

“A porter, probably, or a vagabond.”

“That is to say, a man belonging to the lowest class of society: consequently, a fellow without education.”

“Certainly.”

Lecoq spoke with his eyes fixed upon those of his companion. He distrusted his own powers, as is usual with persons of real merit, but he felt that if he could succeed in making his convictions penetrate his comrade’s obtuse mind, their exactitude would be virtually proved.

“And now,” he continued, “what would you say if I showed you that this young man had received an excellent, even refined, education?”

“I should reply that it was very extraordinary. I should reply that—but what a fool I am! You have not proved it to me yet.”

“But I can do so very easily. Do you remember the words that he uttered as he fell?”

“Yes, I remember them perfectly. He said: ‘It is the Prussians who are coming.’”

“What do you suppose he meant by that?”

“What a question! I should suppose that he did not like the Prussians, and that he supposed he was offering us a terrible insult.”

Lecoq was waiting anxiously for this response. “Ah, well; Father Absinthe,” he said gravely, “you are wrong, quite wrong. And that this man has an education superior to his apparent position is proved by the fact that you did not understand his meaning, nor his intention. It was this single phrase that enlightened me.”

Father Absinthe’s physiognomy expressed the strange and comical perplexity of a man who is so thoroughly mystified that he knows not whether to laugh, or to be angry. After reflecting a little, he decided to adopt the latter course. “You are rather too young to impose upon an old fellow like me,” he remarked. “I don’t like boasters—”

“One moment!” interrupted Lecoq; “allow me to explain. You have certainly heard of a terrible battle which resulted in one of the greatest defeats that ever happened to France—the battle of Waterloo?”

“I don’t see the connection—”

“Answer, if you please.”

“Yes—then! I have heard of it!”

“Very well; you must know then that for some time victory seemed likely to rest with the banners of France. The English began to fall back, and the emperor had already exclaimed: ‘We have them!’ when suddenly on the right, a little in the rear, a large body of troops was seen advancing. It was the Prussian army. The battle of Waterloo was lost.”

In all his life, worthy Father Absinthe had never made such a strenuous effort to understand anything. In this case his perseverance was not wholly useless, for, springing from his stool, and probably in much the same tone that Archimedes cried “Eureka!” he exclaimed, “I understand. The man’s words were only an allusion.”

“It is as you have said,” remarked Lecoq, approvingly. “But I had not finished. If the emperor was thrown into consternation by the appearance of the Prussians, it was because he was momentarily expecting the arrival of one of his own generals from the same direction—Grouchy—with thirty-five thousand men. So if this man’s allusion was exact and complete, he was not expecting an enemy, but a friend. Now draw your own conclusions.”

Father Absinthe was amazed but convinced: and his eyes, heavy with sleep a few moments before, now opened to their widest extent. “Good heavens!” he murmured, “if you put it in that way! But I forget; you must have seen something as you were looking through the shutters.”

The young man shook his head. “Upon my honor,” he declared, “I saw nothing save the struggle between the murderer and the poor devil dressed as a soldier. It was that sentence alone that aroused my attention.”

“Wonderful! prodigious!” exclaimed the astonished old man.

“I will add that reflection has confirmed my suspicions. I ask myself why this man, instead of flying at once, should have waited and remained there, at that door, to parley with us.”

With a bound, Father Absinthe sprang again to his feet. “Why?” he interrupted; “because he had accomplices, and he wished to give them time to escape. Ah! I understand it all now.”

A triumphant smile parted Lecoq’s lips. “That is what I said to myself,” he replied, “and now it is easy to verify my suspicions. There is snow outside, isn’t there?”

It was not necessary to say any more. The elder officer seized the light, and followed by his companion, he hastened to the back door of the house, which opened into a small garden. In this sheltered enclosure the snow had not melted, and upon its white surface the dark stains of numerous footprints presented themselves. Without hesitation, Lecoq threw himself upon his knees in the snow; he rose again almost immediately. “These indentations were not made by the men’s feet,” said he. “There have been women here.”

III

Obstinate men of Father Absinthe’s stamp, who are at first always inclined to differ from other people’s opinions, are the very individuals who end in madly adopting them. When an idea has at last penetrated their empty brains, they twist and turn it, dwell upon it, and develop it until it exceeds the bounds of reason.

Hence, the police veteran was now much more strongly convinced than his companion that the usually clever Gevrol had been mistaken, and accordingly he laughed the inspector to scorn. On hearing Lecoq affirm that women had taken part in the horrible scene at the Poivriere, his joy was extreme—“A fine affair!” he exclaimed; “an excellent case!” And suddenly recollecting a maxim that has been handed down from the time of Cicero, he added in sententious tones: “Who holds the woman holds the cause!”

Lecoq did not deign to reply. He was standing upon the threshold, leaning against the framework of the door, his hand pressed to his forehead, as motionless as a statue. The discovery he had just made, and which so delighted Father Absinthe, filled him with consternation. It was the death of his hopes, the annihilation of the ingenious structure which his imagination had built upon the foundation of a single sentence.

There was no longer any mystery—, so celebrity was not to be gained by a brilliant stroke!

For the presence of two women in this vile den explained everything in the most natural and commonplace fashion. Their presence explained the quarrel, the testimony of Widow Chupin, the dying declaration of the pretended soldier. The behavior of the murderer was also explained. He had remained to cover the retreat of the two women; he had sacrificed himself in order to save them, an act of gallantry so common in the French character, that any scoundrel of the barrieres might have performed it.

Still, the strange allusion to the battle of Waterloo remained unexplained. But what did that prove now? Nothing, simply nothing. However, who could say how low an unworthy passion might cause a man even of birth and breeding to descend? And the carnival afforded an opportunity for the parties to disguise themselves.

But while Lecoq was turning and twisting all these probabilities in his mind, Father Absinthe became impatient. “Are we going to remain here until doomsday?” he asked. “Are we to pause just at the moment when our search has been productive of such brilliant results?”

“Brilliant results!” These words stung the young man as deeply as the keenest irony could have done. “Leave me alone,” he replied gruffly; “and, above all, don’t walk about the garden, as by doing so, you’ll damage any footprints.”

His companion swore a little; but soon became silent in his turn. He was constrained to submit to the irresistible ascendency of superior will and intelligence.

Lecoq was engaged in following out his course of reasoning. “The murderer, leaving the ball at the Rainbow, a dancing-house not far from here, near the fortifications, came to this wine-shop, accompanied by two women. He found three men drinking here, who either began teasing him, or who displayed too much gallantry toward his companions. He became angry. The others threatened him; he was one against three; he was armed; he became wild with rage, and fired—”

He checked himself, and an instant after added, aloud: “But was it the murderer who brought these women here? If he is tried, this will be the important point. It is necessary to obtain information regarding it.”

He immediately went back into the house, closely followed by his colleague, and began an examination of the footprints round about the door that Gevrol had forced open. Labor lost. There was but little snow on the ground near the entrance of the hovel, and so many persons had passed in and out that Lecoq could discover nothing. What a disappointment after his patient hopes! Lecoq could have cried with rage. He saw the opportunity for which he had sighed so long indefinitely postponed. He fancied he could hear Gevrol’s coarse sarcasms. “Enough of this,” he murmured, under his breath. “The General was right, and I am a fool!”

He was so positively convinced that one could do no more than discover the circumstances of some commonplace, vulgar broil, that he began to wonder if it would not be wise to renounce his search and take a nap, while awaiting the coming of the commissary of police.

But Father Absinthe was no longer of this opinion. This worthy man, who was far from suspecting the nature of his companion’s reflections could not explain his inaction. “Come! my boy,” said he, “have you lost your wits? This is losing time, it seems to me. The authorities will arrive in a few hours, and what report shall we be able to give them! As for me, if you desire to go to sleep, I shall pursue the investigation alone.”

Disappointed as he was, the young police officer could not repress a smile. He recognized his own exhortation of a few moments before. It was the old man who had suddenly become intrepid. “To work, then!” he sighed, like a man who, while foreseeing defeat, wishes, at least, to have no cause for self-reproach.

He found it, however, extremely difficult to follow the footprints in the open air by the uncertain light of a candle, which was extinguished by the least breath of wind. “I wonder if there is a lantern in the house,” he said. “If we could only lay our hands upon one!”

They searched everywhere, and, at last, upstairs in the Widow Chupin’s own room, they found a well-trimmed lantern, so small and compact that it certainly had never been intended for honest purposes.

“A regular burglar’s implement,” said Father Absinthe, with a coarse laugh.

The implement was useful in any case; as both men agreed when they returned to the garden and recommenced their investigations systematically. They advanced very slowly and with extreme caution. The old man carefully held the lantern in the best position, while Lecoq, on his knees, studied each footprint with the attention of a chiromancer professing to read the future in the hand of a rich client. This new examination assured Lecoq that he had been correct in his first supposition. It was plain that two women had left the Poivriere by the back door. They had started off running, as was proved by the length of the steps and the shape of the footprints.

The difference in the tracks left by the two fugitives was so remarkable that it did not escape Father Absinthe’s eyes. “Sapristi!” he muttered; “one of these jades can boast of having a pretty foot at the end of her leg!”

He was right. One of the tracks betrayed a small, coquettish, slender foot, clad in an elegant high-heeled boot with a narrow sole and an arched instep. The other denoted a broad, short foot growing wider toward the end. It had evidently been incased in a strong, low shoe.

This was indeed a clue. Lecoq’s hopes at once revived; so eagerly does a man welcome any supposition that is in accordance with his desires. Trembling with anxiety, he went to examine some other footprints a short distance from these; and an excited exclamation at once escaped his lips.

“What is it?” eagerly inquired the other agent: “what do you see?”

“Come and look for yourself, see there!” cried Lecoq.

The old man bent down, and his surprise was so great that he almost dropped the lantern. “Oh!” said he in a stifled voice, “a man’s footprint!”

“Exactly. And this fellow wore the finest of boots. See that imprint, how clear, how neat it is!”

Worthy Father Absinthe was scratching his ear furiously, his usual method of quickening his rather slow wits. “But it seems to me,” he ventured to say at last, “that this individual was not coming from this ill-fated hovel.”

“Of course not; the direction of the foot tells you that. No, he was not going away, he was coming here. But he did not pass beyond the spot where we are now standing. He was standing on tiptoe with outstretched neck and listening ears, when, on reaching this spot, he heard some noise, fear seized him, and he fled.”

“Or rather, the women were going out as he was coming, and—”

“No, the women were outside the garden when he entered it.”

This assertion seemed far too audacious to suit Lecoq’s companion, who remarked: “One can not be sure of that.”

“I am sure of it, however; and can prove it conclusively. If you doubt it, it is because your eyes are growing old. Bring your lantern a little nearer—yes, here it is—our man placed his large foot upon one of the marks made by the woman with the small foot and almost effaced it.” This unexceptionable piece of circumstantial evidence stupefied the old police agent.

“Now,” continued Lecoq, “could this man have been the accomplice whom the murderer was expecting? Might it not have been some strolling vagrant whose attention was attracted by the two pistol shots? This is what we must ascertain. And we will ascertain it. Come!”

A wooden fence of lattice-work, rather more than three feet high, was all that separated the Widow Chupin’s garden from the waste land surrounding it. When Lecoq made the circuit of the house to cut off the murderer’s escape he had encountered this obstacle, and, fearing lest he should arrive too late, he had leaped the fence to the great detriment of his pantaloons, without even asking himself if there was a gate or not. There was one, however—a light gate of lattice-work similar to the fence, turning upon iron hinges, and closed by a wooden button. Now it was straight toward this gate that these footprints in the snow led the two police agents. Some now thought must have struck the younger man, for he suddenly paused. “Ah!” he murmured, “these two women did not come to the Poivriere this evening for the first time.”

“Why do you think that, my boy?” inquired Father Absinthe.

“I could almost swear it. How, unless they were in the habit of coming to this den, could they have been aware of the existence of this gate? Could they have discovered it on such a dark, foggy night? No; for I, who can, without boasting, say that I have good eyes—I did not see it.”

“Ah! yes, that is true!”

“These two women, however, came here without hesitating, in a straight line; and note that to do this, it was necessary for them to cross the garden diagonally.”

The veteran would have given something if he could have found some objection to offer; but unfortunately he could find none. “Upon my word!” he exclaimed, “yours is a droll way of proceeding. You are only a conscript; I am a veteran in the service, and have assisted in more affairs of this sort than you are years old, but never have I seen—”

“Nonsense!” interrupted Lecoq, “you will see much more. For example, I can prove to you that although the women knew the exact position of the gate, the man knew it only by hearsay.”

“The proof!”

“The fact is easily demonstrated. Study the man’s footprints, and you, who are very sharp, will see at once that he deviated greatly from the straight course. He was in such doubt that he was obliged to search for the gate with his hand stretched out before him—and his fingers have left their imprint on the thin covering of snow that lies upon the upper railing of the fence.”

The old man would have been glad to verify this statement for himself, as he said, but Lecoq was in a hurry. “Let us go on, let us go on!” said he. “You can verify my assertions some other time.”

They left the garden and followed the footprints which led them toward the outer boulevards, inclining somewhat in the direction of the Rue de Patay. There was now no longer any need of close attention. No one save the fugitives had crossed this lonely waste since the last fall of snow. A child could have followed the track, so clear and distinct it was. Four series of footprints, very unlike in character, formed the track; two of these had evidently been left by the women; the other two, one going and one returning, had been made by the man. On several occasions the latter had placed his foot exactly on the footprints left by the two women, half effacing them, thus dispelling all doubt as to the precise moment of his approach.

About a hundred yards from the Poivriere, Lecoq suddenly seized his colleague’s arm. “Halt!” he exclaimed, “we have reached a good place; I can see unmistakable proofs.”

The spot, all unenclosed as it was, was evidently utilized by some builder for the storage of various kinds of lumber. The ground was strewn with large blocks of granite, some chiseled, some in the rough, with numerous long planks and logs of wood in their midst. In front of one of these logs, the surface of which had been evidently wiped, all the various footprints came together, mingling confusedly.

“Here,” declared the young detective, “our fugitives met the man and took counsel with him. One of the women, the one with the little feet, sat down upon this log.”

“We ought to make quite sure of that,” said Father Absinthe, in an oracular tone.

But his companion cut short his desire for verification. “You, my old friend,” said he, “are going to do me the kindness to keep perfectly still: pass me the lantern and do not move.”

Lecoq’s modest tone had suddenly become so imperious that his colleague dared offer no resistance. Like a soldier at the command to halt, he remained erect, motionless, and mute, following his colleague’s movements with an inquisitive, wondering eye.

Quick in his motions, and understanding how to maneuvre the lantern in accordance with his wishes, the young police agent explored the surroundings in a very short space of time. A bloodhound in pursuit of his prey would have been less alert, less discerning, less agile. He came and went, now turning, now pausing, now retreating, now hurrying on again without any apparent reason; he scrutinized, he questioned every surrounding object: the ground, the logs of wood, the blocks of stone, in a word, nothing escaped his glance. For a moment he would remain standing, then fall upon his knees, and at times lie flat upon his stomach with his face so near the ground that his breath must have melted the snow. He had drawn a tape-line from his pocket, and using it with a carpenter’s dexterity, he measured, measured, and measured.

And all his movements were accompanied with the wild gestures of a madman, interspersed with oaths or short laughs, with exclamations of disappointment or delight. After a quarter of an hour of this strange exercise, he turned to Father Absinthe, placed the lantern on a stone, wiped his hands with his pocket-handkerchief, and said: “Now I know everything!”

“Well, that is saying a great deal!”

“When I say everything, I mean all that is connected with the episode of the drama which ended in that bloody bout in the hovel. This expanse of earth covered with snow is a white page upon which the people we are in search of have written, not only their movements, their goings, and comings, but also their secret thoughts, their alternate hopes and anxieties. What do these footprints say to you, Papa Absinthe? To me they are alive like the persons who made them; they breathe, speak, accuse!”

The old agent was saying to himself: “Certainly, this fellow is intelligent, undeniably shrewd; but he is very disagreeable.”

“These are the facts as I have read them,” pursued Lecoq. “When the murderer repaired to the Poivriere with the two women, his companion—I should say his accomplice—came here to wait. He was a tall man of middle age; he wore a soft hat and a shaggy brown overcoat; he was, moreover, probably married, or had been so, as he had a wedding-ring on the little finger of his right hand—”

His companion’s despairing gestures obliged the speaker to pause. This description of a person whose existence had but just now been demonstrated, these precise details given in a tone of absolute certainty, completely upset all Father Absinthe’s ideas, increasing his perplexity beyond all bounds.

“This is not right,” he growled, “this is not kind. You are poking fun at me. I take the thing seriously; I listen to you, I obey you in everything, and then you mock me in this way. We find a clue, and instead of following it up, you stop to relate all these absurd stories.”

“No,” replied his companion, “I am not jesting, and I have told you nothing of which I am not absolutely sure, nothing that is not strictly and indisputably true.”

“And you would have me believe—”

“Fear nothing, papa; I would not have you do violence to your convictions. When I have told you my reasons, and my means of information, you will laugh at the simplicity of the theory that seems so incomprehensible to you now.”

“Go on, then,” said the good man, in a tone of resignation.

“We had decided,” rejoined Lecoq, “that the accomplice mounted guard here. The time seemed long, and, growing impatient, he paced to and fro—the length of this log of wood—occasionally pausing to listen. Hearing nothing, he stamped his foot, doubtless exclaiming: ‘What the deuce has happened to him down there!’ He had made about thirty turns (I have counted them), when a sound broke the stillness—the two women were coming.”

On hearing Lecoq’s recital, all the conflicting sentiments that are awakened in a child’s mind by a fairy tale—doubt, faith, anxiety, and hope—filled Father Absinthe’s heart. What should he believe? what should he refuse to believe? He did not know. How was he to separate the true from the false among all these equally surprising assertions? On the other hand, the gravity of his companion, which certainly was not feigned, dismissed all idea of pleasantry.

Finally, curiosity began to torture him. “We had reached the point where the women made their appearance,” said he.

“Yes, indeed,” responded Lecoq, “but here all certainty ceases; no more proofs, only suppositions. Still, I have every reason to believe that our fugitives left the drinking den before the beginning of the fight, before the cries that attracted our attention. Who were they? I can only conjecture. I suspect, however, that they were not equals in rank. I am inclined to think that one was the mistress, the other her servant.”

“That is proved,” ventured the old man, “by the great difference in their feet and in their shoes.”

This shrewd observation elicited a smile from Lecoq. “That difference,” he replied, seriously, “is something, of course; but it was not that which decided me in my opinion. If greater or less perfection of the extremities regulated social distinctions, many mistresses would be servants. What struck me was this: when the two women rushed wildly from Mother Chupin’s house, the woman with the small feet sprang across the garden with one bound, she darted on some distance in advance of the other. The terror of the situation, the vileness of the den, the horror of the scandal, the thought of safety, inspired her with marvelous energy. But her strength, as often happens with delicate and nervous women, lasted only a few seconds. She was not half-way from the Poivriere when her speed relaxed, her limbs trembled. Ten steps farther on she tottered and almost fell. Some steps farther, and she became so exhausted that she let go her hold upon her skirts; they trailed upon the snow, tracing a faint circle there. Then the woman with the broad feet came to aid her. She seized her companion round the waist; she dragged her along; their footprints here are mingled confusedly; then, seeing that her friend was about to fall, she caught her up in her strong arms and carried her—for you will see that the footprints made by the woman with the small feet suddenly cease at this point.”

Was Lecoq merely amusing himself by inventing this story? Was this scene anything but a work of imagination? Was the accent of deep and sincere conviction which he imparted to his words only feigned?

Father Absinthe was still in doubt, but he thought of a way in which he might satisfy his uncertainty. He caught up the lantern and hurried off to examine these footprints which he had not known how to read, which had been speechless to him, but which yielded their secret to another. He was obliged to agree with his companion. All that Lecoq had described was written there; he saw the confused footprints, the circle made by the sweeping skirts, the cessation of the tiny imprints.

On his return, his countenance betrayed a respectful and astonished admiration, and it was with a shade of embarrassment that he said: “You can scarcely blame an old man for being a little like St. Thomas. ‘I have touched it with my fingers,’ and now I am content to follow you.”

The young police agent could not, indeed, blame his colleague for his incredulity. Resuming his recital, he continued: “Then the accomplice, who had heard the fugitives coming, ran to meet them, and he aided the woman with large feet in carrying her companion. The latter must have been really ill, for the accomplice took off his hat and used it in brushing the snow off this log. Then, thinking the surface was not yet dry enough, he wiped it with the skirt of his overcoat. Were these civilities pure gallantry, or the usual attentions of an inferior? I have asked myself that question. This much, however, is certain, while the woman with the small feet was recovering her strength, half reclining upon this board, the other took the accomplice a little on one side, five or six steps away to the left, just beside that enormous block of granite. There she talked with him, and, as he listened, the man leaned upon the snow-covered stone. His hand left a very distinct imprint there. Then, as the conversation continued, he rested his elbow upon the snowy surface.”

Like all men of limited intelligence, Father Absinthe had suddenly passed from unreasoning distrust to unquestioning confidence. Henceforth, he could believe anything for the very same reason that had, at first, made him believe nothing. Having no idea of the bounds of human reasoning and penetration, he saw no limits to the conjectural genius of his companion. With perfect faith, therefore, he inquired: “And what was the accomplice saying to the woman with the broad shoes?”

Lecoq smiled at this simplicity, but the other did not see him do so. “It is rather difficult for me to answer that question,” replied the young detective, “I think, however, that the woman was explaining to the man the immensity and imminence of the danger that threatened his companion, and that they were trying to devise some means to rescue him from it. Perhaps she brought him orders given by the murderer. It is certain that she ended by beseeching the accomplice to run to the Poivriere and see what was passing there. And he did so, for his tracks start from this block of granite.”

“And only to think,” exclaimed Father Absinthe, “that we were in the hovel at that very moment. A word from Gevrol, and we might have had handcuffs on the whole gang! How unfortunate!”

Lecoq was not sufficiently disinterested to share his companion’s regret. On the contrary, he was very thankful for Gevrol’s blunder. Had it not been for that, how would he ever have found an opportunity of investigating an affair that grew more and more mysterious as his search proceeded, but which he hoped to fathom finally.

“To conclude,” he resumed, “the accomplice soon returned, he had witnessed the scene, and was evidently afraid. He feared that the thought of exploring the premises might enter the minds of the police. It was to the lady with small feet that he addressed himself. He explained the necessity of flight, and told her that even a moment’s delay might be fatal. At his words, she summoned all her energy; she rose and hastened away, clinging to the arm of her companion. Did the man indicate the route they were to take, or did they know it themselves? This much is certain, he accompanied them some distance, in order to watch over them. But besides protecting these women, he had a still more sacred duty to perform—that of succoring his accomplice, if possible. He retraced his steps, passed by here once more, and the last footprint that I can discover leads in the direction of the Rue du Chateau des Rentiers. He wished to know what would become of the murderer, and went to place himself where he might see him pass by with his captors.”

Like a dilettante who can scarcely restrain his applause until the close of the aria that delights him, Father Absinthe had been unable during the recital to entirely suppress his admiration. But it was not until Lecoq ceased speaking that he gave full vent to his enthusiasm: “Here is a detective if you like!” he exclaimed. “And they pretend that Gevrol is shrewd! What has he ever done to compare with this? Ah! shall I tell you what I think? Why, in comparison with you, the General is a more John the Baptist.”

Certainly the flattery was gross, but it was impossible to doubt its sincerity. This was the first time that the balmy dew of praise had fallen upon Lecoq’s vanity, and it greatly delighted him, although he modestly replied: “Nonsense, you are too kind, papa. After all, what have I done that is so very clever? I told you that the man was of middle age. It was not difficult to see that after one had examined his heavy, dragging step. I told you that he was tall—an easy matter. When I saw that he had been leaning upon that block of granite there to the left, I measured the block in question. It is almost five feet five inches in height, consequently a man who could rest his elbow upon it must be at least six feet high. The mark of his hand proves that I am not mistaken. On seeing that he had brushed away the snow which covered the plank, I asked myself what he had used; I thought that it might be his cap, and the mark left by the peak proves that I was right. Finally, if I have discovered the color and the material of his overcoat, it is only because when he wiped the wet board, some splinters of the wood tore off a few tiny flakes of brown wool, which I have found, and which will figure in the trial. But what does this amount to, after all? Nothing. We have only discovered the first clues of the affair. Still, we are on the right scent—so, forward then!”

The old officer was electrified, and, like an echo, he repeated: “Forward!”

IV

That night the vagabonds, who had taken refuge in the neighborhood of the Poivriere, had a very bad time of it; for while those who managed to sleep were disturbed by frightful dreams of a police raid, those who remained awake witnessed some strange incidents, well calculated to fill their minds with terror. On hearing the shots fired inside Mother Chupin’s drinking den, most of the vagrants concluded that there had been a collision between the police and some of their comrades, and they immediately began prowling about, eagerly listening and watching, and ready to take flight at the least sign of danger. At first they could discover no particular reasons for alarm. But later on, at about two o’clock in the morning, just as they were beginning to feel secure again, the fog lifted a little, and they witnessed a phenomenon well calculated to arouse anxiety.

Upon the unoccupied tract of land, which the people of the neighborhood called the “plain,” a small but very bright light was seen describing the most capricious evolutions. It moved here and there without any apparent aim, tracing the most inexplicable zigzags, sometimes sinking to the earth, sometimes rising to a height of four or five feet, at others remaining quite motionless, and the next second flying off like a ball. In spite of the place and the season of the year, the less ignorant among vagabonds believed the light to be some ignis fatuus, one of those luminous meteors that raise from the marshes and float about in the atmosphere at the bidding of the wind. In point of fact, however, this ignis fatuus was the lantern by the light of which the two police agents were pursuing their investigations.

After thus suddenly revealing his capacity to his first disciple, Lecoq found himself involved in a cruel perplexity. He had not the boldness and promptness of decision which is the gift of a prosperous past, and was hesitating between two courses, both equally reasonable, and both offering strong probabilities of success. He stood between two paths, that made by the two women on the one side, and that made by the accomplice on the other. Which should he take? For he could not hope to follow both. Seated upon the log where the women had rested a few moments before, with his hand pressed upon his forehead, he reflected and weighed the chances.

“If I follow the man I shall learn nothing that I do not know already. He has gone to hover round the party; he has followed them at a distance, he has seen them lock up his accomplice, and he is undoubtedly prowling round about the station house. If I hurried in pursuit, could I hope to overtake and capture him? No; too long a time has elapsed.”

Father Absinthe listened to this monologue with intense curiosity, as anxious as an unsophisticated person who, having questioned a clairvoyant in regard to some lost articles, is waiting the oracle’s response.

“To follow the women,” continued the young man, “to what would that lead? Perhaps to an important discovery, perhaps to nothing.”

However, he preferred the unknown, which, with all its chances of failure, had chances of success as well. He rose, his course was decided.

“Father Absinthe,” said he, “we are going to follow the footprints of these two women, and wherever they lead us we will go.”

Inspired with equal ardor they began their walk. At the end of the path upon which they had entered they fancied they observed, as in some magic glass, the one the fruits, the other the glory of success. They hurried forward. At first it was only play to follow the distinct footprints that led toward the Seine. But it was not long before they were obliged to proceed more slowly.

On leaving the waste ground they arrived at the outer limits of civilization, so to speak; and strange footprints mingled constantly with the footprints of the fugitives, at times even effacing them. In many spots, either on account of exposure or the nature of the soil, the thaw had completed its work, and there were large patches of ground entirely free from snow. In such cases they lost the trail, and it required all Lecoq’s sagacity and all his companion’s good-will to find it again.

On such occasions Father Absinthe planted his cane in the earth, near the last footprint that had been discovered, and Lecoq and himself hunted all over the ground around this point, much after the fashion of a couple of bloodhounds thrown off the scent. Then it was that the lantern moved about so strangely. More than a dozen times, in spite of all their efforts, they would have lost the clue entirely had it not been for the elegant shoes worn by the lady with the little feet. These had such small and extremely high heels that the impression they left could not be mistaken. They sank down three or four inches in the snow, or the mud, and their tell-tale impress remained as clear and distinct as that of a seal.

Thanks to these heels, the pursuers were able to discover that the two fugitives had not gone up the Rue de Patay, as might have been supposed. Probably they had considered this street too frequented, and too well lighted. They had only crossed it, just below the Rue de la Croix-Rouge, and had profited by an empty space between two houses to regain the open ground.

“Certainly these women were well acquainted with the locality,” murmured Lecoq.

Indeed, the topography of the district evidently had no secrets for them, for, on quitting the Rue de Patay, they had immediately turned to the right, so as to avoid several large excavations, from which a quantity of brick clay had been dug.

But at last the trail was recovered, and the detectives followed it as far as the Rue du Chevaleret. Here the footprints abruptly ceased. Lecoq discovered eight or ten footmarks left by the woman who wore the broad shoes, but that was all. Hereabout, moreover, the condition of the ground was not calculated to facilitate an exploration of this nature. There had been a great deal of passing to and fro in the Rue du Chevaleret, and not merely was there scarcely any snow left on the footpaths, but the middle of the street was transformed into a river of slush.

“Did these people recollect at last that the snow might betray them? Did they take the middle of the road?” grumbled the young police agent.

Certainly they could not have crossed to a vacant space as they had done just before, for on the other side of the street extended a long factory wall.

“Ah!” sighed Father Absinthe, “we have our labor for our pains.”

But Lecoq possessed a temperament that refused to acknowledge defeat. Animated by the cold anger of a man who sees the object which he was about to seize disappear from before his eyes, he recommenced his search, and was well repaid for his efforts.

“I understand!” he cried suddenly, “I comprehend—I see!”

Father Absinthe drew near. He did not see nor divine anything! but he no longer doubted his companion’s powers.

“Look there,” said Lecoq; “what are those marks?”

“Marks left by the wheels of some carriage that plainly turned here.”

“Very well, papa, these tracks explain everything. When they reached this spot, our fugitives saw the light of an approaching cab, which was returning from the centre of Paris. It was empty, and proved their salvation. They waited, and when it came nearer they hailed the driver. No doubt they promised him a handsome fare; this is indeed evident, since he consented to go back again. He turned round here; they got into the vehicle, and that is why the footprints go no further.”

This explanation did not please Lecoq’s companion. “Have we made any great progress now that we know that?” he asked.

Lecoq could not restrain an impulse to shrug his shoulders. “Did you expect that the tracks made by the fugitives would lead us through Paris and up to their very doors?” he asked.

“No; but—”

“Then what would you ask more? Do you think that I shall not know how to find this driver tomorrow? He was returning with his empty vehicle, his day’s work was ended; hence, his stable is in the neighborhood. Do you suppose that he will have forgotten that he took up two persons in the Rue du Chevaleret? He will tell us where he drove them; but that will not do us any good, for, of course, they will not have given him their real address. But at all events he can probably give us a description of them, tell us how they were dressed, describe their appearance, their manner, and their age. And with that, and what we already know—”

An eloquent gesture expressed the remainder of his thought, then he added: “We must now go back to the Poivriere, and go quickly. And you, my friend, may now extinguish your lantern.”

While doing his best to keep pace with his companion, who was in such haste to get back to the Poivriere that he almost ran, Father Absinthe’s thoughts were as busy as his legs, and an entirely new train of ideas was awakened in his mind.

During the twenty-five years that he had been connected with the police force, the good man—to use his own expression—had seen many of his colleagues walk over him and win, after only a few months’ work, a promotion that his long years of service had not gained for him. In these cases he had not failed to accuse his superiors of injustice, and his fortunate rivals of gross flattery. In his opinion, seniority was the only claim to advancement—the only, the best, the most respectable claim; and he was wont to sum up all his opinions, all his grief and bitterness of mind in one phrase: “It is infamous to pass over an old member of the service.”

Tonight, however, Father Absinthe discovered that there is something else in the world besides seniority, and sufficient reasons for what he had formerly regarded as favoritism. He secretly confessed that this newcomer whom he had treated so carelessly had just followed up a clue as he, veteran though he was, would never have succeeded in doing.

But communing with himself was not this good man’s forte; he soon grew weary of reflection; and on reaching a place where they were obliged to proceed more slowly on account of the badness of the road, he deemed it a favorable opportunity to resume the conversation. “You are silent, comrade,” he ventured to remark, “and one might swear that you were not exactly pleased.”

This surprising result of the old man’s reflections would have amazed Lecoq, if his mind had not been a hundred leagues away. “No, I am not pleased,” he responded.

“And why, pray? Only ten minutes ago you were as gay as a lark.”

“Then I did not see the misfortune that threatens us.”

“A misfortune!”

“A very great misfortune. Do you not perceive that the weather has undesirably changed. It is evident that the wind is now coming from the south. The fog has disappeared, but the sky is cloudy and threatening. It will rain in less than an hour.”

“A few drops are falling now; I just felt one.”

These words produced on Lecoq much the same effect as a whip-up on a spirited horse. He sprang forward, and, adopting a still more hurried pace, exclaimed: “Let us make haste! let us make haste!”

The old police agent followed him as in duty bound; but his mind was, if possible, still more troubled by the replies of his young companion. A great misfortune! The wind from the south! Rain! He did not, he could not see the connection.

Greatly puzzled, and not a little anxious, Father Absinthe asked for an explanation, although he had but little more breath than was absolutely necessary to enable him to continue the forced march he was making. “Upon my word,” said he, “I have racked my brains—”

His companion took pity on his anxiety. “What!” he exclaimed, as he still hastened forward, “you do not understand that our investigation, my success, and your reward, are dependent upon those black clouds which the wind is driving toward us!”

“Oh!”

“Twenty minutes of merely gentle rain, and our time and labor will be lost. If it rains, the snow will melt, and then farewell to our proofs. Let us get on—let us get on more quickly! You know very well that in such cases words don’t suffice. If we declare to the public prosecutor that we have seen these footprints, he will ask, where? And what can we say? If we swear by all the gods that we have seen the footprints of a man and of two women, the investigating magistrate will say, ‘Let me see them.’ And who will feel sheepish then? Father Absinthe and Lecoq. Besides, Gevrol would not fail to declare that we were saying what was not true, in order to enhance our own value, and humiliate him.”

“What an idea!”

“Faster, papa, faster; you will have all day tomorrow to be indignant. Perhaps it will not rain. In that case, these perfect, clear, and easily recognizable footprints will prove the culprits’ ruin. How can we preserve them? By what process could we solidify them? I would deluge them with my blood if that could only cause them to congeal.”

Father Absinthe was just then thinking that his share of the labor had hitherto been the least important; for he had merely held the lantern. But here was a chance for him to acquire a real and substantial right to the prospective reward. “I know a method,” said he, “by which one could preserve these marks in the snow.”

At these words the younger man stopped short. “You know—you?” he interrupted.

“Yes, I know,” replied the old detective, with the evident satisfaction of a man who has gained his revenge. “They invented a way at the time of that affair at the Maison Blanche, last December.”

“I recollect.”

“Ah! well, on the snow in the courtyard there was a footprint that attracted a detective’s attention. He said that the whole evidence depended on that mark alone, that it was worth more than ten years’ hard work in following up the case. Naturally, he desired to preserve it. They sent for a great chemist—”

“Go on, go on.”

“I have never seen the method put into practise, but an expert told me all about it, and showed me the mold they obtained. He explained it to me precisely, on account of my profession.”

Lecoq was trembling with impatience. “And how did they obtain the mold?” he asked abruptly.

“Wait: I was just going to explain. They take some of the best gelatine, and allow it to soak in cold water. When it becomes thoroughly softened, they heat it until it forms a liquid, of moderate consistency. Then when it is just cool enough, they pour a nice little covering of it upon the footprint.”

Lecoq felt the irritation that is natural to a person who has just heard a bad joke, or who has lost his time in listening to a fool.

“Enough!” he interrupted, angrily. “That method can be found in all the manuals. It is excellent, no doubt, but how can it serve us? Have you any gelatine about you?”

“No.”

“Nor have I. You might as well have counseled me to pour melted lead upon the footprints to fix them.”

They continued their way, and five minutes later, without having exchanged another word, they reentered the Widow Chupin’s hovel. The first impulse of the older man would have been to rest to breathe, but Lecoq did not give him time to do so.

“Make haste: get me a dish—a plate—anything!” cried the young detective, “and bring me some water; gather together all the boards and old boxes you can find lying about.”

While his companion was obeying him, Lecoq armed himself with a fragment of one of the broken bottles, and began scraping away furiously at the plastered wall that separated the two rooms.

His mind, disconcerted at first by the imminence of this unexpected catastrophe, a fall of rain, had now regained its equilibrium. He had reflected, he had thought of a way by which failure might possibly be averted—and he hoped for ultimate success. When he had accumulated some seven or eight handfuls of fine plaster dust, he mixed one-half with a little water so as to form a thin paste, leaving the rest untouched on the side of the plate.

“Now, papa,” said he, “come and hold the light for me.”

When in the garden, the young man sought for the deepest and most distinct of the footprints, knelt beside it, and began his experiment, trembling with anxiety. He first sprinkled upon the impression a fine coating of dry plaster, and then upon this coating, with infinite care, he poured his liquid solution drop by drop.

What luck! the experiment was successful! The plaster united in a homogeneous mass, forming a perfect model of the impression. Thus, after an hour’s labor, Lecoq possessed half a dozen of these casts, which might, perhaps, be a little wanting in clearness of outline, but which were quite perfect enough to be used as evidence.

The young detective’s alarm had been well founded, for it was already beginning to rain. Still, he had plenty of time to cover a number of the footprints with the boxes and pieces of board which Father Absinthe had collected, thus placing them, as it were, beyond the reach of a thaw. Now he could breathe. The authorities might come, for the most important part of his task was completed.

V

It was some distance from the Poivriere to the Rue de Chevaleret, even by way of the plain, and fully four hours had been occupied by Lecoq and his colleague in collecting their elements of information.

All this while, the Widow Chupin’s abode had remained open, accessible to any chance visitor. Still, when, on his return, the young police agent remembered this neglect of elementary precautions, he did not feel alarmed. Considering all the circumstances, it was very difficult to believe that any serious harm could have resulted from this carelessness.

For who would have been likely to visit this drinking-den after midnight? Its bad name served the purpose of a bulwark. The most daring vagrants did not drink there without some disquietude, fearing that if the liquor caused them to lose consciousness, they might be robbed or perhaps even murdered. Hence, if any one had been attracted to this notoriously dangerous drinking-shop by the light that streamed through the open door, it could only have been some very reckless person returning late at night from the ball at the Rainbow, with a few sous left in his pocket. But, even then, a single glance inside would have sufficed to put the bravest to flight.

In less than a second the young police agent had weighed all these possibilities, concerning which he did not breathe a word to Father Absinthe. When, little by little, the excitement caused by his successive hopes and disappointments, and by the accomplishment of the experiment with the footprints had died away, and he had regained his usual calm of mind, he made a careful inspection of the abode, and was by no means satisfied with himself. He had experimented upon Father Absinthe with his new system of investigation, just as an aspiring orator tries his powers before his least gifted friends, not before the cleverest. He had certainly overwhelmed the old veteran by his superiority; he had literally crushed him. But what great merit, what wonderful victory was this? Why should he boast of having outwitted Father Absinthe, one of the least sagacious men in the service?

If he could only have given some startling proofs of his energy or of his penetration! But, after all, what had he accomplished? Was the mystery solved? Was his success more than problematical? When one thread is drawn out, the skein is not untangled. This night would undoubtedly decide his future as a detective, so he swore that if he could not conquer his vanity, he would, at least, compel himself to conceal it. Hence, it was in a very modest tone that he said to his companion: “We have done all that we can do outside, now, would it not be wise to busy ourselves with the inside of the house?”

Everything looked exactly in the same state as when the two men left the room. A candle, with a charred smoking wick, cast its flickering light upon the same scene of disorder, revealing to view the rigid features of the three victims. Without losing a moment, Lecoq began to pick up and study the various objects scattered over the floor. Some of these still remained intact. The Widow Chupin had recoiled from the expense of a tiled floor, judging the bare ground upon which the cabin was built quite good enough for the feet of her customers. This ground, which must originally have been well beaten down, had, by constant use and damp, become well-nigh as muddy as the soil outside.

The first fruits of Lecoq’s search were a large salad-bowl and a big iron spoon, the latter so twisted and bent that it had evidently been used as a weapon during the conflict. On inspecting the bowl, it became evident that when the quarrel began the victims were regaling themselves with the familiar mixture of water, wine, and sugar, known round about the barrieres as vin a la Frangaise. After the salad-bowl, the two men picked up five of the weighty glasses ordinarily used in wine-shops, and which, while looking as though they would contain half a bottle, are in point of fact so thick at the bottom that they hold next to nothing. Three of these glasses were broken, two were whole. All of them had contained wine—the same vin a la Frangaise. This was plain, but for greater surety, Lecoq applied his tongue to the bluish mixture remaining in the bottom of each glass. “The deuce!” he muttered, with an astonished air.

Then he examined successively the surfaces of the three overturned tables. Upon one of these, the one nearest the fireplace and the window, the still wet marks of the five glasses, of the salad-bowl, and even of the spoons could be distinguished. Lecoq very properly regarded this circumstance as a matter of the greatest importance, for it proved clearly enough that five persons had emptied the salad-bowl in company. Who were these five persons?

“Oh! oh!” suddenly exclaimed Lecoq in two entirely different tones. “Then the two women could not have been with the murderer!”

A very simple mode of discovery had presented itself to his mind. It was to ascertain if there were any other glasses, and what they had contained. After a fresh search on the floor, a sixth glass was found, similar in form to the others, but much smaller. Its smell showed that it had contained brandy. Then these two women had not been with the murderer, and therefore he could not have fought because the other men had insulted them. This discovery proved the inaccuracy of Lecoq’s original suppositions. It was an unexpected check, and he was mourning over it in silence, when Father Absinthe, who had not ceased ferreting about, uttered a cry of surprise.

The young man turned; he saw that his companion had become very pale. “What is it?” he asked.

“Some one has been here in our absence.”

“Impossible!”

It was not impossible—it was true. When Gevrol had torn the apron off Widow Chupin’s head he had thrown it upon the steps of the stairs; neither of the police agents had since touched it. And yet the pockets of this apron were now turned inside out; this was a proof, this was evidence. At this discovery Lecoq was overcome with consternation, and the contraction of his features revealed the struggle going on in his mind. “Who could have been here?” he murmured. “Robbers? That is improbable.”

Then, after a long silence which his companion took good care not to interrupt, he added: “The person who came here, who dared to penetrate into this abode and face the corpses of these murdered men—this person could have been none other than the accomplice. But it is not enough to suspect this, it is necessary to know it. I must—I will know it!”

They searched for a long time, and it was not until after an hour of earnest work that, in front of the door forced open by the police, they discovered in the mud, just inside the marks made by Gevrol’s tread, a footprint that bore a close resemblance to those left by the man who had entered the garden. They compared the impressions and recognized the same designs formed by the nails upon the sole of the boot.

“It must have been the accomplice!” exclaimed Lecoq. “He watched us, he saw us go away, and then he entered. But why? What pressing, irresistible necessity made him decide to brave such imminent danger?” He seized his companion’s hand, nearly crushing it in his excitement: “Ah! I know why!” continued he, violently. “I understand only too well. Some article that would have served to throw light on this horrible affair had been left or forgotten, or lost here, and to obtain it, to find it, he decided to run this terrible risk. And to think that it was my fault, my fault alone, that this convincing proof escaped us! And I thought myself so shrewd! What a lesson! The door should have been locked; any fool would have thought of it—” Here he checked himself, and remained with open mouth and distended eyes, pointing with his finger to one of the corners of the room.

“What is the matter?” asked his frightened companion.

Lecoq made no reply, but slowly, and with the stiff movements of a somnambulist, he approached the spot to which he had pointed, stooped, picked up something, and said: “My folly is not deserving of such luck.”

The object he had found was an earring composed of a single large diamond. The setting was of marvelous workmanship. “This diamond,” declared Lecoq, after a moment’s examination, “must be worth at least five or six thousand francs.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“I think I could swear to it.”

He would not have troubled about such a preamble as “I think” a few hours before, but the blunder he had made was a lesson that would not be forgotten so long as he lived.

“Perhaps it was that same diamond earring that the accomplice came to seek,” ventured Father Absinthe.

“The supposition is scarcely admissible. In that case, he would not have sought for it in Mother Chupin’s apron. No, he must have been seeking for something else—a letter, for example.”

The older man was not listening; he had taken the earring, and was examining it in his turn. “And to think,” he murmured, astonished by the brilliancy of the stone, “to think that a woman who had ten thousand francs’ worth of jewels in her ears would have come to the Poivriere. Who would have believed it?”

Lecoq shook his head thoughtfully. “Yes, it is very strange, very improbable, very absurd. And yet we shall see many things quite as strange if we ever arrive—which I very much doubt—at a solution of this mysterious affair.”

Day was breaking, cold, cheerless, and gloomy, when Lecoq and his colleague concluded their investigation. There was not an inch of space that had not been explored, carefully examined and studied, one might almost say, with a magnifying glass. There now only remained to draw up the report.

The younger man seated himself at the table, and, with the view of making his recital as intelligible as possible, he began by sketching a plan of the scene of the murder.

In the memoranda appended to this explanatory diagram, Lecoq had not once written his own name. In noting the things that he had imagined or discovered, he referred to himself simply as one of the police. This was not so much modesty as calculation. By hiding one’s self on well-chosen occasions, one gains greater notoriety when one emerges from the shade. It was also through cunning that he gave Gevrol such a prominent position. These tactics, rather subtle, perhaps, but after all perfectly fair, could not fail to call attention to the man who had shown himself so efficient when the efforts of his chief had been merely confined to breaking open the door.

The document Lecoq drew up was not a proces-verbal, a formal act reserved for the officers of judiciary police; it was a simple report, that would be admitted under the title of an inquiry, and yet the young detective composed it with quite as much care as a general would have displayed in drawing up the bulletin of his first victory.

While Lecoq was drawing and writing, Father Absinthe leaned over his shoulder to watch him. The plan amazed that worthy man. He had seen a great deal; but he had always supposed that it was necessary to be an engineer, an architect, or, at least, a carpenter, to execute such work. Not at all. With a tape-line with which to take some measurements, and a bit of board in place of a rule, his inexperienced colleague had soon accomplished the miracle. Father Absinthe’s respect for Lecoq was thereby greatly augmented. It is true that the worthy veteran had not noticed the explosion of the young police agent’s vanity, nor his return to his former modest demeanor. He had not observed his alarm, nor his perplexity, nor his lack of penetration.

After a few moments, Father Absinthe ceased watching his companion. He felt weary after the labors of the night, his head was burning, and he shivered and his knees trembled. Perhaps, though he was by no means sensitive, he felt the influence of the horrors that surrounded him, and which seemed more sinister than ever in the bleak light of morning. He began to ferret in the cupboards, and at last succeeded in discovering—oh, marvelous fortune!—a bottle of brandy, three parts full. He hesitated for an instant, then he poured out a glass, and drained it at a single draft.

“Will you have some?” he inquired of his companion. “It is not a very famous brand, to be sure; but it is just as good, it makes one’s blood circulate and enlivens one.”

Lecoq refused; he did not need to be enlivened. All his faculties were hard at work. He intended that, after a single perusal of his report, the investigating magistrate should say: “Let the officer who drew up this document be sent for.” It must be remembered that Lecoq’s future depended upon such an order. Accordingly, he took particular care to be brief, clear, and concise, to plainly indicate how his suspicions on the subject of the murder had been aroused, how they had increased, and how they had been confirmed. He explained by what series of deductions he had succeeded in establishing a theory which, if it was not the truth, was at least plausible enough to serve as the basis for further investigation.

Then he enumerated the articles of conviction ranged on the table before him. There were the flakes of brown wool collected upon the plank, the valuable earring, the models of the different footprints in the garden, and the Widow Chupin’s apron with its pockets turned inside out. There was also the murderer’s revolver, with two barrels discharged and three still loaded. This weapon, although not of an ornamental character, was still a specimen of highly finished workmanship. It bore the name of one Stephens, 14 Skinner Street, a well-known London gunsmith.

Lecoq felt convinced that by examining the bodies of the victims he would obtain other and perhaps very valuable information; but he did not dare venture upon such a course. Besides his own inexperience in such a matter, there was Gevrol to be thought of, and the inspector, furious at his own mistake, would not fail to declare that, by changing the attitude of the bodies, Lecoq had rendered a satisfactory examination by the physicians impossible.

The young detective accordingly tried to console himself for his forced inaction in this respect, and he was rereading his report, modifying a few expressions, when Father Absinthe, who was standing upon the threshold of the outer door, called to him.

“Is there anything new?” asked Lecoq.

“Yes,” was the reply. “Here come Gevrol and two of our comrades with the commissary of police and two other gentlemen.”

It was, indeed, the commissary who was approaching, interested but not disturbed by this triple murder which was sure to make his arrondissement the subject of Parisian conversation during the next few days. Why, indeed, should he be troubled about it? For Gevrol, whose opinion in such matters might be regarded as an authority, had taken care to reassure him when he went to arouse him from his slumbers.

“It was only a fight between some old offenders; former jail birds, habitues of the Poivriere,” he had said, adding sententiously: “If all these ruffians would kill one another, we might have some little peace.”

He added that as the murderer had been arrested and placed in confinement, there was nothing urgent about the case. Accordingly, the commissary thought there was no harm in taking another nap and waiting until morning before beginning the inquiry. He had seen the murderer, reported the case to the prefecture, and now he was coming—leisurely enough—accompanied by two physicians, appointed by the authorities to draw up a medico-legal report in all such cases. The party also comprised a sergeant-major of the 53d regiment of infantry of the line, who had been summoned by the commissary to identify, if possible, the murdered man who wore a uniform, for if one might believe the number engraved upon the buttons of his overcoat, he belonged to the 53d regiment, now stationed at the neighboring fort.

As the party approached it was evident that Inspector Gevrol was even less disturbed than the commissary. He whistled as he walked along, flourishing his cane, which never left his hand, and already laughing in his sleeve over the discomfiture of the presumptuous fool who had desired to remain to glean, where he, the experienced and skilful officer, had perceived nothing. As soon as he was within speaking distance, the inspector called to Father Absinthe, who, after warning Lecoq, remained on the threshold, leaning against the door-post, puffing his pipe, as immovable as a sphinx.

“Ah, well, old man!” cried Gevrol, “have you any great melodrama, very dark and very mysterious, to relate to us?”

“I have nothing to relate myself,” replied the old detective, without even drawing his pipe from his lips, “I am too stupid, that is perfectly understood. But Monsieur Lecoq will tell you something that will astonish you.”

The prefix, “monsieur,” which the old police agent used in speaking of his colleague, displeased Gevrol so much that he pretended not to understand. “Who are you speaking of?” he asked abruptly.

“Of my colleague, of course, who is now busy finishing his report—of Monsieur Lecoq.” Quite unintentionally, the worthy fellow had certainly become the young police agent’s godfather. From that day forward, for his enemies as well as for his friends, he was and he remained “Monsieur” Lecoq.

“Ah! ah!” said the inspector, whose hearing was evidently impaired. “Ah, he has discovered—”

“The pot of roses which others did not scent, General.” By this remark, Father Absinthe made an enemy of his superior officer. But he cared little for that: Lecoq had become his deity, and no matter what the future might reserve, the old veteran had resolved to follow his young colleague’s fortunes.

“We’ll see about that,” murmured the inspector, mentally resolving to have an eye on this youth whom success might transform into a rival. He said no more, for the little party which he preceded had now overtaken him, and he stood aside to make way for the commissary of police.

This commissary was far from being a novice. He had served for many years, and yet he could not repress a gesture of horror as he entered the Poivriere. The sergeant-major of the 53d, who followed him, an old soldier, decorated and medaled—who had smelt powder many scores of times—was still more overcome. He grew as pale as the corpses lying on the ground, and was obliged to lean against the wall for support. The two physicians alone retained their stoical indifference.

Lecoq had risen, his report in his hand; he bowed, and assuming a respectful attitude, was waiting to be questioned.

“You must have passed a frightful night,” said the commissary, kindly; “and quite unnecessarily, since any investigation was superfluous.”

“I think, however,” replied the young police agent, having recourse to all his diplomacy, “that my time has not been entirely lost. I have acted according to the instructions of my superior officer; I have searched the premises thoroughly, and I have ascertained many things. I have, for example, acquired the certainty that the murderer had a friend, possibly an accomplice, of whom I can give quite a close description. He must have been of middle age, and wore, if I am not mistaken, a soft cap and a brown woolen overcoat: as for his boots—”

“Zounds!” exclaimed Gevrol, “and I—” He stopped short, like a man whose impulse had exceeded his discretion, and who would have gladly recalled his words.

“And you?” inquired the commissary, “pray, what do you mean?”

The inspector had gone too far to draw back, and, unwittingly, was now obliged to act as his own executioner. “I was about to mention,” he said, “that this morning, an hour or so ago, while I was waiting for you, sir, before the station-house, at the Barriere d’Italie, where the murderer is confined, I noticed close by an individual whose appearance was not unlike that of the man described by Lecoq. This man seemed to be very intoxicated, for he reeled and staggered against the walls. He tried to cross the street, but fell down in the middle of it, in such a position that he would inevitably have been crushed by the first passing vehicle.”

Lecoq turned away his head; he did not wish them to read in his eyes how perfectly he understood the whole game.

“Seeing this,” pursued Gevrol, “I called two men and asked them to aid me in raising the poor devil. We went up to him; he had apparently fallen asleep: we shook him—we made him sit up; we told him that he could not remain there, but he immediately flew into a furious rage. He swore at us, threatened us, and began fighting us. And, on my word, we had to take him to the station-house, and leave him there to recover from the effects of his drunken debauch.”

“Did you shut him up in the same cell with the murderer?” inquired Lecoq.

“Naturally. You know very well that there are only two cages in the station-house at the barriere—one for men and the other for women; consequently—”

The commissary seemed thoughtful. “Ah! that’s very unfortunate,” he stammered; “and there is no remedy.”

“Excuse me, there is one,” observed Gevrol, “I can send one of my men to the station-house with an order to detain the drunken man—”

Lecoq interposed with a gesture: “Trouble lost,” he said coldly. “If this individual is an accomplice, he has got sober by now—rest assured of that, and is already far away.”

“Then what is to be done?” asked the inspector, with an ironical air. “May one be permitted to ask the advice of Monsieur Lecoq.”

“I think chance offered us a splendid opportunity, and we did not know how to seize it; and that the best thing we can do now is to give over mourning, and prepare to profit by the next opportunity that presents itself.”

Gevrol was, however, determined to send one of his men to the station-house; and it was not until the messenger had started that Lecoq commenced the reading of his report. He read it rapidly, refraining as much as possible from placing the decisive proofs in strong relief, reserving these for his own benefit; but so strong was the logic of his deductions that he was frequently interrupted by approving remarks from the commissary and the two physicians.

Gevrol, who alone represented the opposition, shrugged his shoulders till they were well-nigh dislocated, and grew literally green with jealousy.

“I think that you alone, young man, have judged correctly in this affair,” said the commissary when Lecoq had finished reading. “I may be mistaken; but your explanations have made me alter my opinion concerning the murderer’s attitude while I was questioning him (which was only for a moment). He refused, obstinately refused, to answer my questions, and wouldn’t even give me his name.”

The commissary was silent for a moment, reviewing the past circumstances in his mind, and it was in a serious tone that he eventually added: “We are, I feel convinced, in presence of one of those mysterious crimes the causes of which are beyond the reach of human sagacity—this strikes me as being one of those enigmatical cases which human justice never can reach.” Lecoq made no audible rejoinder; but he smiled to himself and thought: “We will see about that.”

VI

No consultation held at the bedside of a dying man ever took place in the presence of two physicians so utterly unlike each other as those who accompanied the commissary of police to the Poivriere.

One of them, a tall old man with a bald head, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, and an overcoat of antique cut, was evidently one of those modest savants encountered occasionally in the byways of Paris—one of those healers devoted to their art, who too often die in obscurity, after rendering immense services to mankind. He had the gracious calmness of a man who, having seen so much of human misery, has nothing left to learn, and no troubled conscience could have possibly sustained his searching glance, which was as keen as his lancet.

His colleague—young, fresh-looking, light-haired, and jovial—was somewhat foppishly attired; and his white hands were encased in handsome fur gloves. There was a soft self-satisfied smile on his face, and he had the manners of those practitioners who, for profit’s sake, invariably recommend the infallible panaceas invented each month in chemical laboratories and advertised ad nauseam in the back pages of newspapers. He had probably written more than one article upon “Medicine for the use of the people”; puffing various mixtures, pills, ointments, and plasters for the benefit of their respective inventors.

“I will request you, gentlemen,” said the commissary of police, “to begin your duties by examining the victim who wears a military costume. Here is a sergeant-major summoned to answer a question of identity, whom I must send back to his quarters as soon as possible.”

The two physicians responded with a gesture of assent, and aided by Father Absinthe and another agent of police, they lifted the body and laid it upon two tables, which had previously been placed end to end. They were not obliged to make any note of the attitude in which they found the body, since the unfortunate man, who was still alive when the police entered the cabin, had been moved before he expired.

“Approach, sergeant,” ordered the commissary, “and look carefully at this man.”

It was with very evident repugnance that the old soldier obeyed.

“What is the uniform that he wears?”

“It is the uniform of the 2d battalion of the 53d regiment of the line.”

“Do you recognize him?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you sure that he does not belong to your regiment?”

“I can not say for certain: there are some conscripts at the Depot whom I have never seen. But I am ready to swear that he had never formed part of the 2d battalion—which, by the way, is mine, and in which I am sergeant-major.”

Lecoq, who had hitherto remained in the background, now stepped forward. “It might be as well,” he suggested, “to note the numbers marked on the other articles of clothing.”

“That is a very good idea,” said the commissary, approvingly.

“Here is his shako,” added the young police agent. “It bears the number 3,129.”

The officials followed Lecoq’s advice, and soon discovered that each article of clothing worn by the unfortunate man bore a different number.

“The deuce!” murmured the sergeant; “there is every indication—But it is very singular.”

Invited to consider what he was going to say, the brave trooper evidently made an effort to collect his intellectual faculties. “I would stake my epaulets that this fellow never was a soldier,” he said at last. “He must have disguised himself to take part in the Shrove Sunday carnival.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Oh, I know it better than I can explain it. I know it by his hair, by his nails, by his whole appearance, by a certain je ne sais quoi; in short, I know it by everything and by nothing. Why look, the poor devil did not even know how to put on his shoes; he has laced his gaiters wrong side outwards.” Evidently further doubt was impossible after this evidence, which confirmed the truth of Lecoq’s first remark to Inspector Gevrol.

“Still, if this person was a civilian, how could he have procured this clothing?” insisted the commissary. “Could he have borrowed it from the men in your company?”

“Yes, that is possible; but it is difficult to believe.”

“Is there no way by which you could ascertain?”

“Oh! very easily. I have only to run over to the fort and order an inspection of clothing.”

“Do so,” approved the commissary; “it would be an excellent way of getting at the truth.”

But Lecoq had just thought of a method quite as convincing, and much more prompt. “One word, sergeant,” said he, “isn’t cast off military clothing sold by public auction?”

“Yes; at least once a year, after the inspection.”

“And are not the articles thus sold marked in some way?”

“Assuredly.”

“Then see if there isn’t some mark of the kind on this poor wretch’s uniform.”

The sergeant turned up the collar of the coat and examined the waist-band of the pantaloons. “You are right,” he said, “these are condemned garments.”

The eyes of the young police agent sparkled. “We must then believe that the poor devil purchased this costume,” he observed. “Where? Necessarily at the Temple, from one of the dealers in military clothing. There are only five or six of these establishments. I will go from one to another of them, and the person who sold these clothes will certainly recognize them by some trade mark.”

“And that will assist us very much,” growled Gevrol. The sergeant-major, to his great relief, now received permission to retire, but not without having been warned that very probably the commissary would require his deposition. The moment had come to search the garments of the pretended soldier, and the commissary, who performed this duty himself, hoped that some clue as to the man’s identity would be forthcoming. He proceeded with his task, at the same time dictating to one of the men a proces-verbal of the search; that is to say, a minute description of all the articles he found upon the dead man’s person. In the right hand trousers pocket some tobacco, a pipe, and a few matches were found; in the left hand one, a linen handkerchief of good quality, but unmarked, and a soiled leather pocket-book, containing seven francs and sixty centimes.

There appeared to be nothing more, and the commissary was expressing his regret, when, on carefully examining the pocket-book he found a compartment which had at first escaped his notice, being hidden by a leather flap. This compartment contained a carefully folded paper. The commissary unfolded it and read the contents aloud:

“My dear Gustave—Tomorrow, Sunday evening, do not fail to come to the ball at the Rainbow, according to our agreement. If you have no money pass by my house, and I will leave some with the concierge, who will give it to you.

“Be at the ball by eight o’clock. If I am not already there, it will not be long before I make my appearance. Everything is going on satisfactorily.

“Lacheneur.”

Alas! what did this letter reveal? Only that the dead man’s name was Gustave; that he had some connection with a man named Lacheneur, who had advanced him money for a certain object; and that they had met at the Rainbow some hours before the murder.

It was little—very little—but still it was something. It was a clue; and in this absolute darkness even the faintest gleam of light was eagerly welcomed.

“Lacheneur!” growled Gevrol; “the poor devil uttered that name in his last agony.”

“Precisely,” insisted Father Absinthe, “and he declared that he wished to revenge himself upon him. He accused him of having drawn him into a trap. Unfortunately, death cut his story short.”

Lecoq was silent. The commissary of police had handed him the letter, and he was studying it with the closest attention. The paper on which it was written was of the ordinary kind; the ink was blue. In one of the corners was a half-effaced stamp, of which one could just distinguish the word—Beaumarchais.

This was enough for Lecoq. “This letter,” he thought, “was certainly written in a cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. In which one? I must ascertain that point, for this Lacheneur must be found.”

While the agents of the prefecture were gathered around the commissary, holding council and deliberating, the physicians began their delicate and disagreeable task. With the assistance of Father Absinthe, they removed the clothing of the pretended soldier, and then, with sleeves rolled up, they bent over their “subject” like surgeons in the schools of anatomy, and examined, inspected, and appraised him physically. Very willingly would the younger doctor have dispensed with these formalities, which he considered very ridiculous, and entirely unnecessary; but the old physician had too high a regard for his profession, and for the duty he had been called upon to fulfil, to neglect the slightest detail. Minutely, and with the most scrupulous exactitude, he noted the height of the dead man, his supposed age, the nature of his temperament, the color and length of his hair, and the degree of development of his muscular system.

Then the doctors passed to an examination of the wound. Lecoq had judged correctly. The medical men declared it to be a fracture of the base of the skull. It could, they stated, only have been caused by some instrument with a very broad surface, or by a violent knock of the head against some hard substance of considerable magnitude.

But no weapon, other than the revolver, had been found; and it was evidently not heavy enough to produce such a wound. There must, then, necessarily, have been a hand-to-hand struggle between the pretended soldier and the murderer; and the latter, seizing his adversary by the throat, had dashed him violently against the wall. The presence of some very tiny but very numerous spots of extravasated blood about the neck made this theory extremely plausible.

No other wound, not even a bruise or a scratch, was to be found. Hence, it became evident that this terrible struggle must have been exceedingly short. The murder of the pretended soldier must have been consummated between the moment when the squad of police heard the shrieks of despair and the moment when Lecoq peered through the shutter and saw the victim fall.

The examination of the other murdered man required different but even greater precautions than those adopted by the doctors in their inspection of the pseudo soldier. The position of these two victims had been respected; they were still lying across the hearth as they had fallen, and their attitude was a matter of great importance, since it might have decisive bearing on the case. Now, this attitude was such that one could not fail to be impressed with the idea that with both these men death had been instantaneous. They were both stretched out upon their backs, their limbs extended, and their hands wide open.

No contraction or extension of the muscles, no trace of conflict could be perceived; it seemed evident that they had been taken unawares, the more so as their faces expressed the most intense terror.

“Thus,” said the old doctor, “we may reasonably suppose that they were stupefied by some entirely unexpected, strange, and frightful spectacle. I have come across this terrified expression depicted upon the faces of dead people more than once. I recollect noticing it upon the features of a woman who died suddenly from the shock she experienced when one of her neighbors, with the view of playing her a trick, entered her house disguised as a ghost.”

Lecoq followed the physician’s explanations, and tried to make them agree with the vague hypotheses that were revolving in his own brain. But who could these individuals be? Would they, in death, guard the secret of their identity, as the other victim had done?

The first subject examined by the physicians was over fifty years of age. His hair was very thin and quite gray and his face was closely shaven, excepting a thick tuft of hair on his rather prominent chin. He was very poorly clad, wearing a soiled woolen blouse and a pair of dilapidated trousers hanging in rags over his boots, which were very much trodden down at the heels. The old doctor declared that this man must have been instantly killed by a bullet. The size of the circular wound, the absence of blood around its edge, and the blackened and burnt state of the flesh demonstrated this fact with almost mathematical precision.

The great difference that exists in wounds made by firearms, according to the distance from which the death-dealing missile comes, was seen when the physicians began to examine the last of the murdered men. The ball that had caused the latter’s death had scarcely crossed a yard of space before reaching him, and his wound was not nearly so hideous in aspect as the other’s. This individual, who was at least fifteen years younger than his companion, was short and remarkably ugly; his face, which was quite beardless, being pitted all over by the smallpox. His garb was such as is worn by the worst frequenters of the barriere. His trousers were of a gray checked material, and his blouse, turned back at the throat, was blue. It was noticed that his boots had been blackened quite recently. The smart glazed cap that lay on the floor beside him was in harmony with his carefully curled hair and gaudy necktie.

These were the only facts that the physicians’ report set forth in technical terms, this was the only information obtained by the most careful investigation. The two men’s pockets were explored and turned inside out; but they contained nothing that gave the slightest clue to their identity, either as regards name, social position, or profession. There was not even the slightest indication on any of these points, not a letter, nor an address, not a fragment of paper, nothing—not even such common articles of personal use, as a tobacco pouch, a knife, or a pipe which might be recognized, and thus establish the owner’s identity. A little tobacco in a paper bag, a couple of pocket handkerchiefs that were unmarked, a packet of cigarettes—these were the only articles discovered beyond the money which the victims carried loose in their pockets. On this point, it should be mentioned that the elder man had sixty-seven francs about him, and the younger one, two louis.

Rarely had the police found themselves in the presence of so strange an affair, without the slightest clue to guide them. Of course, there was the fact itself, as evidenced by the bodies of the three victims; but the authorities were quite ignorant of the circumstances that had attended and of the motive that had inspired the crime. Certainly, they might hope with the powerful means of investigation at their disposal to finally arrive at the truth in the course of time, and after repeated efforts. But, in the mean while, all was mystery, and so strangely did the case present itself that it could not safely be said who was really responsible for the horrible tragedy at the Poivriere.

The murderer had certainly been arrested; but if he persisted in his obstinacy, how were they to ascertain his name? He protested that he had merely killed in self-defense. How could it be shown that such was not the case? Nothing was known concerning the victims; one of whom had with his dying breath accused himself. Then again, an inexplicable influence tied the Widow Chupin’s tongue. Two women, one of whom had lost an earring valued at 5,000 francs, had witnessed the struggle—then disappeared. An accomplice, after two acts of unheard-of audacity, had also made his escape. And all these people—the women, the murderer, the keeper of the saloon, the accomplice, and the victims—were equally strange and mysterious, equally liable not to be what they seemed.

Perhaps the commissary of police thought he would spend a very unpleasant quarter of an hour at the prefecture when he reported the case. Certainly, he spoke of the crime in a very despondent tone.

“It will now be best,” he said at last, “to transport these three bodies to the Morgue. There they will doubtless be identified.” He reflected for a moment, and then added: “And to think that one of these dead men is perhaps Lacheneur himself!”

“That is scarcely possible,” said Lecoq. “The spurious soldier, being the last to die, had seen his companions fall. If he had supposed Lacheneur to be dead, he would not have spoken of vengeance.”

Gevrol, who for the past two hours had pretended to pay no attention to the proceedings, now approached. He was not the man to yield even to the strongest evidence. “If Monsieur, the Commissary, will listen to me, he shall hear my opinion, which is a trifle more definite than M. Lecoq’s fancies.”

Before he could say any more, the sound of a vehicle stopping before the door of the cabin interrupted him, and an instant afterward the investigating magistrate entered the room.

All the officials assembled at the Poivriere knew at least by sight the magistrate who now made his appearance, and Gevrol, an old habitue of the Palais de Justice, mechanically murmured his name: “M. Maurice d’Escorval.”

He was the son of that famous Baron d’Escorval, who, in 1815, sealed his devotion to the empire with his blood, and upon whom Napoleon, in the Memorial of St. Helena, pronounced this magnificent eulogium: “Men as honest as he may, I believe, exist; but more honest, no, it is not possible.”

Having entered upon his duties as magistrate early in life, and being endowed with remarkable talents, it was at first supposed that the younger D’Escorval would rise to the most exalted rank in his profession. But he had disappointed all such prognostications by resolutely refusing the more elevated positions that were offered to him, in order to retain his modest but useful functions in the public prosecutor’s offices at Paris. To explain his repeated refusals, he said that life in the capital had more charms for him than the most enviable advancement in provincial centres. But it was hard to understand this declaration, for in spite of his brilliant connections and large fortune, he had, ever since the death of his eldest brother, led a most retired life, his existence merely being revealed by his untiring labors and the good he did to those around him.

He was now about forty-two years of age, but appeared much younger, although a few furrows already crossed his brow. One would have admired his face, had it not been for the puzzling immobility that marred its beauty, the sarcastic curl of his thin lips, and the gloomy expression of his pale-blue eyes. To say that he was cold and grave, did not express the truth, it was saying too little. He was gravity and coldness personified, with a shade of hauteur added.

Impressed by the horror of the scene the instant he placed his foot upon the threshold, M. d’Escorval acknowledged the presence of the physicians and the commissary by a slight nod of the head. The others in the room had no existence so far as he was concerned. At once his faculties went to work. He studied the ground, and carefully noted all the surroundings with the attentive sagacity of a magistrate who realizes the immense weight of even the slightest detail, and who fully appreciates the eloquence of circumstantial evidence.

“This is a serious affair,” he said gravely; “very serious.”

The commissary’s only response was to lift his eyes to heaven. A gesture that plainly implied, “I quite agree with you!” The fact is, that for the past two hours the worthy commissary’s responsibility had weighed heavily upon him, and he secretly blessed the investigating magistrate for relieving him of it.

“The public prosecutor was unable to accompany me,” resumed M. d’Escorval, “he has not the gift of omnipresence, and I doubt if it will be possible for him to join me here. Let us, therefore, begin operations at once.”

The curiosity of those present had become intense; and the commissary only expressed the general feeling when he said: “You have undoubtedly questioned the murderer, sir, and have learnt—”

“I have learnt nothing,” interrupted M. d’Escorval, apparently much astonished at the interruption.

He took a chair and sat himself down, and while his clerk was busy in authenticating the commissary’s proces-verbal, he began to read the report prepared by Lecoq.

Pale, agitated, and nervous, the young police agent tried to read upon the magistrate’s impassive face the impression produced by the document. His future depended upon the magistrate’s approval or disapproval; and it was not with a fuddled mind like that of Father Absinthe that he had now to deal, but with a superior intelligence.

“If I could only plead my own cause,” he thought. “What are cold written phrases in comparison with spoken, living words, palpitating with emotion and imbued with the convictions of the speaker.”

However, he was soon reassured. The magistrate’s face retained its immobility, but again and again did M. d’Escorval nod his head in token of approval, and occasionally some point more ingenious than the others extorted from his lips the exclamations: “Not bad—very good!”

When he had finished the perusal he turned to the commissary and remarked: “All this is very unlike your report of this morning, which represented the affair as a low broil between a party of miserable vagabonds.”

The observation was only too just and fair; and the commissary deeply regretted that he had trusted to Gevrol’s representations, and remained in bed. “This morning,” he responded evasively, “I only gave you my first impressions. These have been modified by subsequent researches, so that—”

“Oh!” interrupted the magistrate, “I did not intend to reproach you; on the contrary, I must congratulate you. One could not have done better nor acted more promptly. The investigation that has been carried out shows great penetration and research, and the results are given with unusual clearness, and wonderful precision.”

Lecoq’s head whirled.

The commissary hesitated for an instant. At first he was sorely tempted to confiscate this praise to his own profit. If he drove away the unworthy thought, it was because he was an honest man, and more than that, because he was not displeased to have the opportunity to do Gevrol a bad turn and punish him for his presumptuous folly.

“I must confess,” he said with some embarrassment, “that the merit of this investigation does not belong to me.”

“To whom, then, shall I attribute it—to the inspector?” thought M. d’Escorval, not without surprise, for having occasionally employed Gevrol, he did not expect from him such ingenuity and sagacity as was displayed in this report. “Is it you, then, who have conducted this investigation so ably?” he asked.

“Upon my word, no!” responded Inspector Gevrol. “I, myself, am not so clever as all that. I content myself with telling what I actually discover; and I only give proofs when I have them in hand. May I be hung if the grounds of this report have any existence save in the brains of the man who imagined them.” Perhaps the inspector really believed what he said, being one of those persons who are blinded by vanity to such a degree that, with the most convincing evidence before their eyes, they obstinately deny it.

“And yet,” insisted the magistrate, “these women whose footprints have been detected must have existed. The accomplice who left the flakes of wool adhering to the plank is a real being. This earring is a positive, palpable proof.”

Gevrol had hard work to refrain from shrugging his shoulders. “All this can be satisfactorily explained,” he said, “without a search of twelve or fourteen hours. That the murderer had an accomplice is possible. The presence of the women is very natural. Wherever there are male thieves, you will find female thieves as well. As for the diamond—what does that prove? That the scoundrels had just met with a stroke of good luck, that they had come here to divide their booty, and that the quarrel arose from the division.”

This was an explanation, and such a plausable one, that M. d’Escorval was silent, reflecting before he announced his decision. “Decidedly,” he declared at last, “decidedly, I adopt the hypothesis set forth in the report. Who prepared it?”

Gevrol’s face turned red with anger. “One of my men,” he replied, “a clever, adroit fellow, Monsieur Lecoq. Come forward, Lecoq, that the magistrate may see you.”

The young man advanced, his lips tightly compressed so as to conceal a smile of satisfaction which almost betrayed itself.

“My report, sir, is only a summary,” he began, “but I have certain ideas—”

“Which you will acquaint me with, when I ask for them,” interrupted the magistrate. And oblivious of Lecoq’s chagrin, he drew from his clerk’s portfolio two forms, which he filled up and handed to Gevrol, saying: “Here are two orders; take them to the station, where the murderer and the landlady of this cabin are confined, and have them conducted to the prefecture, where they will be privately examined.”

Having given these directions, M. d’Escorval was turning toward the physicians, when Lecoq, at the risk of a second rebuff, interposed. “May I venture, sir, to beg of you to confide this message to me?” he asked of the investigating magistrate.

“Impossible, I may have need of you here.”

“I desired, sir, to collect certain evidence and an opportunity to do so may not present itself again.”

The magistrate perhaps fathomed the young man’s motive. “Then, let it be so,” he replied, “but after your task is completed you must wait for me at the prefecture, where I shall proceed as soon as I have finished here. You may go.”

Lecoq did not wait for the order to be repeated. He snatched up the papers, and hastened away.

He literally flew over the ground, and strange to say he no longer experienced any fatigue from the labors of the preceding night. Never had he felt so strong and alert, either in body or mind. He was very hopeful of success. He had every confidence in himself, and his happiness would indeed have been complete if he had had another judge to deal with. But M. d’Escorval overawed him to such a degree that he became almost paralyzed in his presence. With what a disdainful glance the magistrate had surveyed him! With what an imperious tone he had imposed silence upon him—and that, too, when he had found his work deserving of commendation.

“Still, never mind,” the young detective mentally exclaimed, “no one ever tastes perfect happiness here below.”

And concentrating all his thoughts on the task before him, he hurried on his way.

VII

When, after a rapid walk of twenty minutes, Lecoq reached the police station near the Barriere d’Italie, the doorkeeper, with his pipe in his mouth, was pacing slowly to and fro before the guard-house. His thoughtful air, and the anxious glances he cast every now and then toward one of the little grated windows of the building sufficed to indicate that some very rare bird indeed had been entrusted to his keeping. As soon as he recognized Lecoq, his brow cleared, and he paused in his promenade.

“Ah, well!” he inquired, “what news do you bring?”

“I have an order to conduct the prisoners to the prefecture.”

The keeper rubbed his hands, and his smile of satisfaction plainly implied that he felt a load the less on his shoulders.

“Capital! capital!” he exclaimed. “The Black Maria, the prison van, will pass here in less than an hour; we will throw them in, and hurry the driver off—”

Lecoq was obliged to interrupt the keeper’s transports of satisfaction. “Are the prisoners alone?” he inquired.

“Quite alone: the woman in one cell, and the man in the other. This has been a remarkably quiet night, for Shrove Sunday! Quite surprising indeed! It is true your hunt was interrupted.”

“You had a drunken man here, however.”

“No—yes—that’s true—this morning just at daybreak. A poor devil, who is under a great obligation to Gevrol.”

The involuntary irony of this remark did not escape Lecoq. “Yes, under a great obligation, indeed!” he said with a derisive laugh.

“You may laugh as much as you like,” retorted the keeper, “but such is really the case; if it hadn’t been for Gevrol the man would certainly have been run over.”

“And what has become of him?”

The keeper shrugged his shoulders. “You ask me too much,” he responded. He was a worthy fellow who had been spending the night at a friend’s house, and on coming out into the open air, the wine flew into his head. He told us all about it when he got sober, half an hour afterward. I never saw a man so vexed as he was. He wept, and stammered: “The father of a family, and at my age too! Oh! it is shameful! What shall I say to my wife? What will the children think?”

“Did he talk much about his wife?”

“He talked about nothing else. He mentioned her name—Eudosia Leocadie, or some name of that sort. He declared that he should be ruined if we kept him here. He begged us to send for the commissary, to go to his house, and when we set him free, I thought he would go mad with joy; he kissed our hands, and thanked us again and again!”

“And did you place him in the same cage as the murderer?” inquired Lecoq.

“Of course.”

“Then they talked with each other.”

“Talked? Why, the drunkard was so ‘gone’ I tell you, that he couldn’t have said ‘bread’ distinctly. When he was placed in a cell, bang! He fell down like a log of wood. As soon as he recovered, we let him out. I’m sure, they didn’t talk to each other.”

The young police agent had grown very thoughtful. “I was evidently right,” he murmured.

“What did you say?” inquired the keeper.

“Nothing,” replied Lecoq, who was not inclined to communicate his reflections to the custodian of the guard-house. These reflections of his were by no means pleasant ones. “I was right,” he thought; “this pretended drunkard was none other than the accomplice. He is evidently an adroit, audacious, cool-headed fellow. While we were tracking his footprints he was watching us. When we had got to some distance, he was bold enough to enter the hovel. Then he came here and compelled them to arrest him; and thanks to an assumption of childish simplicity, he succeeded in finding an opportunity to speak with the murderer. He played his part perfectly. Still, I know that he did play a part, and that is something. I know that one must believe exactly the opposite of what he said. He talked of his family, his wife and children—hence, he has neither children, wife, nor family.”

Lecoq suddenly checked himself, remembering that he had no time to waste in conjectures. “What kind of fellow was this drunkard?” he inquired.

“He was tall and stout, with full ruddy cheeks, a pair of white whiskers, small eyes, a broad flat nose, and a good-natured, jovial manner.”

“How old would you suppose him to be?”

“Between forty and fifty.”

“Did you form any idea of his profession?”

“It’s my opinion, that what with his soft cap and his heavy brown overcoat, he must be either a clerk or the keeper of some little shop.”

Having obtained this description, which agreed with the result of his investigations, Lecoq was about to enter the station house when a sudden thought brought him to a standstill. “I hope this man has had no communication with this Widow Chupin!” he exclaimed.

The keeper laughed heartily. “How could he have had any?” he responded. “Isn’t the old woman alone in her cell? Ah, the old wretch! She has been cursing and threatening ever since she arrived. Never in my whole life have I heard such language as she has used. It has been enough to make the very stones blush; even the drunken man was so shocked that he went to the grating in the door, and told her to be quiet.”

Lecoq’s glance and gesture were so expressive of impatience and wrath that the keeper paused in his recital much perturbed. “What is the matter?” he stammered. “Why are you angry?”

“Because,” replied Lecoq, furiously, “because—” Not wishing to disclose the real cause of his anger, he entered the station house, saying that he wanted to see the prisoner.

Left alone, the keeper began to swear in his turn. “These police agents are all alike,” he grumbled. “They question you, you tell them all they desire to know; and afterward, if you venture to ask them anything, they reply: ‘nothing,’ or ‘because.’ They have too much authority; it makes them proud.”

Looking through the little latticed window in the door, by which the men on guard watch the prisoners, Lecoq eagerly examined the appearance of the assumed murderer. He was obliged to ask himself if this was really the same man he had seen some hours previously at the Poivriere, standing on the threshold of the inner door, and holding the whole squad of police agents in check by the intense fury of his attitude. Now, on the contrary, he seemed, as it were, the personification of weakness and despondency. He was seated on a bench opposite the grating in the door, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin upon his hand, his under lip hanging low and his eyes fixed upon vacancy.

“No,” murmured Lecoq, “no, this man is not what he seems to be.”

So saying he entered the cell, the culprit raised his head, gave the detective an indifferent glance, but did not utter a word.

“Well, how goes it?” asked Lecoq.

“I am innocent!” responded the prisoner, in a hoarse, discordant voice.

“I hope so, I am sure—but that is for the magistrate to decide. I came to see if you wanted anything.”

“No,” replied the murderer, but a second later he changed his mind. “All the same,” he said, “I shouldn’t mind a crust and a drink of wine.”

“You shall have them,” replied Lecoq, who at once went out to forage in the neighborhood for eatables of some sort. In his opinion, if the murderer had asked for a drink after at first refusing to partake of anything, it was solely with the view of conveying the idea that he was really the kind of man he pretended to be.

At all events, whoever he might be, the prisoner ate with an excellent appetite. He then took up the large glass of wine that had been brought him, drained it slowly, and remarked: “That’s capital! There can be nothing to beat that!”

This seeming satisfaction greatly disappointed Lecoq, who had selected, as a test, one of those horribly thick, bluish, nauseous mixtures in vogue around the barrieres—hoping, nay, almost expecting, that the murderer would not drink it without some sign of repugnance. And yet the contrary proved the case. However, the young detective had no time to ponder over the circumstance, for a rumble of wheels now announced the approach of that lugubrious vehicle, the Black Maria.

When the Widow Chupin was removed from her cell she fought and scratched and cried “Murder!” at the top of her voice; and it was only by sheer force that she was at length got into the van. Then it was that the officials turned to the assassin. Lecoq certainly expected some sign of repugnance now, and he watched the prisoner closely. But he was again doomed to disappointment. The culprit entered the vehicle in the most unconcerned manner, and took possession of his compartment like one accustomed to it, knowing the most comfortable position to assume in such close quarters.

“Ah! what an unfortunate morning,” murmured Lecoq, disconsolately. “Still I will lie in wait for him at the prefecture.”

When the door of the prison-van had been securely closed, the driver cracked his whip, and the sturdy horses started off at a brisk trot. Lecoq had taken his seat in front, between the driver and the guard; but his mind was so engrossed with his own thoughts that he heard nothing of their conversation, which was very jovial, although frequently interrupted by the shrill voice of the Widow Chupin, who sang and yelled her imprecations alternately.

It is needless, however, to recapitulate her oaths; let us rather follow the train of Lecoq’s meditation. By what means could he secure some clue to the murderer’s identity? He was still convinced that the prisoner must belong to the higher ranks of society. After all, it was not so extraordinary that he should have succeeded in feigning an appetite, that he should have concealed his distaste for a nauseous beverage, and that he should have entered the Black Maria without hesitation. Such conduct was quite possible, indeed almost probable on the part of a man, endowed with considerable strength of will, and realizing the imminence of his peril. But granting this, would he be equally able to hide his feelings when he was obliged to submit to the humiliating formalities that awaited him—formalities which in certain cases can, and must, be pushed even to the verge of insult and outrage?

No; Lecoq could not believe that this would be possible. He felt sure that the disgraceful position in which the prisoner would find himself would cause him to revolt, to lose his self-control, to utter some word that might give the desired clue.

It was not until the gloomy vehicle had turned off the Pont Neuf on to the Quai de l’Horloge that the young detective became conscious of what was transpiring around him. Soon the van passed through an open gateway, and drew up in a small, damp courtyard.

Lecoq immediately alighted, and opened the door of the compartment in which the supposed murderer was confined, exclaiming as he did so: “Here we are, get out.” There was no fear of the prisoner escaping. The iron gate had been closed, and at least a dozen agents were standing near at hand, waiting to have a look at the new arrivals.

The prisoner slowly stepped to the ground. His expression of face remained unchanged, and each gesture evinced the perfect indifference of a man accustomed to such ordeals.

Lecoq scrutinized his demeanor as attentively as an anatomist might have watched the action of a muscle. He noted that the prisoner seemed to experience a sensation of satisfaction directly his foot touched the pavement of the courtyard, that he drew a long breath, and then stretched and shook himself, as if to regain the elasticity of his limbs, cramped by confinement in the narrow compartment from which he had just emerged. Then he glanced around him, and a scarcely perceptible smile played upon his lips. One might have sworn that the place was familiar to him, that he was well acquainted with these high grim walls, these grated windows, these heavy doors—in short, with all the sinister belongings of a prison.

“Good Lord!” murmured Lecoq, greatly chagrined, “does he indeed recognize the place?”

And his sense of disappointment and disquietude increased when, without waiting for a word, a motion, or a sign, the prisoner turned toward one of the five or six doors that opened into the courtyard. Without an instant’s hesitation he walked straight toward the very doorway he was expected to enter—Lecoq asked himself was it chance? But his amazement and disappointment increased tenfold when, after entering the gloomy corridor, he saw the culprit proceed some little distance, resolutely turn to the left, pass by the keeper’s room, and finally enter the registrar’s office. An old offender could not have done better.

Big drops of perspiration stood on Lecoq’s forehead. “This man,” thought he, “has certainly been here before; he knows the ropes.”

The registrar’s office was a large room heated almost to suffocation by an immense stove, and badly lighted by three small windows, the panes of which were covered with a thick coating of dust. There sat the clerk reading a newspaper, spread out over the open register—that fatal book in which are inscribed the names of all those whom misconduct, crime, misfortune, madness, or error have brought to these grim portals.

Three or four attendants, who were awaiting the hour for entering upon their duties, reclined half asleep upon the wooden benches that lined three sides of the room. These benches, with a couple of tables, and some dilapidated chairs, constituted the entire furniture of the office, in one corner of which stood a measuring machine, under which each culprit was obliged to pass, the exact height of the prisoners being recorded in order that the description of their persons might be complete in every respect.

At the entrance of the culprit accompanied by Lecoq, the clerk raised his head. “Ah!” said he, “has the van arrived?”

“Yes,” responded Lecoq. And showing the orders signed by M. d’Escorval, he added: “Here are this man’s papers.”

The registrar took the documents and read them. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “a triple assassination! Oh! oh!” The glance he gave the prisoner was positively deferential. This was no common culprit, no ordinary vagabond, no vulgar thief.

“The investigating magistrate orders a private examination,” continued the clerk, “and I must get the prisoner other clothing, as the things he is wearing now will be used as evidence. Let some one go at once and tell the superintendent that the other occupants of the van must wait.”

At this moment, the governor of the Depot entered the office. The clerk at once dipped his pen in the ink, and turning to the prisoner he asked: “What is your name?”

“May.”

“Your Christian name?”

“I have none.”

“What, have you no Christian name?”

The prisoner seemed to reflect for a moment, and then answered, sulkily: “I may as well tell you that you need not tire yourself by questioning me. I shan’t answer any one else but the magistrate. You would like to make me cut my own throat, wouldn’t you? A very clever trick, of course, but one that won’t do for me.”

“You must see that you only aggravate your situation,” observed the governor.

“Not in the least. I am innocent; you wish to ruin me. I only defend myself. Get anything more out of me now, if you can. But you had better give me back what they took from me at the station-house. My hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous. I shall need them when I get out of this place. I want you to make a note of them on the register. Where are they?”

The money had been given to Lecoq by the keeper of the station-house, who had found it upon the prisoner when he was placed in his custody. Lecoq now laid it upon the table.

“Here are your hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous,” said he, “and also your knife, your handkerchief, and four cigars.”

An expression of lively contentment was discernible on the prisoner’s features.

“Now,” resumed the clerk, “will you answer?”

But the governor perceived the futility of further questioning; and silencing the clerk by a gesture, he told the prisoner to take off his boots.

Lecoq thought the assassin’s glance wavered as he heard this order. Was it only a fancy?

“Why must I do that?” asked the culprit.

“To pass under the beam,” replied the clerk. “We must make a note of your exact height.”

The prisoner made no reply, but sat down and drew off his heavy boots. The heel of the right one was worn down on the inside. It was, moreover, noticed that the prisoner wore no socks, and that his feet were coated with mud.

“You only wear boots on Sundays, then?” remarked Lecoq.

“Why do you think that?”

“By the mud with which your feet are covered, as high as the ankle-bone.”

“What of that?” exclaimed the prisoner, in an insolent tone. “Is it a crime not to have a marchioness’s feet?”

“It is a crime you are not guilty of, at all events,” said the young detective slowly. “Do you think I can’t see that if the mud were picked off your feet would be white and neat? The nails have been carefully cut and polished—”

He paused. A new idea inspired by his genius for investigation had just crossed Lecoq’s mind. Pushing a chair in front of the prisoner, and spreading a newspaper over it, he said: “Will you place your foot there?”

The man did not comply with the request.

“It is useless to resist,” exclaimed the governor, “we are in force.”

The prisoner delayed no longer. He placed his foot on the chair, as he had been ordered, and Lecoq, with the aid of a knife, proceeded to remove the fragments of mud that adhered to the skin.

Anywhere else so strange and grotesque a proceeding would have excited laughter, but here, in this gloomy chamber, the anteroom of the assize court, an otherwise trivial act is fraught with serious import. Nothing astonishes; and should a smile threaten to curve one’s lips, it is instantly repressed.

All the spectators, from the governor of the prison to the keepers, had witnessed many other incidents equally absurd; and no one thought of inquiring the detective’s motive. This much was known already; that the prisoner was trying to conceal his identity. Now it was necessary to establish it, at any cost, and Lecoq had probably discovered some means of attaining this end.

The operation was soon concluded; and Lecoq swept the dust off the paper into the palm of his hand. He divided it into two parts, enclosing one portion in a scrap of paper, and slipping it into his own pocket. With the remainder he formed a package which he handed to the governor, saying: “I beg you, sir, to take charge of this, and to seal it up here, in presence of the prisoner. This formality is necessary, so that by and by he may not pretend that the dust has been changed.”

The governor complied with the request, and as he placed this “bit of proof” (as he styled it) in a small satchel for safe keeping, the prisoner shrugged his shoulders with a sneering laugh. Still, beneath this cynical gaiety Lecoq thought he could detect poignant anxiety. Chance owed him the compensation of this slight triumph; for previous events had deceived all his calculations.

The prisoner did not offer the slightest objection when he was ordered to undress, and to exchange his soiled and bloodstained garments for the clothing furnished by the Government. Not a muscle of his face moved while he submitted his person to one of those ignominous examinations which make the blood rush to the forehead of the lowest criminal. It was with perfect indifference that he allowed an inspector to comb his hair and beard, and to examine the inside of his mouth, so as to make sure that he had not concealed either some fragment of glass, by the aid of which captives can sever the strongest bars, or one of those microscopical bits of lead with which prisoners write the notes they exchange, rolled up in a morsel of bread, and called “postilions.”

These formalities having been concluded, the superintendent rang for one of the keepers. “Conduct this man to No. 3 of the secret cells,” he ordered.

There was no need to drag the prisoner away. He walked out, as he had entered, preceding the guard, like some old habitue, who knows where he is going.

“What a rascal!” exclaimed the clerk.

“Then you think—” began Lecoq, baffled but not convinced.

“Ah! there can be no doubt of it,” declared the governor. “This man is certainly a dangerous criminal—an old offender—I think I have seen him before—I could almost swear to it.”

Thus it was evident these people, with their long, varied experience, shared Gevrol’s opinion; Lecoq stood alone. He did not discuss the matter—what good would it have done? Besides, the Widow Chupin was just being brought in.

The journey must have calmed her nerves, for she had become as gentle as a lamb. It was in a wheedling voice, and with tearful eyes, that she called upon these “good gentlemen” to witness the shameful injustice with which she was treated—she, an honest woman. Was she not the mainstay of her family (since her son Polyte was in custody, charged with pocket-picking), hence what would become of her daughter-in-law, and of her grandson Toto, who had no one to look after them but her?

Still, when her name had been taken, and a keeper was ordered to remove her, nature reasserted itself, and scarcely had she entered the corridor than she was heard quarreling with the guard.

“You are wrong not to be polite,” she said; “you are losing a good fee, without counting many a good drink I would stand you when I get out of here.”

Lecoq was now free until M. d’Escorval’s arrival. He wandered through the gloomy corridors, from office to office, but finding himself assailed with questions by every one he came across, he eventually left the Depot, and went and sat down on one of the benches beside the quay. Here he tried to collect his thoughts. His convictions were unchanged. He was more than ever convinced that the prisoner was concealing his real social standing, but, on the other hand, it was evident that he was well acquainted with the prison and its usages.

He had also proved himself to be endowed with far more cleverness than Lecoq had supposed. What self-control! What powers of dissimulation he had displayed! He had not so much as frowned while undergoing the severest ordeals, and he had managed to deceive the most experienced eyes in Paris.

The young detective had waited during nearly three hours, as motionless as the bench on which he was seated, and so absorbed in studying his case that he had thought neither of the cold nor of the flight of time, when a carriage drew up before the entrance of the prison, and M. d’Escorval alighted, followed by his clerk.

Lecoq rose and hastened, well-nigh breathless with anxiety, toward the magistrate.

“My researches on the spot,” said this functionary, “confirm me in the belief that you are right. Is there anything fresh?”

“Yes, sir; a fact that is apparently very trivial, though, in truth, it is of importance that—”

“Very well!” interrupted the magistrate. “You will explain it to me by and by. First of all, I must summarily examine the prisoners. A mere matter of form for today. Wait for me here.”

Although the magistrate promised to make haste, Lecoq expected that at least an hour would elapse before he reappeared. In this he was mistaken. Twenty minutes later, M. d’Escorval emerged from the prison without his clerk.

He was walking very fast, and instead of approaching the young detective, he called to him at some little distance. “I must return home at once,” he said, “instantly; I can not listen to you.”

“But, sir—”

“Enough! the bodies of the victims have been taken to the Morgue. Keep a sharp lookout there. Then, this evening make—well—do whatever you think best.”

“But, sir, I must—”

“Tomorrow!—tomorrow, at nine o’clock, in my office in the Palais de Justice.”

Lecoq wished to insist upon a hearing, but M. d’Escorval had entered, or rather thrown himself into, his carriage, and the coachman was already whipping up the horse.

“And to think that he’s an investigating magistrate,” panted Lecoq, left spellbound on the quay. “Has he gone mad?” As he spoke, an uncharitable thought took possession of his mind. “Can it be,” he murmured, “that M. d’Escorval holds the key to the mystery? Perhaps he wishes to get rid of me.”

This suspicion was so terrible that Lecoq hastened back to the prison, hoping that the prisoner’s bearing might help to solve his doubts. On peering through the grated aperture in the door of the cell, he perceived the prisoner lying on the pallet that stood opposite the door. His face was turned toward the wall, and he was enveloped in the coverlid up to his eyes. He was not asleep, for Lecoq could detect a strange movement of the body, which puzzled and annoyed him. On applying his ear instead of his eye to the aperture, he distinguished a stifled moan. There could no longer be any doubt. The death rattle was sounding in the prisoner’s throat.

“Help! help!” cried Lecoq, greatly excited. “The prisoner is killing himself!”

A dozen keepers hastened to the spot. The door was quickly opened, and it was then ascertained that the prisoner, having torn a strip of binding from his clothes, had fastened it round his neck and tried to strangle himself with the assistance of a spoon that had been left him with his food. He was already unconscious, and the prison doctor, who immediately bled him, declared that had another ten minutes elapsed, help would have arrived too late.

When the prisoner regained his senses, he gazed around him with a wild, puzzled stare. One might have supposed that he was amazed to find himself still alive. Suddenly a couple of big tears welled from his swollen eyelids, and rolled down his cheeks. He was pressed with questions, but did not vouchsafe so much as a single word in response. As he was in such a desperate frame of mind, and as the orders to keep him in solitary confinement prevented the governor giving him a companion, it was decided to put a straight waistcoat on him. Lecoq assisted at this operation, and then walked away, puzzled, thoughtful, and agitated. Intuition told him that these mysterious occurrences concealed some terrible drama.

“Still, what can have occurred since the prisoner’s arrival here?” he murmured. “Has he confessed his guilt to the magistrate, or what is his reason for attempting so desperate an act?”

VIII

Lecoq did not sleep that night, although he had been on his feet for more than forty hours, and had scarcely paused either to eat or drink. Anxiety, hope, and even fatigue itself, had imparted to his body the fictitious strength of fever, and to his intellect the unhealthy acuteness which is so often the result of intense mental effort.

He no longer had to occupy himself with imaginary deductions, as in former times when in the employ of his patron, the astronomer. Once again did the fact prove stranger than fiction. Here was reality—a terrible reality personified by the corpses of three victims lying on the marble slabs at the Morgue. Still, if the catastrophe itself was a patent fact, its motive, its surroundings, could only be conjectured. Who could tell what circumstances had preceded and paved the way for this tragical denouement?

It is true that all doubt might be dispelled by one discovery—the identity of the murderer. Who was he? Who was right, Gevrol or Lecoq? The former’s views were shared by the officials at the prison; the latter stood alone. Again, the former’s opinion was based upon formidable proof, the evidence of sight; while Lecoq’s hypothesis rested only on a series of subtle observations and deductions, starting from a single sentence that had fallen from the prisoner’s lips.

And yet Lecoq resolutely persisted in his theory, guided by the following reasons. He learnt from M. d’Escorval’s clerk that when the magistrate had examined the prisoner, the latter not only refused to confess, but answered all the questions put to him in the most evasive fashion. In several instances, moreover, he had not replied at all. If the magistrate had not insisted, it was because this first examination was a mere formality, solely intended to justify the somewhat premature delivery of the order to imprison the accused.

Now, under these circumstances, how was one to explain the prisoner’s attempt at self-destruction? Prison statistics show that habitual offenders do not commit suicide. When apprehended for a criminal act, they are sometimes seized with a wild frenzy and suffer repeated nervous attacks; at others they fall into a dull stupor, just as some glutted beast succumbs to sleep with the blood of his prey still dripping from his lips. However, such men never think of putting an end to their days. They hold fast to life, no matter how seriously they may be compromised. In truth, they are cowards.

On the other hand, the unfortunate fellow who, in a moment of frenzy, commits a crime, not unfrequently seeks to avoid the consequences of his act by self-destruction.

Hence, the prisoner’s frustrated attempt at suicide was a strong argument in favor of Lecoq’s theory. This wretched man’s secret must be a terrible one since he held it dearer than life, since he had tried to destroy himself that he might take it unrevealed to the grave.

Four o’clock was striking when Lecoq sprang from his bed on which he had thrown himself without undressing; and five minutes later he was walking down the Rue Montmartre. The weather was still cold and muggy; and a thick fog hung over the city. But the young detective was too engrossed with his own thoughts to pay attention to any atmospherical unpleasantness. Walking with a brisk stride, he had just reached the church of Saint Eustache, when a coarse, mocking voice accosted him with the exclamation: “Ah, ha! my fine fellow!”

He looked up and perceived Gevrol, who, with three of his men, had come to cast his nets round about the markets, whence the police generally return with a good haul of thieves and vagabonds.

“You are up very early this morning, Monsieur Lecoq,” continued the inspector; “you are still trying to discover our man’s identity, I suppose?”

“Still trying.”

“Is he a prince in disguise, or only a marquis?”

“One or the other, I am quite certain.”

“All right then. In that case you will not refuse us the opportunity to drink to your success.”

Lecoq consented, and the party entered a wine-shop close by. When the glasses were filled, Lecoq turned to Gevrol and exclaimed: “Upon my word, General, our meeting will save me a long walk. I was going to the prefecture to request you, on M. d’Escorval’s behalf, to send one of our comrades to the Morgue this morning. The affair at the Poivriere has been noised about, and all the world will be there, so he desires some officer to be present to watch the crowd and listen to the remarks of the visitors.”

“All right; Father Absinthe shall be there when the doors open.”

To send Father Absinthe where a shrewd and subtle agent was required was a mockery. Still Lecoq did not protest, for it was better to be badly served than to be betrayed; and he could at least trust Father Absinthe.

“It doesn’t much matter,” continued Gevrol; “but you should have informed me of this last evening. However, when I reached the prefecture you had gone.”

“I had some work to do.”

“Yes?”

“At the station-house near the Barriere d’Italie. I wanted to know whether the floor of the cell was paved or tiled.” So saying, Lecoq paid the score, saluted his superior officer, and went out.

“Thunder!” exclaimed Gevrol, striking his glass violently upon the counter. “Thunder! how that fellow provokes me! He does not know the A B C of his profession. When he can’t discover anything, he invents wonderful stories, and then misleads the magistrates with his high-sounding phrases, in the hope of gaining promotion. I’ll give him advancement with a vengeance! I’ll teach him to set himself above me!”

Lecoq had not been deceived. The evening before, he had visited the station-house where the prisoner had first been confined, and had compared the soil of the cell floor with the dust he had placed in his pocket; and he carried away with him, as he believed, one of those crushing proofs that often suffice to extort from the most obstinate criminal a complete confession. If Lecoq was in haste to part company with Gevrol, it was because he was anxious to pursue his investigations still further, before appearing in M. d’Escorval’s presence. He was determined to find the cab-driver who had been stopped by the two women in the Rue du Chevaleret; and with this object in view, he had obtained at the prefecture the names and addresses of all the cab-owners hiring between the road to Fontainebleau and the Seine.

His earlier efforts at investigation proved unsuccessful. At the first establishment he visited, the stable boys, who were not yet up, swore at him roundly. In the second, he found the grooms at work, but none of the drivers had as yet put in an appearance. Moreover, the owner refused to show him the books upon which are recorded—or should be recorded—each driver’s daily engagements. Lecoq was beginning to despair, when at about half-past seven o’clock he reached an establishment just beyond the fortifications belonging to a man named Trigault. Here he learned that on Sunday night, or rather, early on Monday morning, one of the drivers had been accosted on his way home by some persons who succeeded in persuading him to drive them back into Paris.

This driver, who was then in the courtyard harnessing his horse, proved to be a little old man, with a ruddy complexion, and a pair of small eyes full of cunning. Lecoq walked up to him at once.

“Was it you,” he asked, “who, on Sunday night or rather on Monday, between one and two in the morning, drove a couple of women from the Rue du Chevaleret into Paris?”

The driver looked up, and surveying Lecoq attentively, cautiously replied: “Perhaps.”

“It is a positive answer that I want.”

“Aha!” said the old man sneeringly, “you know two ladies who have lost something in a cab, and so—”

The young detective trembled with satisfaction. This man was certainly the one he was looking for. “Have you heard anything about a crime that has been committed in the neighborhood?” he interrupted.

“Yes; a murder in a low wine-shop.”

“Well, then, I will tell you that these two women are mixed up in it; they fled when we entered the place. I am trying to find them. I am a detective; here is my card. Now, can you give me any information?”

The driver had grown very pale. “Ah! the wretches!” he exclaimed. “I am no longer surprised at the luck-money they gave me—a louis and two five-franc pieces for the fare—thirty francs in all. Cursed money! If I hadn’t spent it, I’d throw it away!”

“And where did you drive them?”

“To the Rue de Bourgogne. I have forgotten the number, but I should recognize the house.”

“Unfortunately, they would not have let you drive them to their own door.”

“Who knows? I saw them ring the bell, and I think they went in just as I drove away. Shall I take you there?”

Lecoq’s sole response was to spring on to the box, exclaiming: “Let us be off.”

It was not to be supposed that the women who had escaped from the Widow Chupin’s drinking-den at the moment of the murder were utterly devoid of intelligence. Nor was it at all likely that these two fugitives, conscious as they were of their perilous situation, had gone straight to their real home in a vehicle hired on the public highway. Hence, the driver’s hope of finding them in the Rue de Bourgogne was purely chimerical. Lecoq was fully aware of this, and yet he did not hesitate to jump on to the box and give the signal for starting. In so doing, he obeyed a maxim which he had framed in his early days of meditation—a maxim intended to assure his after-fame, and which ran as follows: “Always suspect that which seems probable; and begin by believing what appears incredible.”

As soon as the vehicle was well under way, the young detective proceeded to ingratiate himself into the driver’s good graces, being anxious to obtain all the information that this worthy was able to impart.

In a tone that implied that all trifling would be useless the cabman cried: “Hey up, hey up, Cocotte!” and his mare pricked up her ears and quickened her pace, so that the Rue de Choisy was speedily reached. Then it was that Lecoq resumed his inquiries.

“Well, my good fellow,” he began, “you have told me the principal facts, now I should like the details. How did these two women attract your attention?”

“Oh, it was very simple. I had been having a most unfortunate day—six hours on a stand on the Boulevards, with the rain pouring all the time. It was simply awful. At midnight I had not made more than a franc and a half for myself, but I was so wet and miserable and the horse seemed so done up that I decided to go home. I did grumble, I can tell you. Well, I had just passed the corner of the Rue Picard, in the Rue du Chevaleret, when I saw two women standing under a lamp, some little distance off. I did not pay any attention to them; for when a man is as old as I am, women—”

“Go on!” said Lecoq, who could not restrain his impatience.

“I had already passed them, when they began to call after me. I pretended I did not hear them; but one of them ran after the cab, crying: ‘A louis! a louis for yourself!’ I hesitated for a moment, when the woman added: ‘And ten francs for the fare!’ I then drew up.”

Lecoq was boiling over with impatience; but he felt that the wisest course was not to interrupt the driver with questions, but to listen to all he had to say.

“As you may suppose,” continued the coachman, “I wasn’t inclined to trust two such suspicious characters, alone at that hour and in that part of the city. So, just as they were about to get into the cab, I called to them: ‘Wait a bit, my little friends, you have promised papa some sous; where are they?’ The one who had called after the cab at once handed me thirty francs, saying: ‘Above all, make haste!’”

“Your recital could not be more minute,” exclaimed Lecoq, approvingly. “Now, how about these two women?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what kind of women did they seem to be; what did you take them for?”

“Oh, for nothing very good!” replied the driver, with a knowing smile.

“Ah! and how were they dressed?”

“Like most of the girls who go to dance at the Rainbow. One of them, however, was very neat and prim, while the other—well! she was a terrible dowdy.”

“Which ran after you?”

“The girl who was neatly dressed, the one who—” The driver suddenly paused: some vivid remembrance passed through his brain, and, abruptly jerking the rains, he brought his horse to a standstill.

“Thunder!” he exclaimed. “Now I think of it, I did notice something strange. One of the two women called the other ‘Madame’ as large as life, while the other said ‘thee’ and ‘thou,’ and spoke as if she were somebody.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” exclaimed the young detective, in three different keys. “And which was it that said ‘thee’ and ‘thou’?”

“Why, the dowdy one. She with shabby dress and shoes as big as a gouty man’s. You should have seen her shake the prim-looking girl, as if she had been a plum tree. ‘You little fool!’ said she, ‘do you want to ruin us? You will have time to faint when we get home; now come along. And then she began to sob: ‘Indeed, madame, indeed I can’t!’ she said, and really she seemed quite unable to move: in fact, she appeared to be so ill that I said to myself: ‘Here is a young woman who has drunk more than is good for her!’”

These facts confirmed even if they corrected Lecoq’s first suppositions. As he had suspected, the social position of the two women was not the same. He had been mistaken, however, in attributing the higher standing to the woman wearing the shoes with the high heels, the marks of which he had so particularly noticed in the snow, with all the attendant signs of precipitation, terror, and weakness. In reality, social preeminence belonged to the woman who had left the large, broad footprints behind her. And not merely was she of a superior rank, but she had also shown superior energy. Contrary to Lecoq’s original idea, it now seemed evident that she was the mistress, and her companion the servant.

“Is that all, my good fellow?” he asked the driver, who during the last few minutes had been busy with his horses.

“Yes,” replied the cabman, “except that I noticed that the shabbily dressed woman who paid me had a hand as small as a child’s, and in spite of her anger, her voice was as sweet as music.”

“Did you see her face?”

“I just caught a glimpse of it.”

“Could you tell if she were pretty, or whether she was a blonde or brunette?”

So many questions at a time confused the driver. “Stop a minute!” he replied. “In my opinion she wasn’t pretty, and I don’t believe she was young, but she certainly was a blonde, and with plenty of hair too.”

“Was she tall or short, stout or slender?”

“Between the two.”

This was very vague. “And the other,” asked Lecoq, “the neatly dressed one?”

“The deuce! As for her, I did not notice her at all; all I know about her is that she was very small.”

“Would you recognize her if you met her again?”

“Good heavens! no.”

The vehicle was now rolling along the Rue de Bourgogne. Half-way down the street the driver pulled up, and, turning to Lecoq, exclaimed: “Here we are. That’s the house the hussies went into.”

To draw off the silk handkerchief that served him as a muffler, to fold it and slip it into his pocket, to spring to the ground and enter the house indicated, was only the work of an instant for the young detective.

In the concierge’s little room he found an old woman knitting. Lecoq bowed to her politely, and, displaying the silk handkerchief, exclaimed: “Madame, I have come to return this article to one of your lodgers.”

“To which one?”

“Really, I don’t exactly know.”

In a moment the worthy dame imagined that this polite young man was making fun of her. “You scamp—!” she began.

“Excuse me,” interrupted Lecoq; “allow me to finish. I must tell you that at about three o’clock in the morning, of the day before yesterday, I was quietly returning home, when two ladies, who were seemingly in a great hurry, overtook me and passed on. One of them dropped this handkerchief, which I picked up. I hastened after her to restore it, but before I could overtake them they had rung the bell at your door and were already in the house. I did not like to ring at such an unearthly hour for fear of disturbing you. Yesterday I was so busy I couldn’t come; however, here I am at last, and here’s the handkerchief.” So saying, Lecoq laid the handkerchief on the table, and turned as if to go, when the concierge detained him.

“Many thanks for your kindness,” said she, “but you can keep it. We have no ladies in this house who are in the habit of coming home alone after midnight.”

“Still I have eyes,” insisted Lecoq, “and I certainly saw—”

“Ah! I had forgotten,” exclaimed the old woman. “The night you speak of some one certainly did ring the bell here. I pulled the string that opens the door and listened, but not hearing any one close the door or come upstairs, I said to myself: ‘Some mischievous fellow has been playing a trick on me.’ I slipped on my dress and went out into the hall, where I saw two women hastening toward the door. Before I could reach them they slammed the door in my face. I opened it again as quickly as I could and looked out into the street. But they were hurrying away as fast as they could.”

“In what direction?”

“Oh! they were running toward the Rue de Varennes.”

Lecoq was baffled again; however, he bowed civilly to the concierge, whom he might possibly have need of at another time, and then went back to the cab. “As I had supposed, they do not live here,” he remarked to the driver.

The latter shrugged his shoulders in evident vexation, which would inevitably have vent in a torrent of words, if Lecoq, who had consulted his watch, had not forestalled the outburst by saying: “Nine o’clock—I am an hour behind time already: still I shall have some news to tell. Now take me to the Morgue as quickly as possible.”

When a mysterious crime has been perpetrated, or a great catastrophe has happened, and the identity of the victims has not been established, “a great day” invariably follows at the Morgue. The attendants are so accustomed to the horrors of the place that the most sickly sight fails to impress them; and even under the most distressing circumstances, they hasten gaily to and fro, exchanging jests well calculated to make an ordinary mortal’s flesh creep. As a rule, they are far less interested in the corpses laid out for public view on the marble slabs in the principal hall than in the people of every age and station in life who congregate here all day long; at times coming in search of some lost relative or friend, but far more frequently impelled by idle curiosity.

As the vehicle conveying Lecoq reached the quay, the young detective perceived that a large, excited crowd was gathered outside the building. The newspapers had reported the tragedy at the Widow Chupin’s drinking-den, of course, more or less correctly, and everybody wished to see the victims.

On drawing near the Pont Notre Dame, Lecoq told the driver to pull up. “I prefer to alight here, rather than in front of the Morgue,” he said, springing to the ground. Then, producing first his watch, and next his purse, he added: “We have been an hour and forty minutes, my good fellow, consequently I owe you—”

“Nothing at all,” replied the driver, decidedly.

“But—”

“No—not a sou. I am too worried already to think that I took the money these hussies offered me. It would only have served me right if the liquor I bought with it had given me the gripes. Don’t be uneasy about the score, and if you need a trap use mine for nothing, till you have caught the jades.” As Lecoq’s purse was low, he did not insist. “You will, at least, take my name and address?” continued the driver.

“Certainly. The magistrate will want your evidence, and a summons will be sent you.”

“All right, then. Address it to Papillon (Eugene), driver, care of M. Trigault. I lodge at his place, because I have some small interest in the business, you see.”

The young detective was hastening away, when Papillon called him back. “When you leave the Morgue you will want to go somewhere else,” he said, “you told me that you had another appointment, and that you were already late.”

“Yes, I ought to be at the Palais de Justice; but it is only a few steps from here.”

“No matter. I will wait for you at the corner of the bridge. It’s useless to say ‘no’; I’ve made up my mind, and I’m a Breton, you know. I want you to ride out the thirty francs that those jades paid me.”

It would have been cruel to refuse such a request. Accordingly, Lecoq made a gesture of assent, and then hurried toward the Morgue.

If there was a crowd on the roadway outside, it was because the gloomy building itself was crammed full of people. Indeed, the sightseers, most of whom could see nothing at all, were packed as closely as sardines, and it was only by dint of well-nigh superhuman efforts that Lecoq managed to effect an entrance. As usual, he found among the mob a large number of girls and women; for, strange to say, the Parisian fair sex is rather partial to the disgusting sights and horrible emotions that repay a visit to the Morgue.

The shop and work girls who reside in the neighborhood readily go out of their way to catch a glimpse of the corpses which crime, accident, and suicide bring to this horrible place. A few, the more sensitive among them, may come no further than the door, but the others enter, and after a long stare return and recount their impressions to their less courageous companions.

If there should be no corpse exhibited; if all the marble slabs are unoccupied, strange as it may seem, the visitors turn hastily away with an expression of disappointment or discontent. There was no fear of their doing so, however, on the morrow of the tragedy at Poivriere, for the mysterious murderer whose identity Lecoq was trying to establish had furnished three victims for their delectation. Panting with curiosity, they paid but little attention to the unhealthy atmosphere: and yet a damp chill came from beyond the iron railings, while from the crowd itself rose an infectious vapor, impregnated with the stench of the chloride of lime used as a disinfectant.

As a continuous accompaniment to the exclamations, sighs, and whispered comments of the bystanders came the murmur of the water trickling from a spigot at the head of each slab; a tiny stream that flowed forth only to fall in fine spray upon the marble. Through the small arched windows a gray light stole in on the exposed bodies, bringing each muscle into bold relief, revealing the ghastly tints of the lifeless flesh, and imparting a sinister aspect to the tattered clothing hung around the room to aid in the identification of the corpses. This clothing, after a certain time, is sold—for nothing is wasted at the Morgue.

However, Lecoq was too occupied with his own thoughts to remark the horrors of the scene. He scarcely bestowed a glance on the three victims. He was looking for Father Absinthe, whom he could not perceive. Had Gevrol intentionally or unintentionally failed to fulfil his promise, or had Father Absinthe forgotten his duty in his morning dram?

Unable to explain the cause of his comrade’s absence, Lecoq addressed himself to the head keeper: “It would seem that no one has recognized the victims,” he remarked.

“No one. And yet, ever since opening, we have had an immense crowd. If I were master here, on days like this, I would charge an admission fee of two sous a head, with half-price for children. It would bring in a round sum, more than enough to cover the expenses.”

The keeper’s reply seemed to offer an inducement to conversation, but Lecoq did not seize it. “Excuse me,” he interrupted, “didn’t a detective come here this morning?”

“Yes, there was one here.”

“Has he gone away then? I don’t see him anywhere?”

The keeper glanced suspiciously at his eager questioner, but after a moment’s hesitation, he ventured to inquire: “Are you one of them?”

“Yes, I am,” replied Lecoq, exhibiting his card in support of his assertion.

“And your name?”

“Is Lecoq.”

The keeper’s face brightened up. “In that case,” said he, “I have a letter for you, written by your comrade, who was obliged to go away. Here it is.”

The young detective at once tore open the envelope and read: “Monsieur Lecoq—”

“Monsieur?” This simple formula of politeness brought a faint smile to his lips. Was it not, on Father Absinthe’s part, an evident recognition of his colleague’s superiority. Indeed, our hero accepted it as a token of unquestioning devotion which it would be his duty to repay with a master’s kind protection toward his first disciple. However, he had no time to waste in thought, and accordingly at once proceeded to peruse the note, which ran as follows:

“Monsieur Lecoq—I had been standing on duty since the opening of the Morgue, when at about nine o’clock three young men entered, arm-in-arm. From their manner and appearance, I judged them to be clerks in some store or warehouse. Suddenly I noticed that one of them turned as white as his shirt; and calling the attention of his companions to one of the unknown victims, he whispered: ‘Gustave!’

“His comrades put their hands over his mouth, and one of them exclaimed: ‘What are you about, you fool, to mix yourself up with this affair! Do you want to get us into trouble?’

“Thereupon they went out, and I followed them. But the person who had first spoken was so overcome that he could scarcely drag himself along; and his companions were obliged to take him to a little restaurant close by. I entered it myself, and it is there I write this letter, in the mean time watching them out of the corner of my eye. I send this note, explaining my absence, to the head keeper, who will give it you. You will understand that I am going to follow these men. A. B. S.”

The handwriting of this letter was almost illegible; and there were mistakes in spelling in well-nigh every line; still, its meaning was clear and exact, and could not fail to excite the most flattering hopes.

Lecoq’s face was so radiant when he returned to the cab that, as the old coachman urged on his horse, he could not refrain from saying: “Things are going on to suit you.”

A friendly “hush!” was the only response. It required all Lecoq’s attention to classify this new information. When he alighted from the cab in front of the Palais de Justice, he experienced considerable difficulty in dismissing the old cabman, who insisted upon remaining at his orders. He succeeded at last, however, but even when he had reached the portico on the left side of the building, the worthy fellow, standing up, still shouted at the top of his voice: “At M. Trigault’s house—don’t forget—Father Papillon—No. 998—1,000 less 2—”

Lecoq had entered the left wing of the Palais. He climbed the stairs till he had reached the third floor, and was about to enter the long, narrow, badly-lighted corridor known as the Galerie de l’Instruction, when, finding a doorkeeper installed behind a heavy oaken desk, he remarked: “M. d’Escorval is, of course, in his office?”

The man shook his head. “No,” said he, “M. d’Escorval is not here this morning, and he won’t be here for several weeks.”

“Why not! What do you mean?”

“Last night, as he was alighting from his carriage, at his own door, he had a most unfortunate fall, and broke his leg.”

IX

Some men are wealthy. They own a carriage drawn by a pair of high-stepping horses, and driven by a coachman in stylish livery; and as they pass by, leaning back on comfortable cushions, they become the object of many an envious glance. Sometimes, however, the coachman has taken a drop too much, and upsets the carriage; perhaps the horses run away and a general smash ensues; or, maybe, the hitherto fortunate owner, in a moment of absent-mindedness, misses the step, and fractures his leg on the curbstone. Such accidents occur every day; and their long list should make humble foot-passengers bless the lowly lot which preserves them from such peril.

On learning the misfortune that had befallen M. d’Escorval, Lecoq’s face wore such an expression of consternation that the doorkeeper could not help laughing. “What is there so very extraordinary about that I’ve told you?” he asked.

“I—oh! nothing—”

The detective did not speak the truth. The fact is, he had just been struck by the strange coincidence of two events—the supposed murderer’s attempted suicide, and the magistrate’s fall. Still, he did not allow the vague presentiment that flitted through his mind to assume any definite form. For after all, what possible connection could there be between the two occurrences? Then again, he never allowed himself to be governed by prejudice, nor had he as yet enriched his formulary with an axiom he afterward professed: “Distrust all circumstances that seem to favor your secret wishes.”

Of course, Lecoq did not rejoice at M. d’Escorval’s accident; could he have prevented it, he would have gladly done so. Still, he could not help saying to himself that this stroke of misfortune would free him from all further connection with a man whose superciliousness and disdain had been painfully disagreeable to his feelings.

This thought caused a sensation of relief—almost one of light-heartedness. “In that case,” said the young detective to the doorkeeper, “I shall have nothing to do here this morning.”

“You must be joking,” was the reply. “Does the world stop moving because one man is disabled? The news only arrived an hour ago; but all the urgent business that M. d’Escorval had in charge has already been divided among the other magistrates.”

“I came here about that terrible affair that occurred the other night just beyond the Barriere de Fontainebleau.”

“Eh! Why didn’t you say so at once? A messenger has been sent to the prefecture after you already. M. Segmuller has charge of the case, and he’s waiting for you.”

Doubt and perplexity were plainly written on Lecoq’s forehead. He was trying to remember the magistrate that bore this name, and wondered whether he was a likely man to espouse his views.

“Yes,” resumed the doorkeeper, who seemed to be in a talkative mood, “M. Segmuller—you don’t seem to know him. He is a worthy man, not quite so grim as most of our gentlemen. A prisoner he had examined said one day: ‘That devil there has pumped me so well that I shall certainly have my head chopped off; but, nevertheless, he’s a good fellow!”

His heart somewhat lightened by these favorable reports, Lecoq went and tapped at a door that was indicated to him, and which bore the number—22.

“Come in!” called out a pleasant voice.

The young detective entered, and found himself face to face with a man of some forty years of age, tall and rather corpulent, who at once exclaimed: “Ah! you are Lecoq. Very well—take a seat. I am busy just now looking over the papers of the case, but I will attend to you in five minutes.”

Lecoq obeyed, at the same time glancing furtively at the magistrate with whom he was about to work. M. Segmuller’s appearance corresponded perfectly with the description given by the doorkeeper. His plump face wore an air of frankness and benevolence, and his blue eyes had a most pleasant expression. Nevertheless, Lecoq distrusted these appearances, and in so doing he was right.

Born near Strasbourg, M. Segmuller possessed that candid physiognomy common to most of the natives of blonde Alsace—a deceitful mask, which, behind seeming simplicity, not unfrequently conceals a Gascon cunning, rendered all the more dangerous since it is allied with extreme caution. He had a wonderfully alert, penetrating mind; but his system—every magistrate has his own—was mainly good-humor. Unlike most of his colleagues, who were as stiff and cutting in manner as the sword which the statue of Justice usually holds in her hand, he made simplicity and kindness of demeanor his leading trait, though, of course, without ever losing sight of his magisterial duties.

Still, the tone of his voice was so paternal, and the subtle purport of his questions so veiled by his seeming frankness, that most of those whom he examined forgot the necessity of protecting themselves, and unawares confessed their guilt. Thus, it frequently happened that while some unsuspecting culprit was complacently congratulating himself upon getting the best of the judge, the poor wretch was really being turned inside out like a glove.

By the side of such a man as M. Segmuller a grave and slender clerk would have excited distrust; so he had chosen one who was a caricature of himself. This clerk’s name was Goguet. He was short but corpulent, and his broad, beardless face habitually wore a silly smile, not out of keeping with his intellect, which was none of the brightest.

As stated above, when Lecoq entered M. Segmuller’s room the latter was busy studying the case which had so unexpectedly fallen into his hands. All the articles which the young detective had collected, from the flakes of wool to the diamond earring, were spread out upon the magistrate’s desk. With the greatest attention, he perused the report prepared by Lecoq, and according to the different phases of the affair, he examined one or another of the objects before him, or else consulted the plan of the ground.

“A good half-hour elapsed before he had completed his inspection, when he threw himself back in his armchair. Monsieur Lecoq,” he said, slowly, “Monsieur d’Escorval has informed me by a note on the margin of this file of papers that you are an intelligent man, and that we can trust you.”

“I am willing, at all events.”

“You speak too slightingly of yourself; this is the first time that an agent has brought me a report as complete as yours. You are young, and if you persevere, I think you will be able to accomplish great things in your profession.”

Nervous with delight, Lecoq bowed and stammered his thanks.

“Your opinion in this matter coincides with mine,” continued M. Segmuller, “and the public prosecutor informs me that M. d’Escorval shares the same views. An enigma is before us; and it ought to be solved.”

“Oh!—we’ll solve it, I am certain, sir,” exclaimed Lecoq, who at this moment felt capable of the most extraordinary achievements. Indeed, he would have gone through fire and water for the magistrate who had received him so kindly, and his enthusiasm sparkled so plainly in his eyes that M. Segmuller could not restrain a smile.

“I have strong hopes of it myself,” he responded; “but we are far from the end. Now, what have you been doing since yesterday? Did M. d’Escorval give you any orders? Have you obtained any fresh information?”

“I don’t think I have wasted my time,” replied Lecoq, who at once proceeded to relate the various facts that had come to his knowledge since his departure from the Poivriere.

With rare precision and that happiness of expression which seldom fails a man well acquainted with his subject, he recounted the daring feats of the presumed accomplice, the points he had noted in the supposed murderer’s conduct, the latter’s unsuccessful attempt at self-destruction. He repeated the testimony given by the cab-driver, and by the concierge in the Rue de Bourgogne, and then read the letter he had received from Father Absinthe.

In conclusion, he placed on the magistrate’s desk some of the dirt he had scraped from the prisoner’s feet; at the same time depositing beside it a similar parcel of dust collected on the floor of the cell in which the murderer was confined at the Barriere d’Italie.

When Lecoq had explained the reasons that had led him to collect this soil, and the conclusions that might be drawn from a comparison of the two parcels, M. Segmuller, who had been listening attentively, at once exclaimed: “You are right. It may be that you have discovered a means to confound all the prisoner’s denials. At all events, this is certainly a proof of surprising sagacity on your part.”

So it must have been, for Goguet, the clerk, nodded approvingly. “Capital!” he murmured. “I should never have thought of that.”

While he was talking, M. Segmuller had carefully placed all the so-called “articles of conviction” in a large drawer, from which they would not emerge until the trial. “Now,” said he, “I understand the case well enough to examine the Widow Chupin. We may gain some information from her.”

He was laying his hand upon the bell, when Lecoq stopped him with an almost supplicating gesture. “I have one great favor to ask you, sir,” he observed.

“What is it?—speak.”

“I should very much like to be present at this examination. It takes so little, sometimes, to awaken a happy inspiration.”

Although the law says that the accused shall first of all be privately examined by the investigating magistrate assisted by his clerk, it also allows the presence of police agents. Accordingly, M. Segmuller told Lecoq that he might remain. At the same time he rang his bell; which was speedily answered by a messenger.

“Has the Widow Chupin been brought here, in compliance with my orders?” asked M. Segmuller.

“Yes, sir; she is in the gallery outside.”

“Let her come in then.”

An instant later the hostess of the Poivriere entered the room, bowing to the right and to the left. This was not her first appearance before a magistrate, and she was not ignorant of the respect that is due to justice. Accordingly, she had arrayed herself for her examination with the utmost care. She had arranged her rebellious gray locks in smooth bandeaux, and her garments, although of common material, looked positively neat. She had even persuaded one of the prison warders to buy her—with the money she had about her at the time of her arrest—a black crape cap, and a couple of white pocket-handkerchiefs, intending to deluge the latter with her tears, should the situation call for a pathetic display.

She was indeed far too knowing to rely solely on the mere artifices of dress; hence, she had also drawn upon her repertoire of grimaces for an innocent, sad, and yet resigned expression, well fitted, in her opinion, to win the sympathy and indulgence of the magistrate upon whom her fate would depend.

Thus disguised, with downcast eyes and honeyed voice, she looked so unlike the terrible termagant of the Poivriere, that her customers would scarcely have recognized her. Indeed, an honest old bachelor might have offered her twenty francs a month to take charge of his chambers—solely on the strength of her good looks. But M. Segmuller had unmasked so many hypocrites that he was not deceived for a moment. “What an old actress!” he muttered to himself, and, glancing at Lecoq, he perceived the same thought sparkling in the young detective’s eyes. It is true that the magistrate’s penetration may have been due to some notes he had just perused—notes containing an abstract of the woman’s former life, and furnished by the chief of police at the magistrate’s request.

With a gesture of authority M. Segmuller warned Goguet, the clerk with the silly smile, to get his writing materials ready. He then turned toward the Widow Chupin. “Your name?” he asked in a sharp tone.

“Aspasie Claperdty, my maiden name,” replied the old woman, “and today, the Widow Chupin, at your service, sir;” so saying, she made a low courtesy, and then added: “A lawful widow, you understand, sir; I have my marriage papers safe in my chest at home; and if you wish to send any one—”

“Your age?” interrupted the magistrate.

“Fifty-four.”

“Your profession?”

“Dealer in wines and spirits outside of Paris, near the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers, just beyond the fortifications.”

A prisoner’s examination always begins with these questions as to individuality, which gives both the magistrate and the culprit time to study each other, to try, as it were, each other’s strength, before joining in a serious struggle; just as two duelists, about to engage in mortal combat, first try a few passes with the foils.

“Now,” resumed M. Segmuller, “we will note your antecedents. Have you not already been found guilty of several offenses?”

The Widow Chupin was too well versed in criminal procedure to be ignorant of those famous records which render the denial of identity such a difficult matter in France. “I have been unfortunate, my good judge,” she whined.

“Yes, several times. First of all, you were arrested on a charge of receiving stolen goods.”

“But it was proved that I was innocent, that my character was whiter than snow. My poor, dear husband had been deceived by his comrades; that was all.”

“Possibly. But while your husband was undergoing his sentence, you were condemned, first to one month’s and then to three months’ imprisonment for stealing.”

“Oh, I had some enemies who did their best to ruin me.”

“Next you were imprisoned for having led some young girls astray.”

“They were good-for-nothing hussies, my kind sir, heartless, unprincipled creatures. I did them many favors, and then they went and related a batch of falsehoods to ruin me. I have always been too kind and considerate toward others.”

The list of the woman’s offenses was not exhausted, but M. Segmuller thought it useless to continue. “Such is your past,” he resumed. “At the present time your wine-shop is the resort of rogues and criminals. Your son is undergoing his fourth term of imprisonment; and it has been clearly proved that you abetted and assisted him in his evil deeds. Your daughter-in-law, by some miracle, has remained honest and industrious, hence you have tormented and abused her to such an extent that the authorities have been obliged to interfere. When she left your house you tried to keep her child—no doubt meaning to bring it up after the same fashion as its father.”

“This,” thought the Widow Chupin, “is the right moment to try and soften the magistrate’s heart.” Accordingly, she drew one of her new handkerchiefs from her pocket, and, by dint of rubbing her eyes, endeavored to extract a tear. “Oh, unhappy me,” she groaned. “How can any one imagine that I would harm my grandson, my poor little Toto! Why, I should be worse than a wild beast to try and bring my own flesh and blood to perdition.”

She soon perceived, however, that her lamentations did not much affect M. Segmuller, hence, suddenly changing both her tone and manner, she began her justification. She did not positively deny her past; but she threw all the blame on the injustice of destiny, which, while favoring a few, generally the less deserving, showed no mercy to others. Alas! she was one of those who had had no luck in life, having always been persecuted, despite her innocence. In this last affair, for instance, how was she to blame? A triple murder had stained her shop with blood; but the most respectable establishments are not exempt from similar catastrophes. During her solitary confinement, she had, said she, dived down into the deepest recesses of her conscience, and she was still unable to discover what blame could justly be laid at her door.

“I can tell you,” interrupted the magistrate. “You are accused of impeding the action of the law.”

“Good heavens! Is it possible?”

“And of seeking to defeat justice. This is equivalent to complicity, Widow Chupin; take care. When the police entered your cabin, after this crime had been committed, you refused to answer their questions.”

“I told them all that I knew.”

“Very well, then, you must repeat what you told them to me.”

M. Segmuller had reason to feel satisfied. He had conducted the examination in such a way that the Widow Chupin would now have to initiate a narrative of the tragedy. This excellent point gained; for this shrewd old woman, possessed of all her coolness, would naturally have been on her guard against any direct questions. Now, it was essential that she should not suspect either what the magistrate knew of the affair, or what he was ignorant of. By leaving her to her own devices she might, in the course of the version which she proposed to substitute for the truth, not merely strengthen Lecoq’s theories, but also let fall some remark calculated to facilitate the task of future investigation. Both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were of opinion that the version of the crime which they were about to hear had been concocted at the station-house of the Place d’Italie while the murderer and the spurious drunkard were left together, and that it had been transmitted by the accomplice to the widow during the brief conversation they were allowed to have through the wicket of the latter’s cell.

Invited by the magistrate to recount the circumstances of the tragedy, Mother Chupin did not hesitate for a moment. “Oh, it was a very simple affair, my good sir,” she began. “I was sitting by my fireside on Sunday evening, when suddenly the door opened, and three men and two women came in.”

M. Segmuller and the young detective exchanged glances. The accomplice had evidently seen Lecoq and his comrade examining the footprints, and accordingly the presence of the two women was not to be denied.

“What time was this?” asked the magistrate.

“About eleven o’clock.”

“Go on.”

“As soon as they sat down they ordered a bowl of wine, a la Frangaise. Without boasting, I may say that I haven’t an equal in preparing that drink. Of course, I waited on them, and afterward, having a blouse to mend for my boy, I went upstairs to my room, which is just over the shop.”

“Leaving the people alone?”

“Yes, my judge.”

“That showed a great deal of confidence on your part.”

The widow sadly shook her head. “People as poor as I am don’t fear the thieves,” she sighed.

“Go on—go on.”

“Well, I had been upstairs about half an hour, when I heard some one below call out: ‘Eh! old woman!’ So I went down, and found a tall, big-bearded man, who had just come in. He asked for a glass of brandy, which I brought to a table where he had sat down by himself.”

“And then did you go upstairs again?” interrupted the magistrate.

The exclamation was ironical, of course, but no one could have told from the Widow Chupin’s placid countenance whether she was aware that such was the case.

“Precisely, my good sir,” she replied in the most composed manner. “Only this time I had scarcely taken up my needle when I heard a terrible uproar in the shop. I hurried downstairs to put a stop to it—but heaven knows my interference would have been of little use. The three men who had come in first of all had fallen upon the newcomer, and they were beating him, my good sir, they were killing him. I screamed. Just then the man who had come in alone drew a revolver from his pocket; he fired and killed one of his assailants, who fell to the ground. I was so frightened that I crouched on the staircase and threw my apron over my head that I might not see the blood run. An instant later Monsieur Gevrol arrived with his men; they forced open the door, and behold—”

The Widow Chupin here stopped short. These wretched old women, who have trafficked in every sort of vice, and who have tasted every disgrace, at times attain a perfection of hypocrisy calculated to deceive the most subtle penetration. Any one unacquainted with the antecedents of the landlady of the Poivriere would certainly have been impressed by her apparent candor, so skillfully did she affect a display of frankness, surprise, and fear. Her expression would have been simply perfect, had it not been for her eyes, her small gray eyes, as restless as those of a caged animal, and gleaming at intervals with craftiness and cunning.

There she stood, mentally rejoicing at the success of her narrative, for she was convinced that the magistrate placed implicit confidence in her revelations, although during her recital, delivered, by the way, with conjurer-like volubility, not a muscle of M. Segmuller’s face had betrayed what was passing in his mind. When she paused, out of breath, he rose from his seat, and without a word approached his clerk to inspect the notes taken during the earlier part of the examination.

From the corner where he was quietly seated, Lecoq did not cease watching the prisoner. “She thinks that it’s all over,” he muttered to himself; “she fancies that her deposition is accepted without question.”

If such were, indeed, the widow’s opinion, she was soon to be undeceived; for, after addressing a few low-spoken words to the smiling Goguet, M. Segmuller took a seat near the fireplace, convinced that the moment had now come to abandon defensive tactics, and open fire on the enemy’s position.

“So, Widow Chupin,” he began, “you tell us that you didn’t remain for a single moment with the people who came into your shop that evening!”

“Not a moment.”

“They came in and ordered what they wanted; you waited on them, and then left them to themselves?”

“Yes, my good sir.”

“It seems to me impossible that you didn’t overhear some words of their conversation. What were they talking about?”

“I am not in the habit of playing spy over my customers.”

“Didn’t you hear anything?”

“Nothing at all.”

The magistrate shrugged his shoulders with an air of commiseration. “In other words,” he remarked, “you refuse to inform justice—”

“Oh, my good sir!”

“Allow me to finish. All these improbable stories about leaving the shop and mending your son’s clothes in your bedroom are so many inventions. You have concocted them so as to be able to say to me: ‘I didn’t see anything; I didn’t hear anything.’ If such is your system of defense, I warn you that it will be impossible for you to maintain it, and I may add that it would not be admitted by any tribunal.”

“It is not a system of defense; it is the truth.”

M. Segmuller seemed to reflect for a moment; then, suddenly, he exclaimed: “Then you have nothing to tell me about this miserable assassin?”

“But he is not an assassin, my good sir.”

“What do you mean by such an assertion?”

“I mean that he only killed the others in protecting himself. They picked a quarrel with him; he was alone against three, and saw very plainly that he could expect no mercy from brigands who—”

The color rose to the Widow Chupin’s cheeks, and she suddenly checked herself, greatly embarrassed, and evidently regretting that she had not bridled her tongue. It is true she might reasonably hope, that the magistrate had imperfectly heard her words, and had failed to seize their full purport, for two or three red-hot coals having fallen from the grate on the hearth, he had taken up the tongs, and seemed to be engrossed in the task of artistically arranging the fire.

“Who can tell me—who can prove to me that, on the contrary, it was not this man who first attacked the others?” he murmured, thoughtfully.

“I can,” stoutly declared the widow, already forgetful of her prudent hesitation, “I can swear it.”

M. Segmuller looked up, intense astonishment written upon his face. “How can you know that?” he said slowly. “How can you swear it? You were in your bedroom when the quarrel began.”

Silent and motionless in his corner, Lecoq was inwardly jubilant. This was a most happy result, he thought, but a few questions more, and the old woman would be obliged to contradict herself. What she had already said sufficed to show that she must have a secret interest in the matter, or else she would never have been so imprudently earnest in defending the prisoner.

“However, you have probably been led to this conclusion by your knowledge of the murderer’s character,” remarked M. Segmuller, “you are apparently well acquainted with him.”

“Oh, I had never set eyes on him before that evening.”

“But he must have been in your establishment before?”

“Never in his life.”

“Oh, oh! Then how do you explain that on entering the shop while you were upstairs, this unknown person—this stranger—should have called out: ‘Here, old woman!’ Did he merely guess that the establishment was kept by a woman; and that this woman was no longer young?”

“He did not say that.”

“Reflect a moment; you, yourself just told me so.”

“Oh, I didn’t say that, I’m sure, my good sir.”

“Yes, you did, and I will prove it by having your evidence read. Goguet, read the passage, if you please.”

The smiling clerk looked back through his minutes and then, in his clearest voice, he read these words, taken down as they fell from the Widow Chupin’s lips: “I had been upstairs about half an hour, when I heard some one below call out ‘Eh! old woman.’ So I went down,” etc., etc.

“Are you convinced?” asked M. Segmuller.

The old offender’s assurance was sensibly diminished by this proof of her prevarication. However, instead of discussing the subject any further, the magistrate glided over it as if he did not attach much importance to the incident.

“And the other men,” he resumed, “those who were killed: did you know them?”

“No, good sir, no more than I knew Adam and Eve.”

“And were you not surprised to see three men utterly unknown to you, and accompanied by two women, enter your establishment?”

“Sometimes chance—”

“Come! you do not think of what you are saying. It was not chance that brought these customers, in the middle of the night, to a wine-shop with a reputation like yours—an establishment situated far from any frequented route in the midst of a desolate waste.”

“I’m not a sorceress; I say what I think.”

“Then you did not even know the youngest of the victims, the man who was attired as a soldier, he who was named Gustave?”

“Not at all.”

M. Segmuller noted the intonation of this response, and then slowly added: “But you must have heard of one of Gustave’s friends, a man called Lacheneur?”

On hearing this name, the landlady of the Poivriere became visibly embarrassed, and it was in an altered voice that she stammered: “Lacheneur! Lacheneur! no, I have never heard that name mentioned.”

Still despite her denial, the effect of M. Segmuller’s remark was evident, and Lecoq secretly vowed that he would find this Lacheneur, at any cost. Did not the “articles of conviction” comprise a letter sent by this man to Gustave, and written, so Lecoq had reason to believe, in a cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais? With such a clue and a little patience, the mysterious Lacheneur might yet be discovered.

“Now,” continued M. Segmuller, “let us speak of the women who accompanied these unfortunate men. What sort of women were they?”

“Oh! women of no account whatever!”

“Were they well dressed?”

“On the contrary, very miserably.”

“Well, give me a description of them.”

“They were tall and powerfully built, and indeed, as it was Shrove Sunday, I first of all took them for men in disguise. They had hands like shoulders of mutton, gruff voices, and very black hair. They were as dark as mulattoes—”

“Enough!” interrupted the magistrate, “I require no further proof of your mendacity. These women were short, and one of them was remarkably fair.”

“I swear to you, my good sir—”

“Do not declare it upon oath. I shall be forced to confront you with an honest man, who will tell you to your face that you are a liar!”

The widow did not reply, and there was a moment’s silence. M. Segmuller determined to deal a decisive blow. “Do you also affirm that you had nothing of a compromising character in the pocket of your apron?” he asked.

“Nothing—you may have it examined; it was left in the house.”

“Then you still persist in your system,” resumed M. Segmuller. “Believe me, you are wrong. Reflect—it rests with you to go to the Assize Court as a witness, or an accomplice.”

Although the widow seemed crushed by this unexpected blow, the magistrate did not add another word. Her deposition was read over to her, she signed it, and was then led away.

M. Segmuller immediately seated himself at his desk, filled up a blank form and handed it to his clerk, saying: “This is an order for the governor of the Depot. Tell him to send the supposed murderer here at once.”

X

If it is difficult to extort a confession from a man interested in preserving silence and persuaded that no proofs can be produced against him, it is a yet more arduous task to make a woman, similarly situated, speak the truth. As they say at the Palais de Justice, one might as well try to make the devil confess.

The examination of the Widow Chupin had been conducted with the greatest possible care by M. Segmuller, who was as skilful in managing his questions as a tried general in maneuvering his troops.

However, all that he had discovered was that the landlady of the Poivriere was conniving with the murderer. The motive of her connivance was yet unknown, and the murderer’s identity still a mystery. Both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were nevertheless of the opinion that the old hag knew everything. “It is almost certain,” remarked the magistrate, “that she was acquainted with the people who came to her house—with the women, the victims, the murderer—with all of them, in fact. I am positive as regards that fellow Gustave—I read it in her eyes. I am also convinced that she knows Lacheneur—the man upon whom the dying soldier breathed vengeance—the mysterious personage who evidently possesses the key to the enigma. That man must be found.”

“Ah!” replied Lecoq, “and I will find him even if I have to question every one of the eleven hundred thousand men who constantly walk the streets of Paris!”

This was promising so much that the magistrate, despite his preoccupation, could not repress a smile.

“If this old woman would only decide to make a clean breast of it at her next examination!” remarked Lecoq.

“Yes. But she won’t.”

The young detective shook his head despondently. Such was his own opinion. He did not delude himself with false hopes, and he had noticed between the Widow Chupin’s eyebrows those furrows which, according to physiognomists, indicate a senseless, brutish obstinacy.

“Women never confess,” resumed the magistrate; “and even when they seemingly resign themselves to such a course they are not sincere. They fancy they have discovered some means of misleading their examiner. On the contrary, evidence will crush the most obstinate man; he gives up the struggle, and confesses. Now, a woman scoffs at evidence. Show her the sun; tell her it’s daytime; at once she will close her eyes and say to you, ‘No, it’s night.’ Male prisoners plan and combine different systems of defense according to their social positions; the women, on the contrary, have but one system, no matter what may be their condition in life. They deny everything, persist in their denials even when the proof against them is overwhelming, and then they cry. When I worry the Chupin with disagreeable questions, at her next examination, you may be sure she will turn her eyes into a fountain of tears.”

In his impatience, M. Segmuller angrily stamped his foot. He had many weapons in his arsenal; but none strong enough to break a woman’s dogged resistance.

“If I only understood the motive that guides this old hag!” he continued. “But not a clue! Who can tell me what powerful interest induces her to remain silent? Is it her own cause that she is defending? Is she an accomplice? Is it certain that she did not aid the murderer in planning an ambuscade?”

“Yes,” responded Lecoq, slowly, “yes; this supposition very naturally presents itself to the mind. But think a moment, sir, such a theory would prove that the idea we entertained a short time since is altogether false. If the Widow Chupin is an accomplice, the murderer is not the person we have supposed him to be; he is simply the man he seems to be.”

This argument apparently convinced M. Segmuller. “What is your opinion?” he asked.

The young detective had formed his opinion a long while ago. But how could he, a humble police agent, venture to express any decided views when the magistrate hesitated? He understood well enough that his position necessitated extreme reserve; hence, it was in the most modest tone that he replied: “Might not the pretended drunkard have dazzled Mother Chupin’s eyes with the prospect of a brilliant reward? Might he not have promised her a considerable sum of money?”

He paused; Goguet, the smiling clerk, had just returned.

Behind him stood a private of the Garde de Paris who remained respectfully on the threshold, his heels in a straight line, his right hand raised to the peak of his shako, and his elbow on a level with his eyes, in accordance with the regulations.

“The governor of the Depot,” said the soldier, “sends me to inquire if he is to keep the Widow Chupin in solitary confinement; she complains bitterly about it.”

M. Segmuller reflected for a moment. “Certainly,” he murmured, as if replying to an objection made by his own conscience; “certainly, it is an undoubted aggravation of suffering; but if I allow this woman to associate with the other prisoners, she will certainly find some opportunity to communicate with parties outside. This must not be; the interests of justice and truth must be considered first.” The thought embodied in these last words decided him. “Despite her complaints the prisoner must be kept in solitary confinement until further orders,” he said.

The soldier allowed his right hand to fall to his side, he carried his right foot three inches behind his left heel, and wheeled around. Goguet, the smiling clerk, then closed the door, and, drawing a large envelope from his pocket, handed it to the magistrate. “Here is a communication from the governor of the Depot,” said he.

The magistrate broke the seal, and read aloud, as follows:

“I feel compelled to advise M. Segmuller to take every precaution with the view of assuring his own safety before proceeding with the examination of the prisoner, May. Since his unsuccessful attempt at suicide, this prisoner has been in such a state of excitement that we have been obliged to keep him in a strait-waistcoat. He did not close his eyes all last night, and the guards who watched him expected every moment that he would become delirious. However, he did not utter a word. When food was offered him this morning, he resolutely rejected it, and I should not be surprised if it were his intention to starve himself to death. I have rarely seen a more determined criminal. I think him capable of any desperate act.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the clerk, whose smile had disappeared, “If I were in your place, sir, I would only let him in here with an escort of soldiers.”

“What! you—Goguet, you, an old clerk—make such a proposition! Can it be that you’re frightened?”

“Frightened! No, certainly not; but—”

“Nonsense!” interrupted Lecoq, in a tone that betrayed superlative confidence in his own muscles; “Am I not here?”

If M. Segmuller had seated himself at his desk, that article of furniture would naturally have served as a rampart between the prisoner and himself. For purposes of convenience he usually did place himself behind it; but after Goguet’s display of fear, he would have blushed to have taken the slightest measure of self-protection. Accordingly, he went and sat down by the fireplace—as he had done a few moments previously while questioning the Widow Chupin—and then ordered his door-keeper to admit the prisoner alone. He emphasized this word “alone.”

A moment later the door was flung open with a violent jerk, and the prisoner entered, or rather precipitated himself into the room. Goguet turned pale behind his table, and Lecoq advanced a step forward, ready to spring upon the prisoner and pinion him should it be requisite. But when the latter reached the centre of the room, he paused and looked around him. “Where is the magistrate?” he inquired, in a hoarse voice.

“I am the magistrate,” replied M. Segmuller.

“No, the other one.”

“What other one?”

“The one who came to question me last evening.”

“He has met with an accident. Yesterday, after leaving you, he fell down and broke his leg.”

“Oh!”

“And I am to take his place.”

The prisoner was apparently deaf to the explanation. Excitement had seemingly given way to stupor. His features, hitherto contracted with anger, now relaxed. He grew pale and tottered, as if about to fall.

“Compose yourself,” said the magistrate in a benevolent tone; “if you are too weak to remain standing, take a seat.”

Already, with a powerful effort, the man had recovered his self-possession. A momentary gleam flashed from his eyes. “Many thanks for your kindness,” he replied, “but this is nothing. I felt a slight sensation of dizziness, but it is over now.”

“Is it long since you have eaten anything?”

“I have eaten nothing since that man”—and so saying he pointed to Lecoq—“brought me some bread and wine at the station house.”

“Wouldn’t you like to take something?”

“No—and yet—if you would be so kind—I should like a glass of water.”

“Will you not have some wine with it?”

“I should prefer pure water.”

His request was at once complied with. He drained a first glassful at a single draft; the glass was then replenished and he drank again, this time, however, more slowly. One might have supposed that he was drinking in life itself. Certainly, when he laid down the empty glass, he seemed quite another man.

Eighteen out of every twenty criminals who appear before our investigating magistrates come prepared with a more or less complete plan of defense, which they have conceived during their preliminary confinement. Innocent or guilty, they have resolved, on playing some part or other, which they begin to act as soon as they cross the threshold of the room where the magistrate awaits them.

The moment they enter his presence, the magistrate needs to bring all his powers of penetration into play; for such a culprit’s first attitude as surely betrays his plan of defense as an index reveals a book’s contents. In this case, however, M. Segmuller did not think that appearances were deceitful. It seemed evident to him that the prisoner was not feigning, but that the excited frenzy which marked his entrance was as real as his after stupor.

At all events, there seemed no fear of the danger the governor of the Depot had spoken of, and accordingly M. Segmuller seated himself at his desk. Here he felt stronger and more at ease for his back being turned to the window, his face was half hidden in shadow; and in case of need, he could, by bending over his papers, conceal any sign of surprise or discomfiture.

The prisoner, on the contrary, stood in the full light, and not a movement of his features, not the fluttering of an eyelid could escape the magistrate’s attention. He seemed to have completely recovered from his indisposition; and his features assumed an expression which indicated either careless indifference, or complete resignation.

“Do you feel better?” asked M. Segmuller.

“I feel very well.”

“I hope,” continued the magistrate, paternally, “that in future you will know how to moderate your excitement. Yesterday you tried to destroy yourself. It would have been another great crime added to many others—a crime which—”

With a hasty movement of the hand, the prisoner interrupted him. “I have committed no crime,” said he, in a rough, but no longer threatening voice. “I was attacked, and I defended myself. Any one has a right to do that. There were three men against me. It was a great misfortune; and I would give my right hand to repair it; but my conscience does not reproach me—that much!”

The prisoner’s “that much,” was a contemptuous snap of his finger and thumb.

“And yet I’ve been arrested and treated like an assassin,” he continued. “When I saw myself interred in that living tomb which you call a secret cell, I grew afraid; I lost my senses. I said to myself: ‘My boy, they’ve buried you alive; and it is better to die—to die quickly, if you don’t wish to suffer.’ So I tried to strangle myself. My death wouldn’t have caused the slightest sorrow to any one. I have neither wife nor child depending upon me for support. However, my attempt was frustrated. I was bled; and then placed in a strait-waistcoat, as if I were a madman. Mad! I really believed I should become so. All night long the jailors sat around me, like children amusing themselves by tormenting a chained animal. They watched me, talked about me, and passed the candle to and fro before my eyes.”

The prisoner talked forcibly, but without any attempt at oratorical display; there was bitterness but not anger in his tone; in short, he spoke with all the seeming sincerity of a man giving expression to some deep emotion or conviction. As the magistrate and the detective heard him speak, they were seized with the same idea. “This man,” they thought, “is very clever; it won’t be easy to get the better of him.”

Then, after a moment’s reflection, M. Segmuller added aloud: “This explains your first act of despair; but later on, for instance, even this morning, you refused to eat the food that was offered you.”

As the prisoner heard this remark, his lowering face suddenly brightened, he gave a comical wink, and finally burst into a hearty laugh, gay, frank, and sonorous.

“That,” said he, “is quite another matter. Certainly, I refused all they offered me, and now I will tell you why. As I had my hands confined in the strait-waistcoat, the jailor tried to feed me just as a nurse tries to feed a baby with pap. Now I wasn’t going to submit to that, so I closed my lips as tightly as I could. Then he tried to force my mouth open and push the spoon in, just as one might force a sick dog’s jaws apart and pour some medicine down its throat. The deuce take his impertinence! I tried to bite him: that’s the truth, and if I had succeeded in getting his finger between my teeth, it would have stayed there. However, because I wouldn’t be fed like a baby, all the prison officials raised their hands to heaven in holy horror, and pointed at me, saying: ‘What a terrible man! What an awful rascal!’”

The prisoner seemed to thoroughly enjoy the recollection of the scene he had described, for he now burst into another hearty laugh, to the great amazement of Lecoq, and the scandal of Goguet, the smiling clerk.

M. Segmuller also found it difficult to conceal his surprise. “You are too reasonable, I hope,” he said, at last, “to attach any blame to these men, who, in confining you in a strait-waistcoat, were merely obeying the orders of their superior officers with the view of protecting you from your own violent passions.”

“Hum!” responded the prisoner, suddenly growing serious. “I do blame them, however, and if I had one of them in a corner—But, never mind, I shall get over it. If I know myself aright, I have no more spite in my composition than a chicken.”

“Your treatment depends on your own conduct,” rejoined M. Segmuller, “If you will only remain calm, you shan’t be put in a strait-waistcoat again. But you must promise me that you will be quiet and conduct yourself properly.”

The murderer sadly shook his head. “I shall be very prudent hereafter,” said he, “but it is terribly hard to stay in prison with nothing to do. If I had some comrades with me, we could laugh and chat, and the time would slip by; but it is positively horrible to have to remain alone, entirely alone, in that cold, damp cell, where not a sound can be heard.”

The magistrate bent over his desk to make a note. The word “comrades” had attracted his attention, and he proposed to ask the prisoner to explain it at a later stage of the inquiry.

“If you are innocent,” he remarked, “you will soon be released: but it is necessary to prove your innocence.”

“What must I do to prove it?”

“Tell the truth, the whole truth: answer my questions honestly without reserve.”

“As for that, you may depend upon me.” As he spoke the prisoner lifted his hand, as if to call upon God to witness his sincerity.

But M. Segmuller immediately intervened: “Prisoners do not take the oath,” said he.

“Indeed!” ejaculated the man with an astonished air, “that’s strange!”

Although the magistrate had apparently paid but little attention to the prisoner, he had in point of fact carefully noted his attitude, his tone of voice, his looks and gestures. M. Segmuller had, moreover, done his utmost to set the culprit’s mind at ease, to quiet all possible suspicion of a trap, and his inspection of the prisoner’s person led him to believe that this result had been attained.

“Now,” said he, “you will give me your attention; and do not forget that your liberty depends upon your frankness. What is your name?”

“May.”

“What is your Christian name?”

“I have none.”

“That is impossible.”

“I have been told that already three times since yesterday,” rejoined the prisoner impatiently. “And yet it’s the truth. If I were a liar, I could easily tell you that my name was Peter, James, or John. But lying is not in my line. Really, I have no Christian name. If it were a question of surnames, it would be quite another thing. I have had plenty of them.”

“What were they?”

“Let me see—to commence with, when I was with Father Fougasse, I was called Affiloir, because you see—”

“Who was this Father Fougasse?”

“The great wild beast tamer, sir. Ah! he could boast of a menagerie and no mistake! Lions, tigers, and bears, serpents as big round as your thigh, parrakeets of every color under the sun. Ah! it was a wonderful collection. But unfortunately—”

Was the man jesting, or was he in earnest? It was so hard to decide, that M. Segmuller and Lecoq were equally in doubt. As for Goguet, the smiling clerk, he chuckled to himself as his pen ran over the paper.

“Enough,” interrupted the magistrate. “How old are you?”

“Forty-four or forty-five years of age.”

“Where were you born?”

“In Brittany, probably.”

M. Segmuller thought he could detect a hidden vein of irony in this reply.

“I warn you,” said he, severely, “that if you go on in this way your chances of recovering your liberty will be greatly compromised. Each of your answers is a breach of propriety.”

As the supposed murderer heard these words, an expression of mingled distress and anxiety was apparent in his face. “Ah! I meant no offense, sir,” he sighed. “You questioned me, and I replied. You will see that I have spoken the truth, if you will allow me to recount the history of the whole affair.”

“When the prisoner speaks, the prosecution is enlightened,” so runs an old proverb frequently quoted at the Palais de Justice. It does, indeed, seem almost impossible for a culprit to say more than a few words in an investigating magistrate’s presence, without betraying his intentions or his thoughts; without, in short, revealing more or less of the secret he is endeavoring to conceal. All criminals, even the most simple-minded, understand this, and those who are shrewd prove remarkably reticent. Confining themselves to the few facts upon which they have founded their defense, they are careful not to travel any further unless absolutely compelled to do so, and even then they only speak with the utmost caution. When questioned, they reply, of course, but always briefly; and they are very sparing of details.

In the present instance, however, the prisoner was prodigal of words. He did not seem to think that there was any danger of his being the medium of accomplishing his own decapitation. He did not hesitate like those who are afraid of misplacing a word of the romance they are substituting for the truth. Under other circumstances, this fact would have been a strong argument in his favor.

“You may tell your own story, then,” said M. Segmuller in answer to the prisoner’s indirect request.

The presumed murderer did not try to hide the satisfaction he experienced at thus being allowed to plead his own cause, in his own way. His eyes sparkled and his nostrils dilated as if with pleasure. He sat himself dawn, threw his head back, passed his tongue over his lips as if to moisten them, and said: “Am I to understand that you wish to hear my history?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must know that one day about forty-five years ago, Father Tringlot, the manager of a traveling acrobatic company, was going from Guingamp to Saint Brieuc, in Brittany. He had with him two large vehicles containing his wife, the necessary theatrical paraphernalia, and the members of the company. Well, soon after passing Chatelaudren, he perceived something white lying by the roadside, near the edge of a ditch. ‘I must go and see what that is,’ he said to his wife. He stopped the horses, alighted from the vehicle he was in, went to the ditch, picked up the object he had noticed, and uttered a cry of surprise. You will ask me what he had found? Ah! good heavens! A mere trifle. He had found your humble servant, then about six months old.”

With these last words, the prisoner made a low bow to his audience.

“Naturally, Father Tringlot carried me to his wife. She was a kind-hearted woman. She took me, examined me, fed me, and said: ‘He’s a strong, healthy child; and we’ll keep him since his mother has been so wicked as to abandon him by the roadside. I will teach him; and in five or six years he will be a credit to us.’ They then asked each other what name they should give me, and as it happened to be the first day of May, they decided to call me after the month, and so it happens that May has been my name from that day to this.”

The prisoner paused again and looked from one to another of his listeners, as if seeking some sign of approval. None being forthcoming, he proceeded with his story.

“Father Tringlot was an uneducated man, entirely ignorant of the law. He did not inform the authorities that he had found a child, and, for this reason, although I was living, I did not legally exist, for, to have a legal existence it is necessary that one’s name, parentage, and birthplace should figure upon a municipal register.

“When I grew older, I rather congratulated myself on Father Tringlot’s neglect. ‘May, my boy,’ said I, ‘you are not put down on any government register, consequently there’s no fear of your ever being drawn as a soldier.’ I had a horror of military service, and a positive dread of bullets and cannon balls. Later on, when I had passed the proper age for the conscription, a lawyer told me that I should get into all kinds of trouble if I sought a place on the civil register so late in the day; and so I decided to exist surreptitiously. And this is why I have no Christian name, and why I can’t exactly say where I was born.”

If truth has any particular accent of its own, as moralists have asserted, the murderer had found that accent. Voice, gesture, glance, expression, all were in accord; not a word of his long story had rung false.

“Now,” said M. Segmuller, coldly, “what are your means of subsistence?”

By the prisoner’s discomfited mien one might have supposed that he had expected to see the prison doors fly open at the conclusion of his narrative. “I have a profession,” he replied plaintively. “The one that Mother Tringlot taught me. I subsist by its practise; and I have lived by it in France and other countries.”

The magistrate thought he had found a flaw in the prisoner’s armor. “You say you have lived in foreign countries?” he inquired.

“Yes; during the seventeen years that I was with M. Simpson’s company, I traveled most of the time in England and Germany.”

“Then you are a gymnast and an athlete. How is it that your hands are so white and soft?”

Far from being embarrassed, the prisoner raised his hands from his lap and examined them with evident complacency. “It is true they are pretty,” said he, “but this is because I take good care of them and scarcely use them.”

“Do they pay you, then, for doing nothing?”

“Ah, no, indeed! But, sir, my duty consists in speaking to the public, in turning a compliment, in making things pass off pleasantly, as the saying is; and, without boasting, I flatter myself that I have a certain knack—”

M. Segmuller stroked his chin, according to his habit whenever he considered that a prisoner had committed some grave blunder. “In that case,” said he, “will you give me a specimen of your talent?”

“Ah, ha!” laughed the prisoner, evidently supposing this to be a jest on the part of the magistrate. “Ah, ha!”

“Obey me, if you please,” insisted M. Segmuller.

The supposed murderer made no objection. His face at once assumed a different expression, his features wearing a mingled air of impudence, conceit, and irony. He caught up a ruler that was lying on the magistrate’s desk, and, flourishing it wildly, began as follows, in a shrill falsetto voice: “Silence, music! And you, big drum, hold your peace! Now is the hour, now is the moment, ladies and gentlemen, to witness the grand, unique performance of these great artists, unequaled in the world for their feats upon the trapeze and the tight-rope, and in innumerable other exercises of grace, suppleness, and strength!”

“That is sufficient,” interrupted the magistrate. “You can speak like that in France; but what do you say in Germany?”

“Of course, I use the language of that country.”

“Let me hear, then!” retorted M. Segmuller, whose mother-tongue was German.

The prisoner ceased his mocking manner, assumed an air of comical importance, and without the slightest hesitation began to speak as follows, in very emphatic tones: “Mit Be-willigung der hochloeblichen Obrigkeit, wird heute, vor hiesiger ehrenwerthen Burgerschaft, zum erstenmal aufgefuhrt—Genovesa, oder—”

This opening of the prisoner’s German harangue may be thus rendered: “With the permission of the local authorities there will now be presented before the honorable citizens, for the first time—Genevieve, or the—”

“Enough,” said the magistrate, harshly. He rose, perhaps to conceal his chagrin, and added: “We will send for an interpreter to tell us whether you speak English as fluently.”

On hearing these words, Lecoq modestly stepped forward. “I understand English,” said he.

“Very well. You hear, prisoner?”

But the man was already transformed. British gravity and apathy were written upon his features; his gestures were stiff and constrained, and in the most ponderous tones he exclaimed: “Walk up! ladies and gentlemen, walk up! Long life to the queen and to the honorable mayor of this town! No country, England excepted—our glorious England!—could produce such a marvel, such a paragon—” For a minute or two longer he continued in the same strain.

M. Segmuller was leaning upon his desk, his face hidden by his hands. Lecoq, standing in front of the prisoner, could not conceal his astonishment. Goguet, the smiling clerk, alone found the scene amusing.

XI

The governor of the Depot, a functionary who had gained the reputation of an oracle by twenty years’ experience in prisons and with prisoners—a man whom it was most difficult to deceive—had advised the magistrate to surround himself with every precaution before examining the prisoner, May.

And yet this man, characterized as a most dangerous criminal, and the very announcement of whose coming had made the clerk turn pale, had proved to be a practical, harmless, and jovial philosopher, vain of his eloquence, a bohemian whose existence depended upon his ability to turn a compliment; in short, a somewhat erratic genius.

This was certainly strange, but the seeming contradiction did not cause M. Segmuller to abandon the theory propounded by Lecoq. On the contrary, he was more than ever convinced of its truth. If he remained silent, with his elbows leaning on the desk, and his hands clasped over his eyes, it was only that he might gain time for reflection.

The prisoner’s attitude and manner were remarkable. When his English harangue was finished, he remained standing in the centre of the room, a half-pleased, half-anxious expression on his face. Still, he was as much at ease as if he had been on the platform outside some stroller’s booth, where, if one could believe his story, he had passed the greater part of his life. It was in vain that the magistrate sought for some indication of weakness on his features, which in their mobility were more enigmatical than the lineaments of the Sphinx.

Thus far, M. Segmuller had been worsted in the encounter. It is true, however, that he had not as yet ventured on any direct attack, nor had he made use of any of the weapons which Lecoq had forged for his use. Still he was none the less annoyed at his defeat, as it was easy to see by the sharp manner in which he raised his head after a few moments’ silence. “I see that you speak three European languages correctly,” said he. “It is a rare talent.”

The prisoner bowed, and smiled complacently. “Still that does not establish your identity,” continued the magistrate. “Have you any acquaintances in Paris? Can you indicate any respectable person who will vouch for the truth of this story?”

“Ah! sir, it is seventeen years since I left France.”

“That is unfortunate, but the prosecution can not content itself with such an explanation. What about your last employer, M. Simpson? Who is he?”

“M. Simpson is a rich man,” replied the prisoner, rather coldly, “worth more than two hundred thousand francs, and honest besides. In Germany he traveled with a show of marionettes, and in England with a collection of phenomena to suit the tastes of that country.”

“Very well! Then this millionaire could testify in your favor; it would be easy to find him, I suppose?”

“Certainly,” responded May, emphatically. “M. Simpson would willingly do me this favor. It would not be difficult for me to find him, only it would require considerable time.”

“Why?”

“Because at the present moment he must be on his way to America. It was on account of this journey that I left his company—I detest the ocean.”

A moment previously Lecoq’s anxiety had been so intense that his heart almost stopped beating; on hearing these last words, however, he regained all his self-possession. As for the magistrate, he merely greeted the murderer’s reply with a brief but significant ejaculation.

“When I say that he is on his way,” resumed the prisoner, “I may be mistaken. He may not have started yet, though he had certainly made all his arrangements before we separated.”

“What ship was he to sail by?”

“He did not tell me.”

“Where was he when you left him?”

“At Leipsic.”

“When was this?”

“Last Wednesday.”

M. Segmuller shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “So you say you were in Leipsic on Wednesday? How long have you been in Paris?”

“Since Sunday afternoon, at four o’clock.”

“It will be necessary to prove that.”

Judging by the murderer’s contracted brow it might be conjectured that he was making a strenuous effort to remember something. He cast questioning glances first toward the ceiling and then toward the floor, scratching his head and tapping his foot in evident perplexity. “How can I prove it—how?” he murmured.

The magistrate did not appear disposed to wait. “Let me assist you,” said he. “The people at the inn where you boarded while in Leipsic must remember you.”

“We did not stop at an inn.”

“Where did you eat and sleep, then?”

“In M. Simpson’s large traveling-carriage; it had been sold, but he was not to give it up until he reached the port he was to sail from.”

“What port was that?”

“I don’t know.”

At this reply Lecoq, who had less experience than the magistrate in the art of concealing one’s impressions, could not help rubbing his hands with satisfaction. The prisoner was plainly convicted of falsehood, indeed driven into a corner.

“So you have only your own word to offer in support of this story?” inquired M. Segmuller.

“Wait a moment,” said the prisoner, extending his arm as if to clutch at a still vague inspiration—“wait a moment. When I arrived in Paris I had with me a trunk containing my clothes. The linen is all marked with the first letter of my name, and besides some ordinary coats and trousers, there were a couple of costumes I used to wear when I appeared in public.”

“Well, what have you done with all these things?”

“When I arrived in Paris, I took the trunk to a hotel, close by the Northern Railway Station—”

“Go on. Tell us the name of this hotel,” said M. Segmuller, perceiving that the prisoner had stopped short, evidently embarrassed.

“That’s just what I’m trying to recollect. I’ve forgotten it. But I haven’t forgotten the house. I fancy I can see it now; and, if some one would only take me to the neighborhood, I should certainly recognize it. The people at the hotel would know me, and, besides, my trunk would prove the truth of what I’ve told you.”

On hearing this statement, Lecoq mentally resolved to make a tour of investigation through the various hotels surrounding the Gare du Nord.

“Very well,” retorted the magistrate. “Perhaps we will do as you request. Now, there are two questions I desire to ask. If you arrived in Paris at four o’clock in the afternoon, how did it happen that by midnight of the same day you had discovered the Poivriere, which is merely frequented by suspicious characters, and is situated in such a lonely spot that it would be impossible to find it at night-time, if one were not familiar with the surrounding localities? In the second place, how does it happen, if you possess such clothing as you describe, that you are so poorly dressed?”

The prisoner smiled at these questions. “I can easily explain that,” he replied. “One’s clothes are soon spoiled when one travels third-class, so on leaving Leipsic I put on the worst things I had. When I arrived here, and felt my feet on the pavements of Paris, I went literally wild with delight. I acted like a fool. I had some money in my pocket—it was Shrove Sunday—and my only thought was to make a night of it. I did not think of changing my clothes. As I had formerly been in the habit of amusing myself round about the Barriere d’Italie, I hastened there and entered a wine-shop. While I was eating a morsel, two men came in and began talking about spending the night at a ball at the Rainbow. I asked them to take me with them; they agreed, I paid their bills, and we started. But soon after our arrival there these young men left me and joined the dancers. It was not long before I grew weary of merely looking on. Rather disappointed, I left the inn, and being foolish enough not to ask my way, I wandered on till I lost myself, while traversing a tract of unoccupied land. I was about to go back, when I saw a light in the distance. I walked straight toward it, and reached that cursed hovel.”

“What happened then?”

“Oh! I went in; called for some one. A woman came downstairs, and I asked her for a glass of brandy. When she brought it, I sat down and lighted a cigar. Then I looked about me. The interior was almost enough to frighten one. Three men and two women were drinking and chatting in low tones at another table. My face did not seem to suit them. One of them got up, came toward me, and said: ‘You are a police agent; you’ve come here to play the spy; that’s very plain.’ I answered that I wasn’t a police agent. He replied that I was. I again declared that I wasn’t. In short, he swore that he was sure of it, and that my beard was false. So saying, he caught hold of my beard and pulled it. This made me mad. I jumped up, and with a blow of my fist I felled him to the ground. In an instant all the others were upon me! I had my revolver—you know the rest.”

“And while all this was going on what were the two women doing?”

“Ah! I was too busy to pay any attention to them. They disappeared!”

“But you saw them when you entered the place—what were they like?”

“Oh! they were big, ugly creatures, as tall as grenadiers, and as dark as moles!”

Between plausible falsehood, and improbable truth, justice—human justice, and therefore liable to error—is compelled to decide as best it can. For the past hour M. Segmuller had not been free from mental disquietude. But all his doubts vanished when he heard the prisoner declare that the two women were tall and dark. If he had said: “The women were fair,” M. Segmuller would not have known what to believe, but in the magistrate’s opinion the audacious falsehood he had just heard proved that there was a perfect understanding between the supposed murderer and Widow Chupin.

Certainly, M. Segmuller’s satisfaction was great; but his face did not betray it. It was of the utmost importance that the prisoner should believe that he had succeeded in deceiving his examiner. “You must understand how necessary it is to find these women,” said the magistrate kindly.

“If their testimony corresponds with your allegations, your innocence will be proved conclusively.”

“Yes, I understand that; but how can I put my hand upon them?”

“The police can assist you—our agents are always at the service of prisoners who desire to make use of them in establishing their innocence. Did you make any observations which might aid in the discovery of these women?”

Lecoq, whose eyes never wandered from the prisoner’s face, fancied that he saw the faint shadow of a smile on the man’s lips.

“I remarked nothing,” said the prisoner coldly.

M. Segmuller had opened the drawer of his desk a moment before. He now drew from it the earring which had been found on the scene of the tragedy, and handing it abruptly to the prisoner, he asked: “So you didn’t notice this in the ear of one of the women?”

The prisoner’s imperturbable coolness of demeanor did not forsake him. He took the jewel in his hand, examined it attentively, held it up to the light, admired its brilliant scintillations, and said: “It is a very handsome stone, but I didn’t notice it.”

“This stone,” remarked the magistrate, “is a diamond.”

“Ah!”

“Yes; and worth several thousand francs.”

“So much as that!”

This exclamation may have been in accordance with the spirit of the part assumed by the prisoner; though, at the same time, its simplicity was undoubtedly far-fetched. It was strange that a nomad, such as the murderer pretended to have been, acquainted with most of the countries and capitals of Europe, should have displayed this astonishment on learning the value of a diamond. Still, M. Segmuller did not seem to notice the discrepancy.

“Another thing,” said he. “When you threw down your pistol, crying, ‘Come and take me,’ what did you intend to do?”

“I intended to make my escape.”

“In what way?”

“Why, of course, by the door, sir—by—”

“Yes, by the back door,” retorted the magistrate, with freezing irony. “It remains for you to explain how you—you who had just entered that hovel for the first time—could have known of this door’s existence.”

For once, in the course of the examination, the prisoner seemed troubled. For an instant all his assurance forsook him. He evidently perceived the danger of his position, and after a considerable effort he contrived to burst out in a laugh. His laugh was a poor one, however; it rang false, and failed to conceal a sensation of deep anxiety. Growing gradually bolder, he at length exclaimed: “That’s nonsense, I had just seen these two women go out by that very door.”

“Excuse me, you declared a minute ago that you did not see these women leave: that you were too busy to watch their movements.”

“Did I say that?”

“Word for word; the passage shall be shown you. Goguet, find it.”

The clerk at once read the passage referred to, whereupon the prisoner undertook to show that the remark had been misunderstood. He had not said—at least, he did not intend to say—that; they had quite misinterpreted his words. With such remarks did he try to palliate the effect of his apparent blunders.

In the mean while, Lecoq was jubilant. “Ah, my fine fellow,” thought he, “you are contradicting yourself—you are in deep water already—you are lost. There’s no hope for you.”

The prisoner’s situation was indeed not unlike that of a bather, who, unable to swim, imprudently advances into the sea until the water rises above his chin. He may for a while have preserved his equilibrium, despite the buffeting of the waves, but now he totters, loses his footing—another second, and he will sink!

“Enough—enough!” said the magistrate, cutting the prisoner’s embarrassed explanation short. “Now, if you started out merely with the intention of amusing yourself, how did it happen that you took your revolver with you?”

“I had it with me while I was traveling, and did not think of leaving it at the hotel any more than I thought of changing my clothes.”

“Where did you purchase it?”

“It was given me by M. Simpson as a souvenir.”

“Confess that this M. Simpson is a very convenient personage,” said the magistrate coldly. “Still, go on with your story. Only two chambers of this murderous weapon were discharged, but three men were killed. You have not told me the end of the affair.”

“What’s the use?” exclaimed the prisoner, in saddened tones. “Two of my assailants had fallen; the struggle became an equal one. I seized the remaining man, the soldier, round the body, and threw him down. He fell against a corner of the table, and did not rise again.”

M. Segmuller had unfolded upon his desk the plan of the Poivriere drawn by Lecoq. “Come here,” he said, addressing the prisoner, “and show me on this paper the precise spot you and your adversaries occupied.”

May obeyed, and with an assurance of manner a little surprising in a man in his position, he proceeded to explain the drama. “I entered,” said he, “by this door, marked C; I seated myself at the table, H, to the left of the entrance: my assailants occupied the table between the fireplace, F, and the window, B.”

“I must admit,” said the magistrate, “that your assertions fully agree with the statements of the physicians, who say that one of the shots must have been fired about a yard off, and the other about two yards off.”

This was a victory for the prisoner, but he only shrugged his shoulders and murmured: “That proves that the physicians knew their business.”

Lecoq was delighted. This part of the prisoner’s narrative not merely agreed with the doctor’s statements, but also confirmed his own researches. The young detective felt that, had he been the examiner, he would have conducted the investigation in precisely the same way. Accordingly, he thanked heaven that M. Segmuller had supplied the place of M. d’Escorval.

“This admitted,” resumed the magistrate, “it remains for you to explain a sentence you uttered when the agent you see here arrested you.”

“What sentence?”

“You exclaimed: ‘Ah, it’s the Prussians who are coming; I’m lost!’ What did you mean by that?”

A fleeting crimson tinge suffused the prisoner’s cheek. It was evident that if he had anticipated the other questions, and had been prepared for them, this one, at least, was unexpected. “It’s very strange,” said he, with ill-disguised embarrassment, “that I should have said such a thing!”

“Five persons heard you,” insisted the magistrate.

The prisoner did not immediately reply. He was evidently trying to gain time, ransacking in his mind for a plausible explanation. “After all,” he ultimately said, “the thing’s quite possible. When I was with M. Simpson, we had with us an old soldier who had belonged to Napoleon’s body-guard and had fought at Waterloo. I recollect he was always repeating that phrase. I must have caught the habit from him.”

This explanation, though rather slow in coming, was none the less ingenious. At least, M. Segmuller appeared to be perfectly satisfied. “That’s very plausible,” said he; “but there is one circumstance that passes my comprehension. Were you freed from your assailants before the police entered the place? Answer me, yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Then why, instead of making your escape by the back door, the existence of which you had divined, did you remain on the threshold of the door leading into the back room, with a table before you to serve as a barricade, and your revolver leveled at the police, as if to keep them at bay?”

The prisoner hung his head, and the magistrate had to wait for his answer. “I was a fool,” he stammered at last. “I didn’t know whether these men were police agents or friends of the fellows I had killed.”

“In either case your own interest should have induced you to fly.”

The prisoner remained silent.

“Ah, well!” resumed M. Segmuller, “let me tell you my opinion. I believe you designedly and voluntarily exposed yourself to the danger of being arrested in order to protect the retreat of the two women who had just left.”

“Why should I have risked my own safety for two hussies I did not even know?”

“Excuse me. The prosecution is strongly inclined to believe that you know these two women very well.”

“I should like to see any one prove that!” So saying, the prisoner smiled sneeringly, but at once changed countenance when the magistrate retorted in a tone of assurance: “I will prove it.”

XII

M. Segmuller certainly wished that a number had been branded upon the enigmatical prisoner before him. And yet he did not by any means despair, and his confidence, exaggerated though it might be, was not at all feigned. He was of opinion that the weakest point of the prisoner’s defense so far was his pretended ignorance concerning the two women. He proposed to return to this subject later on. In the mean while, however, there were other matters to be dealt with.

When he felt that his threat as regards the women had had time to produce its full effect, the magistrate continued: “So, prisoner, you assert that you were acquainted with none of the persons you met at the Poivriere.”

“I swear it.”

“Have you never had occasion to meet a person called Lacheneur, an individual whose name is connected with this unfortunate affair?”

“I heard the name for the first time when it was pronounced by the dying soldier. Poor fellow! I had just dealt him his death blow; and yet his last words testified to my innocence.”

This sentimental outburst produced no impression whatever upon the magistrate. “In that case,” said he, “I suppose you are willing to accept this soldier’s statement.”

The man hesitated, as if conscious that he had fallen into a snare, and that he would be obliged to weigh each answer carefully. “I accept it,” said he at last. “Of course I accept it.”

“Very well, then. This soldier, as you must recollect, wished to revenge himself on Lacheneur, who, by promising him a sum of money, had inveigled him into a conspiracy. A conspiracy against whom? Evidently against you; and yet you pretend that you had only arrived in Paris that evening, and that mere chance brought you to the Poivriere. Can you reconcile such conflicting statements?”

The prisoner had the hardihood to shrug his shoulders disdainfully. “I see the matter in an entirely different light,” said he. “These people were plotting mischief against I don’t know whom—and it was because I was in their way that they sought a quarrel with me, without any cause whatever.”

Skilfully as the magistrate had delivered this thrust, it had been as skilfully parried; so skilfully, indeed, that Goguet, the smiling clerk, could not conceal an approving grimace. Besides, on principle, he always took the prisoner’s part, in a mild, Platonic way, of course.

“Let us consider the circumstances that followed your arrest,” resumed M. Segmuller. “Why did you refuse to answer all the questions put to you?”

A gleam of real or assumed resentment shone in the prisoner’s eyes.

“This examination,” he growled, “will alone suffice to make a culprit out of an innocent man!”

“I advise you, in your own interest, to behave properly. Those who arrested you observed that you were conversant with all the prison formalities and rules.”

“Ah! sir, haven’t I told you that I have been arrested and put in prison several times—always on account of my papers? I told you the truth, and you shouldn’t taunt me for having done so.”

The prisoner had dropped his mask of careless gaiety, and had assumed a surly, discontented tone. But his troubles were by no means ended; in fact, the battle had only just begun. Laying a tiny linen bag on his desk, M. Segmuller asked him if he recognized it.

“Perfectly! It is the package that the governor of the Depot placed in his safe.”

The magistrate opened the bag, and poured the dust that it contained on to a sheet of paper. “You are aware, prisoner,” said he, “that this dust comes from the mud that was sticking to your feet. The police agent who collected it has been to the station-house where you spent the night of the murder, and has discovered that the composition of this dust is identical with that of the floor of the cell you occupied.”

The prisoner listened with gaping mouth.

“Hence,” continued the magistrate, “it was certainly at the station-house, and designedly, that you soiled your feet with that mud. In doing so you had an object.”

“I wished—”

“Let me finish. Being determined to keep your identity secret, and to assume the character of a member of the lower classes—of a mountebank, if you please—you reflected that the care you bestow upon your person might betray you. You foresaw the impression that would be caused when the coarse, ill-fitting boots you wore were removed, and the officials perceived your trim, clean feet, which are as well kept as your hands. Accordingly, what did you do? You poured some of the water that was in the pitcher in your cell on to the ground and then dabbled your feet in the mud that had thus been formed.”

During these remarks the prisoner’s face wore, by turns, an expression of anxiety, astonishment, irony, and mirth. When the magistrate had finished, he burst into a hearty laugh.

“So that’s the result of twelve or fourteen hours’ research,” he at length exclaimed, turning toward Lecoq. “Ah! Mr. Agent, it’s good to be sharp, but not so sharp as that. The truth is, that when I was taken to the station-house, forty-eight hours—thirty-six of them spent in a railway carriage—had elapsed since I had taken off my boots. My feet were red and swollen, and they burned like fire. What did I do? I poured some water over them. As for your other suspicions, if I have a soft white skin, it is only because I take care of myself. Besides, as is usual with most men of my profession, I rarely wear anything but slippers on my feet. This is so true that, on leaving Leipsic, I only owned a single pair of boots, and that was an old cast-off pair given me by M. Simpson.”

Lecoq struck his chest. “Fool, imbecile, idiot, that I am!” he thought. “He was waiting to be questioned about this circumstance. He is so wonderfully shrewd that, when he saw me take the dust, he divined my intentions; and since then he has managed to concoct this story—a plausible story enough—and one that any jury would believe.”

M. Segmuller was saying the same thing to himself. But he was not so surprised nor so overcome by the skill the prisoner had displayed in fencing with this point. “Let us continue,” said he. “Do you still persist in your statements, prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“Very well; then I shall be forced to tell you that what you are saying is untrue.”

The prisoner’s lips trembled visibly, and it was with difficulty that he faltered: “May my first mouthful of bread strangle me, if I have uttered a single falsehood!”

“A single falsehood! Wait.”

The magistrate drew from the drawer of his desk the molds of the footprints prepared by Lecoq, and showing them to the murderer, he said: “You told me a few minutes ago that the two women were as tall as grenadiers; now, just look at the footprints made by these female giants. They were as ‘dark as moles,’ you said; a witness will tell you that one of them was a small, delicate-featured blonde, with an exceedingly sweet voice.” He sought the prisoner’s eyes, gazed steadily into them, and added slowly: “And this witness is the driver whose cab was hired in the Rue de Chevaleret by the two fugitives, both short, fair-haired women.”

This sentence fell like a thunderbolt upon the prisoner; he grew pale, tottered, and leaned against the wall for support.

“Ah! you have told me the truth!” scornfully continued the pitiless magistrate. “Then, who is this man who was waiting for you while you were at the Poivriere? Who is this accomplice who, after your arrest, dared to enter the Widow Chupin’s den to regain possession of some compromising object—no doubt a letter—which he knew he would find in the pocket of the Widow Chupin’s apron? Who is this devoted, courageous friend who feigned drunkenness so effectually that even the police were deceived, and thoughtlessly placed him in confinement with you? Dare you deny that you have not arranged your system of defense in concert with him? Can you affirm that he did not give the Widow Chupin counsel as to the course she should pursue?”

But already, thanks to his power of self-control, the prisoner had mastered his agitation. “All this,” said he, in a harsh voice, “is a mere invention of the police!”

However faithfully one may describe an examination of this kind, a narrative can convey no more idea of the real scene than a heap of cold ashes can give the effect of a glowing fire. One can note down each word, each ejaculation, but phraseology is powerless to portray the repressed animation, the impassioned movements, the studied reticence, the varied tones of voice, the now bold, now faltering glances, full of hatred and suspicion, which follow each other in rapid succession, mostly on the prisoner’s side, but not entirely so, for although the magistrate may be an adept in the art of concealing his feelings, at times nature can not be controlled.

When the prisoner reeled beneath the magistrate’s last words, the latter could not control his feelings. “He yields,” he thought, “he succumbs—he is mine!”

But all hope of immediate success vanished when M. Segmuller saw his redoubtable adversary struggle against his momentary weakness, and arm himself for the fight with renewed, and, if possible, even greater energy. The magistrate perceived that it would require more than one assault to over-come such a stubborn nature. So, in a voice rendered still more harsh by disappointment, he resumed: “It is plain that you are determined to deny evidence itself.”

The prisoner had recovered all his self-possession. He must have bitterly regretted his weakness, for a fiendish spite glittered in his eyes. “What evidence!” he asked, frowning. “This romance invented by the police is very plausible, I don’t deny it; but it seems to me that the truth is quite as probable. You talk to me about a cabman whose vehicle was hired by two short, fair-haired women: but who can prove that these women were the same that fled from the Poivriere?”

“The police agent you see here followed the tracks they left across the snow.”

“Ah! at night-time—across fields intersected by ditches, and up a long street—a fine rain falling all the while, and a thaw already beginning! Oh, your story is very probable!”

As he spoke, the murderer extended his arm toward Lecoq, and then, in a tone of crushing scorn, he added: “A man must have great confidence in himself, or a wild longing for advancement, to try and get a man guillotined on such evidence as that!”

At these words, Goguet, the smiling clerk, whose pen was rapidly flying across the paper, could not help remarking to himself: “The arrow has entered the bull’s-eye this time!”

The comment was not without foundation: for Lecoq was evidently cut to the quick. Indeed, he was so incensed that, forgetful of his subordinate position, he sprang to his feet, exclaiming: “This circumstance would be of slight importance if it were not one of a long chain—”

“Be good enough to keep silent,” interrupted the magistrate, who, turning to the prisoner, added: “The court does not utilize the proofs and testimony collected by the police until it has examined and weighed them.”

“No matter,” murmured the prisoner. “I should like to see this cab-driver.”

“Have no fear about that; he shall repeat his evidence in your presence.”

“Very well. I am satisfied then. I will ask him how he can distinguish people’s faces when it is as dark as—”

He checked himself, apparently enlightened by a sudden inspiration.

“How stupid I am!” he exclaimed. “I’m losing my temper about these people when you know all the while who they are. For of course the cabmen drove them home.”

M. Segmuller saw that the prisoner understood him. He perceived, moreover, that the latter was doing all he could to increase the mystery that enshrouded this essential point of the case—a point upon which the prosecution was particularly anxious to obtain information.

The prisoner was truly an incomparable comedian, for his last observation was made in a tone of remarkable candor, just tinged with sufficient irony to show that he felt he had nothing to fear in this direction.

“If you are consistent with yourself,” remarked the magistrate, “you will also deny the existence of an accomplice, of a—comrade.”

“What would be the use denying it, since you believe nothing that I say? Only a moment ago you insinuated that my former employer was an imaginary personage; so what need I say about my pretended accomplice? According to your agents, he’s at all events a most faithful friend. Indeed, this wonderful being—invented by Monsieur” (with these words the prisoner pointed to Lecoq)—“was seemingly not satisfied at having once escaped the police, for, according to your account, he voluntarily placed himself in their clutches a second time. You gentlemen pretend that he conferred first of all with me, and next with the Widow Chupin. How did that happen? Perhaps after removing him from my cell, some of your agents obligingly shut him up with the old woman.”

Goguet, the clerk, wrote all this down admiringly. “Here,” thought he, “is a man of brain, who understands his case. He won’t need any lawyer’s eloquence to put his defense favorably before a jury.”

“And after all,” continued the prisoner, “what are the proofs against me? The name of Lacheneur faltered by a dying man; a few footprints on some melting snow; a sleepy cab-driver’s declaration; and a vague doubt about a drunkard’s identity. If that is all you have against me, it certainly doesn’t amount to much—”

“Enough!” interrupted M. Segmuller. “Your assurance is perfect now; though a moment ago your embarrassment was most remarkable. What was the cause of it?”

“The cause!” indignantly exclaimed the prisoner, whom this query had seemingly enraged; “the cause! Can’t you see, sir, that you are torturing me frightfully, pitilessly! I am an innocent man, and you are trying to deprive me of my life. You have been turning me this way and that way for so many hours that I begin to feel as if I were standing on the guillotine. Each time I open my mouth to speak I ask myself, is it this answer that will send me to the scaffold? My anxiety and dismay surprise you, do they? Why, since this examination began, I’ve felt the cold knife graze my neck at least twenty times. I wouldn’t like my worst enemy to be subjected to such torture as this.”

The prisoner’s description of his sufferings did not seem at all exaggerated. His hair was saturated with perspiration, and big drops of sweat rested on his pallid brow, or coursed down his cheeks on to his beard.

“I am not your enemy,” said the magistrate more gently. “A magistrate is neither a prisoner’s friend nor enemy, he is simply the friend of truth and the executor of the law. I am not seeking either for an innocent man or for a culprit; I merely wish to arrive at the truth. I must know who you are—and I do know—”

“Ah!—if the assertion costs me my life—I’m May and none other.”

“No, you are not.”

“Who am I then? Some great man in disguise? Ah! I wish I were! In that case, I should have satisfactory papers to show you; and then you would set me free, for you know very well, my good sir, that I am as innocent as you are.”

The magistrate had left his desk, and taken a seat by the fireplace within a yard of the prisoner. “Do not insist,” said he. Then, suddenly changing both manner and tone, he added with the urbanity that a man of the world displays when addressing an equal:

“Do me the honor, sir, to believe me gifted with sufficient perspicuity to recognize, under the difficult part you play to such perfection, a very superior gentleman—a man endowed with remarkable talents.”

Lecoq perceived that this sudden change of manner had unnerved the prisoner. He tried to laugh, but his merriment partook somewhat of the nature of a sob, and big tears glistened in his eyes.

“I will not torture you any longer,” continued the magistrate. “In subtle reasoning I confess that you have conquered me. However, when I return to the charge I shall have proofs enough in my possession to crush you.”

He reflected for a moment, then lingering over each word, he added: “Only do not then expect from me the consideration I have shown you today. Justice is human; that is, she is indulgent toward certain crimes. She has fathomed the depth of the abyss into which blind passion may hurl even an honest man. Today I freely offer you any assistance that will not conflict with my duty. Speak, shall I send this officer of police away? Would you like me to send my clerk out of the room, on an errand?” He said no more, but waited to see the effect of this last effort.

The prisoner darted upon him one of those searching glances that seem to pierce an adversary through. His lips moved; one might have supposed that he was about to make a revelation. But no; suddenly he crossed his arms over his chest, and murmured: “You are very frank, sir. Unfortunately for me, I’m only a poor devil, as I’ve already told you. My name is May, and I earn my living by speaking to the public and turning a compliment.”

“I am forced to yield to your decision,” said the magistrate sadly. “The clerk will now read the minutes of your examination—listen.”

While Goguet read the evidence aloud, the prisoner listened without making any remark, but when asked to sign the document, he obstinately refused to do so, fearing, he said, “some hidden treachery.”

A moment afterward the soldiers who had escorted him to the magistrate’s room conducted him back to the Depot.

XIII

When the prisoner had gone, M. Segmuller sank back in his armchair, literally exhausted. He was in that state of nervous prostration which so often follows protracted but fruitless efforts. He had scarcely strength enough to bathe his burning forehead and gleaming eyes with cool, refreshing water.

This frightful examination had lasted no less than seven consecutive hours.

The smiling clerk, who had kept his place at his desk busily writing the whole while, now rose to his feet, glad of an opportunity to stretch his limbs and snap his fingers, cramped by holding the pen. Still, he was not in the least degree bored. He invariably took a semi-theatrical interest in the dramas that were daily enacted in his presence; his excitement being all the greater owing to the uncertainty that shrouded the finish of the final act—a finish that only too often belied the ordinary rules and deductions of writers for the stage.

“What a knave!” he exclaimed after vainly waiting for the magistrate or the detective to express an opinion, “what a rascal!”

M. Segmuller ordinarily put considerable confidence in his clerk’s long experience. He sometimes even went so far as to consult him, doubtless somewhat in the same style that Moliere consulted his servant. But, on this occasion he did not accept his opinion.

“No,” said he in a thoughtful tone, “that man is not a knave. When I spoke to him kindly he was really touched; he wept, he hesitated. I could have sworn that he was about to tell me everything.”

“Ah, he’s a man of wonderful power!” observed Lecoq.

The detective was sincere in his praise. Although the prisoner had disappointed his plans, and had even insulted him, he could not help admiring his shrewdness and courage. He—Lecoq—had prepared himself for a strenuous struggle with this man, and he hoped to conquer in the end. Nevertheless in his secret soul he felt for his adversary, admiring that sympathy which a “foeman worthy of one’s steel” always inspires.

“What coolness, what courage!” continued the young detective. “Ah! there’s no denying it, his system of defense—of absolute denial—is a masterpiece. It is perfect. How well he played that difficult part of buffoon! At times I could scarcely restrain my admiration. What is a famous comedian beside that fellow? The greatest actors need the adjunct of stage scenery to support the illusion, whereas this man, entirely unaided, almost convinced me even against my reason.”

“Do you know what your very appropriate criticism proves?” inquired the magistrate.

“I am listening, sir.”

“Ah, well! I have arrived at this conclusion—either this man is really May, the stroller, earning his living by paying compliments, as he says—or else he belongs to the highest rank of society, and not to the middle classes. It is only in the lowest or in the highest ranks that you encounter such grim energy as he has displayed, such scorn of life, as well as such remarkable presence of mind and resolution. A vulgar tradesman attracted to the Poivriere by some shameful passion would have confessed it long ago.”

“But, sir, this man is surely not the buffoon, May,” replied the young detective.

“No, certainly not,” responded M. Segmuller; “we must, therefore, decide upon some plan of action.” He smiled kindly, and added, in a friendly voice: “It was unnecessary to tell you that, Monsieur Lecoq. Quite unnecessary, since to you belongs the honor of having detected this fraud. As for myself, I confess, that if I had not been warned in advance, I should have been the dupe of this clever artist’s talent.”

The young detective bowed; a blush of modesty tinged his cheeks, but a gleam of pleased vanity sparkled in his eyes. What a difference between this friendly, benevolent magistrate and M. d’Escorval, so taciturn and haughty. This man, at least, understood, appreciated, and encouraged him; and it was with a common theory and an equal ardor that they were about to devote themselves to a search for the truth. Scarcely had Lecoq allowed these thoughts to flit across his mind than he reflected that his satisfaction was, after all, a trifle premature, and that success was still extremely doubtful. With this chilling conclusion, presence of mind returned. Turning toward the magistrate, he exclaimed: “You will recollect, sir, that the Widow Chupin mentioned a son of hers, a certain Polyte—”

“Yes.”

“Why not question him? He must know all the frequenters of the Poivriere, and might perhaps give us valuable information regarding Gustave, Lacheneur, and the murderer himself. As he is not in solitary confinement, he has probably heard of his mother’s arrest; but it seems to me impossible that he should suspect our present perplexity.”

“Ah! you are a hundred times right!” exclaimed the magistrate. “I ought to have thought of that myself. In his position he can scarcely have been tampered with as yet, and I’ll have him up here tomorrow morning; I will also question his wife.”

Turning to his clerk, M. Segmuller added: “Quick, Goguet, prepare a summons in the name of the wife of Hippolyte Chupin, and address an order to the governor of the Depot to produce her husband!”

But night was coming on. It was already too dark to see to write, and accordingly the clerk rang the bell for lights. Just as the messenger who brought the lamps turned to leave the room, a rap was heard at the door. Immediately afterward the governor of the Depot entered.

During the past twenty-four hours this worthy functionary had been greatly perplexed concerning the mysterious prisoner he had placed in secret cell No. 3, and he now came to the magistrate for advice regarding him. “I come to ask,” said he, “if I am still to retain the prisoner May in solitary confinement?”

“Yes.”

“Although I fear fresh attacks of frenzy, I dislike to confine him in the strait-jacket again.”

“Leave him free in his cell,” replied M. Segmuller; “and tell the keepers to watch him well, but to treat him kindly.”

By the provisions of Article 613 of the Code, accused parties are placed in the custody of the government, but the investigating magistrate is allowed to adopt such measures concerning them as he may deem necessary for the interest of the prosecution.

The governor bowed assent to M. Segmuller’s instructions, and then added: “You have doubtless succeeded in establishing the prisoner’s identity.”

“Unfortunately, I have not.”

The governor shook his head with a knowing air. “In that case,” said he, “my conjectures were correct. It seems to me evident that this man is a criminal of the worst description—an old offender certainly, and one who has the strongest interest in concealing his identity. You will find that you have to deal with a man who has been sentenced to the galleys for life, and who has managed to escape from Cayenne.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“Hum! I shall be greatly surprised if such should prove the case. I must admit that my opinion in this matter is identical with that of M. Gevrol, the most experienced and the most skilful of our inspectors. I agree with him in thinking that young detectives are often overzealous, and run after fantoms originated in their own brains.”

Lecoq, crimson with wrath, was about to make an angry response when M. Segmuller motioned to him to remain silent. Then with a smile on his face the magistrate replied to the governor. “Upon my word, my dear friend,” he said, “the more I study this affair, the more convinced I am of the correctness of the theory advanced by the ‘overzealous’ detective. But, after all, I am not infallible, and I shall depend upon your counsel and assistance.”

“Oh! I have means of verifying my assertion,” interrupted the governor; “and I hope before the end of the next twenty-four hours that our man will have been identified, either by the police or by one of his fellow-prisoners.”

With these words he took his leave. Scarcely had he done so than Lecoq sprang to his feet. The young detective was furious. “You see that Gevrol already speaks ill of me; he is jealous.”

“Ah, well! what does that matter to you? If you succeed, you will have your revenge. If you are mistaken—then I am mistaken, too.”

Then, as it was already late, M. Segmuller confided to Lecoq’s keeping the various articles the latter had accumulated in support of his theory. He also placed in his hands the diamond earring, the owner of which must be discovered; and the letter signed “Lacheneur,” which had been found in the pocket of the spurious soldier. Having given him full instructions, he asked him to make his appearance promptly on the morrow, and then dismissed him, saying: “Now go; and may good luck attend you!”

XIV

Long, narrow, and low of ceiling, having on the one side a row of windows looking on to a small courtyard, and on the other a range of doors, each with a number on its central panel, thus reminding one of some corridor in a second-rate hotel, such is the Galerie d’Instruction at the Palais de Justice whereby admittance is gained into the various rooms occupied by the investigating magistrates. Even in the daytime, when it is thronged with prisoners, witnesses, and guards, it is a sad and gloomy place. But it is absolutely sinister of aspect at night-time, when deserted, and only dimly lighted by the smoky lamp of a solitary attendant, waiting for the departure of some magistrate whom business has detained later than usual.

Although Lecoq was not sensitive to such influences, he made haste to reach the staircase and thus escape the echo of his footsteps, which sounded most drearily in the silence and darkness pervading the gallery.

Finding an open window on the floor below, he looked out to ascertain the state of the weather. The temperature was much milder; the snow had altogether disappeared, and the pavement was almost dry. A slight haze, illumined by the ruddy glare of the street lamps, hung like a purple mantle over the city. The streets below were full of animation; vehicles were rolling rapidly to and fro, and the footways were too narrow for the bustling crowd, which, now that the labors of the day were ended, was hastening homeward or in search of pleasure.

The sight drew a sigh from the young detective. “And it is in this great city,” he murmured, “in the midst of this world of people that I must discover the traces of a person I don’t even know! Is it possible to accomplish such a feat?”

The feeling of despondency that had momentarily surprised him was not, however, of long duration. “Yes, it is possible,” cried an inward voice. “Besides, it must be done; your future depends upon it. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Ten seconds later he was in the street, more than ever inflamed with hope and courage.

Unfortunately, however, man can only place organs of limited power at the disposal of his boundless desires; and Lecoq had not taken twenty steps along the streets before he became aware that if the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. His limbs trembled, and his head whirled. Nature was asserting her rights; during the last forty-eight hours, the young detective had taken scarcely a moment’s rest, and he had, moreover, now passed an entire day without food.

“Am I going to be ill?” he thought, sinking on to a bench. And he groaned inwardly on recapitulating all that he wished to do that evening.

If he dealt only with the more important matters, must he not at once ascertain the result of Father Absinthe’s search after the man who had recognized one of the victims at the Morgue; test the prisoner’s assertions regarding the box of clothes left at one of the hotels surrounding the Northern Railway Station; and last, but not the least, must he not procure the address of Polyte Chupin’s wife, in order to serve her with the summons to appear before M. Segmuller?

Under the power of urgent necessity, he succeeded in triumphing over his attack of weakness, and rose, murmuring: “I will go first to the Prefecture and to the Morgue; then I will see.”

But he did not find Father Absinthe at the Prefecture, and no one could give any tidings of him. He had not been there at all during the day. Nor could any one indicate, even vaguely, the abode of the Widow Chupin’s daughter-in-law.

On the other hand, however, Lecoq met a number of his colleagues, who laughed and jeered at him unmercifully. “Ah! you are a shrewd fellow!” they said, “it seems that you have just made a wonderful discovery, and it’s said you are going to be decorated with the Legion of Honor.”

Gevrol’s influence betrayed itself everywhere. The jealous inspector had taken pains to inform all his colleagues and subordinates that poor Lecoq, crazed by ambition, persisted in declaring that a low, vulgar murderer trying to escape justice was some great personage in disguise. However, the jeers and taunts of which Lecoq was the object had but little effect upon him, and he consoled himself with the reflection that, “He laughs best who laughs last.”

If he were restless and anxious as he walked along the Quai des Orfevres, it was because he could not explain Father Absinthe’s prolonged absence, and because he feared that Gevrol, mad with jealousy, might attempt, in some underhand way, to frustrate his, Lecoq’s, efforts to arrive at a solution of the mystery.

At the Morgue the young detective met with no better success than at the Prefecture. After ringing three or four times, one of the keepers opened the door and informed him that the bodies had not been identified, and that the old police agent had not been seen since he went away early in the morning.

“This is a bad beginning,” thought Lecoq. “I will go and get some dinner—that, perhaps, will change the luck; at all events, I have certainly earned the bottle of good wine to which I intend to treat myself.”

It was a happy thought. A hearty meal washed down with a couple of glasses of Bordeaux sent new courage and energy coursing through his veins. If he still felt a trifle weary, the sensation of fatigue was at all events greatly diminished when he left the restaurant with a cigar between his lips.

Just at that moment he longed for Father Papillon’s trap and sturdy steed. Fortunately, a cab was passing: he hired it, and as eight o’clock was striking, alighted at the corner of the square in front of the Northern Railway Station. After a brief glance round, he began his search for the hotel where the murderer pretended to have left a box of clothes.

It must be understood that he did not present himself in his official capacity. Hotel proprietors fight shy of detectives, and Lecoq was aware that if he proclaimed his calling he would probably learn nothing at all. By brushing back his hair and turning up his coat collar, he made, however, a very considerable alteration in his appearance; and it was with a marked English accent that he asked the landlords and servants of various hostelries surrounding the station for information concerning a “foreign workman named May.”

He conducted his search with considerable address, but everywhere he received the same reply.

“We don’t know such a person; we haven’t seen any one answering the description you give of him.”

Any other answer would have astonished Lecoq, so strongly persuaded was he that the prisoner had only mentioned the circumstances of a trunk left at one of these hotels in order to give a semblance of truth to his narrative. Nevertheless he continued his investigation. If he noted down in his memorandum book the names of all the hotels which he visited, it was with a view of making sure of the prisoner’s discomfiture when he was conducted to the neighborhood and asked to prove the truth of his story.

Eventually, Lecoq reached the Hotel de Mariembourg, at the corner of the Rue St. Quentin. The house was of modest proportions; but seemed respectable and well kept. Lecoq pushed open the glass door leading into the vestibule, and entered the office—a neat, brightly lighted room, where he found a woman standing upon a chair, her face on a level with a large bird cage, covered with a piece of black silk. She was repeating three or four German words with great earnestness to the inmate of the cage, and was so engrossed in this occupation that Lecoq had to make considerable noise before he could attract her attention.

At length she turned her head, and the young detective exclaimed: “Ah! good evening, madame; you are much interested, I see, in teaching your parrot to talk.”

“It isn’t a parrot,” replied the woman, who had not yet descended from her perch; “but a starling, and I am trying to teach it to say ‘Have you breakfasted?’ in German.”

“What! can starlings talk?”

“Yes, sir, as well as you or I,” rejoined the woman, jumping down from the chair.

Just then the bird, as if it had understood the question, cried very distinctly: “Camille! Where is Camille?”

But Lecoq was too preoccupied to pay any further attention to the incident. “Madame,” he began, “I wish to speak to the proprietor of this hotel.”

“I am the proprietor.”

“Oh! very well. I was expecting a mechanic—from Leipsic—to meet me here in Paris. To my great surprise, he has not made his appearance; and I came to inquire if he was stopping here. His name is May.”

“May!” repeated the hostess, thoughtfully. “May!”

“He ought to have arrived last Sunday evening.”

The woman’s face brightened. “Wait a moment,” said she. “Was this friend of yours a middle-aged man, of medium size, of very dark complexion—wearing a full beard, and having very bright eyes?”

Lecoq could scarcely conceal his agitation. This was an exact description of the supposed murderer. “Yes,” he stammered, “that is a very good portrait of the man.”

“Ah, well! he came here on Shrove Sunday, in the afternoon. He asked for a cheap room, and I showed him one on the fifth floor. The office-boy was not here at the time, and he insisted upon taking his trunk upstairs himself. I offered him some refreshments; but he declined to take anything, saying that he was in a great hurry; and he went away after giving me ten francs as security for the rent.”

“Where is he now?” inquired the young detective.

“Dear me! that reminds me,” replied the woman. “He has never returned, and I have been rather anxious about him. Paris is such a dangerous place for strangers! It is true he spoke French as well as you or I; but what of that? Yesterday evening I gave orders that the commissary of police should be informed of the matter.”

“Yesterday—the commissary?”

“Yes. Still, I don’t know whether the boy obeyed me. I had forgotten all about it. Allow me to ring for the boy, and ask him.”

A bucket of iced water falling upon Lecoq’s head could not have astonished him more than did this announcement from the proprietress of the Hotel de Mariembourg. Had the prisoner indeed told the truth? Was it possible? Gevrol and the governor of the prison were right, then, and M. Segmuller and he, Lecoq, were senseless fools, pursuing a fantom. These ideas flashed rapidly through the young detective’s brain. But he had no time for reflection. The boy who had been summoned now made his appearance, and proved to be a big overgrown lad with frank, chubby face.

“Fritz,” asked his mistress, “did you go to the commissary’s office?”

“Yes, madame.”

“What did he say?”

“He was not in; but I spoke to his secretary, M. Casimir, who said you were not to worry yourself, as the man would no doubt return.”

“But he has not returned.”

The boy rejoined, with a movement of the shoulders that plainly implied: “How can I help that?”

“You hear, sir,” said the hostess, apparently thinking the importunate questioner would now withdraw.

Such, however, was not Lecoq’s intention, and he did not even move, though he had need of all his self-possession to retain his English accent. “This is very annoying,” said he, “very! I am even more anxious and undecided than I was before, since I am not certain that this is the man I am seeking for.”

“Unfortunately, sir, I can tell you nothing more,” calmly replied the landlady.

Lecoq reflected for a moment, knitting his brows and biting his lips, as if he were trying to discover some means of solving the mystery. In point of fact, he was seeking for some adroit phrase which might lead this woman to show him the register in which all travelers are compelled to inscribe their full names, profession, and usual residence. At the same time, however, it was necessary that he should not arouse her suspicions.

“But, madame,” said he at last, “can’t you remember the name this man gave you? Was it May? Try to recollect if that was the name—May—May!”

“Ah! I have so many things to remember. But now I think of it, and the name must be entered in my book, which, if it would oblige you, I can show you. It is in the drawer of my writing-table. Whatever can I have done with my keys?”

And while the hostess, who seemed to possess about as much intelligence as her starling, was turning the whole office upside down looking for her keys, Lecoq scrutinized her closely. She was about forty years of age, with an abundance of light hair, and a very fair complexion. She was well preserved—that is to say, she was plump and healthy in appearance; her glance was frank and unembarrassed; her voice was clear and musical, and her manners were pleasing, and entirely free from affectation.

“Ah!” she eventually exclaimed, “I have found those wretched keys at last.” So saying, she opened her desk, took out the register, laid it on the table, and began turning over the leaves. At last she found the desired page.

“Sunday, February 20th,” said she. “Look, sir: here on the seventh line—May—no Christian name—foreign artist—coming from Leipsic—without papers.”

While Lecoq was examining this record with a dazed air, the woman exclaimed: “Ah! now I can explain how it happened that I forgot the man’s name and strange profession—‘foreign artist.’ I did not make the entry myself.”

“Who made it, then?”

“The man himself, while I was finding ten francs to give him as change for the louis he handed me. You can see that the writing is not at all like that of other entries.”

Lecoq had already noted this circumstance, which seemed to furnish an irrefutable argument in favor of the assertions made by the landlady and the prisoner. “Are you sure,” he asked, “that this is the man’s handwriting?”

In his anxiety he had forgotten his English accent. The woman noticed this at once, for she drew back, and cast a suspicious glance at the pretended foreigner. “I know what I am saying,” she said, indignantly. “And now this is enough, isn’t it?”

Knowing that he had betrayed himself, and thoroughly ashamed of his lack of coolness, Lecoq renounced his English accent altogether. “Excuse me,” he said, “if I ask one more question. Have you this man’s trunk in your possession?”

“Certainly.”

“You would do me an immense service by showing it to me.”

“Show it to you!” exclaimed the landlady, angrily. “What do you take me for? What do you want? and who are you?”

“You shall know in half an hour,” replied the young detective, realizing that further persuasion would be useless.

He hastily left the room, ran to the Place de Roubaix, jumped into a cab, and giving the driver the address of the district commissary of police, promised him a hundred sous over and above the regular fare if he would only make haste. As might have been expected under such circumstances, the poor horse fairly flew over the ground.

Lecoq was fortunate enough to find the commissary at his office. Having given his name, he was immediately ushered into the magistrate’s presence and told his story in a few words.

“It is really true that they came to inform me of this man’s disappearance,” said the commissary. “Casimir told me about it this morning.”

“They—came—to inform—you—” faltered Lecoq.

“Yes, yesterday; but I have had so much to occupy my time. Now, my man, how can I serve you?”

“Come with me, sir; compel them to show us the trunk, and send for a locksmith to open it. Here is the authority—a search warrant given me by the investigating magistrate to use in case of necessity. Let us lose no time. I have a cab at the door.”

“We will start at once,” said the commissary.

The driver whipped up his horse once more, and they were soon rapidly rolling in the direction of the Rue St. Quentin.

“Now, sir,” said the young detective, “permit me to ask if you know this woman who keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg?”

“Yes, indeed, I know her very well. When I was first appointed to this district, six years ago, I was a bachelor, and for a long while I took my meals at her table d’hote. Casimir, my secretary, boards there even now.”

“And what kind of woman is she?”

“Why, upon my word, my young friend, Madame Milner—for such is her name—is a very respectable widow (highly esteemed by her neighbors) and having a very prosperous business. If she remains a widow, it is only from choice, for she is very prepossessing and has plenty of suitors.”

“Then you don’t think her capable of serving, for the sake of a good round sum, the interests of some wealthy culprit?”

“Have you gone mad?” interrupted the commissary. “What, Madame Milner perjure herself for the sake of money! Haven’t I just told you that she is an honest woman, and that she is very well off! Besides, she informed me yesterday that this man was missing, so—”

Lecoq made no reply; the driver was pulling up; they had reached their destination.

On seeing her obstinate questioner reappear, accompanied by the commissary, Madame Milner seemed to understand everything.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “a detective! I might have guessed it! Some crime has been committed; and now my hotel has lost its reputation forever!”

While a messenger was despatched for a locksmith, the commissary endeavored to reassure and console her, a task of no little difficulty, and which he was some time in accomplishing.

At last they all went up to the missing man’s room, and Lecoq sprang toward the trunk. Ah! there was no denying it. It had, indeed, come from Leipsic; as the labels pasted upon it by the different railroad companies only too plainly proved. On being opened, it was, moreover, found to contain the various articles mentioned by the prisoner.

Lecoq was thunderstruck. When he had seen the commissary lock the trunk and its contents up in a cupboard and take possession of the key, he felt he could endure nothing more. He left the room with downcast head; and stumbled like a drunken man as he went down the stairs.

XV

Mardi Gras, or Shrove Tuesday, was very gay that year; that is to say, all places of public resort were crowded. When Lecoq left the Hotel de Mariembourg about midnight, the streets were as full as if it had been noonday, and the cafes were thronged with customers.

But the young detective had no heart for pleasure. He mingled with the crowd without seemingly seeing it, and jostled against groups of people chatting at the corners, without hearing the imprecations occasioned by his awkwardness. Where was he going? He had no idea. He walked aimlessly, more disconsolate and desperate than the gambler who had staked his last hope with his last louis, and lost.

“I must yield,” he murmured; “this evidence is conclusive. My presumptions were only chimeras; my deductions the playthings of chance! All I can now do is to withdraw, with the least possible damage and ridicule, from the false position I have assumed.”

Just as he reached the boulevard, however, a new idea entered his brain, an idea of so startling a kind that he could scarcely restrain a loud exclamation of surprise. “What a fool I am!” cried he, striking his hand violently against his forehead. “Is it possible to be so strong in theory, and yet so ridiculously weak in practise? Ah! I am only a child, a mere novice, disheartened by the slightest obstacle. I meet with a difficulty, and at once I lose all my courage. Now, let me reflect calmly. What did I tell the judge about this murderer, whose plan of defense so puzzles us? Did I not tell him that we had to deal with a man of superior talent—with a man of consummate penetration and experience—a bold, courageous fellow of imperturbable coolness, who will do anything to insure the success of his plans? Yes; I told him all that, and yet I give up the game in despair as soon as I meet with a single circumstance that I can not instantly explain. It is evident that such a prisoner would not resort to old, hackneyed, commonplace expedients. Time, patience, and research are requisite to find a flaw in his defense. With such a man as he is, the more appearances are against my presumptions, and in favor of his narrative, the more certain it is that I am right—or else logic is no longer logic.”

At this thought, Lecoq burst into a hearty laugh. “Still,” continued he, “it would perhaps be premature to expose this theory at headquarters in Gevrol’s presence. He would at once present me with a certificate for admission into some lunatic asylum.”

The young detective paused. While absorbed in thought, his legs, obeying an instinctive impulse, had brought him to his lodgings. He rang the bell; the door opened, and he groped his way slowly up to the fourth floor. He had reached his room, and was about to enter, when some one, whom he could not distinguish in the dark, called out: “Is that you, Monsieur Lecoq?”

“Yes, it’s I!” replied the young man, somewhat surprised; “but who are you?”

“I’m Father Absinthe.”

“Oh! indeed! Well, you are welcome! I didn’t recognize your voice—will you come in?”

They entered the room, and Lecoq lit a candle. Then the young man could see his colleague, and, good heavens! he found him in a most pitiable condition.

He was as dirty and as bespattered with mud as a lost dog that has been wandering about in the rain and the mire for a week at the very least. His overcoat bore the traces of frequent contact with damp walls; his hat had lost its form entirely. His eyes wore an anxious look, and his mustache drooped despondently. He spoke, moreover, so strangely that one might have supposed his mouth was full of sand.

“Do you bring me bad news?” inquired Lecoq, after a short examination of his companion.

“Yes, bad.”

“The people you were following escaped you, then?”

The old man nodded his head affirmatively.

“It is unfortunate—very unfortunate!” said Lecoq. “But it is useless to distress ourselves about it. Don’t be so cast down, Father Absinthe. Tomorrow, between us, we will repair the damage.”

This friendly encouragement only increased the old man’s evident embarrassment. He blushed, this veteran, as if he had been a schoolgirl, and raising his hands toward heaven, he exclaimed: “Ah, you wretch! didn’t I tell you so?”

“Why! what is the matter with you?” inquired Lecoq.

Father Absinthe made no reply. Approaching a looking-glass that hung against the wall, he surveyed himself reproachfully and began to heap cruel insults upon the reflection of his features.

“You old good-for-nothing!” he exclaimed. “You vile deserter! have you no shame left? You were entrusted with a mission, were you not? And how have you fulfilled it? You have got drunk, you old wretch, so drunk as to have lost your wits. Ah, you shan’t escape punishment this time, for even if M. Lecoq is indulgent, you shan’t taste another drop for a week. Yes, you old sot, you shall suffer for this escapade.”

“Come, come,” said Lecoq, “you can sermonize by and by. Now tell me your story.”

“Ah! I am not proud of it, believe me. However, never mind. No doubt you received the letter in which I told you I was going to follow the young men who seemed to recognize Gustave?”

“Yes, yes—go on!”

“Well, as soon as they entered the cafe, into which I had followed them, they began drinking, probably to drive away their emotion. After that they apparently felt hungry. At all events they ordered breakfast. I followed their example. The meal, with coffee and beer afterward, took up no little time, and indeed a couple of hours had elapsed before they were ready to pay their bill and go. Good! I supposed they would now return home. Not at all. They walked down the Rue Dauphin; and I saw them enter another cafe. Five minutes later I glided in after them; and found them already engaged in a game of billiards.”

At this point Father Absinthe hesitated; it is no easy task to recount one’s blunders to the very person who has suffered by them.

“I seated myself at a little table,” he eventually resumed, “and asked for a newspaper. I was reading with one eye and watching with the other, when a respectable-looking man entered, and took a seat beside me. As soon as he had seated himself he asked me to let him have the paper when I had finished with it. I handed it to him, and then we began talking about the weather. At last he proposed a game of bezique. I declined, but we afterward compromised the matter by having a game of piquet. The young men, you understand, were still knocking the balls about. We began by playing for a glass of brandy each. I won. My adversary asked for his revenge, and we played two games more. I still kept on winning. He insisted upon another game, and again I won, and still I drank—and drank again—”

“Go on, go on.”

“Ah! here’s the rub. After that I remember nothing—nothing either about the man I had been playing with or the young men. It seems to me, however, that I recollect falling asleep in the cafe, and that a long while afterward a waiter came and woke me and told me to go. Then I must have wandered about along the quays until I came to my senses, and decided to go to your lodgings and wait on the stairs until you returned.”

To Father Absinthe’s great surprise, Lecoq seemed rather thoughtful than angry. “What do you think about this chance acquaintance of yours, papa?” asked the young detective.

“I think he was following me while I was following the others, and that he entered the cafe with the view of making me drunk.”

“What was he like?”

“Oh, he was a tall, stoutish man, with a broad, red face, and a flat nose; and he was very unpretending and affable in manner.

“It was he!” exclaimed Lecoq.

“He! Who?”

“Why, the accomplice—the man whose footprints we discovered—the pretended drunkard—a devil incarnate, who will get the best of us yet, if we don’t keep our eyes open. Don’t you forget him, papa; and if you ever meet him again—”

But Father Absinthe’s confession was not ended. Like most devotees, he had reserved the worst sin for the last.

“But that’s not all,” he resumed; “and as it’s best to make a clean breast of it, I will tell you that it seems to me this traitor talked about the affair at the Poivriere, and that I told him all we had discovered, and all we intended to do.”

Lecoq made such a threatening gesture that the old tippler drew back in consternation. “You wretched man!” exclaimed the young detective, “to betray our plans to the enemy!”

But his calmness soon returned. If at first sight the evil seemed to be beyond remedy, on further thought it had a good side after all. It sufficed to dispel all the doubts that had assailed Lecoq’s mind after his visit to the Hotel de Mariembourg.

“However,” quoth our hero, “this is not the time for deliberation. I am overcome with fatigue; take a mattress from the bed for yourself, my friend, and let us get a little sleep.”

Lecoq was a man of considerable forethought. Hence, before going to bed he took good care to wind up his alarm so that it might wake him at six o’clock. “With that to warn us,” he remarked to his companion, as he blew out the candle, “there need be no fear of our missing the coach.”

He had not, however, made allowance for his own extreme weariness or for the soporific effect of the alcoholic fumes with which his comrade’s breath was redolent. When six o’clock struck at the church of St. Eustache, the young detective’s alarm resounded faithfully enough, with a loud and protracted whir. Shrill and sonorous as was the sound, it failed, however, to break the heavy sleep of the two detectives. They would indeed, in all probability, have continued slumbering for several hours longer, if at half-past seven a sturdy fist had not begun to rap loudly at the door. With one bound Lecoq was out of bed, amazed at seeing the bright sunlight, and furious at the futility of his precautions.

“Come in!” he cried to his early visitor. He had no enemies to fear, and could, without danger, sleep with his door unlocked.

In response to his call, Father Papillon’s shrewd face peered into the room.

“Ah! it is my worthy coachman!” exclaimed Lecoq. “Is there anything new?”

“Excuse me, but it’s the old affair that brings me here,” replied our eccentric friend the cabman. “You know—the thirty francs those wretched women paid me. Really, I shan’t sleep in peace till you have worked off the amount by using my vehicle. Our drive yesterday lasted two hours and a half, which, according to the regular fare, would be worth a hundred sous; so you see I’ve still more than twelve hours at your disposal.”

“That is all nonsense, my friend!”

“Possibly, but I am responsible for it, and if you won’t use my cab, I’ve sworn to spend those twelve hours waiting outside your door. So now make up your mind.” He gazed at Lecoq beseechingly, and it was evident that a refusal would wound him keenly.

“Very well,” replied Lecoq, “I will take you for the morning, only I ought to warn you that we are starting on a long journey.”

“Oh, Cocotte’s legs may be relied upon.”

“My companion and myself have business in your own neighborhood. It is absolutely necessary for us to find the Widow Chupin’s daughter-in-law; and I hope we shall be able to obtain her address from the police commissary of the district where the Poivriere is situated.”

“Very well, we will go wherever you wish; I am at your orders.”

A few moments later they were on their way.

Papillon’s features wore an air of self-satisfied pride as, sitting erect on his box, he cracked his whip, and encouraged the nimble Cocotte. The vehicle could not have got over the ground more rapidly if its driver had been promised a hundred sous’ gratuity.

Father Absinthe alone was sad. He had been forgiven by Lecoq, but he could not forget that he, an old police agent, had been duped as easily as if he had been some ignorant provincial. The thought was humiliating, and then in addition he had been fool enough to reveal the secret plans of the prosecution! He knew but too well that this act of folly had doubled the difficulties of Lecoq’s task.

The long drive in Father Papillon’s cab was not a fruitless one. The secretary of the commissary of police for the thirteenth arrondissement informed Lecoq that Polyte Chupin’s wife lived with her child, in the suburbs, in the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles. He could not indicate the precise number, but he described the house and gave them some information concerning its occupants.

The Widow Chupin’s daughter-in-law, a native of Auvergne, had been bitterly punished for preferring a rakish Parisian ragamuffin to one of the grimy charcoal-burners of the Puy de Dome. She was hardly more than twelve years of age when she first came to Paris and obtained employment in a large factory. After ten years’ privation and constant toil, she had managed to amass, sou by sou, the sum of three thousand francs. Then her evil genius threw Polyte Chupin across her path. She fell in love with this dissipated, selfish rascal; and he married her for the sake of her little hoard.

As long as the money lasted, that is, for some three or four months, matters went on pleasantly enough. But as soon as the last franc had been spent, Polyte left his wife, and complacently resumed his former life of idleness, thieving, and debauchery. When at times he returned home, it was merely with the view of robbing his wife of what little money she might have saved in the mean while; and periodically she uncomplainingly allowed him to despoil her of the last penny of her earnings.

Horrible to relate, this unworthy rascal even tried to trade on her good looks. Here, however, he met with a strenuous resistance—a resistance which excited not merely his own ire, but also the hatred of the villain’s mother—that old hag, the Widow Chupin. The result was that Polyte’s wife was subjected to such incessant cruelty and persecution that one night she was forced to fly with only the rags that covered her. The Chupins—mother and son—believed, perhaps, that starvation would effect what their horrible threats and insidious counsel had failed to accomplish. Their shameful expectations were not, however, gratified.

In mentioning these facts to Lecoq, the commissary’s secretary added that they had become widely known, and that the unfortunate creature’s force of character had won for her general respect. Among those she frequented, moreover, she was known by the nickname of “Toinon the Virtuous”—a rather vulgar but, at all events, sincere tribute to her worth.

Grateful for this information, Lecoq returned to the cab. The Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, whither Papillon was now directed to drive, proved to be very unlike the Boulevard Malesherbes, and one brief glance sufficed to show that opulence had not here fixed its abode. Luck seemed for the moment to have turned in Lecoq’s favor. At all events, when he and Father Absinthe alighted at the corner of the street, it so happened that the very first person the young detective questioned concerning the virtuous Toinon was well acquainted with her whereabouts. The house in which she resided was pointed out, and Lecoq was instructed to go upstairs to the top floor, and knock at the door in front of him. With such precise directions the two detectives speedily reached Madame Polyte Chupin’s abode.

This proved to be a cold and gloomy attic of medium size, windowless, but provided with a small skylight. A straw pallet, a broken table, two chairs, and a few plain kitchen utensils constituted the sole appointments of this miserable garret. But in spite of the occupant’s evident poverty, everything was neat and clean, and to use a forcible expression that fell from Father Absinthe, one could have eaten off the floor.

The two detectives entered, and found a woman busily engaged in making a heavy linen sack. She was seated in the centre of the room, directly under the skylight, so that the sun’s rays might fall upon her work. At the sight of two strangers, she half rose from her chair, surprised, and perhaps a little frightened; but when Lecoq had explained that they desired a few moments’ conversation with her, she gave up her own seat, and drawing the second chair from a corner, invited both detectives to sit down. Lecoq complied, but Father Absinthe declared that he preferred to remain standing.

With a single glance Lecoq took an inventory of the humble abode, and, so to speak, appraised the woman. She was short, stout, and of commonplace appearance. Her forehead was extremely low, being crowned by a forest of coarse, black hair; while the expression of her large, black eyes, set very close together, recalled the look of patient resignation one so often detects in ill-treated and neglected animals. Possibly, in former days, she might have possessed that fleeting attraction called the beaute du diable; but now she looked almost as old as her wretched mother-in-law. Sorrow and privation, excessive toil and ill-treatment, had imparted to her face a livid hue, reddening her eyes and stamping deep furrows round about her temples. Still, there was an attribute of native honesty about her which even the foul atmosphere in which she had been compelled to live had not sufficed to taint.

Her little boy furnished a striking contrast. He was pale and puny; his eyes gleamed with a phosphorescent brilliancy; and his hair was of a faded flaxen tint. One little circumstance attracted both detectives’ attention. If the mother was attired in an old, thin, faded calico dress, the child was warmly clad in stout woolen material.

“Madame, you have doubtless heard of a dreadful crime, committed in your mother-in-law’s establishment,” began Lecoq in a soft voice.

“Alas! yes, sir,” replied Toinon the Virtuous, quickly adding: “But my husband could not have been implicated in it, since he is in prison.”

Did not this objection, forestalling, as it were, suspicion, betray the most horrible apprehensions?

“Yes, I am aware of that,” replied Lecoq. “Polyte was arrested a fortnight ago—”

“Yes, and very unjustly, sir,” replied the neglected wife. “He was led astray by his companions, wicked, desperate men. He is so weak when he has taken a glass of wine that they can do whatever they like with him. If he were only left to himself he would not harm a child. You have only to look at him—”

As she spoke, the virtuous Toinon turned her red and swollen eyes to a miserable photograph hanging against the wall. This blotchy smudge portrayed an exceedingly ugly, dissipated-looking young man, afflicted with a terrible squint, and whose repulsive mouth was partially concealed by a faint mustache. This rake of the barrieres was Polyte Chupin. And yet despite his unprepossessing aspect there was no mistaking the fact that this unfortunate woman loved him—had always loved him; besides, he was her husband.

A moment’s silence followed her indication of the portrait—an act which clearly revealed how deeply she worshiped her persecutor; and during this pause the attic door slowly and softly opened. Not of itself, however, for suddenly a man’s head peered in. The intruder, whoever he was, instantly withdrew, uttering as he did so a low exclamation. The door was swiftly closed again; the key—which had been left on the outside—grated in the lock, and the occupants of the garret could hear hurried steps descending the stairs.

Lecoq was sitting with his back to the door, and could not, therefore, see the intruder’s face. Quickly as he had turned, he had failed to see who it was: and yet he was far from being surprised at the incident. Intuition explained its meaning.

“That must have been the accomplice!” he cried.

Thanks to his position, Father Absinthe had seen the man’s face. “Yes,” said he, “yes, it was the same man who made me drink with him yesterday.”

With a bound, both detectives threw themselves against the door, exhausting their strength in vain attempts to open it. It resisted all their efforts, for it was of solid oak, having been purchased by the landlord from some public building in process of demolition, and it was, moreover, furnished with a strong and massive fastening.

“Help us!” cried Father Absinthe to the woman, who stood petrified with astonishment; “give us a bar, a piece of iron, a nail—anything!”

The younger man was making frantic efforts to push back the bolt, or to force the lock from the wood. He was wild with rage. At last, having succeeded in forcing the door open, they dashed out in pursuit of their mysterious adversary. On reaching the street, they eagerly questioned the bystanders. Having described the man as best they could, they found two persons who had seen him enter the house of Toinon the Virtuous, and a third who had seen him as he left. Some children who were playing in the middle of the street added that he had run off in the direction of the Rue du Moulin-des-Pres as fast as his legs could carry him. It was in this street, near the corner of the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, that Lecoq had left old Papillon waiting with the cab.

“Let us hasten there!” proposed Father Absinthe; “perhaps Papillon can give us some information.”

But Lecoq shook his head despondently. He would go no further. “It would be of no use,” he said. “He had sufficient presence of mind to turn the key in the lock, and that saved him. He is at least ten minutes in advance of us, and we should never overtake him.”

Father Absinthe could not restrain his anger. He looked upon this mysterious accomplice who had so cruelly duped him as a personal enemy, and he would willingly have given a month’s pay to be able to lay his hand on his shoulder. Lecoq was quite as angry as his subordinate, and his vanity was likewise wounded; he felt, however, that coolness and deliberation were necessary.

“Yes,” said he thoughtfully, “he’s a shrewd and daring fellow—a perfect demon. He doesn’t remain idle. If we are working, he’s at work too. No matter what side I turn, I find him on the defensive. He foiled you, papa, in your effort to obtain a clue concerning Gustave’s identity; and he made me appear a fool in arranging that little comedy at the Hotel de Mariembourg. His diligence has been wonderful. He has hitherto been in advance of us everywhere, and this fact explains the failures that have attended all my efforts. Here we arrive before him. But if he came here, it was because he scented danger. Hence, we may hope. Now let us get back and question Polyte’s wife.”

Alas! poor Toinon the Virtuous did not understand the affair at all. She had remained upstairs, holding her child by the hand, and leaning over the baluster; her mind in great perplexity and her eyes and ears on the alert. As soon as she perceived the two detectives coming up the stairs again, she hastened down to meet them. “In the name of heaven, what does this all mean?” she asked. “Whatever has happened?”

But Lecoq was not the man to tell his business on a landing, with inquisitive ears all around him, and before he answered Toinon he made her go up into her own garret, and securely close the door.

“We started in pursuit of a man who is implicated in the murders at the Poivriere,” he said; “one who came here hoping to find you alone, who was frightened at seeing us.”

“A murderer!” faltered Toinon, with clasped hands. “What could he want of me?”

“Who knows? It is very probable that he is one of your husband’s friends.”

“Oh! sir.”

“Why, did you not tell me just now that Polyte had some very undesirable acquaintances? But don’t be alarmed; this does not compromise him in the least. Besides, you can very easily clear him of all suspicion.”

“How? In what way? Oh, tell me at once.”

“Merely by answering me frankly, and by assisting me to find the guilty party. Now, among your husband’s friends, don’t you know any who might be capable of such a deed? Give me the names of his acquaintances.”

The poor woman’s hesitation was evident; undoubtedly she had been present at many sinister cabals, and had been threatened with terrible punishment if she dared to disclose the plans formed by Polyte or his associates.

“You have nothing to fear,” said Lecoq, encouragingly, “and I promise you no one shall ever know that you have told me a word. Very probably you can tell me nothing more than I know already. I have heard a great deal about your former life, and the brutality with which Polyte and his mother have treated you.”

“My husband has never treated me brutally,” said the young woman, indignantly; “besides, that matter would only concern myself.”

“And your mother-in-law?”

“She is, perhaps, a trifle quick-tempered; but in reality she has a good heart.”

“Then, if you were so happy at the Widow Chupin’s house, why did you fly from it?”

Toinon the Virtuous turned scarlet to the very roots of her hair. “I left for other reasons,” she replied. “There were always a great many drunken men about the house; and, sometimes, when I was alone, some of them tried to carry their pleasantry too far. You may say that I have a solid fist of my own, and that I am quite capable of protecting myself. That’s true. But while I was away one day some fellows were wicked enough to make this child drink to such an excess that when I came home I found him as stiff and cold as if he were dead. It was necessary to fetch a doctor or else—”

She suddenly paused; her eyes dilated. From red she turned livid, and in a hoarse, unnatural voice, she cried: “Toto! wretched child!”

Lecoq looked behind him, and shuddered. He understood everything. This child—not yet five years old—had stolen up behind him, and, ferreting in the pockets of his overcoat, had rifled them of their contents.

“Ah, well—yes!” exclaimed the unfortunate mother, bursting into tears. “That’s how it was. Directly the child was out of my sight, they used to take him into town. They took him into the crowded streets, and taught him to pick people’s pockets, and bring them everything he could lay his hands on. If the child was detected they were angry with him and beat him; and if he succeeded they gave him a sou to buy some sweets, and kept what he had taken.”

The luckless Toinon hid her face in her hands, and sobbed in an almost unintelligible voice: “Ah, I did not wish my little one to be a thief.”

But what this poor creature did not tell was that the man who had led the child out into the streets, to teach him to steal, was his own father, and her husband—the ruffian, Polyte Chupin. The two detectives plainly understood, however, that such was the case, and the father’s crime was so horrible, and the woman’s grief so great, that, familiar as they were with all the phases of crime, their very hearts were touched. Lecoq’s main thought, however, was to shorten this painful scene. The poor mother’s emotion was a sufficient guarantee of her sincerity.

“Listen,” said he, with affected harshness. “Two questions only, and then I will leave you. Was there a man named Gustave among the frequenters of the Poivriere?”

“No, sir, I’m quite sure there wasn’t.”

“Very well. But Lacheneur—you must know Lacheneur!”

“Yes, sir; I know him.”

The young police agent could not repress an exclamation of delight. “At last,” thought he, “I have a clue that may lead me to the truth. What kind of man is he?” he asked with intense anxiety.

“Oh! he is not at all like the other men who come to drink at my mother-in-law’s shop. I have only seen him once; but I remember him perfectly. It was on a Sunday. He was in a cab. He stopped at the corner of the waste ground and spoke to Polyte. When he went away, my husband said to me: ‘Do you see that old man there? He will make all our fortunes.’ I thought him a very respectable-looking gentleman—”

“That’s enough,” interrupted Lecoq. “Now it is necessary for you to tell the investigating magistrate all you know about him. I have a cab downstairs. Take your child with you, if you like; but make haste; come, come quickly!”

XVI

The extreme uncertainty of the result was another attraction for M. Segmuller’s investigating mind. Given the magnitude of the difficulties that were to be overcome, he rightly considered that if his efforts proved successful, he would have achieved a really wonderful victory. And, assisted by such a man as Lecoq, who had a positive genius for his calling, and in whom he recognized a most valuable auxiliary, he really felt confident of ultimate success.

Even on returning home after the fatiguing labors of the day he did not think of freeing himself from the burden of responsibility in relation to the business he had on hand, or of driving away care until the morrow. He dined in haste, and as soon as he had swallowed his coffee began to study the case with renewed ardor. He had brought from his office a copy of the prisoner’s narrative, which he attentively perused, not once or twice, but several times, seeking for some weak point that might be attacked with a probability of success. He analyzed every answer, and weighed one expression after another, striving, as he did so, to find some flaw through which he might slip a question calculated to shatter the structure of defense. He worked thus, far into the night, and yet he was on his legs again at an early hour in the morning. By eight o’clock he was not merely dressed and shaved, he had not merely taken his matutinal chocolate and arranged his papers, but he was actually on his way to the Palais de Justice. He had quite forgotten that his own impatience was not shared by others.

In point of fact, the Palais de Justice was scarcely awake when he arrived there. The doors had barely opened. The attendants were busy sweeping and dusting; or changing their ordinary garments for their official costumes. Some of them standing in the windows of the long dressing room were shaking and brushing the judges’ and advocates’ gowns; while in the great hall several clerks stood in a group, chaffing each other while waiting for the arrival of the head registrar and the opening of the investigation offices.

M. Segmuller thought that he had better begin by consulting the public prosecutor, but he discovered that this functionary had not yet arrived. Angry and impatient, he proceeded to his own office; and with his eyes fixed on the clock, growled at the slowness of the minute hand. Just after nine o’clock, Goguet, the smiling clerk, put in an appearance and speedily learned the kind of humor his master was in.

“Ah, you’ve come at last,” gruffly ejaculated M. Segmuller, momentarily oblivious of the fact that he himself scarcely ever arrived before ten, and that a quarter-past nine was certainly early for his clerk.

Goguet’s curiosity had indeed prompted him to hurry to the Palais; still, although well aware that he did not deserve a reprimand, he endeavored to mumble an excuse—an excuse cut short by M. Segmuller in such unusually harsh tones that for once in a way Goguet’s habitual smile faded from his face. “It’s evident,” thought he, “that the wind’s blowing from a bad quarter this morning,” with which reflection he philosophically put on his black sleeves and going to his table pretended to be absorbed in the task of mending his pens and preparing his paper.

In the mean while, M. Segmuller who was usually calmness personified, and dignity par excellence, paced restlessly to and fro. At times he would sit down and then suddenly spring to his feet again, gesticulating impatiently as he did so. Indeed, he seemed unable to remain quiet for a moment.

“The prosecution is evidently making no headway,” thought the clerk. “May’s prospects are encouraging.” Owing to the magistrate’s harsh reception the idea delighted him; and, indeed, letting his rancor have the upper hand, Goguet actually offered up a prayer that the prisoner might get the better of the fight.

From half-past nine till ten o’clock M. Segmuller rang for his messenger at least five times, and each time he asked him the same questions: “Are you sure that M. Lecoq has not been here this morning? Inquire! If he has not been here he must certainly have sent some one, or else have written to me.”

Each time the astonished doorkeeper replied: “No one has been here, and there is no letter for you.”

Five identical negative answers to the same inquiries only increased the magistrate’s wrath and impatience. “It is inconceivable!” he exclaimed. “Here I am upon coals of fire, and that man dares to keep me waiting. Where can he be?”

At last he ordered a messenger to go and see if he could not find Lecoq somewhere in the neighborhood; perhaps in some restaurant or cafe. “At all events, he must be found and brought back immediately,” said he.

When the man had started, M. Segmuller began to recover his composure. “We must not lose valuable time,” he said to his clerk. “I was to examine the widow Chupin’s son. I had better do so now. Go and tell them to bring him to me. Lecoq left the order at the prison.”

In less than a quarter of an hour Polyte entered the room. From head to foot, from his lofty silk cap to his gaudy colored carpet slippers, he was indeed the original of the portrait upon which poor Toinon the Virtuous had lavished such loving glances. And yet the photograph was flattering. The lens had failed to convey the expression of low cunning that distinguished the man’s features, the impudence of his leering smile, and the mingled cowardice and ferocity of his eyes, which never looked another person in the face. Nor could the portrait depict the unwholesome, livid pallor of his skin, the restless blinking of his eyelids, and the constant movement of his thin lips as he drew them tightly over his short, sharp teeth. There was no mistaking his nature; one glance and he was estimated at his worth.

When he had answered the preliminary questions, telling the magistrate that he was thirty years of age, and that he had been born in Paris, he assumed a pretentious attitude and waited to see what else was coming.

But before proceeding with the real matter in hand, M. Segmuller wished to relieve the complacent scoundrel of some of his insulting assurance. Accordingly, he reminded Polyte, in forcible terms, that his sentence in the affair in which he was now implicated would depend very much upon his behavior and answers during the present examination.

Polyte listened with a nonchalant and even ironical air. In fact, this indirect threat scarcely touched him. Having previously made inquiries he had ascertained that he could not be condemned to more than six months’ imprisonment for the offense for which he had been arrested; and what did a month more or less matter to him?

The magistrate, who read this thought in Polyte’s eyes, cut his preamble short. “Justice,” said he, “now requires some information from you concerning the frequenters of your mother’s establishment.”

“There are a great many of them, sir,” answered Polyte in a harsh voice.

“Do you know one of them named Gustave?”

“No, sir.”

To insist would probably awaken suspicion in Polyte’s mind; accordingly, M. Segmuller continued: “You must, however, remember Lacheneur?”

“Lacheneur? No, this is the first time I’ve heard that name.”

“Take care. The police have means of finding out a great many things.”

The scapegrace did not flinch. “I am telling the truth, sir,” he retorted. “What interest could I possibly have in deceiving you?”

Scarcely had he finished speaking than the door suddenly opened and Toinon the Virtuous entered the room, carrying her child in her arms. On perceiving her husband, she uttered a joyful exclamation, and sprang toward him. But Polyte, stepping back, gave her such a threatening glance that she remained rooted to the spot.

“It must be an enemy who pretends that I know any one named Lacheneur!” cried the barriere bully. “I should like to kill the person who uttered such a falsehood. Yes, kill him; I will never forgive it.”

The messenger whom M. Segmuller had instructed to go in search of Lecoq was not at all displeased with the errand; for it enabled him to leave his post and take a pleasant little stroll through the neighborhood. He first of all proceeded to the Prefecture of Police, going the longest way round as a matter of course, but, on reaching his destination, he could find no one who had seen the young detective.

Accordingly, M. Segmuller’s envoy retraced his steps, and leisurely sauntered through the restaurants, cafes, and wine shops installed in the vicinity of the Palais de Justice, and dependent on the customers it brought them. Being of a conscientious turn of mind, he entered each establishment in succession and meeting now and again various acquaintances, he felt compelled to proffer and accept numerous glasses of the favorite morning beverage—white wine. Turn which way he would, however, loiter as long as he might, there were still no signs of Lecoq. He was returning in haste, a trifle uneasy on account of the length of his absence, when he perceived a cab pull up in front of the Palais gateway. A second glance, and oh, great good fortune, he saw Lecoq, Father Absinthe, and the virtuous Toinon alight from this very vehicle. His peace of mind at once returned; and it was in a very important and somewhat husky tone that he delivered the order for Lecoq to follow him without a minute’s delay. “M. Segmuller has asked for you a number of times,” said he, “He has been extremely impatient, and he is in a very bad humor, so you may expect to have your head snapped off in the most expeditious manner.”

Lecoq smiled as he went up the stairs. Was he not bringing with him the most potent of justifications? He thought of the agreeable surprise he had in store for the magistrate, and fancied he could picture the sudden brightening of that functionary’s gloomy face.

And yet, fate so willed it that the doorkeeper’s message and his urgent appeal that Lecoq should not loiter on the way, produced the most unfortunate results. Believing that M. Segmuller was anxiously waiting for him, Lecoq saw nothing wrong in opening the door of the magistrate’s room without previously knocking; and being anxious to justify his absence, he yielded, moreover, to the impulse that led him to push forward the poor woman whose testimony might prove so decisive. When he saw, however, that the magistrate was not alone, and when he recognized Polyte Chupin—the original of the photograph—in the man M. Segmuller was examining, his stupefaction became intense. He instantly perceived his mistake and understood its consequences.

There was only one thing to be done. He must prevent any exchange of words between the two. Accordingly, springing toward Toinon and seizing her roughly by the arm, he ordered her to leave the room at once. But the poor creature was quite overcome, and trembled like a leaf. Her eyes were fixed upon her unworthy husband, and the happiness she felt at seeing him again shone plainly in her anxious gaze. Just for one second; and then she caught his withering glance and heard his words of menace. Terror-stricken, she staggered back, and then Lecoq seized her around the waist, and, lifting her with his strong arms, carried her out into the passage. The whole scene had been so brief that M. Segmuller was still forming the order for Toinon to be removed from the room, when he found the door closed again, and himself and Goguet alone with Polyte.

“Ah, ah!” thought the smiling clerk, in a flutter of delight, “this is something new.” But as these little diversions never made him forget his duties, he leaned toward the magistrate and asked: “Shall I take down the last words the witness uttered?”

“Certainly,” replied M. Segmuller, “and word for word, if you please.”

He paused; the door opened again, this time to admit the magistrate’s messenger, who timidly, and with a rather guilty air, handed his master a note, and then withdrew. This note, scribbled in pencil by Lecoq on a leaf torn from his memorandum book, gave the magistrate the name of the woman who had just entered his room, and recapitulated briefly but clearly the information obtained in the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles.

“That young fellow thinks of everything!” murmured M. Segmuller. The meaning of the scene that had just occurred was now explained to him. He understood everything.

He bitterly regretted this unfortunate meeting; at the same time casting the blame on his own impatience and lack of caution, which, as soon as the messenger had started in search of Lecoq, had induced him to summon Polyte Chupin. Although he could not conceal from himself the enormous influence this seemingly trivial incident might have, still he would not allow himself to be cast down, but prepared to resume his examination of Polyte Chupin in hopes of yet obtaining the information he desired.

“Let us proceed,” he said to Polyte, who had not moved since his wife had been taken from the room, being to all appearances sublimely indifferent to everything passing around him. To the magistrate’s proposal he carelessly nodded assent.

“Was that your wife who came in just now?” asked M. Segmuller.

“Yes.”

“She wished to embrace you, and you repulsed her.”

“I didn’t repulse her.”

“You kept her at a distance at all events. If you had a spark of affection in your nature, you would at least have looked at your child, which she held out to you. Why did you behave in that manner?”

“It wasn’t the time for sentiment.”

“You are not telling the truth. You simply desired to attract her attention, to influence her evidence.”

“I—I influence her evidence! I don’t understand you.”

“But for that supposition, your words would have been meaningless?”

“What words?”

The magistrate turned to his clerk: “Goguet,” said he, “read the last remark you took down.”

In a monotonous voice, the smiling clerk repeated: “I should like to kill the person who dared to say that I knew Lacheneur.”

“Well, then!” insisted M. Segmuller, “what did you mean by that?”

“It’s very easy to understand, sir.”

M. Segmuller rose. “Don’t prevaricate any longer,” he said. “You certainly ordered your wife not to say anything about Lacheneur. That’s evident. Why did you do so? What are you afraid of her telling us? Do you suppose the police are ignorant of your acquaintance with Lacheneur—of your conversation with him when he came in a cab to the corner of the waste ground near your mother’s wine-shop; and of the hopes of fortune you based upon his promises? Be guided by me; confess everything, while there is yet time; and abandon the present course which may lead you into serious danger. One may be an accomplice in more ways than one.”

As these words fell on Polyte’s ears, it was evident his impudence and indifference had received a severe shock. He seemed confounded, and hung his head as if thoroughly abashed. Still, he preserved an obstinate silence; and the magistrate finding that this last thrust had failed to produce any effect, gave up the fight in despair. He rang the bell, and ordered the guard to conduct the witness back to prison, and to take every precaution to prevent him seeing his wife again.

When Polyte had departed, Lecoq reentered the room. “Ah, sir,” said he, despondently, “to think that I didn’t draw out of this woman everything she knew, when I might have done so easily. But I thought you would be waiting for me, and made haste to bring her here. I thought I was acting for the best—”

“Never mind, the misfortune can be repaired.”

“No, sir, no. Since she has seen her husband, it is quite impossible to get her to speak. She loves that rascal intensely, and he has a wonderful influence over her. You heard what he said. He threatened her with death if she breathed a word about Lacheneur, and she is so terrified that there is no hope of making her speak.”

Lecoq’s apprehension was based on fact, as M, Segmuller himself perceived the instant Toinon the Virtuous again set foot in his office. The poor creature seemed nearly heartbroken, and it was evident she would have given her life to retract the words that had escaped her when first questioned by Lecoq. Polyte’s threat had aroused the most sinister apprehensions in her mind. Not understanding his connection with the affair, she asked herself if her testimony might not prove his death-warrant. Accordingly, she answered all M. Segmuller’s questions with “no” or “I don’t know”; and retracted everything she had previously stated to Lecoq. She swore that she had been misunderstood, that her words had been misconstrued; and vowed on her mother’s memory, that she had never heard the name of Lacheneur before. At last, she burst into wild, despairing sobs, and pressed her frightened child against her breast.

What could be done to overcome this foolish obstinacy, as blind and unreasoning as a brute’s? M. Segmuller hesitated. “You may retire, my good woman,” said he kindly, after a moment’s pause, “but remember that your strange silence injures your husband far more than anything you could say.”

She left the room—or rather she rushed wildly from it as though only too eager to escape—and the magistrate and the detective exchanged glances of dismay and consternation.

“I said so before,” thought Goguet, “the prisoner knows what he’s about. I would be willing to bet a hundred to one in his favor.”

A French investigating magistrate is possessed of almost unlimited powers. No one can hamper him, no one can give him orders. The entire police force is at his disposal. One word from him and twenty agents, or a hundred if need be, search Paris, ransack France, or explore Europe. If there be any one whom he believes able to throw light upon an obscure point, he simply sends an order to that person to appear before him, and the man must come even if he lives a hundred leagues away.

Such is the magistrate, such are his powers. On the other hand, the prisoner charged with a crime, but as yet un-convicted, is confined, unless his offense be of a trivial description, in what is called a “secret cell.” He is, so to say, cut off from the number of the living. He knows nothing of what may be going on in the world outside. He can not tell what witnesses may have been called, or what they may have said, and in his uncertainty he asks himself again and again how far the prosecution has been able to establish the charges against him.

Such is the prisoner’s position, and yet despite the fact that the two adversaries are so unequally armed, the man in the secret cell not unfrequently wins the victory. If he is sure that he has left behind him no proof of his having committed the crime; if he has no guilty antecedents to be afraid of, he can—impregnable in a defense of absolute denial—brave all the attacks of justice.

Such was, at this moment, the situation of May, the mysterious murderer; as both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were forced to admit, with mingled grief and anger. They had hoped to arrive at a solution of the problem by examining Polyte Chupin and his wife, and they had been disappointed; for the prisoner’s identity remained as problematical as ever.

“And yet,” exclaimed the magistrate impatiently, “these people know something about this matter, and if they would only speak—”

“But they won’t.”

“What motive is it that keeps them silent? This is what we must discover. Who will tell us the price that has been promised Polyte Chupin for his silence? What recompense can he count upon? It must be a great one, for he is braving real danger!”

Lecoq did not immediately reply to the magistrate’s successive queries, but it was easy to see from his knit brows that his mind was hard at work. “You ask me, sir,” he eventually remarked, “what reward has been promised Chupin? I ask on my part who can have promised him this reward?”

“Who has promised it? Why, plainly the accomplice who has beaten us on every point.”

“Yes,” rejoined Lecoq, “I suppose it must have been he. It certainly looks like his handiwork—now, what artifice can he have used? We know how he managed to have an interview with the Widow Chupin, but how has he succeeded in getting at Polyte, who is in prison, closely watched?”

The young detective’s insinuation, vague as it was, did not escape M. Segmuller. “What do you mean?” asked the latter, with an air of mingled surprise and indignation. “You can’t suppose that one of the keepers has been bribed?”

Lecoq shook his head, in a somewhat equivocal manner. “I mean nothing,” he replied, “I don’t suspect any one. All I want is information. Has Chupin been forewarned or not?”

“Yes, of course he has.”

“Then if that point is admitted it can only be explained in two ways. Either there are informers in the prison, or else Chupin has been allowed to see some visitor.”

These suppositions evidently worried M. Segmuller, who for a moment seemed to hesitate between the two opinions; then, suddenly making up his mind, he rose from his chair, took up his hat, and said: “This matter must be cleared up. Come with me, Monsieur Lecoq.”

A couple of minutes later, the magistrate and the detective had reached the Depot, which is connected with the Palais de Justice by a narrow passage, especially reserved for official use. The prisoners’ morning rations had just been served to them, and the governor was walking up and down the courtyard, in the company of Inspector Gevrol. As soon as he perceived M. Segmuller he hastened toward him and asked if he had not come about the prisoner May.

As the magistrate nodded assent, the governor at once added: “Well I was only just now telling Inspector Gevrol that I was very well satisfied with May’s behavior. It has not only been quite unnecessary to place him in the strait-waistcoat again, but his mood seems to have changed entirely. He eats with a good appetite; he is as gay as a lark, and he constantly laughs and jests with his keeper.”

Gevrol had pricked up his ears when he heard himself named by the governor, and considering this mention to be a sufficient introduction, he thought there would be no impropriety in his listening to the conversation. Accordingly, he approached the others, and noted with some satisfaction the troubled glances which Lecoq and the magistrate exchanged.

M. Segmuller was plainly perplexed. May’s gay manner to which the governor of the Depot alluded might perhaps have been assumed for the purpose of sustaining his character as a jester and buffoon, it might be due to a certainty of defeating the judicial inquiry, or, who knows? the prisoner had perhaps received some favorable news from outside.

With Lecoq’s last words still ringing in his ears, it is no wonder that the magistrate should have dwelt on this last supposition. “Are you quite sure,” he asked, “that no communication from outside can reach the inmates of the secret cells?”

The governor of the Depot was cut to the quick by M. Segmuller’s implied doubt. What! were his subordinates suspected? Was his own professional honesty impugned? He could not help lifting his hands to heaven in mute protest against such an unjust charge.

“Am I sure?” he exclaimed. “Then you can never have visited the secret cells. You have no idea, then, of their situation; you are unacquainted with the triple bolts that secure the doors; the grating that shuts out the sunlight, to say nothing of the guard who walks beneath the windows day and night. Why, a bird couldn’t even reach the prisoners in those cells.”

Such a description was bound to reassure the most skeptical mind, and M. Segmuller breathed again: “Now that I am easy on that score,” said he, “I should like some information about another prisoner—a fellow named Chupin, who isn’t in the secret cells. I want to know if any visitor came for him yesterday.”

“I must speak to the registrar,” replied the governor, “before I can answer you with certainty. Wait a moment though, here comes a man who can perhaps tell us. He is usually on guard at the entrance. Here, Ferraud, this way!”

The man to whom the governor called hastened to obey the summons.

“Do you know whether any one asked to see the prisoner Chupin yesterday?”

“Yes, sir, I went to fetch Chupin to the parlor myself.”

“And who was his visitor?” eagerly asked Lecoq, “wasn’t he a tall man; very red in the face—”

“Excuse me, sir, the visitor was a lady—his aunt, at least so Chupin told me.”

Neither M. Segmuller nor Lecoq could restrain an exclamation of surprise. “What was she like?” they both asked at the same time.

“She was short,” replied the attendant, “with a very fair complexion and light hair; she seemed to be a very respectable woman.”

“It must have been one of the female fugitives who escaped from the Widow Chupin’s hovel,” exclaimed Lecoq.

Gevrol, hitherto an attentive listener, burst into a loud laugh. “Still that Russian princess,” said he.

Neither the magistrate nor the young detective relished this unseasonable jest. “You forget yourself, sir,” said M. Segmuller severely. “You forget that the sneers you address to your comrade also apply to me!”

The General saw that he had gone too far; and while glancing hatefully at Lecoq, he mumbled an apology to the magistrate. The latter did not apparently hear him, for, bowing to the governor, he motioned Lecoq to follow him away.

“Run to the Prefecture of Police,” he said as soon as they were out of hearing, “and ascertain how and under what pretext this woman obtained permission to see Polyte Chupin.”

XVII

On his way back to his office, M. Segmuller mentally reviewed the position of affairs; and came to the conclusion that as he had failed to take the citadel of defense by storm, he must resign himself to a regular protracted siege. He was exceedingly annoyed at the constant failures that had attended all Lecoq’s efforts; for time was on the wing, and he knew that in a criminal investigation delay only increased the uncertainty of success. The more promptly a crime is followed by judicial action the easier it is to find the culprit, and prove his guilt. The longer investigation is delayed the more difficult it becomes to adduce conclusive evidence.

In the present instance there were various matters that M. Segmuller might at once attend to. With which should he begin? Ought he not to confront May, the Widow Chupin, and Polyte with the bodies of their victims? Such horrible meetings have at times the most momentous results, and more than one murderer when unsuspectedly brought into the presence of his victim’s lifeless corpse has changed color and lost his assurance.

Then there were other witnesses whom M. Segmuller might examine. Papillon, the cab-driver; the concierge of the house in the Rue de Bourgogne—where the two women flying from the Poivriere had momentarily taken refuge; as well as a certain Madame Milner, landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg. In addition, it would also be advisable to summon, with the least possible delay, some of the people residing in the vicinity of the Poivriere; together with some of Polyte’s habitual companions, and the landlord of the Rainbow, where the victims and the murderer had apparently passed the evening of the crime. Of course, there was no reason to expect any great revelations from any of these witnesses, still they might know something, they might have an opinion to express, and in the present darkness one single ray of light, however faint, might mean salvation.

Obeying the magistrate’s orders, Goguet, the smiling clerk, had just finished drawing up at least a dozen summonses, when Lecoq returned from the Prefecture. M. Segmuller at once asked him the result of his errand.

“Ah, sir,” replied the young detective, “I have a fresh proof of that mysterious accomplice’s skill. The permit that was used yesterday to see young Chupin was in the name of his mother’s sister, a woman named Rose Pitard. A visiting card was given her more than a week ago, in compliance with a request indorsed by the commissary of police of her district.”

The magistrate’s surprise was so intense that it imparted to his face an almost ludicrous expression. “Is this aunt also in the plot?” he murmured.

“I don’t think so,” replied Lecoq, shaking his head. “At all events, it wasn’t she who went to the prison parlor yesterday. The clerks at the Prefecture remember the widow’s sister very well, and gave me a full description of her. She’s a woman over five feet high, with a very dark complexion; and very wrinkled and weatherbeaten about the face. She’s quite sixty years old; whereas, yesterday’s visitor was short and fair, and not more than forty-five.”

“If that’s the case,” interrupted M. Segmuller, “this visitor must be one of our fugitives.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Who do you suppose she was, then?”

“Why, the landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg—that clever woman who succeeded so well in deceiving me. But she had better take care! There are means of verifying my suspicions.”

The magistrate scarcely heard Lecoq’s last words, so enraged was he at the inconceivable audacity and devotion displayed by so many people: all of whom were apparently willing to run the greatest risks so long as they could only assure the murderer’s incognito.

“But how could the accomplice have known of the existence of this permit?” he asked after a pause.

“Oh, nothing could be easier, sir,” replied Lecoq. “When the Widow Chupin and the accomplice had that interview at the station-house near the Barriere d’Italie, they both realized the necessity of warning Polyte. While trying to devise some means of getting to him, the old woman remembered her sister’s visiting card, and the man made some excuse to borrow it.”

“Yes, such must be the case,” said M. Segmuller, approvingly. “It will be necessary to ascertain, however—”

“And I will ascertain,” interrupted Lecoq, with a resolute air, “if you will only intrust the matter to me, sir. If you will authorize me I will have two spies on the watch before tonight, one in the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, and the other at the door of the Hotel de Mariembourg. If the accomplice ventured to visit Toinon or Madame Milner he would be arrested; and then we should have our turn!”

However, there was no time to waste in vain words and idle boasting. Lecoq therefore checked himself, and took up his hat preparatory to departure. “Now,” said he, “I must ask you, sir, for my liberty; if you have any orders, you will find a trusty messenger in the corridor, Father Absinthe, one of my colleagues. I want to find out something about Lacheneur’s letter and the diamond earring.”

“Go, then,” replied M. Segmuller, “and good luck to you!”

Good luck! Yes, indeed, Lecoq looked for it. If up to the present moment he had taken his successive defeats good-humoredly, it was because he believed that he had a talisman in his pocket which was bound to insure ultimate victory.

“I shall be very stupid if I can’t discover the owner of such a valuable jewel,” he soliloquized, referring to the diamond earring. “And when I find the owner I shall at the same time discover our mysterious prisoner’s identity.”

The first step to be taken was to ascertain whom the earring had been bought from. It would naturally be a tedious process to go from jeweler to jeweler and ask: “Do you know this jewel, was it set by you, and if so whom did you sell it to?” But fortunately Lecoq was acquainted with a man whose knowledge of the trade might at once throw light on the matter. This individual was an old Hollander, named Van Numen, who as a connoisseur in precious stones, was probably without his rival in Paris. He was employed by the Prefecture of Police as an expert in all such matters. He was considered rich. Despite his shabby appearance, he was rightly considered rich, and, in point of fact, he was indeed far more wealthy than people generally supposed. Diamonds were his especial passion, and he always had several in his pocket, in a little box which he would pull out and open at least a dozen times an hour, just as a snuff-taker continually produces his snuffbox.

This worthy man greeted Lecoq very affably. He put on his glasses, examined the jewel with a grimace of satisfaction, and, in the tone of an oracle, remarked: “That stone is worth eight thousand francs, and it was set by Doisty, in the Rue de la Paix.”

Twenty minutes later Lecoq entered this well-known jeweler’s establishment. Van Numen had not been mistaken. Doisty immediately recognized the earring, which had, indeed, come from his shop. But whom had he sold it to? He could not recollect, for it had passed out of his hands three or four years before.

“Wait a moment though,” said he, “I will just ask my wife, who has a wonderful memory.”

Madame Doisty truly deserved this eulogium. A single glance at the jewel enabled her to say that she had seen this earring before, and that the pair had been purchased from them by the Marchioness d’Arlange.

“You must recollect,” she added, turning to her husband, “that the Marchioness only gave us nine thousand francs on account, and that we had all the trouble in the world to make her pay the balance.”

Her husband did remember this circumstance; and in recording his recollection, he exchanged a significant glance with his wife.

“Now,” said the detective, “I should like to have this marchioness’s address.”

“She lives in the Faubourg St. Germain,” replied Madame Doisty, “near the Esplanade des Invalides.”

Lecoq had refrained from any sign of satisfaction while he was in the jeweler’s presence. But directly he had left the shop he evinced such delirious joy that the passers-by asked themselves in amazement if he were not mad. He did not walk, but fairly danced over the stones, gesticulating in the most ridiculous fashion as he addressed this triumphant monologue to the empty air: “At last,” said he, “this affair emerges from the mystery that has enshrouded it. At last I reach the veritable actors in the drama, the exalted personages whose existence I had suspected. Ah! Gevrol, my illustrious General! you talked about a Russian princess, but you will be obliged to content yourself with a simple marchioness.”

But the vertigo that had seized the young detective gradually disappeared. His good sense reasserted itself, and, looking calmly at the situation, he felt that he should need all his presence of mind, penetration, and sagacity to bring the expedition to a successful finish. What course should he pursue, on entering the marchioness’s presence, in order to draw from her a full confession and to obtain full particulars of the murder, as well as the murderer’s name!

“It will be best to threaten her, to frighten her into confession,” he soliloquized. “If I give her time for reflection, I shall learn nothing.”

He paused in his cogitations, for he had reached the residence of the Marchioness d’Arlange—a charming mansion with a courtyard in front and garden in the rear. Before entering, he deemed it advisable to obtain some information concerning the inmates.

“It is here, then,” he murmured, “that I am to find the solution of the enigma! Here, behind these embroidered curtains, dwells the frightened fugitive of the other night. What agony of fear must torture her since she has discovered the loss of her earring!”

For more than an hour, standing under a neighbor’s porte cochere, Lecoq remained watching the house. He would have liked to see the face of any one; but the time passed by and not even a shadow could be detected behind the curtain; not even a servant passed across the courtyard. At last, losing patience, the young detective determined to make inquiries in the neighborhood, for he could not take a decisive step without obtaining some knowledge of the people he was to encounter. While wondering where he could obtain the information he required, he perceived, on the opposite side of the street, the keeper of a wine-shop smoking on his doorstep.

At once approaching and pretending that he had forgotten an address, Lecoq politely asked for the house where Marchioness d’Arlange resided. Without a word, and without condescending to take his pipe from his mouth, the man pointed to the mansion which Lecoq had previously watched.

There was a way, however, to make him more communicative, namely, to enter the shop, call for something to drink, and invite the landlord to drink as well. This was what Lecoq did, and the sight of two well-filled glasses unbound, as by enchantment, the man’s hitherto silent tongue. The young detective could not have found a better person to question, for this same individual had been established in the neighborhood for ten years, and enjoyed among the servants of the aristocratic families here residing a certain amount of confidence.

“I pity you if you are going to the marchioness’s house to collect a bill,” he remarked to Lecoq. “You will have plenty of time to learn the way here before you see your money. You will only be another of the many creditors who never let her bell alone.”

“The deuce! Is she as poor as that?”

“Poor! Why, every one knows that she has a comfortable income, without counting this house. But when one spends double one’s income every year, you know—”

The landlord stopped short, to call Lecoq’s attention to two ladies who were passing along the street, one of them, a woman of forty, dressed in black; the other, a girl half-way through her teens. “There,” quoth the wine-seller, “goes the marchioness’s granddaughter, Mademoiselle Claire, with her governess, Mademoiselle Smith.”

Lecoq’s head whirled. “Her granddaughter!” he stammered.

“Yes—the daughter of her deceased son, if you prefer it.”

“How old is the marchioness, then?”

“At least sixty: but one would never suspect it. She is one of those persons who live a hundred years. And what an old wretch she is too. She would think no more of knocking me over the head than I would of emptying this glass of wine—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Lecoq, “but does she live alone in that great house?”

“Yes—that is—with her granddaughter, the governess, and two servants. But what is the matter with you?”

This last question was not uncalled for; for Lecoq had turned deadly white. The magic edifice of his hopes had crumbled beneath the weight of this man’s words as completely as if it were some frail house of cards erected by a child. He had only sufficient strength to murmur: “Nothing—nothing at all.”

Then, as he could endure this torture of uncertainty no longer, he went toward the marchioness’s house and rang the bell. The servant who came to open the door examined him attentively, and then announced that Madame d’Arlange was in the country. He evidently fancied that Lecoq was a creditor.

But the young detective insisted so adroitly, giving the lackey to understand so explicitly that he did not come to collect money, and speaking so earnestly of urgent business, that the servant finally admitted him to the hall, saying that he would go and see if madame had really gone out.

Fortunately for Lecoq, she happened to be at home, and an instant afterward the valet returned requesting the young detective to follow him. After passing through a large and magnificently furnished drawing-room, they reached a charming boudoir, hung with rose-colored curtains, where, sitting by the fireside, in a large easy-chair, Lecoq found an old woman, tall, bony, and terrible of aspect, her face loaded with paint, and her person covered with ornaments. The aged coquette was Madame, the Marchioness, who, for the time being, was engaged in knitting a strip of green wool. She turned toward her visitor just enough to show him the rouge on one cheek, and then, as he seemed rather frightened—a fact flattering to her vanity—she spoke in an affable tone. “Ah, well young man,” said she, “what brings you here?”

In point of fact, Lecoq was not frightened, but he was intensely disappointed to find that Madame d’Arlange could not possibly be one of the women who had escaped from the Widow Chupin’s hovel on the night of the murder. There was nothing about her appearance that corresponded in the least degree with the descriptions given by Papillon.

Remembering the small footprints left in the snow by the two fugitives, the young detective glanced, moreover, at the marchioness’s feet, just perceivable beneath her skirt, and his disappointment reached its climax when he found that they were truly colossal in size.

“Well, are you dumb?” inquired the old lady, raising her voice.

Without making a direct reply, Lecoq produced the precious earring, and, placing it upon the table beside the marchioness, remarked: “I bring you this jewel, madame, which I have found, and which, I am told, belongs to you.”

Madame d’Arlange laid down her knitting and proceeded to examine the earring. “It is true,” she said, after a moment, “that this ornament formerly belonged to me. It was a fancy I had, about four years ago, and it cost me dear—at least twenty thousand francs. Ah! Doisty, the man who sold me those diamonds, must make a handsome income. But I had a granddaughter to educate and pressing need of money compelled me to sell them.”

“To whom?” asked Lecoq, eagerly.

“Eh?” exclaimed the old lady, evidently shocked at his audacity, “you are very inquisitive upon my word!”

“Excuse me, madame, but I am anxious to find the owner of this valuable ornament.”

Madame d’Arlange regarded her visitor with an air of mingled curiosity and surprise. “Such honesty!” said she. “Oh, oh! And of course you don’t hope for a sou by way of reward—”

“Madame!”

“Good, good! There is not the least need for you to turn as red as a poppy, young man. I sold these diamonds to a great Austrian lady—the Baroness de Watchau.”

“And where does this lady reside?”

“At the Pere la Chaise, probably, since she died about a year ago. Ah! these women of the present day—an extra waltz, or the merest draft, and it’s all over with them! In my time, after each gallop, we girls used to swallow a tumbler of sweetened wine, and sit down between two open doors. And we did very well, as you see.”

“But, madame,” insisted Lecoq, “the Baroness de Watchau must have left some one behind her—a husband, or children—”

“No one but a brother, who holds a court position at Vienna: and who could not leave even to attend the funeral. He sent orders that all his sister’s personal property should be sold—not even excepting her wardrobe—and the money sent to him.”

Lecoq could not repress an exclamation of disappointment. “How unfortunate!” he murmured.

“Why?” asked the old lady. “Under these circumstances, the diamond will probably remain in your hands, and I am rejoiced that it should be so. It will be a fitting reward for your honesty.”

Madame d’Arlange was naturally not aware that her remark implied the most exquisite torture for Lecoq. Ah! if it should be as she said, if he should never find the lady who had lost this costly jewel! Smarting under the marchioness’s unintended irony, he would have liked to apostrophize her in angry terms; but it could not be, for it was advisable if not absolutely necessary that he should conceal his true identity. Accordingly, he contrived to smile, and even stammered an acknowledgment of Madame d’Arlange’s good wishes. Then, as if he had no more to expect, he made her a low bow and withdrew.

This new misfortune well-nigh overwhelmed him. One by one all the threads upon which he had relied to guide him out of this intricate labyrinth were breaking in his hands. In the present instance he could scarcely be the dupe of some fresh comedy, for if the murderer’s accomplice had taken Doisty, the jeweler, into his confidence he would have instructed him to say that the earring had never come from his establishment, and that he could not consequently tell whom it had been sold to. On the contrary, however, Doisty and his wife had readily given Madame d’Arlange’s name, and all the circumstances pointed in favor of their sincerity. Then, again, there was good reason to believe in the veracity of the marchioness’s assertions. They were sufficiently authenticated by a significant glance which Lecoq had detected between the jeweler and his wife. The meaning of this glance could not be doubted. It implied plainly that both husband and wife were of opinion that in buying these earrings the marchioness engaged in one of those little speculations which are more common than many people might suppose among ladies moving in high-class society. Being in urgent want of ready money, she had bought on credit at a high price to sell for cash at a loss.

As Lecoq was anxious to investigate the matter as far as possible, he returned to Doisty’s establishment, and, by a plausible pretext, succeeded in gaining a sight of the books in which the jeweler recorded his transactions. He soon found the sale of the earrings duly recorded—specified by Madame Doisty at the date—both in the day-book and the ledger. Madame d’Arlange first paid 9,000 francs on account and the balance of the purchase money (an equivalent sum) had been received in instalments at long intervals subsequently. Now, if it had been easy for Madame Milner to make a false entry in her traveler’s registry at the Hotel de Mariembourg, it was absurd to suppose that the jeweler had falsified all his accounts for four years. Hence, the facts were indisputable; and yet, the young detective was not satisfied.

He hurried to the Faubourg Saint Honore, to the house formerly occupied by the Baroness de Watchau, and there found a good-natured concierge, who at once informed him that after the Baroness’s death her furniture and personal effects had been taken to the great auction mart in the Rue Drouot; the sale being conducted by M. Petit, the eminent auctioneer.

Without losing a minute, Lecoq hastened to this individual’s office. M. Petit remembered the Watchau sale very well; it had made quite a sensation at the time, and on searching among his papers he soon found a long catalogue of the various articles sold. Several lots of jewelry were mentioned, with the sums paid, and the names of the purchasers; but there was not the slightest allusion to these particular earrings. When Lecoq produced the diamond he had in his pocket, the auctioneer could not remember that he had ever seen it; though of course this was no evidence to the contrary, for, as he himself remarked—so many articles passed through his hands! However, this much he could declare upon oath; the baroness’s brother, her only heir, had preserved nothing—not so much as a pin’s worth of his sister’s effects: although he had been in a great hurry to receive the proceeds, which amounted to the pleasant sum of one hundred and sixty-seven thousand five hundred and thirty francs, all expenses deducted.

“Everything this lady possessed was sold?” inquired Lecoq.

“Everything.”

“And what is the name of this brother of hers?”

“Watchau, also. The baroness had probably married one of her relatives. Until last year her brother occupied a very prominent diplomatic position. I think he now resides at Berlin.”

Certainly this information would not seem to indicate that the auctioneer had been tampered with; and yet Lecoq was not satisfied. “It is very strange,” he thought, as he walked toward his lodgings, “that whichever side I turn, in this affair, I find mention of Germany. The murderer comes from Leipsic, Madame Milner must be a Bavarian, and now here is an Austrian baroness.”

It was too late to make any further inquiries that evening, and Lecoq went to bed; but the next morning, at an early hour, he resumed his investigations with fresh ardor. There now seemed only one remaining clue to success: the letter signed “Lacheneur,” which had been found in the pocket of the murdered soldier. This letter, judging from the half-effaced heading at the top of the note-paper, must have been written in some cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. To discover which precise cafe would be mere child’s play; and indeed the fourth landlord to whom Lecoq exhibited the letter recognized the paper as his. But neither he, nor his wife, nor the young lady at the counter, nor the waiters, nor any of the customers present at the time, had ever once heard mention made of this singular name—Lacheneur.

And now what was Lecoq to do? Was the case utterly hopeless? Not yet. Had not the spurious soldier declared that this Lacheneur was an old comedian? Seizing upon this frail clue, as a drowning man clutches at the merest fragment of the floating wreck, Lecoq turned his steps in another direction, and hurried from theatre to theatre, asking every one, from doorkeeper to manager: “Don’t you know an actor named Lacheneur?”

Alas! one and all gave a negative reply, at times indulging in some rough joke at the oddity of the name. And when any one asked the young detective what the man he was seeking was like, what could he reply? His answer was necessarily limited to the virtuous Toinon’s phrase: “I thought him a very respectable-looking gentleman.” This was not a very graphic description, however, and, besides, it was rather doubtful what a woman like Polyte Chupin’s wife might mean by the word “respectable.” Did she apply it to the man’s age, to his personal aspect, or to his apparent fortune.

Sometimes those whom Lecoq questioned would ask what parts this comedian of his was in the habit of playing; and then the young detective could make no reply whatever. He kept for himself the harassing thought that the role now being performed by the unknown Lacheneur was driving him—Lecoq—wild with despair.

Eventually our hero had recourse to a method of investigation which, strange to say, the police seldom employ, save in extreme cases, although it is at once sensible and simple, and generally fraught with success. It consists in examining all the hotel and lodging-house registers, in which the landlords are compelled to record the names of their tenants, even should the latter merely sojourn under their roofs for a single night.

Rising long before daybreak and going to bed late at night, Lecoq spent all his time in visiting the countless hotels and furnished lodgings in Paris. But still and ever his search was vain. He never once came across the name of Lacheneur; and at last he began to ask himself if such a name really existed, or if it were not some pseudonym invented for convenience. He had not found it even in Didot’s directory, the so-called “Almanach Boitin,” where one finds all the most singular and absurd names in France—those which are formed of the most fantastic mingling of syllables.

Still, nothing could daunt him or turn him from the almost impossible task he had undertaken, and his obstinate perseverance well-nigh developed into monomania. He was no longer subject to occasional outbursts of anger, quickly repressed; but lived in a state of constant exasperation, which soon impaired the clearness of his mind. No more theories, or ingenious deductions, no more subtle reasoning. He pursued his search without method and without order—much as Father Absinthe might have done when under the influence of alcohol. Perhaps he had come to rely less upon his own shrewdness than upon chance to reveal to him the substance of the mystery, of which he had as yet only detected the shadow.

XVIII

When a heavy stone is thrown into a lake a considerable commotion ensues, the water spouts and seethes and bubbles and frequently a tall jet leaps into the air. But all this agitation only lasts for a moment; the bubbling subsides as the circles of the passing whirlpool grow larger and larger; the surface regains at last its customary smoothness; and soon no trace remains of the passage of the stone, now buried in the depths below.

So it is with the events of our daily life, however momentous they may appear at the hour of their occurrence. It seems as if their impressions would last for years; but no, they speedily sink into the depths of the past, and time obliterates their passage—just as the water of the lake closes over and hides the stone, for an instant the cause of such commotion. Thus it was that at the end of a fortnight the frightful crime committed in the Widow Chupin’s drinking-den, the triple murder which had made all Paris shudder, which had furnished the material for so many newspaper articles, and the topic for such indignant comments, was completely forgotten. Indeed, had the tragedy at the Poivriere occurred in the times of Charlemagne, it could not have passed more thoroughly out of people’s minds. It was remembered only in three places, at the Depot, at the Prefecture de Police, and at the Palais de Justice.

M. Segmuller’s repeated efforts had proved as unsuccessful as Lecoq’s. Skilful questioning, ingenious insinuations, forcible threats, and seductive promises had proved powerless to overcome the dogged spirit of absolute denial which persistently animated, not merely the prisoner May, but also the Widow Chupin, her son Polyte, Toinon the Virtuous, and Madame Milner. The evidence of these various witnesses showed plainly enough that they were all in league with the mysterious accomplice; but what did this knowledge avail? Their attitude never varied! And, even if at times their looks gave the lie to their denials, one could always read in their eyes an unshaken determination to conceal the truth.

There were moments when the magistrate, overpowered by a sense of the insufficiency of the purely moral weapons at his disposal, almost regretted that the Inquisition was suppressed. Yes, in presence of the lies that were told him, lies so impudent that they were almost insults, he no longer wondered at the judicial cruelties of the Middle Ages, or at the use of the muscle-breaking rack, the flesh-burning, red-hot pincers, and other horrible instruments, which, by the physical torture they inflicted, forced the most obstinate culprit to confess. The prisoner May’s manner was virtually unaltered; and far from showing any signs of weakness, his assurance had, if anything, increased, as though he were confident of ultimate victory and as though he had in some way learned that the prosecution had failed to make the slightest progress.

On one occasion, when summoned before M. Segmuller, he ventured to remark in a tone of covert irony: “Why do you keep me confined so long in a secret cell? Am I never to be set at liberty or sent to the assizes. Am I to suffer much longer on account of your fantastic idea that I am some great personage in disguise?”

“I shall keep you until you have confessed,” was M. Segmuller’s answer.

“Confessed what?”

“Oh! you know very well.”

The prisoner shrugged his shoulders at these last words, and then in a tone of mingled despondency and mockery retorted: “In that case there is no hope of my ever leaving this cursed prison!”

It was probably this conviction that induced him to make all seeming preparations for an indefinite stay. He applied for and obtained a portion of the contents of the trunk found at the Hotel de Mariembourg, and evinced great joy when the various knickknacks and articles of clothing were handed over to him. Thanks to the money found upon his person when arrested, and deposited with the prison registrar, he was, moreover, able to procure many little luxuries, which are never denied to unconvicted prisoners, no matter what may be the charges against them, for they have a right to be considered as innocent until a jury has decided to the contrary. To while away the time, May next asked for a volume of Beranger’s songs, and his request being granted, he spent most of the day in learning several of the ditties by heart, singing them in a loud voice and with considerable taste. This fancy having excited some comment, he pretended that he was cultivating a talent which might be useful to him when he was set at liberty. For he had no doubt of his acquittal; at least, so he declared; and if he were anxious about the date of his trial, he did not show the slightest apprehension concerning its result.

He was never despondent save when he spoke of his profession. To all appearance he pined for the stage, and, in fact, he almost wept when he recalled the fantastic, many-colored costumes, clad in which he had once appeared before crowded audiences—audiences that had been convulsed with laughter by his sallies of wit, delivered between bursts of noisy music. He seemed to have become altogether a better fellow; more frank, communicative, and submissive. He eagerly embraced every opportunity to babble about his past, and over and over again did he recount the adventures of the roving life he had led while in the employ of M. Simpson, the showman. He had, of course, traveled a great deal; and he remembered everything he had seen; possessing, moreover, an inexhaustible fund of amusing stories, with which he entertained his custodians. His manner and his words were so natural that head keepers and subordinate turnkeys alike were quite willing to give credit to his assertions.

The governor of the Depot alone remained unconvinced. He had declared that this pretended buffoon must be some dangerous criminal who had escaped from Cayenne, and who for this reason was determined to conceal his antecedents. Such being this functionary’s opinion, he tried every means to substantiate it. Accordingly, during an entire fortnight, May was submitted to the scrutiny of innumerable members of the police force, to whom were added all the more notable private detectives of the capital. No one recognized him, however, and although his photograph was sent to all the prisons and police stations of the empire, not one of the officials could recognize his features.

Other circumstances occurred, each of which had its influence, and one and all of them speaking in the prisoner’s favor. For instance, the second bureau of the Prefecture de Police found positive traces of the existence of a strolling artist, named Tringlot, who was probably the man referred to in May’s story. This Tringlot had been dead several years. Then again, inquiries made in Germany revealed the fact that a certain M. Simpson was very well known in that country, where he had achieved great celebrity as a circus manager.

In presence of this information and the negative result of the scrutiny to which May had been subjected, the governor of the Depot abandoned his views and openly confessed that he had been mistaken. “The prisoner, May,” he wrote to the magistrate, “is really and truly what he pretends to be. There can be no further doubt on the subject.” This message, it may be added, was sent at Gevrol’s instigation.

So thus it was that M. Segmuller and Lecoq alone remained of their opinion. This opinion was at least worthy of consideration, as they alone knew all the details of the investigation which had been conducted with such strict secrecy; and yet this fact was of little import. It is not merely unpleasant, but often extremely dangerous to struggle on against all the world, and unfortunately for truth and logic one man’s opinion, correct though it may be, is nothing in the balance of daily life against the faulty views of a thousand adversaries.

The “May affair” had soon become notorious among the members of the police force; and whenever Lecoq appeared at the Prefecture he had to brave his colleagues’ sarcastic pleasantry. Nor did M. Segmuller escape scot free; for more than one fellow magistrate, meeting him on the stairs or in the corridor, inquired, with a smile, what he was doing with his Casper Hauser, his man in the Iron Mask, in a word, with his mysterious mountebank. When thus assailed, both M. Segmuller and Lecoq could scarcely restrain those movements of angry impatience which come naturally to a person who feels certain he is in the right and yet can not prove it.

“Ah, me!” sometimes exclaimed the magistrate, “why did D’Escorval break his leg? Had it not been for that cursed mishap, he would have been obliged to endure all these perplexities, and I—I should be enjoying myself like other people.”

“And I thought myself so shrewd!” murmured the young detective by his side.

Little by little anxiety did its work. Magistrate and detective both lost their appetites and looked haggard; and yet the idea of yielding never once occurred to them. Although of very different natures, they were both determined to persevere in the task they had set themselves—that of solving this tantalizing enigma. Lecoq, indeed, had resolved to renounce all other claims upon his time, and to devote himself entirely to the study of the case. “Henceforth,” he said to M. Segmuller, “I also will constitute myself a prisoner; and although the suspected murderer will be unable to see me, I shall not lose sight of him!”

It so happened that there was a loft between the cell occupied by May and the roof of the prison, a loft of such diminutive proportions that a man of average height could not stand upright in it. This loft had neither window nor skylight, and the gloom would have been intense, had not a few faint sun-rays struggled through the interstices of some ill-adjusted tiles. In this unattractive garret Lecoq established himself one fine morning, just at the hour when May was taking his daily walk in the courtyard of the prison accompanied by a couple of keepers. Under these circumstances there was no fear of Lecoq’s movements attracting the prisoner’s notice or suspicion. The garret had a paved floor, and first of all the young detective removed one of the stones with a pickax he had brought for the purpose. Beneath this stone he found a timber beam, through which he next proceeded to bore a hole of funnel shape, large at the top and gradually dwindling until on piercing the ceiling of the cell it was no more than two-thirds of an inch in diameter. Prior to commencing his operations, Lecoq had visited the prisoner’s quarters and had skilfully chosen the place of the projected aperture, so that the stains and graining of the beam would hide it from the view of any one below. He was yet at work when the governor of the Depot and his rival Gevrol appeared upon the threshold of the loft.

“So this is to be your observatory, Monsieur Lecoq!” remarked Gevrol, with a sneering laugh.

“Yes, sir.”

“You will not be very comfortable here.”

“I shall be less uncomfortable than you suppose; I have brought a large blanket with me, and I shall stretch myself out on the floor and manage to sleep here.”

“So that, night and day, you will have your eye on the prisoner?”

“Yes, night and day.”

“Without giving yourself time to eat or drink?” inquired Gevrol.

“Excuse me! Father Absinthe will bring me my meals, execute any errand I may have, and relieve me at times if necessary.”

The jealous General laughed; but his laugh, loud as it was, was yet a trifle constrained. “Well, I pity you,” he said.

“Very possibly.”

“Do you know what you will look like, with your eye glued to that hole?”

“Like what? Tell me, we needn’t stand on ceremony.”

“Ah, well! You will look just like one of those silly naturalists who put all sorts of little insects under a magnifying glass, and spend their lives in watching them.”

Lecoq had finished his work; and rose from his kneeling position. “You couldn’t have found a better comparison, General,” said he. “I owe my idea to those very naturalists you speak about so slightingly. By dint of studying those little creatures—as you say—under a microscope, these patient, gifted men discover the habits and instincts of the insect world. Very well, then. What they can do with an insect, I will do with a man!”

“Oh, ho!” said the governor of the prison, considerably astonished.

“Yes; that’s my plan,” continued Lecoq. “I want to learn this prisoner’s secret; and I will do so. That I’ve sworn; and success must be mine, for, however strong his courage may be, he will have his moments of weakness, and then I shall be present at them. I shall be present if ever his will fails him, if, believing himself alone, he lets his mask fall, or forgets his part for an instant, if an indiscreet word escapes him in his sleep, if his despair elicits a groan, a gesture, or a look—I shall be there to take note of it.” The tone of resolution with which the young detective spoke made a deep impression upon the governor’s mind. For an instant he was a believer in Lecoq’s theory; and he was impressed by the strangeness of this conflict between a prisoner, determined to preserve the secret of his identity, and the agent for the prosecution, equally determined to wrest it from him. “Upon my word, my boy, you are not wanting in courage and energy,” said he.

“Misdirected as it may be,” growled Gevrol, who, although he spoke very slowly and deliberately, was in his secret soul by no means convinced of what he said. Faith is contagious, and he was troubled in spite of himself by Lecoq’s imperturbable assurance. What if this debutant in the profession should be right, and he, Gevrol, the oracle of the Prefecture, wrong! What shame and ridicule would be his portion, then! But once again he inwardly swore that this inexperienced youngster could be no match for an old veteran like himself, and then added aloud: “The prefect of police must have more money than he knows what to do with, to pay two men for such a nonsensical job as this.”

Lecoq disdained to reply to this slighting remark. For more than a fortnight the General had profited of every opportunity to make himself as disagreeable as possible, and the young detective feared he would be unable to control his temper if the discussion continued. It would be better to remain silent, and to work and wait for success. To succeed would be revenge enough! Moreover, he was impatient to see these unwelcome visitors depart; believing, perhaps, that Gevrol was quite capable of attracting the prisoner’s attention by some unusual sound.

As soon as they went away, Lecoq hastily spread his blanket over the stones and stretched himself out upon it in such a position that he could alternately apply his eye and his ear to the aperture. In this position he had an admirable view of the cell below. He could see the door, the bed, the table, and the chair; only the small space near the window and the window itself were beyond his range of observation. He had scarcely completed his survey, when he heard the bolts rattle: the prisoner was returning from his walk. He seemed in excellent spirits, and was just completing what was, undoubtedly, a very interesting story, since the keeper who accompanied him lingered for a moment to hear the finish. Lecoq was delighted with the success of his experiment. He could hear as easily as he could see. Each syllable reached his ear distinctly, and he had not lost a single word of the recital, which was amusing, though rather coarse.

The turnkey soon left the cell; the bolts rattled once more, and the key grated in the lock. After walking once or twice across his cell, May took up his volume of Beranger and for an hour or more seemed completely engrossed in its contents. Finally, he threw himself down upon his bed. Here he remained until meal-time in the evening, when he rose and ate with an excellent appetite. He next resumed the study of his book, and did not go to bed until the lights were extinguished.

Lecoq knew well enough that during the night his eyes would not serve him, but he trusted that his ears might prove of use, hoping that some telltale word might escape the prisoner’s lips during his restless slumber. In this expectation he was disappointed. May tossed to and fro upon his pallet; he sighed, and one might have thought he was sobbing, but not a syllable escaped his lips. He remained in bed until very late the next morning; but on hearing the bell sound the hour of breakfast, eleven o’clock, he sprang from his couch with a bound, and after capering about his cell for a few moments, began to sing, in a loud and cheerful voice, the old ditty:

“Diogene!

Sous ton manteau, libre et content,

Je ris, je bois, sans gene—”

The prisoner did not stop singing until a keeper entered his cell carrying his breakfast. The day now beginning differed in no respect from the one that had preceded it, neither did the night. The same might be said of the next day, and of those which followed. To sing, to eat, to sleep, to attend to his hands and nails—such was the life led by this so-called buffoon. His manner, which never varied, was that of a naturally cheerful man terribly bored.

Such was the perfection of his acting that, after six days and nights of constant surveillance, Lecoq had detected nothing decisive, nor even surprising. And yet he did not despair. He had noticed that every morning, while the employees of the prison were busy distributing the prisoner’s food, May invariably began to sing the same ditty.

“Evidently this song is a signal,” thought Lecoq. “What can be going on there by the window I can’t see? I must know tomorrow.”

Accordingly on the following morning he arranged that May should be taken on his walk at half-past ten o’clock, and he then insisted that the governor should accompany him to the prisoner’s cell. That worthy functionary was not very well pleased with the change in the usual order of things. “What do you wish to show me?” he asked. “What is there so very curious to see?”

“Perhaps nothing,” replied Lecoq, “but perhaps something of great importance.”

Eleven o’clock sounding soon after, he began singing the prisoner’s song, and he had scarcely finished the second line, when a bit of bread, no larger than a bullet, adroitly thrown through the window, dropped at his feet.

A thunderbolt falling in May’s cell would not have terrified the governor as much as did this inoffensive projectile. He stood in silent dismay; his mouth wide open, his eyes starting from their sockets, as if he distrusted the evidence of his own senses. What a disgrace! An instant before he would have staked his life upon the inviolability of the secret cells; and now he beheld his prison dishonored.

“A communication! a communication!” he repeated, with a horrified air.

Quick as lightning, Lecoq picked up the missile. “Ah,” murmured he, “I guessed that this man was in communication with his friends.”

The young detective’s evident delight changed the governor’s stupor into fury. “Ah! my prisoners are writing!” he exclaimed, wild with passion. “My warders are acting as postmen! By my faith, this matter shall be looked into.”

So saying, he was about to rush to the door when Lecoq stopped him. “What are you going to do, sir?” he asked.

“I am going to call all the employees of this prison together, and inform them that there is a traitor among them, and that I must know who he is, as I wish to make an example of him. And if, in twenty-four hours from now, the culprit has not been discovered, every man connected with this prison shall be removed.”

Again he started to leave the room, and Lecoq, this time, had almost to use force to detain him. “Be calm, sir; be calm,” he entreated.

“I will punish—”

“Yes, yes—I understand that—but wait until you have regained your self-possession. It is quite possible that the guilty party may be one of the prisoners who assist in the distribution of food every morning.”

“What does that matter?”

“Excuse me, but it matters a great deal. If you noise this discovery abroad, we shall never discover the truth. The traitor will not be fool enough to confess his guilt. We must be silent and wait. We will keep a close watch and detect the culprit in the very act.”

These objections were so sensible that the governor yielded. “So be it,” he sighed, “I will try and be patient. But let me see the missive that was enclosed in this bit of bread.”

Lecoq could not consent to this proposal. “I warned M. Segmuller,” said he, “that there would probably be something new this morning; and he will be waiting for me in his office. We must only examine the letter in his presence.”

This remark was so correct that the governor assented; and they at once started for the Palais de Justice. On their way, Lecoq endeavored to convince his companion that it was wrong to deplore a circumstance which might be of incalculable benefit to the prosecution. “It was an illusion,” said he, “to imagine that the governor of a prison could be more cunning than the prisoners entrusted to him. A prisoner is almost always a match in ingenuity for his custodians.”

The young detective had not finished speaking when they reached the magistrate’s office. Scarcely had Lecoq opened the door than M. Segmuller and his clerk rose from their seats. They both read important intelligence in our hero’s troubled face. “What is it?” eagerly asked the magistrate. Lecoq’s sole response was to lay the pellet of bread upon M. Segmuller’s desk. In an instant the magistrate had opened it, extracting from the centre a tiny slip of the thinnest tissue paper. This he unfolded, and smoothed upon the palm of his hand. As soon as he glanced at it, his brow contracted. “Ah! this note is written in cipher,” he exclaimed, with a disappointed air.

“We must not lose patience,” said Lecoq quietly. He took the slip of paper from the magistrate and read the numbers inscribed upon it. They ran as follows: “235, 15, 3, 8, 25, 2, 16, 208, 5, 360, 4, 36, 19, 7, 14, 118, 84, 23, 9, 40, 11, 99.”

“And so we shall learn nothing from this note,” murmured the governor.

“Why not?” the smiling clerk ventured to remark. “There is no system of cipher which can not be read with a little skill and patience; there are some people who make it their business.”

“You are right,” said Lecoq, approvingly. “And I, myself, once had the knack of it.”

“What!” exclaimed the magistrate; “do you hope to find the key to this cipher?”

“With time, yes.”

Lecoq was about to place the paper in his breast-pocket, when the magistrate begged him to examine it a little further. He did so; and after a while his face suddenly brightened. Striking his forehead with his open palm, he cried: “I’ve found it!”

An exclamation of incredulous surprise simultaneously escaped the magistrate, the governor, and the clerk.

“At least I think so,” added Lecoq, more cautiously. “If I am not mistaken, the prisoner and his accomplice have adopted a very simple system called the double book-cipher. The correspondents first agree upon some particular book; and both obtain a copy of the same edition. When one desires to communicate with the other, he opens the book haphazard, and begins by writing the number of the page. Then he must find on the same page the words that will express his thoughts. If the first word he wishes to write is the twentieth on the page, he places number 20 after the number of the page; then he begins to count one, two, three, and so on, until he finds the next word he wishes to use. If this word happens to be the sixth, he writes the figure 6, and he continues so on till he has finished his letter. You see, now, how the correspondent who receives the note must begin. He finds the page indicated, and then each figure represents a word.”

“Nothing could be clearer,” said the magistrate, approvingly.

“If this note,” pursued Lecoq, “had been exchanged between two persons at liberty, it would be folly to attempt its translation. This simple system is the only one which has completely baffled inquisitive efforts, simply because there is no way of ascertaining the book agreed upon. But in this instance such is not the case; May is a prisoner, and he has only one book in his possession, ‘The Songs of Beranger.’ Let this book be sent for—”

The governor of the Depot was actually enthusiastic. “I will run and fetch it myself,” he interrupted.

But Lecoq, with a gesture, detained him. “Above all, sir,” said he, “take care that May doesn’t discover his book has been tampered with. If he has returned from his promenade, make some excuse to have him sent out of his cell again; and don’t allow him to return there while we are using his book.”

“Oh, trust me!” replied the governor, hastily leaving the room.

Less than a quarter of an hour afterward he returned, carrying in triumph a little volume in 32mo. With a trembling hand Lecoq turned to page 235, and began to count. The fifteenth word on the page was ‘I’; the third afterward, ‘have’; the eighth following, ‘told’; the twenty-fifth, ‘her’; the second, ‘your’; the sixteenth, ‘wishes.’ Hence, the meaning of those six numbers was: “I have told her your wishes.”

The three persons who had witnessed this display of shrewdness could not restrain their admiration. “Bravo! Lecoq,” exclaimed the magistrate. “I will no longer bet a hundred to one on May,” thought the smiling clerk.

But Lecoq was still busily engaged in deciphering the missive, and soon, in a voice trembling with gratified vanity, he read the entire note aloud. It ran as follows: “I have told her your wishes; she submits. Our safety is assured; we are waiting your orders to act. Hope! Courage!”

XIX

Yet what a disappointment it produced after the fever of anxiety and expectation that had seized hold of everybody present. This strange epistle furnished no clue whatever to the mystery; and the ray of hope that had sparkled for an instant in M. Segmuller’s eyes speedily faded away. As for the versatile Goguet he returned with increased conviction to his former opinion, that the prisoner had the advantage over his accusers.

“How unfortunate,” remarked the governor of the Depot, with a shade of sarcasm in his voice, “that so much trouble, and such marvelous penetration, should be wasted!”

“So you think, sir, that I have wasted my time!” rejoined Lecoq in a tone of angry banter, a scarlet flush mantling at the same time over his features. “Such is not my opinion. This scrap of paper undeniably proves that if any one has been mistaken as regards the prisoner’s identity, it is certainly not I.”

“Very well,” was the reply. “M. Gevrol and myself may have been mistaken: no one is infallible. But have you learned anything more than you knew before? Have you made any progress?”

“Why, yes. Now that people know the prisoner is not what he pretends to be, instead of annoying and hampering me, perhaps they will assist us to discover who he really is.”

Lecoq’s tone, and his allusion to the difficulties he had encountered, cut the governor to the quick. The knowledge that the reproof was not altogether undeserved increased his resentment and determined him to bring this discussion with an inferior to an abrupt close. “You are right,” said he, sarcastically. “This May must be a very great and illustrious personage. Only, my dear Monsieur Lecoq (for there is an only), do me the favor to explain how such an important personage could disappear, and the police not be advised of it? A man of rank, such as you suppose this prisoner to be, usually has a family, friends, relatives, proteges, and numerous connections; and yet not a single person has made any inquiry during the three weeks that this fellow May has been under my charge! Come, admit you never thought of that.”

The governor had just advanced the only serious objection that could be found to the theory adopted by the prosecution. He was wrong, however, in supposing that Lecoq had failed to foresee it; for it had never once been out of the young detective’s mind; and he had racked his brain again and again to find some satisfactory explanation. At the present moment he would undoubtedly have made some angry retort to the governor’s sneering criticism, as people are wont to do when their antagonists discover the weak spot in their armor, had not M. Segmuller opportunely intervened.

“All these recriminations do no good,” he remarked, calmly; “we can make no progress while they continue. It would be much wiser to decide upon the course that is now to be pursued.”

Thus reminded of the present situation of affairs, the young detective smiled; all his rancor was forgotten. “There is, I think, but one course to pursue,” he replied in a modest tone; “and I believe it will be successful by reason of its simplicity. We must substitute a communication of our own composition for this one. That will not be at all difficult, since I have the key to the cipher. I shall only be obliged to purchase a similar volume of Beranger’s songs; and May, believing that he is addressing his accomplice, will reply in all sincerity—will reveal everything perhaps—”

“Excuse me!” interrupted the governor, “but how will you obtain possession of his reply?”

“Ah! you ask me too much. I know the way in which his letters have reached him. For the rest, I will watch and find a way—never fear!”

Goguet, the smiling clerk, could not conceal an approving grin. If he had happened to have ten francs in his pocket just then he would have risked them all on Lecoq without a moment’s hesitation.

“First,” resumed the young detective, “I will replace this missive by one of my own composition. Tomorrow, at breakfast time, if the prisoner gives the signal, Father Absinthe shall throw the morsel of bread enclosing my note through the window while I watch the effect through the hole in the ceiling of the cell.”

Lecoq was so delighted with this plan of his that he at once rang the bell, and when the magistrate’s messenger appeared, he gave him half a franc and requested him to go at once and purchase some of the thinnest tissue paper. When this had been procured, Lecoq took his seat at the clerk’s desk, and, provided with the volume of Beranger’s songs, began to compose a fresh note, copying as closely as possible the forms of the figures used by the unknown correspondent. The task did not occupy him more than ten minutes, for, fearing lest he might commit some blunder, he reproduced most of the words of the original letter, giving them, however, an entirely different meaning.

When completed, his note read as follows: “I have told her your wishes; she does not submit. Our safety is threatened. We are awaiting your orders. I tremble.”

Having acquainted the magistrate with the purport of the note, Lecoq next rolled up the paper, and enclosing it in the fragment of bread, remarked: “Tomorrow we shall learn something new.”

Tomorrow! The twenty-four hours that separated the young man from the decisive moment he looked forward to seemed as it were a century; and he resorted to every possible expedient to hasten the passing of the time. At length, after giving precise instructions to Father Absinthe, he retired to his loft for the night. The hours seemed interminable, and such was his nervous excitement that he found it quite impossible to sleep. On rising at daybreak he discovered that the prisoner was already awake. May was sitting on the foot of his bed, apparently plunged in thought. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and paced restlessly to and fro. He was evidently in an unusually agitated frame of mind: for he gesticulated wildly, and at intervals repeated: “What misery! My God! what misery!”

“Ah! my fine fellow,” thought Lecoq, “you are anxious about the daily letter you failed to receive yesterday. Patience, patience! One of my writing will soon arrive.”

At last the young detective heard the stir usually preceding the distribution of the food. People were running to and fro, sabots clicked noisily in the corridors, and the keepers could be heard engaged in loud conversation. By and by the prison bell began to toll. It was eleven o’clock, and soon afterward the prisoner commenced to sing his favorite song:

“Diogene! Sous ton manteau, libre et content—”

Before he commenced the third line the slight sound caused by the fragment of bread as it fell upon the stone floor caused him to pause abruptly.

Lecoq, at the opening in the ceiling above, was holding his breath and watching with both eyes. He did not miss one of the prisoner’s movements—not so much as the quiver of an eyelid. May looked first at the window, and then all round the cell, as if it were impossible for him to explain the arrival of this projectile. It was not until some little time had elapsed that he decided to pick it up. He held it in the hollow of his hand, and examined it with apparent curiosity. His features expressed intense surprise, and any one would have sworn that he was innocent of all complicity. Soon a smile gathered round his lips, and after a slight shrug of the shoulders, which might be interpreted, “Am I a fool?” he hastily broke the pellet in half. The sight of the paper which it contained seemed to amaze him.

“What does all this mean?” wondered Lecoq.

The prisoner had opened the note, and was examining with knitted brows the figures which were apparently destitute of all meaning to him. Then, suddenly rushing to the door of his cell, and hammering upon it with clenched fists, he cried at the top of his voice: “Here! keeper! here!”

“What do you want?” shouted a turnkey, whose footsteps Lecoq could hear hastening along the adjoining passage.

“I wish to speak to the magistrate.”

“Very well. He shall be informed.”

“Immediately, if you please. I have a revelation to make.”

“He shall be sent for immediately.”

Lecoq waited to hear no more. He tore down the narrow staircase leading from the loft, and rushed to the Palais de Justice to acquaint M. Segmuller with what had happened.

“What can all this mean?” he wondered as he darted over the pavement. “Are we indeed approaching a denouement? This much is certain, the prisoner was not deceived by my note. He could only decipher it with the aid of his volume of Beranger, and he did not even touch the book; plainly, then, he hasn’t read the letter.”

M. Segmuller was no less amazed than the young detective. They both hastened to the prison, followed by the smiling clerk, who was the magistrate’s inevitable shadow. On their way they encountered the governor of the Depot, arriving all in a flutter, having been greatly excited by that important word “revelation.” The worthy official undoubtedly wished to express an opinion, but the magistrate checked him by the abrupt remark, “I know all about it, and I am coming.”

When they had reached the narrow corridor leading to the secret cells, Lecoq passed on in advance of the rest of the party. He said to himself that by stealing upon the prisoner unawares he might possibly find him engaged in surreptitiously reading the note. In any case, he would have an opportunity to glance at the interior of the cell. May was seated beside the table, his head resting on his hands. At the grating of the bolt, drawn by the governor himself, the prisoner rose to his feet, smoothed his hair, and remained standing in a respectful attitude, apparently waiting for the visitors to address him.

“Did you send for me?” inquired the magistrate.

“Yes, sir.”

“You have, I understand, some revelation to make to me.”

“I have something of importance to tell you.”

“Very well! these gentlemen will retire.”

M. Segmuller had already turned to Lecoq and the governor to request them to withdraw, when the prisoner motioned him not to do so.

“It is not necessary,” said May, “I am, on the contrary, very well pleased to speak before these gentlemen.”

“Speak, then.”

May did not wait for the injunction to be repeated. Throwing his chest forward, and his head back as had been his wont throughout his examinations, whenever he wished to make an oratorical display, he began as follows: “It shall be for you to say, gentlemen, whether I’m an honest man or not. The profession matters little. One may, perhaps, act as the clown of a traveling show, and yet be an honest man—a man of honor.”

“Oh, spare us your reflections!”

“Very well, sir, that suits me exactly. To be brief, then here is a little paper which was thrown into my cell a few minutes ago. There are some numbers on it which may mean something; but I have examined them, and they are quite Greek to me.”

He paused, and then handing Lecoq’s missive to the magistrate, quietly added: “It was rolled up in a bit of bread.”

This declaration was so unexpected, that it struck all the officials dumb with surprise, but the prisoner, without seeming to notice the effect he had produced, placidly continued: “I suppose the person who threw it, made a mistake in the window. I know very well that it’s a mean piece of business to denounce a companion in prison. It’s a cowardly act and one may get into trouble by doing so; still, a fellow must be prudent when he’s charged with murder as I am, and with something very unpleasant, perhaps, in store for him.”

A terribly significant gesture of severing the head from the body left no doubt whatever as to what May meant by the “something very unpleasant.”

“And yet I am innocent,” continued May, in a sorrowful, reproachful tone.

The magistrate had by this time recovered the full possession of his faculties. Fixing his eyes upon the prisoner and concentrating in one magnetic glance all his power of will, he slowly exclaimed: “You speak falsely! It was for you that this note was intended.”

“For me! Then I must be the greatest of fools, or why should I have sent for you to show it you? For me? In that case, why didn’t I keep it? Who knew, who could know that I had received it?”

These words were uttered with such a marvelous semblance of honesty, May’s gaze was frank and open, his voice rang so true, and his reasoning was so specious, that all the governor’s doubts returned.

“And what if I could prove that you are uttering a falsehood?” insisted M. Segmuller. “What if I could prove it—here and now?”

“You would have to lie to do so! Oh! pardon! Excuse me; I mean—”

But the magistrate was not in a frame of mind to stickle for nicety of expression. He motioned May to be silent; and, turning to Lecoq, exclaimed: “Show the prisoner that you have discovered the key to his secret correspondence.”

A sudden change passed over May’s features. “Ah! it is this agent of police who says the letter was for me,” he remarked in an altered tone. “The same agent who asserts that I am a grand seigneur.” Then, looking disdainfully at Lecoq, he added: “Under these circumstances there’s no hope for me. When the police are absolutely determined that a man shall be found guilty, they contrive to prove his guilt; everybody knows that. And when a prisoner receives no letters, an agent, who wishes to show that he is corresponding knows well enough how to write to him.”

May’s features wore such an expression of marked contempt that Lecoq could scarcely refrain from making an angry reply. He restrained his impulse, however, in obedience to a warning gesture from the magistrate, and taking from the table the volume of Beranger’s songs, he endeavored to prove to the prisoner that each number in the note which he had shown M. Segmuller corresponded with a word on the page indicated, and that these various words formed several intelligible phrases. This overpowering evidence did not seem to trouble May in the least. After expressing the same admiration for this novel system of correspondence that a child would show for a new toy, he declared his belief that no one could equal the police in such machinations.

What could have been done in the face of such obstinacy? M. Segmuller did not even attempt to argue the point, but quietly retired, followed by his companions. Until they reached the governor’s office, he did not utter a word; then, sinking down into an armchair, he exclaimed: “We must confess ourselves beaten. This man will always remain what he is—an inexplicable enigma.”

“But what is the meaning of the comedy he has just played? I do not understand it at all,” remarked the governor.

“Why,” replied Lecoq, “don’t you see that he wished to persuade the magistrate that the first note, the one that fell into the cell while you and I were there yesterday, had been written by me in a mad desire to prove the truth of my theory at any cost? It was a hazardous project; but the importance of the result to be gained must have emboldened him to attempt it. Had he succeeded, I should have been disgraced; and he would have remained May—the stroller, without any further doubt as to his identity. But how could he know that I had discovered his secret correspondence, and that I was watching him from the loft overhead? That will probably never be explained.”

The governor and the young detective exchanged glances of mutual distrust. “Eh! eh!” thought the former, “yes, indeed, that note which fell into the cell while I was there the other day might after all have been this crafty fellow’s work. His Father Absinthe may have served him in the first instance just as he did subsequently.”

While these reflections were flitting through the governor’s mind, Lecoq suspiciously remarked to himself: “Who knows but what this fool of a governor confided everything to Gevrol? If he did so, the General, jealous as he is, would not have scrupled to play one such a damaging trick.”

His thoughts had gone no further when Goguet, the smiling clerk, boldly broke the silence with the trite remark: “What a pity such a clever comedy didn’t succeed.”

These words startled the magistrate from his reverie. “Yes, a shameful farce,” said he, “and one I would never have authorized, had I not been blinded by a mad longing to arrive at the truth. Such tricks only bring the sacred majesty of justice into contempt!”

At these bitter words, Lecoq turned white with anger. This was the second affront within an hour. The prisoner had first insulted him, and now it was the magistrate’s turn. “I am defeated,” thought he. “I must confess it. Fate is against me! Ah! if I had only succeeded!”

Disappointment alone had impelled M. Segmuller to utter these harsh words; they were both cruel and unjust, and the magistrate soon regretted them, and did everything in his power to drive them from Lecoq’s recollection. They met every day after this unfortunate incident; and every morning, when the young detective came to give an account of his investigations, they had a long conference together. For Lecoq still continued his efforts; still labored on with an obstinacy intensified by constant sneers; still pursued his investigations with that cold and determined zeal which keeps one’s faculties on the alert for years.

The magistrate, however, was utterly discouraged. “We must abandon this attempt,” said he. “All the means of detection have been exhausted. I give it up. The prisoner will go to the Assizes, to be acquitted or condemned under the name of May. I will trouble myself no more about the matter.”

He said this, but the anxiety and disappointment caused by defeat, sneering criticism, and perplexity, as to the best course to be pursued, so affected his health that he became really ill—so ill that he had to take to his bed.

He had been confined to his room for a week or so, when one morning Lecoq called to inquire after him.

“You see, my good fellow,” quoth M. Segmuller, despondently, “that this mysterious murderer is fatal to us magistrates. Ah! he is too much for us; he will preserve the secret of his identity.”

“Possibly,” replied Lecoq. “At all events, there is now but one way left to discover his secret; we must allow him to escape—and then track him to his lair.”

This expedient, although at first sight a very startling one, was not of Lecoq’s own invention, nor was it by any means novel. At all times, in cases of necessity, have the police closed their eyes and opened the prison doors for the release of suspected criminals. And not a few, dazzled by liberty and ignorant of being watched, have foolishly betrayed themselves. All prisoners are not like the Marquis de Lavalette, protected by royal connivance; and one might enumerate many individuals who have been released, only to be rearrested after confessing their guilt to police spies or auxiliaries who have won their confidence.

Naturally, however, it is but seldom, and only in special cases, and as a last resort, that such a plan is adopted. Moreover, the authorities only consent to it when they hope to derive some important advantage, such as the capture of a whole band of criminals. For instance, the police perhaps arrest one of a band. Now, despite his criminal propensities the captured culprit often has a certain sense of honor—we all know that there is honor among thieves—which prompts him to refuse all information concerning his accomplices. In such a case what is to be done? Is he to be sent to the Assizes by himself, tried and convicted, while his comrades escape scot free? No; it is best to set him at liberty. The prison doors are opened, and he is told that he is free. But each after step he takes in the streets outside is dogged by skilful detectives; and soon, at the very moment when he is boasting of his good luck and audacity to the comrades he has rejoined, the whole gang find themselves caught in the snare.

M. Segmuller knew all this, and much more, and yet, on hearing Lecoq’s proposition, he made an angry gesture and exclaimed: “Are you mad?”

“I think not, sir.”

“At all events your scheme is a most foolish one!”

“Why so, sir? You will recollect the famous murder of the Chaboiseaus. The police soon succeeded in capturing the guilty parties; but a robbery of a hundred and sixty thousand francs in bank-notes and coin had been committed at the same time, and this large sum of money couldn’t be found. The murderers obstinately refused to say where they had concealed it; for, of course, it would prove a fortune for them, if they ever escaped the gallows. In the mean while, however, the children of the victims were ruined. Now, M. Patrigent, the magistrate who investigated the affair, was the first to convince the authorities that it would be best to set one of the murderers at liberty. His advice was followed; and three days later the culprit was surprised unearthing the money from among a bed of mushrooms. Now, I believe that our prisoner—”

“Enough!” interrupted M. Segmuller. “I wish to hear no more on the matter. I have, it seems to me, forbidden you to broach the subject.”

The young detective hung his head with a hypocritical air of submission. But all the while he watched the magistrate out of the corner of his eye and noted his agitation. “I can afford to be silent,” he thought; “he will return to the subject of his own accord.”

And in fact M. Segmuller did return to it only a moment afterward. “Suppose this man were released from prison,” said he, “what would you do?”

“What would I do, sir! I would follow him like grim death; I would not once let him out of my sight; I would be his shadow.”

“And do you suppose he wouldn’t discover this surveillance?”

“I should take my precautions.”

“But he would recognize you at a single glance.”

“No, sir, he wouldn’t, for I should disguise myself. A detective who can’t equal the most skilful actor in the matter of make-up is no better than an ordinary policeman. I have only practised at it for a twelvemonth, but I can easily make myself look old or young, dark or light, or assume the manner of a man of the world, or of some frightful ruffian of the barrieres.”

“I wasn’t aware that you possessed this talent, Monsieur Lecoq.”

“Oh! I’m very far from the perfection I hope to arrive at; though I may venture to say that in three days from now I could call on you and talk with you for half an hour without being recognized.”

M. Segmuller made no rejoinder; and it was evident to Lecoq that the magistrate had offered this objection rather in the hope of its being overruled, than with the wish to see it prevail.

“I think, my poor fellow,” he at length observed, “that you are strangely deceived. We have both been equally anxious to penetrate the mystery that enshrouds this strange man. We have both admired his wonderful acuteness—for his sagacity is wonderful; so marvelous, indeed, that it exceeds the limits of imagination. Do you believe that a man of his penetration would betray himself like an ordinary prisoner? He will understand at once, if he is set at liberty, that his freedom is only given him so that we may surprise his secret.”

“I don’t deceive myself, sir. May will guess the truth of course. I’m quite aware of that.”

“Very well. Then, what would be the use of attempting what you propose?”

“I have come to this conclusion,” replied Lecoq, “May will find himself strangely embarrassed, even when he’s set free. He won’t have a sou in his pocket; we know he has no trade, so what will he do to earn a living? He may struggle along for a while; but he won’t be willing to suffer long. Man must have food and shelter, and when he finds himself without a roof over his head, without even a crust of bread to break, he will remember that he is rich. Won’t he then try to recover possession of his property? Yes, certainly he will. He will try to obtain money, endeavor to communicate with his friends, and I shall wait till that moment arrives. Months may elapse, before, seeing no signs of my surveillance, he may venture on some decisive step; and then I will spring forward with a warrant for his arrest in my hand.”

“And what if he should leave Paris? What if he should go abroad?”

“Oh, I will follow him. One of my aunts has left me a little land in the provinces worth about twelve thousand francs. I will sell it, and spend the last sou, if necessary, so long as I only have my revenge. This man has outwitted me as if I were a child, and I must have my turn.”

“And what if he should slip through your fingers?”

Lecoq laughed like a man that was sure of himself. “Let him try,” he exclaimed; “I will answer for him with my life.”

“Your idea is not a bad one,” said M. Segmuller, eventually. “But you must understand that law and justice will take no part in such intrigues. All I can promise you is my tacit approval. Go, therefore, to the Prefecture; see your superiors—”

With a really despairing gesture, the young man interrupted M. Segmuller. “What good would it do for me to make such a proposition?” he exclaimed. “They would not only refuse my request, but they would dismiss me on the spot, if my name is not already erased from the roll.”

“What, dismissed, after conducting this case so well?”

“Ah, sir, unfortunately every one is not of that opinion. Tongues have been wagging busily during your illness. Somehow or other, my enemies have heard of the last scene we had with May; and impudently declare that it was I who imagined all the romantic details of this affair, being eager for advancement. They pretend that the only reasons to doubt the prisoner’s identity are those I have invented myself. To hear them talk at the Depot, one might suppose that I invented the scene in the Widow Chupin’s cabin; imagined the accomplices; suborned the witnesses; manufactured the articles of conviction; wrote the first note in cipher as well as the second; duped Father Absinthe, and mystified the governor.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed M. Segmuller; “in that case, what do they think of me?”

The wily detective’s face assumed an expression of intense embarrassment.

“Ah! sir,” he replied with a great show of reluctance, “they pretend that you have allowed yourself to be deceived by me, and that you haven’t weighed at their proper worth the proofs I’ve furnished.”

A fleeting flush mantled over M. Segmuller’s forehead. “In a word,” said he, “they think I’m your dupe—and a fool besides.”

The recollection of certain sarcastic smiles he had often detected on the faces of colleagues and subordinates alike, the memory of numerous covert allusions to Casper Hauser, and the Man with the Iron Mask—allusions which had stung him to the quick—induced him to hesitate no longer.

“Very well! I will aid you, Monsieur Lecoq,” he exclaimed. “I should like you to triumph over your enemies. I will get up at once and accompany you to the Palais de Justice. I will see the public prosecutor myself; I will speak to him, and plead your case for you.”

Lecoq’s joy was intense. Never, no never, had he dared to hope for such assistance. Ah! after this he would willingly go through fire on M. Segmuller’s behalf. And yet, despite his inward exultation, he had sufficient control over his feelings to preserve a sober face. This victory must be concealed under penalty of forfeiting the benefits that might accrue from it. Certainly, the young detective had said nothing that was untrue; but there are different ways of presenting the truth, and he had, perhaps, exaggerated a trifle in order to excite the magistrate’s rancor, and win his needful assistance.

“I suppose,” remarked M. Segmuller, who was now quite calm again—no outward sign of wounded vanity being perceptible—“I suppose you have decided what stratagem must be employed to lull the prisoner’s suspicions if he is permitted to escape.”

“I must confess I haven’t given it a thought,” replied Lecoq. “Besides, what good would any such stratagem do? He knows too well that he is the object of suspicion not to remain on the alert. Still, there is one precaution which I believe absolutely necessary, indispensable indeed, if we wish to be successful.”

“What precaution do you mean?” inquired the magistrate.

“Well, sir, I think an order should be given to have May transferred to another prison. It doesn’t in the least matter which; you can select the one you please.”

“Why should we do that?”

“Because, during the few days preceding his release, it is absolutely necessary he should hold no communication with his friends outside, and that he should be unable to warn his accomplice.”

“Then you think he’s badly guarded where he is?” inquired M. Segmuller with seeming amazement.

“No, sir, I did not say that. I am satisfied that since the affair of the cipher note the governor’s vigilance has been unimpeachable. However, news from outside certainly reaches the suspected murderer at the Depot; we have had material evidence—full proof of that—and besides—”

The young detective paused in evident embarrassment. He plainly had some idea in his head to which he feared to give expression.

“And besides?” repeated the magistrate.

“Ah, well, sir! I will be perfectly frank with you. I find that Gevrol enjoys too much liberty at the Depot; he is perfectly at home there, he comes and goes as he likes, and no one ever thinks of asking what he is doing, where he is going, or what he wants. No pass is necessary for his admission, and he can influence the governor just as he likes. Now, to tell the truth, I distrust Gevrol.”

“Oh! Monsieur Lecoq!”

“Yes, I know very well that it’s a bold accusation, but a man is not master of his presentiments: so there it is, I distrust Gevrol. Did the prisoner know that I was watching him from the loft, and that I had discovered his secret correspondence, was he ignorant of it? To my mind he evidently knew everything, as the last scene we had with him proves.”

“I must say that’s my own opinion,” interrupted M. Segmuller.

“But how could he have known it?” resumed Lecoq. “He could not have discovered it by himself. I endured tortures for a while in the hope of solving the problem. But all my trouble was wasted. Now the supposition of Gevrol’s intervention would explain everything.”

M. Segmuller had turned pale with anger. “Ah! if I could really believe that!” he exclaimed; “if I were sure of it! Have you any proofs?”

The young man shook his head. “No,” said he, “I haven’t; but even if my hands were full of proofs I should not dare to show them. I should ruin my future. Ah, if ever I succeed, I must expect many such acts of treachery. There is hatred and rivalry in every profession. And, mark this, sir—I don’t doubt Gevrol’s honesty. If a hundred thousand francs were counted out upon the table and offered to him, he wouldn’t even try to release a prisoner. But he would rob justice of a dozen criminals in the mere hope of injuring me, jealous as he is, and fearing lest I might obtain advancement.”

How many things these simple words explained. Did they not give the key to many and many an enigma which justice has failed to solve, simply on account of the jealousy and rivalry that animate the detective force? Thus thought M. Segmuller, but he had no time for further reflection.

“That will do,” said he, “go into the drawing-room for a moment. I will dress and join you there. I will send for a cab: for we must make haste if I am to see the public prosecutor today.”

Less than a quarter of an hour afterward M. Segmuller, who usually spent considerable time over his toilet, was dressed and ready to start. He and Lecoq were just getting into the cab that had been summoned when a footman in a stylish livery was seen approaching.

“Ah! Jean,” exclaimed the magistrate, “how’s your master?”

“Improving, sir,” was the reply. “He sent me to ask how you were, and to inquire how that affair was progressing?”

“There has been no change since I last wrote to him. Give him my compliments, and tell him that I am out again.”

The servant bowed. Lecoq took a seat beside the magistrate and the cab started off.

“That fellow is one of D’Escorval’s servants,” remarked M. Segmuller. “He’s richer than I, and can well afford to keep a footman.”

“D’Escorval’s,” ejaculated Lecoq, “the magistrate who—”

“Precisely. He sent his man to me two or three days ago to ascertain what we were doing with our mysterious May.”

“Then M. d’Escorval is interested in the case?”

“Prodigiously! I conclude it is because he opened the prosecution, and because the case rightfully belongs to him. Perhaps he regrets that it passed out of his hands, and thinks that he could have managed the investigation better himself. We would have done better with it if we could. I would give a good deal to see him in my place.”

But this change would not have been at all to Lecoq’s taste. “Ah,” thought he, “such a fellow as D’Escorval would never have shown me such confidence as M. Segmuller.” He had, indeed, good reason to congratulate himself: for that very day M. Segmuller, who was a man of his word, a man who never rested until he had carried his plan into execution, actually induced the authorities to allow May to be set at liberty; and the details of this measure only remained to be decided upon. As regards the proposed transfer of the suspected murderer to another prison, this was immediately carried into effect, and May was removed to Mazas, where Lecoq had no fear of Gevrol’s interference.

That same afternoon, moreover, the Widow Chupin received her conditional release. There was no difficulty as regards her son, Polyte. He had, in the mean time, been brought before the correctional court on a charge of theft; and, to his great astonishment, had heard himself sentenced to thirteen months’ imprisonment. After this, M. Segmuller had nothing to do but to wait, and this was the easier as the advent of the Easter holidays gave him an opportunity to seek a little rest and recreation with his family in the provinces.

On the day he returned to Paris—the last of the recess, and by chance a Sunday—he was sitting alone in his library when his cook came to tell him that there was a man in the vestibule who had been sent from a neighboring register office to take the place of a servant he had recently dismissed. The newcomer was ushered into the magistrate’s presence and proved to be a man of forty or thereabouts, very red in the face and with carroty hair and whiskers. He was, moreover, strongly inclined to corpulence, and was clad in clumsy, ill-fitting garments. In a complacent tone, and with a strong Norman accent, he informed the magistrate that during the past twenty years he had been in the employment of various literary men, as well as of a physician, and notary; that he was familiar with the duties that would be required of him at the Palais de Justice, and that he knew how to dust papers without disarranging them. In short, he produced such a favorable impression that, although M. Segmuller reserved twenty-four hours in which to make further inquiries, he drew a twenty-franc piece from his pocket on the spot and tendered it to the Norman valet as the first instalment of his wages.

But instead of pocketing the proffered coin, the man, with a sudden change of voice and attitude, burst into a hearty laugh, exclaiming: “Do you think, sir, that May will recognize me?”

“Monsieur Lecoq!” cried the astonished magistrate.

“The same, sir; and I have come to tell you that if you are ready to release May, all my arrangements are now completed.”

XX

When one of the investigating magistrates of the Tribunal of the Seine wishes to examine a person confined in one of the Paris prisons, he sends by his messenger to the governor of that particular jail a so-called “order of extraction,” a concise, imperative formula, which reads as follows: “The keeper of —— prison will give into the custody of the bearer of this order the prisoner known as ——, in order that he may be brought before us in our cabinet at the Palais de Justice.” No more, no less, a signature, a seal, and everybody is bound to obey.

But from the moment of receiving this order until the prisoner is again incarcerated, the governor of the prison is relieved of all responsibility. Whatever may happen, his hands are clear. Minute precautions are taken, however, so that a prisoner may not escape during his journey from the prison to the Palais. He is carefully locked up in a compartment of one of the lugubrious vehicles that may be often seen waiting on the Quai de l’Horloge, or in the courtyard of the Sainte-Chapelle. This van conveys him to the Palais, and while he is awaiting examination, he is immured in one of the cells of the gloomy jail, familiarly known as “la Souriciere” or the “mouse-trap.” On entering and leaving the van the prisoner is surrounded by guards; and on the road, in addition to the mounted troopers who always accompany these vehicles, there are prison warders or linesmen of the Garde de Paris installed in the passage between the compartments of the van and seated on the box with the driver. Hence, the boldest criminals ordinarily realize the impossibility of escaping from this ambulatory prison.

Indeed, statistics record only thirty attempts at escape in a period of ten years. Of these thirty attempts, twenty-five were ridiculous failures; four were discovered before their authors had conceived any serious hope of success: and only one man actually succeeded in alighting from the vehicle, and even he had not taken fifty steps before he was recaptured.

Lecoq was well acquainted with all these facts, and in preparing everything for May’s escape, his only fear was lest the murderer might decline to profit of the opportunity. Hence, it was necessary to offer every possible inducement for flight. The plan the young detective had eventually decided on consisted in sending an order to Mazas for May to be despatched to the Palais de Justice. He could be placed in one of the prison vans, and at the moment of starting the door of his compartment would not be perfectly secured. When the van reached the Palais de Justice and discharged its load of criminals at the door of the “mouse-trap” May would purposely be forgotten and left in the vehicle, while the latter waited on the Quai de l’Horloge until the hour of returning to Mazas. It was scarcely possible that the prisoner would fail to embrace this apparently favorable opportunity to make his escape.

Everything was, therefore, prepared and arranged according to Lecoq’s directions on the Monday following the close of the Easter holidays; the requisite “order of extraction” being entrusted to an intelligent man with the most minute instructions.

Now, although the van in which May would journey was not to be expected at the Palais de Justice before noon, it so happened that at nine o’clock that same morning a queer-looking “loafer” having the aspect of an overgrown, overaged “gamin de Paris” might have been seen hanging about the Prefecture de Police. He wore a tattered black woolen blouse and a pair of wide, ill-fitting trousers, fastened about his waist by a leather strap. His boots betrayed a familiar acquaintance with the puddles of the barrieres, and his cap was shabby and dirty, though, on the other hand, his necktie, a pretentious silk scarf of flaming hue, was evidently quite fresh from some haberdasher’s shop. No doubt it was a present from his sweetheart.

This uncomely being had the unhealthy complexion, hollow eyes, slouching mien, and straggling beard common to his tribe. His yellow hair, cut closely at the back of the head, as if to save the trouble of brushing, was long in front and at the sides; being plastered down over his forehead and advancing above his ears in extravagant corkscrew ringlets.

What with his attire, his affected jaunty step, his alternate raising of either shoulder, and his way of holding his cigarette and of ejecting a stream of saliva from between his teeth, Polyte Chupin, had he been at liberty, would undoubtedly have proffered a paw, and greeted this barriere beauty as a “pal.”

It was the 14th of April; the weather was lovely, and, on the horizon, the youthful foliage of the chestnut trees in the Tuileries gardens stood out against a bright blue sky. The “ethereal mildness” of “gentle spring” seemed to have a positive charm for the tattered “loafer” who lazily loitered in the sunlight, dividing his attention between the passers-by and some men who were hauling sand from the banks of the Seine. Occasionally, however, he crossed the roadway, and, strange to say, exchanged a few remarks with a neatly dressed, long-bearded gentleman, who wore gold-rimmed spectacles over his nose and drab silk gloves on his hands. This individual exhibited all the outward characteristics of eminent respectability, and seemed to take a remarkable interest in the contents of an optician’s shop window.

Every now and then a policeman or an agent of the detective corps passed by on his way to the Prefecture, and the elderly gentleman or the “loafer” would at times run after these officials to ask for some trifling information. The person addressed replied and passed on; and then the “loafer” and the gentleman would join each other and laughingly exclaim: “Good!—there’s another who doesn’t recognize us.”

And in truth the pair had just cause for exultation, good reason to be proud, for of some twelve or fifteen comrades they accosted, not one recognized the two detectives, Lecoq and Father Absinthe. For the “loafer” was none other than our hero, and the gentleman of such eminent respectability his faithful lieutenant.

“Ah!” quoth the latter with admiration, “I am not surprised they don’t recognize me, since I can’t recognize myself. No one but you, Monsieur Lecoq, could have so transformed me.”

Unfortunately for Lecoq’s vanity, the good fellow spoke at a moment when the time for idle conversation had passed. The prison van was just crossing the bridge at a brisk trot.

“Attention!” exclaimed the young detective, “there comes our friend! Quick!—to your post; remember my directions, and keep your eyes open!”

Near them, on the quay, was a large pile of timber, behind which Father Absinthe immediately concealed himself, while Lecoq, seizing a spade that was lying idle, hurried to a little distance and began digging in the sand. They did well to make haste. The van came onward and turned the corner. It passed the two detectives, and with a noisy clang rolled under the heavy arch leading to “la Souriciere.” May was inside, as Lecoq assured himself on recognizing the keeper sitting beside the driver.

The van remained in the courtyard for more than a quarter of an hour. When it reappeared, the driver had left his perch and the quay opposite the Palais de Justice, threw a covering over his horses, lighted his pipe, and quietly walked away. The moment for action was now swiftly approaching.

For a few minutes the anxiety of the two watchers amounted to actual agony; nothing stirred—nothing moved. But at last the door of the van was opened with infinite caution, and a pale, frightened face became visible. It was the face of May. The prisoner cast a rapid glance around him. No one was in sight. Then as swiftly and as stealthily as a cat he sprang to the ground, noiselessly closed the door of the vehicle, and walked quietly toward the bridge.

Lecoq breathed again. He had been asking himself if some trifling circumstance could have been forgotten or neglected, thus disarranging all his plans. He had been wondering if this strange man would refuse the dangerous liberty which had been offered him. But he had been anxious without cause. May had fled; not thoughtlessly, but with premeditation.

From the moment when he was left alone, apparently forgotten, in the insecurely locked compartment, until he opened the door and glanced around him, sufficient time had elapsed for a man of his intellect and discernment to analyze and calculate all the chances of so grave a step. Hence, if he had stepped into the snare laid for him, it must be with a full knowledge of the risks he had to run. He and Lecoq were alone together, free in the streets of Paris, armed with mutual distrust, equally obliged to resort to strategy, and forced to hide from each other. Lecoq, it is true, had an auxiliary—Father Absinthe. But who could say that May would not be aided by his redoubtable accomplice? Hence, it was a veritable duel, the result of which depended entirely upon the courage, skill, and coolness of the antagonists.

All these thoughts flashed through the young detective’s brain with the quickness of lightning. Throwing down his spade, and running toward a sergeant de ville, who was just coming out of the Palais de Justice, he gave him a letter which was ready in his pocket. “Take this to M. Segmuller at once; it is a matter of importance,” said he.

The policeman attempted to question this “loafer” who was in correspondence with the magistrates; but Lecoq had already darted off on the prisoner’s trail.

May had covered but a short distance. He was sauntering along with his hands in his pockets; his head high in the air, his manner composed and full of assurance. Had he reflected that it would be dangerous to run while so near the prison from which he had just escaped? Or was he of opinion that as an opportunity of flight had been willingly furnished him, there was no danger of immediate rearrest? This was a point Lecoq could not decide. At all events, May showed no signs of quickening his pace even after crossing the bridge; and it was with the same tranquil manner that he next crossed the Quai aux Fleurs and turned into the Hue de la Cite.

Nothing in his bearing or appearance proclaimed him to be an escaped prisoner. Since his trunk—that famous trunk which he pretended to have left at the Hotel de Mariembourg—had been returned to him, he had been well supplied with clothing: and he never failed, when summoned before the magistrate, to array himself in his best apparel. The garments he wore that day were black cloth, and their cut, combined with his manner, gave him the appearance of a working man of the better class taking a holiday.

His tread, hitherto firm and decided, suddenly became uncertain when, after crossing the Seine, he reached the Rue St. Jacques. He walked more slowly, frequently hesitated, and glanced continually at the shops on either side of the way.

“Evidently he is seeking something,” thought Lecoq: “but what?”

It was not long before he ascertained. Seeing a second-hand-clothes shop close by, May entered in evident haste. Lecoq at once stationed himself under a gateway on the opposite side of the street, and pretended to be busily engaged lighting a cigarette. The criminal being momentarily out of sight, Father Absinthe thought he could approach without danger.

“Ah, well,” said he, “there’s our man changing his fine clothes for coarser garments. He will ask for the difference in money; and they will give it him. You told me this morning: ‘May without a sou’—that’s the trump card in our game!”

“Nonsense! Before we begin to lament, let us wait and see what happens. It is not likely that shopkeeper will give him any money. He won’t buy clothing of the first passer-by.”

Father Absinthe withdrew to a little distance. He distrusted these reasons, but not Lecoq who gave them.

In the mean while, in his secret soul, Lecoq was cursing himself. Another blunder, thought he, another weapon left in the hands of the enemy. How was it that he, who fancied himself so shrewd, had not foreseen this emergency? Calmness of mind returned, however, a moment afterward when he saw May emerge from the shop attired as when he entered it. Luck had for once been in the young detective’s favor.

May actually staggered when he stepped out on the pavement. His bitter disappointment could be read in his countenance, which disclosed the anguish of a drowning man who sees the frail plank which was his only hope of salvation snatched from his grasp by the ruthless waves.

What could have taken place? This Lecoq must know without a moment’s delay. He gave a peculiar whistle, to warn his companion that he momentarily abandoned the pursuit of him; and having received a similar signal in response, he entered the shop. The owner was still standing behind the counter. Lecoq wasted no time in parleying. He merely showed his card to acquaint the man with his profession, and curtly asked: “What did the fellow want who was just in here?”

The shopkeeper seemed embarrassed. “It’s a long story,” he stammered.

“Then tell it!” said Lecoq, surprised at the man’s hesitation.

“Oh, it’s very simple. About twelve days ago a man entered my shop with a bundle under his arm. He claimed to be a countryman of mine.”

“Are you an Alsatian?”

“Yes, sir. Well, I went with this man to the wine-shop at the corner, where he ordered a bottle of good wine; and while we drank together, he asked me if I would consent to keep the package he had with him until one of his cousins came to claim it. To prevent any mistake, this cousin was to say certain words—a countersign, as it were. I refused, shortly and decidedly, for the very month before I had got into trouble and had been charged with receiving stolen goods, all by obliging a person in this way. Well, you never saw a man so vexed and so surprised. What made me all the more determined in my refusal was that he offered me a good round sum in payment for my trouble. This only increased my suspicion, and I persisted in my refusal.”

The shopkeeper paused to take breath; but Lecoq was on fire with impatience. “And what then?” he insisted.

“Well, he paid for the wine and went away. I had forgotten all about the matter until that man came in here just now, and after asking me if I hadn’t a package for him, which had been left by one of his cousins, began to say some peculiar words—the countersign, no doubt. When I replied that I had nothing at all he turned as white as his shirt; and I thought he was going to faint. All my suspicions came back to me. So when he afterward proposed that I should buy his clothes, I told him I couldn’t think of it.”

All this was plain enough to Lecoq. “And this cousin who was here a fortnight ago, what was he like?” asked he.

“He was a tall, rather corpulent man, with a ruddy complexion, and white whiskers. Ah! I should recognize him in an instant!”

“The accomplice!” exclaimed Lecoq.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing that would interest you. Thank you. I am in a hurry. You will see me again; good morning.”

Lecoq had not remained five minutes in the shop: and yet, when he emerged, May and Father Absinthe were nowhere in sight. Still, the young detective was not at all uneasy on that score. In making arrangements with his old colleague for this pursuit Lecoq had foreseen such a situation, and it had been agreed that if one of them were obliged to remain behind, the other, who was closely following May, should from time to time make chalk marks on the walls, shutters, and facings of the shops, so as to indicate the route, and enable his companion to rejoin him. Hence, in order to know which way to go, Lecoq had only to glance at the buildings around him. The task was neither long nor difficult, for on the front of the third shop beyond that of the second-hand-clothes dealer a superb dash of the crayon instructed him to turn into the Rue Saint-Jacques.

On he rushed in that direction, his mind busy at work with the incident that had just occurred. What a terrible warning that old-clothes dealer’s declaration had been! Ah! that mysterious accomplice was a man of foresight. He had even done his utmost to insure his comrade’s salvation in the event of his being allowed to escape. What did the package the shopkeeper had spoken of contain? Clothes, no doubt. Everything necessary for a complete disguise—money, papers, a forged passport most likely.

While these thoughts were rushing through Lecoq’s mind, he had reached the Rue Soufflot, where he paused for an instant to learn his way from the walls. This was the work of a second. A long chalk mark on a watchmaker’s shop pointed to the Boulevard Saint-Michel, whither the young detective at once directed his steps. “The accomplice,” said he to himself, resuming his meditation, “didn’t succeed with that old-clothes dealer; but he isn’t a man to be disheartened by one rebuff. He has certainly taken other measures. How shall I divine what they are in order to defeat them?”

The supposed murderer had crossed the Boulevard Saint-Michel, and had then taken to the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, as Father Absinthe’s dashes of the crayon proclaimed with many eloquent flourishes.

“One circumstance reassures me,” the young detective murmured, “May’s going to this shop, and his consternation on finding that there was nothing for him there. The accomplice had informed him of his plans, but had not been able to inform him of their failure. Hence, from this hour, the prisoner is left to his own resources. The chain that bound him to his accomplice is broken; there is no longer an understanding between them. Everything depends now upon keeping them apart. Yes, everything lies in that!”

Ah! how Lecoq rejoiced that he had succeeded in having May transferred to another prison; for he was convinced that the accomplice had warned May of the attempt he was going to make with the old-clothes dealer on the very evening before May’s removal to Mazas. Hence, it had not been possible to acquaint him with the failure of this scheme or the substitution of another.

Still following the chalk marks, Lecoq now reached the Odeon theatre. Here were fresh signs, and what was more, Father Absinthe could be perceived under the colonnade, standing in front of one of the book-stalls, and apparently engrossed in the contemplation of a print.

Assuming the nonchalant manner of the loafer whose garb he wore, Lecoq took his stand beside his colleague. “Where is he?” asked the young detective.

“There,” replied his companion, with a slight movement of his head in the direction of the steps.

The fugitive was, indeed, seated on one of the steps at the side of the theatre, his elbows resting on his knees and his face hidden in his hands, as if he felt the necessity of concealing the expression of his face from the passers-by. Undoubtedly, at that moment, he gave himself up for lost. Alone in the midst of Paris, without a penny, what was to become of him? He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was being watched; that his steps were being dogged, that the first attempt he made to inform his accomplice of his whereabouts would cost him his secret—the secret which he plainly held as more precious than life itself, and which, by immense sacrifices, he had so far been able to preserve.

Having for some short time contemplated in silence this unfortunate man whom after all he could but esteem and admire, Lecoq turned to his old companion: “What did he do on the way?” he asked.

“He went into the shops of five dealers in second-hand clothing without success. Then he addressed a man who was passing with a lot of old rubbish on his shoulder: but the man wouldn’t even answer him.”

Lecoq nodded his head thoughtfully. “The moral of this is, that there’s a vast difference between theory and practise,” he remarked. “Here’s a fellow who has made some most discerning men believe that he’s only a poor devil, a low buffoon. Well, now he’s free; and this so-called Bohemian doesn’t even know how to go to work to sell the clothes on his back. The comedian who could play his part so well on the stage has disappeared; while the man remains—the man who has always been rich, and knows nothing of the vicissitudes of life.”

The young detective suddenly ceased moralizing, for May had risen from his seat. Lecoq was only ten yards distant, and could see that his face was pallid. His attitude expressed profound dejection and one could read his indecision in his eyes. Perhaps he was wondering if it would not be best to return and place himself again in the hands of his jailers, since he was without the resources upon which he had depended.

After a little, however, he shook off the torpor that had for a time overpowered him; his eyes brightened, and, with a gesture of defiance, he left the steps, crossed the open square and walked down the Rue de l’Ancienne-Comedie. He strode onward now with the brisk, determined step of a man who has a definite aim in view.

“Who knows where he is going now?” murmured Father Absinthe, as he trotted along by Lecoq’s side.

“I do,” replied the young detective. “And the proof is, that I am going to leave you, and run on in advance, to prepare for his reception. I may be mistaken, however, and as we must be prepared for any emergency, leave me the chalk-marks as you go along. If our man doesn’t come to the Hotel de Mariembourg, as I think he will, I shall come back here to start in pursuit of you again.”

Just then an empty cab chanced to be passing, and Lecoq hastily got into it, telling the driver to take him to the Northern Railway Station by the shortest route and as quickly as possible. As time was precious, he handed the cabman his fare while on the road, and then began to search his pocket-book, among the various documents confided to him by M. Segmuller, for a particular paper he would now require.

Scarcely had the cab stopped at the Place de Roubaix than the young detective alighted and ran toward the Hotel de Mariembourg, where, as on the occasion of his first visit, he found Madame Milner standing on a chair in front of her birdcage, obstinately trying to teach her starling German, while the bird with equal obstinacy repeated: “Camille! where is Camille?”

On perceiving the individual of questionable mien who had presumed to cross her threshold, the pretty widow did not deign to change her position.

“What do you want?” she asked in a curt, sharp voice.

“I am the nephew of a messenger at the Palais de Justice,” replied Lecoq with an awkward bow, in perfect keeping with his attire. “On going to see my uncle this morning, I found him laid up with rheumatism; and he asked me to bring you this paper in his stead. It is a summons for you to appear at once before the investigating magistrate.”

This reply induced Madame Milner to abandon her perch. “Very well,” she replied after glancing at the summons; “give me time to throw a shawl over my shoulder, and I’ll start.”

Lecoq withdrew with another awkward bow; but he had not reached the street before a significant grimace betrayed his inward satisfaction. She had duped him once, and now he had repaid her. On looking round him he perceived a half-built house at the corner of the Rue St. Quentin, and being momentarily in want of a hiding-place he concluded that he had best conceal himself there. The pretty widow had only asked for sufficient time to slip on a shawl before starting; but then it so happened that she was rather particular as to her personal appearance—and such a plump, attractive little body as herself, having an eye perhaps to renewed wedlock, could not possibly be expected to tie her bonnet strings in less than a quarter of an hour. Hence, Lecoq’s sojourn behind the scaffolding of the half-built house proved rather longer than he had expected, and at the thought that May might arrive at any moment he fairly trembled with anxiety. How much was he in advance of the fugitive? Half an hour, perhaps! And he had accomplished only half his task.

At last, however, the coquettish landlady made her appearance as radiant as a spring morning. She probably wished to make up for the time she had spent over her toilet, for as she turned the corner she began to run. Lecoq waited till she was out of sight, and then bounding from his place of concealment, he burst into the Hotel de Mariembourg like a bombshell.

Fritz, the Bavarian lad, must have been warned that the house was to be left in his sole charge for some hours; for having comfortably installed himself in his mistress’s own particular armchair, with his legs resting on another one, he had already commenced to fall asleep.

“Wake up!” shouted Lecoq; “wake up!”

At the sound of this voice, which rang like a trumpet blast, Fritz sprang to his feet, frightened half out of his wits.

“You see that I am an agent of the Prefecture of Police,” said the visitor, showing his card. “Now, if you wish to avoid all sorts of disagreeable things, the least of which will be a sojourn in prison, you must obey me.”

The boy trembled in every limb. “Yes, mein Herr—Monsieur, I mean—I will obey you,” he stammered. “But what am I to do?”

“Oh, very little. A man is coming here in a moment: you will know him by his black clothes and his long beard. You must answer him word for word as I tell you. And remember, if you make any mistake, you will suffer for it.”

“You may rely upon me, sir,” replied Fritz. “I have an excellent memory.”

The prospect of imprisonment had terrified him into abject submission. He spoke the truth; he would have been willing to say or do anything just then. Lecoq profited by this disposition; and then clearly and concisely gave the lad his instructions. “And now,” added he, “I must see and hear you. Where can I hide myself?”

Fritz pointed to a glass door. “In the dark room there, sir. By leaving the door ajar you can hear and you can see everything through the glass.”

Without another word Lecoq darted into the room in question. Not a moment too soon, however, for the bell of the outer door announced the arrival of a visitor. It was May. “I wish to speak to the landlady,” he said.

“What landlady?” replied the lad.

“The person who received me when I came here six weeks ago—”

“Oh, I understand,” interrupted Fritz; “it’s Madame Milner you want to see; but you have come too late; she sold the house about a month ago, and has gone back to Alsace.”

May stamped his foot and uttered a terrible oath. “I have come to claim something from her,” he insisted.

“Do you want me to call her successor?”

Concealed behind the glass door, Lecoq could not help admiring Fritz, who was uttering these glaring falsehoods with that air of perfect candor which gives the Germans such a vast advantage over the Latin races, who seem to be lying even when they are telling the truth.

“Her successor would order me off,” exclaimed May. “I came to reclaim the money I paid for a room I never occupied.”

“Such money is never refunded.”

May uttered some incoherent threat, in which such words as “downright robbery” and “justice” could be distinguished, and then abruptly walked back into the street, slamming the door behind him.

“Well! did I answer properly?” asked Fritz triumphantly as Lecoq emerged from his hiding-place.

“Yes, perfectly,” replied the detective. And then pushing aside the boy, who was standing in his way, he dashed after May.

A vague fear almost suffocated him. It had struck him that the fugitive had not been either surprised or deeply affected by the news he had heard. He had come to the hotel depending upon Madame Milner’s assistance, and the news of this woman’s departure would naturally have alarmed him, for was she not the mysterious accomplice’s confidential friend? Had May, then, guessed the trick that had been played upon him? And if so, how?

Lecoq’s good sense told him plainly that the fugitive must have been put on his guard, and on rejoining Father Absinthe, he immediately exclaimed: “May spoke to some one on his way to the hotel.”

“Why, how could you know that?” exclaimed the worthy man, greatly astonished.

“Ah! I was sure of it! Who did he speak to?”

“To a very pretty woman, upon my word!—fair and plump as a partridge!”

“Ah! fate is against us!” exclaimed Lecoq with an oath. “I run on in advance to Madame Milner’s house, so that May shan’t see her. I invent an excuse to send her out of the hotel, and yet they meet each other.”

Father Absinthe gave a despairing gesture. “Ah! if I had known!” he murmured; “but you did not tell me to prevent May from speaking to the passers-by.”

“Never mind, my old friend,” said Lecoq, consolingly; “it couldn’t have been helped.”

While this conversation was going on, the fugitive had reached the Faubourg Montmartre, and his pursuers were obliged to hasten forward and get closer to their man, so that they might not lose him in the crowd.

“Now,” resumed Lecoq when they had overtaken him, “give me the particulars. Where did they meet?”

“In the Rue Saint-Quentin.”

“Which saw the other first?”

“May.”

“What did the woman say? Did you hear any cry of surprise?”

“I heard nothing, for I was quite fifty yards off; but by the woman’s manner I could see she was stupefied.”

Ah! if Lecoq could have witnessed the scene, what valuable deductions he might have drawn from it. “Did they talk for a long time?” he asked.

“For less than a quarter of an hour.”

“Do you know whether Madame Milner gave May money or not?”

“I can’t say. They gesticulated like mad—so violently, indeed, that I thought they were quarreling.”

“They knew they were being watched, and were endeavoring to divert suspicion.”

“If they would only arrest this woman and question her,” suggested Father Absinthe.

“What good would it do? Hasn’t M. Segmuller examined and cross-examined her a dozen times without drawing anything from her! Ah! she’s a cunning one. She would declare that May met her and insisted that she should refund the ten francs he paid her for his room. We must do our best, however. If the accomplice has not been warned already, he will soon be told; so we must try to keep the two men apart. What ruse they will employ, I can’t divine. But I know that it will be nothing hackneyed.”

Lecoq’s presumptions made Father Absinthe nervous. “The surest way, perhaps,” ventured the latter, “would be to lock him up again!”

“No!” replied the young detective. “I want his secret, and I’ll have it. What will be said of us if we two allow this man to escape us? He can’t be visible and invisible by turns, like the devil. We’ll see what he is going to do now that he’s got some money and a plan—for he has both at the present moment. I would stake my right hand upon it.”

At that same instant, as if May intended to convince Lecoq of the truth of his suspicion, he entered a tobacconist’s shop and emerged an instant afterward with a cigar in his mouth.

XXI

So the landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg had given May money. There could be no further doubt on that point after the purchase of this cigar. But had they agreed upon any plan? Had they had sufficient time to decide on the method that May was to employ with the view of baffling his pursuit?

It would seem so, since the fugitive’s manner had now changed in more respects than one. If hitherto he had seemed to care little for the danger of pursuit and capture, at present he was evidently uneasy and agitated. After walking so long in the full sunlight, with his head high in the air, he now slunk along in the shadow of the houses, hiding himself as much as possible.

“It is evident that his fears have increased in proportion with his hopes,” said Lecoq to his companion. “He was quite unnerved when we saw him at the Odeon, and the merest trifle would have decided him to surrender; now, however, he thinks he has a chance to escape with his secret.”

The fugitive was following the boulevards, but suddenly he turned into a side street and made his way toward the Temple, where, soon afterward, Father Absinthe and Lecoq found him conversing with one of those importunate dealers in cast-off garments who consider every passer-by their lawful prey. The vender and May were evidently debating a question of price; but the latter was plainly no skilful bargainer, for with a somewhat disappointed air he soon gave up the discussion and entered the shop.

“Ah, so now he has some coin he has determined on a costume,” remarked Lecoq. “Isn’t that always an escaped prisoner’s first impulse?”

Soon afterward May emerged into the street. His appearance was decidedly changed, for he wore a pair of dark blue linen trousers, of the type French “navvies” habitually affect, and a loosely fitting coat of rough woolen material. A gay silk ’kerchief was knotted about his throat, and a black silk cap was set on one side of his head. Thus attired, he was scarcely more prepossessing in appearance than Lecoq, and one would have hesitated before deciding which of the two it would be preferable to meet at night on a deserted highway.

May seemed very well pleased with his transformation, and was evidently more at ease in his new attire. On leaving the shop, however, he glanced suspiciously around him, as if to ascertain which of the passers-by were watching his movements. He had not parted with his broadcloth suit, but was carrying it under his arm, wrapped up in a handkerchief. The only thing he had left behind him was his tall chimney-pot hat.

Lecoq would have liked to enter the shop and make some inquiries, but he felt that it would be imprudent to do so, for May had settled his cap on his head with a gesture that left no doubt as to his intentions. A second later he turned into the Rue du Temple, and now the chase began in earnest; for the fugitive proved as swift and agile as a stag, and it was no small task to keep him well in sight. He had no doubt lived in England and Germany, since he spoke the language of these countries like a native; but one thing was certain—he knew Paris as thoroughly as the most expert Parisian.

This was shown by the way in which he dashed into the Rue des Gravelliers, and by the precision of his course through the many winding streets that lie between the Rue du Temple and the Rue Beaubourg. He seemed to know this quarter of the capital by heart; as well, indeed, as if he had spent half his life there. He knew all the wine-shops communicating with two streets—all the byways, passages, and tortuous alleys. Twice he almost escaped his pursuers, and once his salvation hung upon a thread. If he had remained in an obscure corner, where he was completely hidden, only an instant longer, the two detectives would have passed him by and his safety would have been assured.

The pursuit presented immense difficulties. Night was coming on, and with it that light fog which almost invariably accompanies a spring sunset. Soon the street-lamps glimmered luridly in the mist, and then it required a keen eyesight indeed to see even for a moderate distance. And, to add to this drawback, the streets were now thronged with workmen returning home after their daily toil, and with housewives intent on purchasing provisions for the evening meal, while round about each dwelling there congregated its numerous denizens swarming like bees around a hive. May, however, took advantage of every opportunity to mislead the persons who might be following him. Groups collected around some cheap-jack’s stall, street accidents, a block of vehicles—everything was utilized by him with such marvelous presence of mind that he often glided through the crowd without leaving any sign of his passage.

At last he left the neighborhood of the Rue des Gravelliers and made for a broader street. Reaching the Boulevard de Sebastopol, he turned to the left, and took a fresh start. He darted on with marvelous rapidity, with his elbows pressed close to his body—husbanding his breath and timing his steps with the precision of a dancing-master. Never pausing, and without once turning his head, he ever hurried on. And it was at the same regular but rapid pace that he covered the Boulevard de Sebastopol, crossed the Place du Chatelet, and proceeded to mount the Boulevard Saint-Michel.

Here he suddenly halted before a cab-stand. He spoke to one of the drivers, opened the door of his vehicle, and jumped in. The cab started off at a rapid pace. But May was not inside. He had merely passed through the vehicle, getting out at the other door, and just as the driver was departing for an imaginary destination May slipped into an adjacent cab which left the stand at a gallop. Perhaps, after so many ruses, after such formidable efforts, after this last stratagem—perhaps May believed that he was free.

He was mistaken. Behind the cab which bore him onward, and while he leaned back against the cushions to rest, a man was running; and this man was Lecoq. Poor Father Absinthe had fallen by the way. In front of the Palais de Justice he paused, exhausted and breathless, and Lecoq had little hope of seeing him again, since he had all he could do to keep his man in sight without stopping to make the chalk-marks agreed upon.

May had instructed his driver to take him to the Place d’Italie: requesting him, moreover, to stop exactly in the middle of the square. This was about a hundred paces from the police station in which he had been temporarily confined with the Widow Chupin. When the vehicle halted, he sprang to the ground and cast a rapid glance around him, as if looking for some dreaded shadow. He could see nothing, however, for although surprised by the sudden stoppage, Lecoq had yet had time to fling himself flat on his stomach under the body of the cab, regardless of all danger of being crushed by the wheels. May was apparently reassured. He paid the cabman and then retraced his course toward the Rue Mouffetard.

With a bound, Lecoq was on his feet again, and started after the fugitive as eagerly as a ravenous dog might follow a bone. He had reached the shadow cast by the large trees in the outer boulevards when a faint whistle resounded in his ears. “Father Absinthe!” he exclaimed in a tone of delighted surprise.

“The same,” replied the old detective, “and quite rested, thanks to a passing cabman who picked me up and brought me here—”

“Oh, enough!” interrupted Lecoq. “Let us keep our eyes open.”

May was now walking quite leisurely. He stopped first before one and then before another of the numerous wine-shops and eating-houses that abound in this neighborhood. He was apparently looking for some one or something, which of the two Lecoq could not, of course, divine. However, after peering through the glass doors of three of these establishments and then turning away, the fugitive at last entered the fourth. The two detectives, who were enabled to obtain a good view of the shop inside, saw the supposed murderer cross the room and seat himself at a table where a man of unusually stalwart build, ruddy-faced and gray-whiskered, was already seated.

“The accomplice!” murmured Father Absinthe.

Was this really the redoubtable accomplice? Under other circumstances Lecoq would have hesitated to place dependence on a vague similarity in personal appearance; but here probabilities were so strongly in favor of Father Absinthe’s assertion that the young detective at once admitted its truth. Was not this meeting the logical sequence of May and Madame Milner’s chance interview a few hours before?

“May,” thought Lecoq, “began by taking all the money Madame Milner had about her, and then instructed her to tell his accomplice to come and wait for him in some cheap restaurant near here. If he hesitated and looked inside the different establishments, it was only because he hadn’t been able to specify any particular one. Now, if they don’t throw aside the mask, it will be because May is not sure he has eluded pursuit and because the accomplice fears that Madame Milner may have been followed.”

The accomplice, if this new personage was really the accomplice, had resorted to a disguise not unlike that which May and Lecoq had both adopted. He wore a dirty blue blouse and a hideous old slouch hat, which was well-nigh in tatters. He had, in fact, rather exaggerated his make-up, for his sinister physiognomy attracted especial attention even beside the depraved and ferocious faces of the other customers in the shop. For this low eating-house was a regular den of thieves and cut-throats. Among those present there were not four workmen really worthy of that name. The others occupied in eating and drinking there were all more or less familiar with prison life. The least to be dreaded were the barriere loafers, easily recognized by their glazed caps and their loosely-knotted neckerchiefs. The majority of the company appeared to consist of this class.

And yet May, that man who was so strongly suspected of belonging to the highest social sphere, seemed to be perfectly at home. He called for the regular “ordinary” and a “chopine” of wine, and then, after gulping down his soup, bolted great pieces of beef, pausing every now and then to wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve. But was he conversing with his neighbor? This it was impossible to discern through the glass door, all obscured by smoke and steam.

“I must go in,” said Lecoq, resolutely. “I must get a place near them, and listen.”

“Don’t think of such a thing,” said Father Absinthe. “What if they recognized you?”

“They won’t recognize me.”

“If they do, they’ll kill you.”

Lecoq made a careless gesture.

“I certainly think that they wouldn’t hesitate to rid themselves of me at any cost. But, nonsense! A detective who is afraid to risk his life is no better than a low spy. Why! you never saw even Gevrol flinch.”

Perhaps Father Absinthe had wished to ascertain if his companion’s courage was equal to his shrewdness and sagacity. If such were the case he was satisfied on this score now.

“You, my friend, will remain here to follow them if they leave hurriedly,” resumed Lecoq, who in the mean while had already turned the handle of the door. Entering with a careless air and taking a seat at a table near that occupied by the fugitive and the man in the slouch hat, he called for a plate of meat and a “chopine” of wine in a guttural voice.

The fugitive and the ruffian opposite him were talking, but like strangers who had met by chance, and not at all after the fashion of friends who have met at a rendezvous. They spoke in the jargon of their pretended rank in life, not that puerile slang met with in romances descriptive of low life, but that obscene, vulgar dialect which it is impossible to render, so changeable and diverse is the signification of its words.

“What wonderful actors!” thought Lecoq; “what perfection! what method! How I should be deceived if I were not absolutely certain!”

For the moment the man in the slouch hat was giving a detailed account of the different prisons in France. He described the governors of the principal houses of detention; explained the divergencies of discipline in different establishments; and recounted that the food at Poissy was ten times better than that at Fontevrault.

Lecoq, having finished his repast, ordered a small glass of brandy, and, leaning his back against the wall and closing his eyes, pretended to fall asleep. His ears were wide open, however, and he carefully listened to the conversation.

Soon May began talking in his turn; and he narrated his story exactly as he had related it to the magistrate, from the murder up to his escape, without forgetting to mention the suspicions attached to his identity—suspicions which afforded him great amusement, he said. He added that he would be perfectly happy if he had money enough to take him back to Germany; but unfortunately he only had a few sous and didn’t know where or how to procure any more. He had not even succeeded in selling some clothing which belonged to him, and which he had with him in a bundle.

At these words the man in the tattered felt hat declared that he had too good a heart to leave a comrade in such embarrassment. He knew, in the very same street, an obliging dealer in such articles, and he offered to take May to his place at once. May’s only response was to rise, saying: “Let us start.” And they did start, with Lecoq at their heels.

They walked rapidly on until passing the Rue Fer-a-Moulin, when they turned into a narrow, dimly lighted alley, and entered a dingy dwelling.

“Run and ask the concierge if there are not two doors by which any one can leave this house,” said Lecoq, addressing Father Absinthe.

The latter instantly obeyed. He learned, however, that the house had only one street door, and accordingly the two detectives waited. “We are discovered!” murmured Lecoq. “I am sure of it. May must have recognized me, or the boy at the Hotel de Mariembourg has described me to the accomplice.”

Father Absinthe made no response, for just then the two men came out of the house. May was jingling some coins in his hand, and seemed to be in a very bad temper. “What infernal rascals these receivers are!” he grumbled.

However, although he had only received a small sum for his clothing, he probably felt that his companion’s kindness deserved some reward; for immediately afterward he proposed they should take a drink together, and with that object in view they entered a wine-shop close by. They remained here for more than an hour, drinking together; and only left this establishment to enter one a hundred paces distant. Turned out by the landlord, who was anxious to shut up, the two friends now took refuge in the next one they found open. Here again they were soon turned out and then they hurried to another boozing-den—and yet again to a fifth. And so, after drinking innumerable bottles of wine, they contrived to reach the Place Saint-Michel at about one o’clock in the morning. Here, however, they found nothing to drink; for all the wine-shops were closed.

The two men then held a consultation together, and, after a short discussion, they walked arm-in-arm toward the Faubourg Saint-Germain, like a pair of friends. The liquor they had imbibed was seemingly producing its effect, for they often staggered in their walk, and talked not merely loudly but both at the same time. In spite of the danger, Lecoq advanced near enough to catch some fragments of their conversation; and the words “a good stroke,” and “money enough to satisfy one,” reached his ears.

Father Absinthe’s confidence wavered. “All this will end badly,” he murmured.

“Don’t be alarmed,” replied his friend. “I frankly confess that I don’t understand the maneuvres of these wily confederates, but what does that matter after all; now the two men are together, I feel sure of success—sure. If one runs away, the other will remain, and Gevrol shall soon see which is right, he or I.”

Meanwhile the two drunkards had slackened their pace. By the manner in which they examined the magnificent mansions of the Faubourg Saint-German, one might have suspected them of the very worst intentions. In the Rue de Varrennes, at only a few steps from the Rue de la Chaise, they suddenly paused before a wall of moderate height surrounding an immense garden. The man in the slouch hat now did the talking, and explained to May—as the detectives could tell by his gestures—that the mansion to which the garden belonged had its front entrance in the Rue de Grenelle.

“Bah!” growled Lecoq, “how much further will they carry this nonsense?”

They carried it farther than the young detective had ever imagined. May suddenly sprang on to his companion’s shoulders, and raised himself to a level with the summit of the wall. An instant afterward a heavy thud might have been heard. He had let himself drop into the garden. The man in the slouch hat remained in the street to watch.

The enigmatical fugitive had accomplished this strange, inconceivable design so swiftly that Lecoq had neither the time nor the desire to oppose him. His amazement at this unexpected misfortune was so great that for, an instant he could neither think nor move. But he quickly regained his self-possession, and at once decided what was to be done. With a sure eye he measured the distance separating him from May’s accomplice, and with three bounds he was upon him. The man in the slouched hat attempted to shout, but an iron hand stifled the cry in his throat. He tried to escape, and to beat off his assailant, but a vigorous kick stretched him on the ground as if he had been a child. Before he had time to think of further resistance he was bound, gagged, and carried, half-suffocated, to the corner of the Rue de la Chaise. No sound had been heard; not a word, not an ejaculation, not even a noise of shuffling—nothing. Any suspicious sound might have reached May, on the other side of the wall, and warned him of what was going on.

“How strange,” murmured Father Absinthe, too much amazed to lend a helping hand to his younger colleague. “How strange! Who would have supposed—”

“Enough! enough!” interrupted Lecoq, in that harsh, imperious voice, which imminent peril always gives to energetic men. “Enough!—we will talk tomorrow. I must run away for a minute, and you will remain here. If May shows himself, capture him; don’t allow him to escape.”

“I understand; but what is to be done with the man who is lying there?”

“Leave him where he is. I have bound him securely, so there is nothing to fear. When the night-police pass, we will give him into charge—”

He paused and listened. A short way down the street, heavy, measured footsteps could be heard approaching.

“There they come,” said Father Absinthe.

“Ah! I dared not hope it! I shall have a good chance now.”

At the same moment, two sergeants de ville, whose attention had been attracted by this group at the street corner, hastened toward them. In a few words, Lecoq explained the situation, and it was decided that one of the sergeants should take the accomplice to the station-house, while the other remained with Father Absinthe to cut off May’s retreat.

“And now,” said Lecoq, “I will run round to the Rue de Grenelle and give the alarm. To whose house does this garden belong?”

“What!” replied one of the sergeants in surprise, “don’t you know the gardens of the Duke de Sairmeuse, the famous duke who is a millionaire ten times over, and who was formerly the friend—”

“Ah, yes, I know, I know!” said Lecoq.

“The thief,” resumed the sergeant, “walked into a pretty trap when he got over that wall. There was a reception at the mansion this evening, as there is every Monday, and every one in the house is still up. The guests are only just leaving, for there were five or six carriages still at the door as we passed by.”

Lecoq darted off extremely troubled by what he had just heard. It now seemed to him that if May had got into this garden, it was not for the purpose of committing a robbery, but in the hope of throwing his pursuers off the track, and making his escape by way of the Rue de Grenelle, which he hoped to do unnoticed, in the bustle and confusion attending the departure of the guests.

On reaching the Hotel de Sairmeuse, a princely dwelling, the long facade of which was brilliantly illuminated, Lecoq found a last carriage just coming from the courtyard, while several footmen were extinguishing the lights, and an imposing “Suisse,” dazzling to behold in his gorgeous livery, prepared to close the heavy double doors of the grand entrance.

The young detective advanced toward this important personage: “Is this the Hotel de Sairmeuse?” he inquired.

The Suisse suspended his work to survey the audacious vagabond who ventured to question him, and then in a harsh voice replied: “I advise you to pass on. I want none of your jesting.”

Lecoq had forgotten that he was clad as a barriere loafer. “Ah,” he rejoined, “I’m not what I seem to be. I’m an agent of the secret service; by name Lecoq. Here is my card, and I came to tell you that an escaped criminal has just scaled the garden wall in the rear of the Hotel de Sairmeuse.”

“A crim-in-al?”

The young detective thought a little exaggeration could do no harm, and might perhaps insure him more ready aid. “Yes,” he replied; “and one of the most dangerous kind—a man who has the blood of three victims already on his hands. We have just arrested his accomplice, who helped him over the wall.”

The flunky’s ruby nose paled perceptibly. “I will summon the servants,” he faltered, and suiting the action to the word, he was raising his hand to the bell-chain, employed to announce the arrival of visitors, when Lecoq hastily stopped him.

“A word first!” said he. “Might not the fugitive have passed through the house and escaped by this door, without being seen? In that case he would be far away by this time.”

“Impossible!”

“But why?”

“Excuse me, but I know what I am saying. First, the door opening into the garden is closed; it is only open during grand receptions, not for our ordinary Monday drawing-rooms. Secondly, Monseigneur requires me to stand on the threshold of the street door when he is receiving. Today he repeated this order, and you may be sure that I haven’t disobeyed him.”

“Since that’s the case,” said Lecoq, slightly reassured, “we shall perhaps succeed in finding our man. Warn the servants, but without ringing the bell. The less noise we make, the greater will be our chance of success.”

In a moment the fifty servants who peopled the ante-rooms, stables, and kitchens of the Hotel de Sairmeuse were gathered together. The great lanterns in the coach houses and stables were lighted, and the entire garden was illuminated as by enchantment.

“If May is concealed here,” thought Lecoq, delighted to see so many auxiliaries, “it will be impossible for him to escape.”

But it was in vain that the gardens were thoroughly explored over and over again; no one could be found. The sheds where gardening tools were kept, the conservatories, the summer houses, the two rustic pavilions at the foot of the garden, even the dog kennels, were scrupulously visited, but all in vain. The trees, with the exception of some horse-chestnuts at the rear of the garden, were almost destitute of leaves, but they were not neglected on that account. An agile boy, armed with a lantern, climbed each tree, and explored even the topmost branches.

“The murderer must have left by the way he came,” obstinately repeated the Suisse who had armed himself with a huge pistol, and who would not let go his hold on Lecoq, fearing an accident perhaps.

To convince the Suisse of his error it was necessary for the young detective to place himself in communication with Father Absinthe and the sergeant de ville on the other side of the wall. As Lecoq had expected, the latter both replied that they had not once taken their eyes off the wall, and that not even a mouse had crossed into the street.

The exploration had hitherto been conducted after a somewhat haphazard fashion, each of the servants obeying his own inspiration; but the necessity of a methodically conducted search was now recognized. Accordingly, Lecoq took such measures that not a corner, not a recess, could possibly escape scrutiny; and he was dividing the task between his willing assistants, when a new-comer appeared upon the scene. This was a grave, smooth-faced individual in the attire of a notary.

“Monsieur Otto, Monseigneur’s first valet de chambre,” the Suisse murmured in Lecoq’s ear.

This important personage came on behalf of Monsieur le Duc (he did not say “Monseigneur”) to inquire the meaning of all this uproar. When he had received an explanation, M. Otto condescended to compliment Lecoq on his efficiency, and to recommend that the house should be searched from garret to cellar. These precautions alone would allay the fears of Madame la Duchesse.

He then departed, and the search began again with renewed ardor. A mouse concealed in the gardens of the Hotel de Sairmeuse could not have escaped discovery, so minute were the investigations. Not a single object of any size was left undisturbed. The trees were examined leaf by leaf, one might almost say. Occasionally the discouraged servants proposed to abandon the search; but Lecoq urged them on. He ran from one to the other, entreating and threatening by turns, swearing that he asked only one more effort, and that this effort would assuredly be crowned with success. Vain promises! The fugitive could not be found.

The evidence was now conclusive. To persist in searching the garden any longer would be worse than folly. Accordingly, the young detective decided to recall his auxiliaries. “That’s enough,” he said, in a despondent voice. “It is now certain that the criminal is no longer in the garden.”

Was he cowering in some corner of the great house, white with fear, and trembling at the noise made by his pursuers? One might reasonably suppose this to be the case; and such was the opinion of the servants. Above all, such was the opinion of the Suisse who renewed with growing assurance his affirmations of a few moments before.

“I have not moved from the threshold of the house tonight,” he said, “and I should certainly have seen any person who passed out.”

“Let us go into the house, then,” said Lecoq. “But first let me ask my companion, who is waiting for me in the street, to join me. It is unnecessary for him to remain any longer where he is.”

When Father Absinthe had responded to the summons all the lower doors were carefully closed and guarded, and the search recommenced inside the house, one of the largest and most magnificent residences of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. But at this moment all the treasures of the universe could not have won a single glance or a second’s attention from Lecoq. All his thoughts were occupied with the fugitive. He passed through several superb drawing-rooms, along an unrivaled picture gallery, across a magnificent dining-room, with sideboards groaning beneath their load of massive plate, without paying the slightest attention to the marvels of art and upholstery that were offered to his view. He hurried on, accompanied by the servants who were guiding and lighting him. He lifted heavy articles of furniture as easily as he would have lifted a feather; he moved each chair and sofa from its place, he explored each cupboard and wardrobe, and drew back in turns all the wall-hangings, window-curtains, and portieres. A more complete search would have been impossible. In each of the rooms and passages that Lecoq entered not a nook was left unexplored, not a corner was forgotten. At length, after two hours’ continuous work, Lecoq returned to the first floor. Only five or six servants had accompanied him on his tour of inspection. The others had dropped off one by one, weary of this adventure, which had at first possessed the attractions of a pleasure party.

“You have seen everything, gentlemen,” declared an old footman.

“Everything!” interrupted the Suisse, “everything! Certainly not. There are the private apartments of Monseigneur and those of Madame la Duchesse still to be explored.”

“Alas!” murmured Lecoq, “What good would it be?”

But the Suisse had already gone to rap gently at one of the doors opening into the hall. His interest equaled that of the detectives. They had seen the murderer enter; he had not seen him go out; therefore the man was in the house and he wished him to be found.

The door at which he had knocked soon opened, and the grave, clean-shaven face of Otto, the duke’s first valet de chambre, showed itself. “What the deuce do you want?” he asked in surly tones.

“To enter Monseigneur’s room,” replied the Suisse, “in order to see if the fugitive has not taken refuge there.”

“Are you crazy?” exclaimed the head valet de chambre. “How could any one have entered here? Besides, I can’t suffer Monsieur le Duc to be disturbed. He has been at work all night, and he is just going to take a bath before going to bed.”

The Suisse seemed very vexed at this rebuff; and Lecoq was presenting his excuses, when another voice was heard exclaiming. “Let these worthy men do their duty, Otto.”

“Ah! do you hear that!” exclaimed the Suisse triumphantly.

“Very well, since Monsieur le Duc permits it. Come in, I will light you through the apartments.”

Lecoq entered, but it was only for form’s sake that he walked through the different apartments; a library, an admirable study, and a charming smoking-room. As he was passing through the bed-chamber, he had the honor of seeing the Duc de Sairmeuse through the half-open door of a small, white, marble bath-room.

“Ah, well!” cried the duke, affably, “is the fugitive still invisible?”

“Still invisible, monsieur,” Lecoq respectfully replied.

The valet de chambre did not share his master’s good humor. “I think, gentlemen,” said he, “that you may spare yourselves the trouble of visiting the apartments of the duchess. It is a duty we have taken upon ourselves—the women and I—and we have looked even in the bureau drawers.”

Upon the landing the old footman, who had not ventured to enter his master’s apartments, was awaiting the detectives. He had doubtless received his orders, for he politely inquired if they desired anything, and if, after such a fatiguing night, they would not find some cold meat and a glass of wine acceptable. Father Absinthe’s eyes sparkled. He probably thought that in this royal abode they must have delicious things to eat and drink—such viands, indeed, as he had never tasted in his life. But Lecoq civilly refused, and left the Hotel de Sairmeuse, reluctantly followed by his old companion.

He was eager to be alone. For several hours he had been making immense efforts to conceal his rage and despair. May escaped! vanished! evaporated! The thought drove him almost mad. What he had declared to be impossible had nevertheless occurred. In his confidence and pride, he had sworn to answer for the prisoner’s head with his own life; and yet he had allowed him to slip between his fingers.

When he was once more in the street, he paused in front of Father Absinthe, and crossing his arms, inquired: “Well, my friend, what do you think of all this?”

The old detective shook his head, and in serene unconsciousness of his want of tact, responded: “I think that Gevrol will chuckle with delight.”

At this mention of his most cruel enemy, Lecoq bounded from the ground like a wounded bull. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Gevrol has not won the battle yet. We have lost May; it is a great misfortune; but his accomplice remains in our hands. We hold the crafty man who has hitherto defeated all our plans, no matter how carefully arranged. He is certainly shrewd and devoted to his friend; but we will see if his devotion will withstand the prospect of hard labor in the penitentiary. And that is what awaits him, if he is silent, and if he thus accepts the responsibility of aiding and abetting the fugitive’s escape. Oh! I’ve no fears—M. Segmuller will know how to draw the truth out of him.”

So speaking, Lecoq brandished his clinched fist with a threatening air and then, in calmer tones, he added: “But we must go to the station-house where the accomplice was removed. I wish to question him a little.”

XXII

It was six o‘clock, and the dawn was just breaking when Father Absinthe and his companion reached the station-house, where they found the superintendent seated at a small table, making out his report. He did not move when they entered, failing to recognize them under their disguises. But when they mentioned their names, he rose with evident cordiality, and held out his hand.

“Upon my word!” said he, “I congratulate you on your capture last night.”

Father Absinthe and Lecoq exchanged an anxious look. “What capture?” they both asked in a breath.

“Why, that individual you sent me last night so carefully bound.”

“Well, what about him?”

The superintendent burst into a hearty laugh. “So you are ignorant of your good fortune,” said he. “Ah! luck has favored you, and you will receive a handsome reward.”

“Pray tell us what we’ve captured?” asked Father Absinthe, impatiently.

“A scoundrel of the deepest dye, an escaped convict, who has been missing for three months. You must have a description of him in your pocket—Joseph Couturier, in short.”

On hearing these words, Lecoq became so frightfully pale that Father Absinthe, fearing he was going to faint, raised his arms to prevent his falling. A chair stood close by, however, and on this Lecoq allowed himself to drop. “Joseph Couturier,” he faltered, evidently unconscious of what he was saying. “Joseph Couturier! an escaped convict!”

The superintendent certainly did not understand Lecoq’s agitation any better than Father Absinthe’s discomfited air.

“You have reason to be proud of your work; your success will make a sensation this morning,” he repeated. “You have captured a famous prize. I can see Gevrol’s nose now when he hears the news. Only yesterday he was boasting that he alone was capable of securing this dangerous rascal.”

After such an irreparable failure as that which had overtaken Lecoq, the unintended irony of these compliments was bitter in the extreme. The superintendent’s words of praise fell on his ears like so many blows from a sledge hammer.

“You must be mistaken,” he eventually remarked, rising from his seat and summoning all his energy to his assistance. “That man is not Couturier.”

“Oh, I’m not mistaken; you may be quite sure of that. He fully answers the description appended to the circular ordering his capture, and even the little finger of his left hand is lacking, as is mentioned.”

“Ah! that’s a proof indeed!” groaned Father Absinthe.

“It is indeed. And I know another one more conclusive still. Couturier is an old acquaintance of mine. I have had him in custody before; and he recognized me last night just as I recognized him.”

After this further argument was impossible; hence it was in an entirely different tone that Lecoq remarked: “At least, my friend, you will allow me to address a few questions to your prisoner.”

“Oh! as many as you like. But first of all, let us bar the door and place two of my men before it. This Couturier has a fondness for the open air, and he wouldn’t hesitate to dash out our brains if he only saw a chance of escape.”

After taking these precautions, the man was removed from the cage in which he had been confined. He stepped forward with a smile on his face, having already recovered that nonchalant manner common to old offenders who, when in custody, seem to lose all feeling of anger against the police. They are not unlike those gamblers who, after losing their last halfpenny, nevertheless willingly shake hands with their adversary.

Couturier at once recognized Lecoq. “Ah!” said he, “It was you who did that business last night. You can boast of having a solid fist! You fell upon me very unexpectedly; and the back of my neck is still the worse for your clutch.”

“Then, if I were to ask a favor of you, you wouldn’t be disposed to grant it?”

“Oh, yes! all the same. I have no more malice in my composition than a chicken; and I rather like your face. What do you want of me?”

“I should like to have some information about the man who accompanied you last night.”

Couturier’s face darkened. “I am really unable to give you any,” he replied.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know him. I never saw him before last night.”

“It’s hard to believe that. A fellow doesn’t enlist the first-comer for an expedition like yours last evening. Before undertaking such a job with a man, one finds out something about him.”

“I don’t say I haven’t been guilty of a stupid blunder,” replied Couturier. “Indeed I could murder myself for it, but there was nothing about the man to make me suspect that he belonged to the secret-service. He spread a net for me, and I jumped into it. It was made for me, of course; but it wasn’t necessary for me to put my foot into it.”

“You are mistaken, my man,” said Lecoq. “The individual in question didn’t belong to the police force. I pledge you my word of honor, he didn’t.”

For a moment Couturier surveyed Lecoq with a knowing air, as if he hoped to discover whether he were speaking the truth or attempting to deceive him. “I believe you,” he said at last. “And to prove it I’ll tell you how it happened. I was dining alone last evening in a restaurant in the Rue Mouffetard, when that man came in and took a seat beside me. Naturally we began to talk; and I thought him a very good sort of a fellow. I forget how it began, but somehow or other he mentioned that he had some clothes he wanted to sell; and being glad to oblige him, I took him to a friend, who bought them from him. It was doing him a good turn, wasn’t it? Well, he offered me something to drink, and I returned the compliment. We had a number of glasses together, and by midnight I began to see double. He then began to propose a plan, which, he swore, would make us both rich. It was to steal the plate from a superb mansion. There would be no risk for me; he would take charge of the whole affair.

“I had only to help him over the wall, and keep watch. The proposal was tempting—was it not? You would have thought so, if you had been in my place, and yet I hesitated. But the fellow insisted. He swore that he was acquainted with the habits of the house; that Monday evening was a grand gala night there, and that on these occasions the servants didn’t lock up the plate. After a little while I consented.”

A fleeting flush tinged Lecoq’s pale cheeks. “Are you sure he told you that the Duc de Sairmeuse received every Monday evening?” he asked, eagerly.

“Certainly; how else could I have known it! He even mentioned the name you uttered just now, a name ending in ‘euse.’”

A strange thought had just flitted through Lecoq’s mind.

“What if May and the Duc de Sairmeuse should be one and the same person?” But the notion seemed so thoroughly absurd, so utterly inadmissible that he quickly dismissed it, despising himself even for having entertained it for a single instant. He cursed his inveterate inclination always to look at events from a romantic impossible side, instead of considering them as natural commonplace incidents. After all there was nothing surprising in the fact that a man of the world, such as he supposed May to be, should know the day set aside by the Duc de Sairmeuse for the reception of his friends.

The young detective had nothing more to expect from Couturier. He thanked him, and after shaking hands with the superintendent, walked away, leaning on Father Absinthe’s arm. For he really had need of support. His legs trembled, his head whirled, and he felt sick both in body and in mind. He had failed miserably, disgracefully. He had flattered himself that he possessed a genius for his calling, and yet he had been easily outwitted.

To rid himself of pursuit, May had only had to invent a pretended accomplice, and this simple stratagem had sufficed to nonplus those who were on his trail.

Father Absinthe was rendered uneasy by his colleague’s evident dejection. “Where are we going?” he inquired; “to the Palais de Justice, or to the Prefecture de Police?”

Lecoq shuddered on hearing this question, which brought him face to face with the horrible reality of his situation. “To the Prefecture!” he responded. “Why should I go there? To expose myself to Gevrol’s insults, perhaps? I haven’t courage enough for that. Nor do I feel that I have strength to go to M. Segmuller and say: ‘Forgive me: you have judged me too favorably. I am a fool!’”

“What are we to do?”

“Ah! I don’t know. Perhaps I shall embark for America—perhaps I shall throw myself into the river.”

He had walked about a hundred yards when suddenly he stopped short. “No!” he exclaimed, with a furious stamp of his foot. “No, this affair shan’t end like this. I have sworn to have the solution of the enigma—and I will have it!” For a moment he reflected; then, in a calmer voice, he added: “There is one man who can save us, a man who will see what I haven’t been able to discern, who will understand things that I couldn’t. Let us go and ask his advice, my course will depend on his reply—come!”

After such a day and such a night, it might have been expected that these two men would have felt an irresistible desire to sleep and rest. But Lecoq was sustained by wounded vanity, intense disappointment, and yet unextinguished hope of revenge: while poor Father Absinthe was not unlike some luckless cab-horse, which, having forgotten there is such a thing as repose, is no longer conscious of fatigue, but travels on until he falls down dead. The old detective felt that his limbs were failing him; but Lecoq said: “It is necessary,” and so he walked on.

They both went to Lecoq’s lodgings, where they laid aside their disguises and made themselves trim. Then after breakfasting they hastily betook themselves to the Rue St. Lazare, where, entering one of the most stylish houses in the street, Lecoq inquired of the concierge: “Is M. Tabaret at home?”

“Yes, but he’s ill,” was the reply.

“Very ill?” asked Lecoq anxiously.

“It is hard to tell,” replied the man: “it is his old complaint—gout.” And with an air of hypocritical commiseration, he added: “M. Tabaret is not wise to lead the life he does. Women are very well in a way, but at his age—”

The two detectives exchanged a meaning glance, and as soon as they were out of hearing burst out laughing. Their hilarity had scarcely ceased when they reached the first floor, and rang the bell at the door of one of the apartments. The buxom-looking woman who appeared in answer to his summons, informed them that her master would receive them, although he was confined to his bed. “However, the doctor is with him now,” she added. “But perhaps the gentlemen would not mind waiting until he has gone?” The gentlemen replying in the affirmative, she then conducted them into a handsome library, and invited them to sit down.

The person whom Lecoq had come to consult was a man celebrated for wonderful shrewdness and penetration, well-nigh exceeding the bounds of possibility. For five-and-forty years he had held a petty post in one of the offices of the Mont de Piete, just managing to exist upon the meagre stipend he received. Suddenly enriched by the death of a relative, of whom he had scarcely ever heard, he immediately resigned his functions, and the very next day began to long for the same employment he had so often anathematized. In his endeavors to divert his mind, he began to collect old books, and heaped up mountains of tattered, worm-eaten volumes in immense oak bookcases. But despite this pastime to many so attractive, he could not shake off his weariness. He grew thin and yellow, and his income of forty thousand francs was literally killing him, when a sudden inspiration came to his relief. It came to him one evening after reading the memoirs of a celebrated detective, one of those men of subtle penetration, soft as silk, and supple as steel, whom justice sometimes sets upon the trail of crime.

“And I also am a detective!” he exclaimed.

This, however, he must prove. From that day forward he perused with feverish interest every book he could find that had any connection with the organization of the police service and the investigation of crime. Reports and pamphlets, letters and memoirs, he eagerly turned from one to the other, in his desire to master his subject. Such learning as he might find in books did not suffice, however, to perfect his education. Hence, whenever a crime came to his knowledge he started out in quest of the particulars and worked up the case by himself.

Soon these platonic investigations did not suffice, and one evening, at dusk, he summoned all his resolution, and, going on foot to the Prefecture de Police, humbly begged employment from the officials there. He was not very favorably received, for applicants were numerous. But he pleaded his cause so adroitly that at last he was charged with some trifling commissions. He performed them admirably. The great difficulty was then overcome. Other matters were entrusted to him, and he soon displayed a wonderful aptitude for his chosen work.

The case of Madame B——, the rich banker’s wife, made him virtually famous. Consulted at a moment when the police had abandoned all hope of solving the mystery, he proved by A plus B—by a mathematical deduction, so to speak—that the dear lady must have stolen her own property; and events soon proved that he had told the truth. After this success he was always called upon to advise in obscure and difficult cases.

It would be difficult to tell his exact status at the Prefecture. When a person is employed, salary or compensation of some kind is understood, but this strange man had never consented to receive a penny. What he did he did for his own pleasure—for the gratification of a passion which had become his very life. When the funds allowed him for expenses seemed insufficient, he at once opened his private purse; and the men who worked with him never went away without some substantial token of his liberality. Of course, such a man had many enemies. He did as much work—and far better work than any two inspectors of police; and he didn’t receive a sou of salary. Hence, in calling him “spoil-trade,” his rivals were not far from right.

Whenever any one ventured to mention his name favorably in Gevrol’s presence, the jealous inspector could scarcely control himself, and retorted by denouncing an unfortunate mistake which this remarkable man once made. Inclined to obstinacy, like all enthusiastic men, he had indeed once effected the conviction of an innocent prisoner—a poor little tailor, who was accused of killing his wife. This single error (a grievous one no doubt), in a career of some duration, had the effect of cooling his ardor perceptibly; and subsequently he seldom visited the Prefecture. But yet he remained “the oracle,” after the fashion of those great advocates who, tired of practise at the bar, still win great and glorious triumphs in their consulting rooms, lending to others the weapons they no longer care to wield themselves.

When the authorities were undecided what course to pursue in some great case, they invariably said: “Let us go and consult Tirauclair.” For this was the name by which he was most generally known: a sobriquet derived from a phrase which was always on his lips. He was constantly saying: “Il faut que cela se tire au clair: That must be brought to light.” Hence, the not altogether inappropriate appellation of “Pere Tirauclair,” or “Father Bring-to-Light.”

Perhaps this sobriquet assisted him in keeping his occupation secret from his friends among the general public. At all events they never suspected them. His disturbed life when he was working up a case, the strange visitors he received, his frequent and prolonged absences from home, were all imputed to a very unreasonable inclination to gallantry. His concierge was deceived as well as his friends, and laughing at his supposed infatuation, disrespectfully called him an old libertine. It was only the officials of the detective force who knew that Tirauclair and Tabaret were one and the same person.

Lecoq was trying to gain hope and courage by reflecting on the career of this eccentric man, when the buxom housekeeper reentered the library and announced that the physician had left. At the same time she opened a door and exclaimed: “This is the room; you gentlemen can enter now.”

XXIII

On a large canopied bed, sweating and panting beneath the weight of numerous blankets, lay the two-faced oracle—Tirauclair, of the Prefecture—Tabaret, of the Rue Saint Lazare. It was impossible to believe that the owner of such a face, in which a look of stupidity was mingled with one of perpetual astonishment, could possess superior talent, or even an average amount of intelligence. With his retreating forehead, and his immense ears, his odious turned-up nose, tiny eyes, and coarse, thick lips, M. Tabaret seemed an excellent type of the ignorant, pennywise, petty rentier class. Whenever he took his walks abroad, the juvenile street Arabs would impudently shout after him or try to mimic his favorite grimace. And yet his ungainliness did not seem to worry him in the least, while he appeared to take real pleasure in increasing his appearance of stupidity, solacing himself with the reflection that “he is not really a genius who seems to be one.”

At the sight of the two detectives, whom he knew very well, his eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Good morning, Lecoq, my boy,” said he. “Good morning, my old Absinthe. So you think enough down there of poor Papa Tirauclair to come and see him?”

“We need your advice, Monsieur Tabaret.”

“Ah, ah!”

“We have just been as completely outwitted as if we were babies in long clothes.”

“What! was your man such a very cunning fellow?”

Lecoq heaved a sigh. “So cunning,” he replied, “that, if I were superstitious, I should say he was the devil himself.”

The sick man’s face wore a comical expression of envy. “What! you have found a treasure like that,” said he, “and you complain! Why, it is a magnificent opportunity—a chance to be proud of! You see, my boys, everything has degenerated in these days. The race of great criminals is dying out—those who’ve succeeded the old stock are like counterfeit coins. There’s scarcely anything left outside a crowd of low offenders who are not worth the shoe leather expended in pursuing them. It is enough to disgust a detective, upon my word. No more trouble, emotion, anxiety, or excitement. When a crime is committed nowadays, the criminal is in jail the next morning, you’ve only to take the omnibus, and go to the culprit’s house and arrest him. He’s always found, the more the pity. But what has your fellow been up to?”

“He has killed three men.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” said old Tabaret, in three different tones, plainly implying that this criminal was evidently superior to others of his species. “And where did this happen?”

“In a wine-shop near the barriere.”

“Oh, yes, I recollect: a man named May. The murders were committed in the Widow Chupin’s cabin. I saw the case mentioned in the Gazette des Tribunaux, and your comrade, Fanferlot l’Ecureuil, who comes to see me, told me you were strangely puzzled about the prisoner’s identity. So you are charged with investigating the affair? So much the better. Tell me all about it, and I will assist you as well as I can.”

Suddenly checking himself, and lowering his voice, Tirauclair added: “But first of all, just do me the favor to get up. Now, wait a moment, and when I motion you, open that door there, on the left, very suddenly. Mariette, my housekeeper, who is curiosity incarnate, is standing there listening. I hear her hair rubbing against the lock. Now!”

The young detective immediately obeyed, and Mariette, caught in the act, hastened away, pursued by her master’s sarcasms. “You might have known that you couldn’t succeed at that!” he shouted after her.

Although Lecoq and Father Absinthe were much nearer the door than old Tirauclair, neither of them had heard the slightest sound; and they looked at each other in astonishment, wondering whether their host had been playing a little farce for their benefit, or whether his sense of hearing was really so acute as this incident would seem to indicate.

“Now,” said Tabaret, settling himself more comfortably upon his pillows—“now I will listen to you, my boy. Mariette will not come back again.”

On his way to Tabaret’s, Lecoq had busied himself in preparing his story; and it was in the clearest possible manner that he related all the particulars, from the moment when Gevrol opened the door of the Poivriere to the instant when May leaped over the garden wall in the rear of the Hotel de Sairmeuse.

While the young detective was telling his story, old Tabaret seemed completely transformed. His gout was entirely forgotten. According to the different phases of the recital, he either turned and twisted on his bed, uttering little cries of delight or disappointment, or else lay motionless, plunged in the same kind of ecstatic reverie which enthusiastic admirers of classical music yield themselves up to while listening to one of the great Beethoven’s divine sonatas.

“If I had been there! If only I had been there!” he murmured regretfully every now and then through his set teeth, though when Lecoq’s story was finished, enthusiasm seemed decidedly to have gained the upper hand. “It is beautiful! it is grand!” he exclaimed. “And with just that one phrase: ‘It is the Prussians who are coming,’ for a starting point! Lecoq, my boy, I must say that you have conducted this affair like an angel!”

“Don’t you mean to say like a fool?” asked the discouraged detective.

“No, my friend, certainly not. You have rejoiced my old heart. I can die; I shall have a successor. Ah! that Gevrol who betrayed you—for he did betray you, there’s no doubt about it—that obtuse, obstinate ‘General’ is not worthy to blacken your shoes!”

“You overpower me, Monsieur Tabaret!” interrupted Lecoq, as yet uncertain whether his host was poking fun at him or not. “But it is none the less true that May has disappeared, and I have lost my reputation before I had begun to make it.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry to reject my compliments,” replied old Tabaret, with a horrible grimace. “I say that you have conducted this investigation very well; but it could have been done much better, very much better. You have a talent for your work, that’s evident; but you lack experience; you become elated by a trifling advantage, or discouraged by a mere nothing; you fail, and yet persist in holding fast to a fixed idea, as a moth flutters about a candle. Then, you are young. But never mind that, it’s a fault you will outgrow only too soon. And now, to speak frankly, I must tell you that you have made a great many blunders.”

Lecoq hung his head like a schoolboy receiving a reprimand from his teacher. After all was he not a scholar, and was not this old man his master?

“I will now enumerate your mistakes,” continued old Tabaret, “and I will show you how, on at least three occasions, you allowed an opportunity for solving this mystery to escape you.”

“But—”

“Pooh! pooh! my boy, let me talk a little while now. What axiom did you start with? You said: ‘Always distrust appearances; believe precisely the contrary of what appears true, or even probable.’”

“Yes, that is exactly what I said to myself.”

“And it was a very wise conclusion. With that idea in your lantern to light your path, you ought to have gone straight to the truth. But you are young, as I said before; and the very first circumstance you find that seems at all probable you quite forget the rule which, as you yourself admit, should have governed your conduct. As soon as you meet a fact that seems even more than probable, you swallow it as eagerly as a gudgeon swallows an angler’s bait.”

This comparison could but pique the young detective. “I don’t think I’ve been so simple as that,” protested he.

“Bah! What did you think, then, when you heard that M. d’Escorval had broken his leg in getting out of his carriage?”

“Believe! I believed what they told me, because—” He paused, and Tirauclair burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“You believed it,” he said, “because it was a very plausible story.”

“What would you have believed had you been in my place?”

“Exactly the opposite of what they told me. I might have been mistaken; but it would be the logical conclusion as my first course of reasoning.”

This conclusion was so bold that Lecoq was disconcerted. “What!” he exclaimed; “do you suppose that M. d’Escorval’s fall was only a fiction? that he didn’t break his leg?”

Old Tabaret’s face suddenly assumed a serious expression. “I don’t suppose it,” he replied; “I’m sure of it.”

XXIV

Lecoq’s confidence in the oracle he was consulting was very great; but even old Tirauclair might be mistaken, and what he had just said seemed such an enormity, so completely beyond the bounds of possibility, that the young man could not conceal a gesture of incredulous surprise.

“So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are ready to affirm that M. d’Escorval is in quite as good health as Father Absinthe or myself; and that he has confined himself to his room for a couple of months to give a semblance of truth to a falsehood?”

“I would be willing to swear it.”

“But what could possibly have been his object?”

Tabaret lifted his hands to heaven, as if imploring forgiveness for the young man’s stupidity. “And it was in you,” he exclaimed, “in you that I saw a successor, a disciple to whom I might transmit my method of induction; and now, you ask me such a question as that! Reflect a moment. Must I give you an example to assist you? Very well. Let it be so. Suppose yourself a magistrate. A crime is committed; you are charged with the duty of investigating it, and you visit the prisoner to question him. Very well. This prisoner has, hitherto, succeeded in concealing his identity—this was the case in the present instance, was it not? Very well. Now, what would you do if, at the very first glance, you recognized under the prisoner’s disguise your best friend, or your worst enemy? What would you do, I ask?”

“I should say to myself that a magistrate who is obliged to hesitate between his duty and his inclinations, is placed in a very trying position, and I should endeavor to avoid the responsibility.”

“I understand that; but would you reveal this prisoner’s identity—remember, he might be your friend or your enemy?”

The question was so delicate that Lecoq remained silent for a moment, reflecting before he replied.

The pause was interrupted by Father Absinthe. “I should reveal nothing whatever!” he exclaimed. “I should remain absolutely neutral. I should say to myself others are trying to discover this man’s identity. Let them do so if they can; but let my conscience be clear.”

This was the cry of honesty; not the counsel of a casuist.

“I also should be silent,” Lecoq at last replied; “and it seems to me that, in holding my tongue, I should not fail in my duty as a magistrate.”

On hearing these words, Tabaret rubbed his hands together, as he always did when he was about to present some overwhelming argument. “Such being the case,” said he, “do me the favor to tell me what pretext you would invent in order to withdraw from the case without exciting suspicion?”

“I don’t know; I can’t say now. But if I were placed in such a position I should find some excuse—invent something—”

“And if you could find nothing better,” interrupted Tabaret, “you would adopt M. d’Escorval’s expedient; you would pretend you had broken a limb. Only, as you are a clever fellow, you would sacrifice your arm; it would be less inconvenient than your leg; and you wouldn’t be condemned to seclusion for several months.”

“So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are convinced that M. d’Escorval knows who May really is.”

Old Tirauclair turned so suddenly in his bed that his forgotten gout drew from him a terrible groan. “Can you doubt?” he exclaimed. “Can you possibly doubt it? What proofs do you want then? What connection do you see between the magistrate’s fall and the prisoner’s attempt at suicide? I wasn’t there as you were; I only know the story as you have told it to me. I can’t look at the facts with my own eyes, but according to your statements, which are I suppose correct, this is what I understand. When M. d’Escorval has completed his task at the Widow Chupin’s house, he comes to the prison to examine the supposed murderer. The two men recognize each other. Had they been alone, mutual explanations might have ensued, and affairs taken quite a different turn. But they were not alone; a third party was present—M. d’Escorval’s clerk. So they could say nothing. The magistrate asked a few common-place questions, in a troubled voice, and the prisoner, terribly agitated, replied as best he could. Now, after leaving the cell, M. d’Escorval no doubt said to himself: ‘I can’t investigate the offenses of a man I hate!’ He was certainly terribly perplexed. When you tried to speak to him, as he was leaving the prison, he harshly told you to wait till the next day; and a quarter of an hour later he pretended to fall down and break his leg.”

“Then you think that M. d’Escorval and May are enemies?” inquired Lecoq.

“Don’t the facts prove that beyond a doubt?” retorted Tabaret. “If they had been friends, the magistrate might have acted in the same manner; but then the prisoner wouldn’t have attempted to strangle himself. But thanks to you; his life was saved; for he owes his life to you. During the night, confined in a straight-waistcoat, he was powerless to injure himself. Ah! how he must have suffered that night! What agony! So, in the morning, when he was conducted to the magistrate’s room for examination, it was with a sort of frenzy that he dashed into the dreaded presence of his enemy. He expected to find M. d’Escorval there, ready to triumph over his misfortunes; and he intended to say: ‘Yes, it’s I. There is a fatality in it. I have killed three men, and I am in your power. But there is a mortal feud between us, and for that very reason you haven’t the right to prolong my tortures! It would be infamous cowardice if you did so.’ However, instead of M. d’Escorval, he sees M. Segmuller. Then what happens? He is surprised, and his eyes betray the astonishment he feels when he realizes the generosity of his enemy—an enemy from whom he had expected no indulgence. Then a smile comes to his lips—a smile of hope; for he thinks, since M. d’Escorval has not betrayed his secret, that he may be able to keep it, and emerge, perhaps, from this shadow of shame and crime with his name and honor still untarnished.”

Old Tabaret paused, and then, with a sudden change of tone and an ironical gesture, he added: “And that—is my explanation.”

Father Absinthe had risen, frantic with delight. “Cristi!” he exclaimed, “that’s it! that’s it!”

Lecoq’s approbation was none the less evident although unspoken. He could appreciate this rapid and wonderful work of induction far better than his companion.

For a moment or two old Tabaret reclined upon his pillows enjoying the sweets of admiration; then he continued: “Do you wish for further proofs, my boy? Recollect the perseverance M. d’Escorval displayed in sending to M. Segmuller for information. I admit that a man may have a passion for his profession; but not to such an extent as that. You believed that his leg was broken. Then were you not surprised to find a magistrate, with a broken limb, suffering mortal anguish, taking such wonderful interest in a miserable murderer? I haven’t any broken bones, I’ve only got the gout; but I know very well that when I’m suffering, half the world might be judging the other half, and yet the idea of sending Mariette for information would never occur to me. Ah! a moment’s reflection would have enabled you to understand the reason of his solicitude, and would probably have given you the key to the whole mystery.”

Lecoq, who was such a brilliant casuist in the Widow Chupin’s hovel, who was so full of confidence in himself, and so earnest in expounding his theories to simple Father Absinthe—Lecoq hung his head abashed and did not utter a word. But he felt neither anger nor impatience.

He had come to ask advice, and was glad that it should be given him. He had made many mistakes, as he now saw only too plainly; and when they were pointed out to him he neither fumed nor fretted, nor tried to prove that he had been right when he had been wrong. This was certainly an excellent trait in his character.

Meanwhile, M. Tabaret had poured out a great glass of some cooling drink and drained it. He now resumed: “I need not remind you of the mistake you made in not compelling Toinon Chupin to tell you all she knew about this affair while she was in your power. ‘A bird in the hand’—you know the proverb.”

“Be assured, Monsieur Tabaret, that this mistake has cost me enough to make me realize the danger of allowing a well-disposed witness’s zeal to cool down.”

“We will say no more about that, then. But I must tell you that three or four times, at least, it has been in your power to clear up this mystery.”

The oracle paused, awaiting some protestation from his disciple. None came, however. “If he says this,” thought the young detective, “it must indeed be so.”

This discretion made a great impression on old Tabaret, and increased the esteem he had conceived for Lecoq. “The first time that you were lacking in discretion,” said he, “was when you tried to discover the owner of the diamond earring found at the Poivriere.”

“I made every effort to discover the last owner.”

“You tried very hard, I don’t deny it; but as for making every effort—that’s quite another thing. For instance, when you heard that the Baroness de Watchau was dead, and that all her property had been sold, what did you do?”

“You know; I went immediately to the person who had charge of the sale.”

“Very well! and afterwards?”

“I examined the catalogue; and as, among the jewels mentioned, I could find none that answered the description of these diamonds, I knew that the clue was quite lost.”

“There is precisely where you are mistaken!” exclaimed old Tirauclair, exultantly. “If such valuable jewels are not mentioned in the catalogue of the sale, the Baroness de Watchau could not have possessed them at the time of her death. And if she no longer possessed them she must have given them away or sold them. And who could she have sold them to? To one of her lady friends, very probably. For this reason, had I been in your place, I should have found out the names of her intimate friends; this would have been a very easy task; and then, I should have tried to win the favor of all the lady’s-maids in the service of these friends. This would have only been a pastime for a good-looking young fellow like you. Then, I should have shown this earring to each maid in succession until I found one who said: ‘That diamond belongs to my mistress,’ or one who was seized with a nervous trembling.”

“And to think that this idea did not once occur to me!” ejaculated Lecoq.

“Wait, wait, I am coming to the second mistake you made,” retorted the oracle. “What did you do when you obtained possession of the trunk which May pretended was his? Why you played directly into this cunning adversary’s hand. How could you fail to see that this trunk was only an accessory article; a bit of ‘property’ got ready in ‘mounting’ the ‘comedy’? You should have known that it could only have been deposited with Madame Milner by the accomplice, and that all its contents must have been purchased for the occasion.”

“I knew this, of course; but even under these circumstances, what could I do?”

“What could you do, my boy? Well, I am only a poor old man, but I should have interviewed every clothier in Paris; and at last some one would have exclaimed: ‘Those articles! Why, I sold them to an individual like this or that—who purchased them for one of his friends whose measure he brought with him.’”

Angry with himself, Lecoq struck his clenched hand violently upon the table beside him. “Sacrebleu!” he exclaimed, “that method was infallible, and so simple too! Ah! I shall never forgive myself for my stupidity as long as I live!”

“Gently, gently!” interrupted old Tirauclair. “You are going too far, my dear boy. Stupidity is not the proper word at all; you should say carelessness, thoughtlessness. You are young—what else could one expect? What is far less inexcusable is the manner in which you conducted the chase, after the prisoner was allowed to escape.”

“Alas!” murmured the young man, now completely discouraged; “did I blunder in that?”

“Terribly, my son; and here is where I really blame you. What diabolical influence induced you to follow May, step by step, like a common policeman?”

This time Lecoq was stupefied. “Ought I to have allowed him to escape me?” he inquired.

“No; but if I had been by your side in the gallery of the Odeon, when you so clearly divined the prisoner’s intentions, I should have said to you: ‘This fellow, friend Lecoq, will hasten to Madame Milner’s house to inform her of his escape. Let us run after him.’ I shouldn’t have tried to prevent his seeing her, mind. But when he had left the Hotel de Mariembourg, I should have added: ‘Now, let him go where he chooses; but attach yourself to Madame Milner; don’t lose sight of her; cling to her as closely as her own shadow, for she will lead you to the accomplice—that is to say—to the solution of the mystery.’”

“That’s the truth; I see it now.”

“But instead of that, what did you do? You ran to the hotel, you terrified the boy! When a fisherman has cast his bait and the fish are swimming near, he doesn’t sound a gong to frighten them all away!”

Thus it was that old Tabaret reviewed the entire course of investigation and pursuit, remodeling it in accordance with his own method of induction. Lecoq had originally had a magnificent inspiration. In his first investigations he had displayed remarkable talent; and yet he had not succeeded. Why? Simply because he had neglected the axiom with which he started: “Always distrust what seems probable!”

But the young man listened to the oracle’s “summing up” with divided attention. A thousand projects were darting through his brain, and at length he could no longer restrain himself. “You have saved me from despair,” he exclaimed, “I thought everything was lost; but I see that my blunders can be repaired. What I neglected to do, I can do now; there is still time. Haven’t I the diamond earring, as well as various effects belonging to the prisoner, still in my possession? Madame Milner still owns the Hotel de Mariembourg, and I will watch her.”

“And what for, my boy?”

“What for? Why, to find my fugitive, to be sure!”

Had the young detective been less engrossed with his idea, he would have detected a slight smile that curved Papa Tirauclair’s thick lips.

“Ah, my son! is it possible that you don’t suspect the real name of this pretended buffoon?” inquired the oracle somewhat despondently.

Lecoq trembled and averted his face. He did not wish Tabaret to see his eyes. “No,” he replied, “I don’t suspect—”

“You are uttering a falsehood!” interrupted the sick man. “You know as well as I do, that May resides in the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, and that he is known as the Duc de Sairmeuse.”

On hearing these words, Father Absinthe indulged in a hearty laugh: “Ah! that’s a good joke!” he exclaimed. “Ah, ha!”

Such was not Lecoq’s opinion, however. “Well, yes, Monsieur Tabaret,” said he, “the idea did occur to me; but I drove it away.”

“And why, if you please?”

“Because—because—”

“Because you would not believe in the logical sequence of your premises; but I am consistent, and I say that it seems impossible the murderer arrested in the Widow Chupin’s drinking den should be the Duc de Sairmeuse. Hence, the murderer arrested there, May, the pretended buffoon, is the Duc de Sairmeuse!”

XXV

How this idea had entered old Tabaret’s head, Lecoq could not understand. A vague suspicion had, it is true, flitted through his own mind; but it was in a moment of despair when he was distracted at having lost May, and when certain of Couturier’s remarks furnished the excuse for any ridiculous supposition. And yet now Father Tirauclair calmly proclaimed this suspicion—which Lecoq had not dared seriously to entertain, even for an instant—to be an undoubted fact.

“You look as if you had suddenly fallen from the clouds,” exclaimed the oracle, noticing his visitor’s amazement. “Do you suppose that I spoke at random like a parrot?”

“No, certainly not, but—”

“Tush! You are surprised because you know nothing of contemporary history. If you don’t wish to remain all your life a common detective, like your friend Gevrol, you must read, and make yourself familiar with all the leading events of the century.”

“I must confess that I don’t see the connection.”

M. Tabaret did not deign to reply. Turning to Father Absinthe, he requested the old detective, in the most affable tones, to go to the library and fetch two large volumes entitled: “General Biography of the Men of the Present Age,” which he would find in the bookcase on the right. Father Absinthe hastened to obey; and as soon as the books were brought, M. Tabaret began turning the pages with an eager hand, like a person seeking some word in a dictionary.

“Esbayron,” he muttered, “Escars, Escayrac, Escher, Escodica—at last we have it—Escorval! Listen attentively, my boy, and you will be enlightened.”

This injunction was entirely unnecessary. Never had the young detective’s faculties been more keenly on the alert. It was in an emphatic voice that the sick man then read: “Escorval (Louis-Guillaume, baron d’).—Diplomatist and politician, born at Montaignac, December 3d, 1769; of an old family of lawyers. He was completing his studies in Paris at the outbreak of the Revolution and embraced the popular cause with all the ardor of youth. But, soon disapproving the excesses committed in the name of Liberty, he sided with the Reactionists, advised, perhaps, by Roederer, who was one of his relatives. Commended to the favor of the First Counsel by M. de Talleyrand, he began his diplomatic career with a mission to Switzerland; and during the existence of the First Empire he was entrusted with many important negotiations. Devoted to the Emperor, he found himself gravely compromised at the advent of the Second Restoration. At the time of the celebrated rising at Montaignac, he was arrested on the double charge of high treason and conspiracy. He was tried by a military commission, and condemned to death. The sentence was not executed, however. He owed his life to the noble devotion and heroic energy of a priest, one of his friends, the Abbe Midon, cure of the little village of Sairmeuse. The baron d’Escorval had only one son, who embraced the judicial profession at a very early age.”

Lecoq was intensely disappointed. “I understand,” he remarked. “This is the biography of our magistrate’s father. Only I don’t see that it teaches us anything.”

An ironical smile curved old Tirauclair’s lips. “It teaches us that M. d’Escorval’s father was condemned to death,” he replied. “That’s something, I assure you. A little patience, and you will soon know everything.”

Having found a new leaf, he recommenced to read: “Sairmeuse (Anne-Marie-Victor de Tingry, Duc de).—A French general and politician, born at the chateau de Sairmeuse, near Montaignac, in 1758. The Sairmeuse family is one of the oldest and most illustrious in France. It must not be confounded with the ducal family of Sermeuse, whose name is written with an ‘e.’ Leaving France at the beginning of the Revolution, Anne de Sairmeuse began by serving in the army of Conde. Some years later he offered his sword to Russia; and it is asserted by some of his biographers that he was fighting in the Russian ranks at the time of the disastrous retreat from Moscow. Returning to France with the Bourbons, he became notorious by the intensity of his ultra-royalist opinions. It is certain that he had the good fortune to regain possession of his immense family estates; and the rank and dignities which he had gained in foreign lands were confirmed. Appointed by the king to preside at the military commission charged with arresting and trying the conspirators of Montaignac his zeal and severity resulted in the capture and conviction of all the parties implicated.”

Lecoq sprang up with sparkling eyes. “I see it clearly now,” he exclaimed. “The father of the present Duc de Sairmeuse tried to have the father of the present M. d’Escorval beheaded.”

M. Tabaret was the picture of complacency. “You see the assistance history gives,” said he. “But I have not finished, my boy; the present Duc de Sairmeuse also has his article which will be of interest to us. So listen: Sairmeuse (Anne-Marie-Martial)—Son of the preceding, was born in London toward the close of the last century; received his early education in England, and completed it at the Court of Austria, which he subsequently visited on several confidential missions. Heir to the opinions, prejudices, and animosities of his father, he placed at the service of his party a highly cultivated intellect, unusual penetration, and extraordinary abilities. A leader at a time when political passion was raging highest, he had the courage to assume the sole responsibility of the most unpopular measures. The hostility he encountered, however eventually obliged him to retire from office, leaving behind him animosities likely to terminate only with his life.”

The sick man closed the book, and with assumed modesty, he asked: “Ah, well! What do you think of my little method of induction?”

But Lecoq was too much engrossed with his own thoughts to reply to this question. “I think,” he remarked, “that if the Duc de Sairmeuse had disappeared for two months—the period of May’s imprisonment, all Paris would have known of it—and so—”

“You are dreaming,” interrupted Tabaret. “Why with his wife and his valet de chambre for accomplices, the duke could absent himself for a year if he liked, and yet all his servants would believe him to be in the house.”

“I admit that,” said Lecoq, at last; “but unfortunately, there is one circumstance which completely upsets the theory we have built up so laboriously.”

“And what is that if you please?”

“If the man who took part in the broil at the Poivriere had been the Duc de Sairmeuse, he would have disclosed his name—he would have declared that, having been attacked, he had only defended himself—and his name alone would have opened the prison doors. Instead of that, what did the prisoner do? He attempted to kill himself. Would a grand seigneur, like the Duc de Sairmeuse, to whom life must be a perpetual enchantment, have thought of committing suicide?”

A mocking whistle from the old Tabaret interrupted the speaker. “You seem to have forgotten the last sentence in his biography: ‘M. Sairmeuse leaves behind him ill-will and hatred.’ Do you know the price he might have been compelled to pay for his liberty! No—no more do I. To explain his presence at the Poivriere, and the presence of a woman, who was perhaps his wife, who knows what disgraceful secrets he would have been obliged to reveal? Between shame and suicide, he chose suicide. He wished to save his name and honor intact.”

Old Tirauclair spoke with such vehemence that even Father Absinthe was deeply impressed, although, to tell the truth, he had understood but little of the conversation.

As for Lecoq, he rose very pale, his lips trembling a little. “You will excuse my hypocrisy, Monsieur Tabaret,” he said in an agitated voice. “I only offered these last objections for form’s sake. I had thought of what you now say, but I distrusted myself, and I wanted to hear you say it yourself.” Then with an imperious gesture, he added: “Now, I know what I have to do.”

Old Tabaret raised his hands toward heaven with every sign of intense dismay. “Unhappy man!” he exclaimed; “do you think of going to arrest the Duc de Sairmeuse! Poor Lecoq! Free, this man is almost omnipotent, and you, an infinitesimal agent of police, would be shattered as easily as glass. Take care, my boy, don’t attack the duke. I wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences. You might imperil your life.”

The young detective shook his head. “Oh! I don’t deceive myself,” said he. “I know that the duke is far beyond my reach—at least for the present. But he will be in my power again, the day I learn his secret. I don’t fear danger; but I know, that if I am to succeed, I must conceal myself, and so I will. Yes, I will remain in the shade until I can unveil this mystery; but then I shall reappear in my true character. And if May be really the Duc de Sairmeuse, I shall have my revenge.”

THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE, by Edgar Allan Poe

What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture.

—Sir Thomas Browne

The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.

The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as if par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by a the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less abstract—Let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some recherché movement, the result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometime indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.

Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a comprehension of all the sources whence legitimate advantage may be derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to proceed by “the book,” are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject deductions from things external to the game. He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin. From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognises what is played through feint, by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces of their own.

The analytical power should not be confounded with ample ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted general observation among writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young gentleman was of an excellent—indeed of an illustrious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this, he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily obtained.

Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer communion. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history which he detailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within me by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we should live together during my stay in the city; and as my worldly circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain.

Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we should have been regarded as madmen—although, perhaps, as madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visitors. Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully kept a secret from my own former associates; and it had been many years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone.

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to be enamored of the Night for her own sake; and into this bizarrerie, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild whims with a perfect abandon. The sable divinity would not herself dwell with us always; but we could counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the messy shutters of our old building; lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then busied our souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the streets arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in its exercise—if not exactly in its display—and did not hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin—the creative and the resolvent.

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in question an example will best convey the idea.

We were strolling one night down a long dirty street in the vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once Dupin broke forth with these words:

“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for the Theatre des Varietes.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not at first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was profound.

“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do not hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How was it possible you should know I was thinking of—?” Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought.

“—of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.”

This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections. Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming stage-mad, had attempted the role of Xerxes, in Crabillon’s tragedy so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.

“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method there is—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter.” In fact I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express.

“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to the conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for Xerxes et id genus omne.”

“The fruiterer!—you astonish me—I know no fruiterer whomsoever.”

“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street—it may have been fifteen minutes ago.”

I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we passed from the Rue C——into the thoroughfare where we stood; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.

There was not a particle of charletanerie about Dupin. “I will explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer.”

There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of interest and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal. What, then, must have been my amazement when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued:

“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before leaving the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving stones collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments, slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what you did; but observation has become with me, of late, a species of necessity.

“You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing, with a petulant expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw you were still thinking of the stones,) until we reached the little alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured the word ‘stereotomy,’ a term very affectedly applied to this species of pavement. I knew that you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy’ without being brought to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday’s ‘Musee,’ the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler s change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed. I mean the line—

Perdidit antiquum litera sonum.

“I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this explanation, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore, that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. So far, you had been stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw yourself up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your meditations to remark that as, in fact, he was a very little fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the Theatre des Varietes.”

Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of the “Gazette des Tribunaux,” when the following paragraphs arrested our attention.

“Extraordinary Murders.—This morning, about three o’clock, the inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy of one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the neighbors entered accompanied by two gendarmes. By this time the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention were distinguished and seemed to proceed from the upper part of the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also, had ceased and everything remained perfectly quiet. The party spread themselves and hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door of which, being found locked, with the key inside, was forced open,) a spectacle presented itself which struck every one present not less with horror than with astonishment.

“The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the furniture broken and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead; and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three smaller of metal d’Alger, and two bags, containing nearly four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a bureau, which stood in one corner were open, and had been, apparently, rifled, although many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe was discovered under the bed (not under the bedstead). It was open, with the key still in the door. It had no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of little consequence.

“Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual quantity of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance. The body was quite warm. Upon examining it, many excoriations were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many severe scratches, and, upon the throat, dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been throttled to death.

“After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house, without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell off. The body, as well as the head, was fearfully mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely to retain any semblance of humanity.

“To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest clew.”

* * * *

The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.

“The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue. Many individuals have been examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful affair. [The word ‘affaire’ has not yet, in France, that levity of import which it conveys with us,] “but nothing whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We give below all the material testimony elicited.

“Pauline Dubourg, laundress, deposes that she has known both the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms—very affectionate towards each other. They were excellent pay. Could not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part of the building except in the fourth story.

“Pierre Moreau, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame L’Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood, and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had occupied the house in which the corpses were found, for more than six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who under-let the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property of Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of the premises by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to let any portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter some five or six times during the six years. The two lived an exceedingly retired life—were reputed to have money. Had heard it said among the neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes—did not believe it. Had never seen any person enter the door except the old lady and her daughter, a porter once or twice, and a physician some eight or ten times.

“Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect. No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known whether there were any living connexions of Madame L. and her daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened. Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house—not very old.

“Isidore Muset, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the house about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance. Forced it open, at length, with a bayonet—not with a crowbar. Had but little difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom not top. The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced—and then suddenly ceased. They seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great agony—were loud and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up stairs. Upon reaching the first landing, heard two voices in loud and angry contention—the one a gruff voice, the other much shriller—a very strange voice. Could distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman’s voice. Could distinguish the words ‘sacre’ and ‘diable.’ The shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of the room and of the bodies was described by this witness as we described them yesterday.

“Henri Duval, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes that he was one of the party who first entered the house. Corroborates the testimony of Muset in general. As soon as they forced an entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure that it was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of either of the deceased.

“—Odenheimer, restaurateur. This witness volunteered his testimony. Not speaking French, was examined through an interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several minutes—probably ten. They were long and loud—very awful and distressing. Was one of those who entered the building. Corroborated the previous evidence in every respect but one. Was sure that the shrill voice was that of a man—of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud and quick—unequal—spoken apparently in fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not so much shrill as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said repeatedly ‘sacre,’ ‘diable,’ and once ‘mon Dieu.’

“Jules Mignaud, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some property. Had opened an account with his banking house in the spring of the year—(eight years previously). Made frequent deposits in small sums. Had checked for nothing until the third day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of 4000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk went home with the money.

“Adolphe Le Bon, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to her residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the door being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the street at the time. It is a bye-street—very lonely.

“William Bird, tailor deposes that he was one of the party who entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard distinctly ‘sacre and ‘mon Dieu.’ There was a sound at the moment as if of several persons struggling—a scraping and scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud—louder than the gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman. Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice. Does not understand German.

“Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that the door of the chamber in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached it. Every thing was perfectly silent—no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows, both of the back and front room, were down and firmly fastened from within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked. The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked, with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage was open, the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes, and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys. The house was a four story one, with garrets (mansardes.) A trap-door on the roof was nailed down very securely—did not appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of the room door, was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made it as short as three minutes—some as long as five. The door was opened with difficulty.

“Alfonzo Garcio, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand the English language, but judges by the intonation.

“Alberto Montani, confectioner, deposes that he was among the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words. The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia.

“Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the passage of a human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical sweeping brushes, such as are employed by those who clean chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue in the house. There is no back passage by which any one could have descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that it could not be got down until four or five of the party united their strength.

“Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently account for these appearances. The throat was greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eye-balls protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced, apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia much splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron—a chair—any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument—probably with a razor.

“Alexandre Etienne, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M. Dumas.

“Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in Paris—if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence in affairs of this nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent.”

* * * *

The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement still continued in the Quartier St. Roch—that the premises in question had been carefully re-searched, and fresh examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned—although nothing appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed.

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair—at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an insoluble mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the murderer.

“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre la musique. The results attained by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser and a persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a star by glances—to view it in a side-long way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmanent by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.

“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An inquiry will afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term, so applied, but said nothing] “and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I am not ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our own eyes. I know G——, the Prefect of Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary permission.”

The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we reached it; as this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we resided. The house was readily found; for there were still many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a sliding panel in the window, indicating a loge de concierge. Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an alley, and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the building—Dupin, meanwhile examining the whole neighborhood, as well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I could see no possible object.

Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang, and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents in charge. We went up stairs—into the chamber where the body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay. The disorders of the room had, as usual, been suffered to exist. I saw nothing beyond what had been stated in the Gazette des Tribunaux. Dupin scrutinized every thing—not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we took our departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a moment at the office of one of the daily papers.

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that Je les menagais:—for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder, until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had observed any thing peculiar at the scene of the atrocity.

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word “peculiar,” which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.

“No, nothing peculiar,” I said; “nothing more, at least, than we both saw stated in the paper.”

“The Gazette,” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the unusual horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of solution—I mean for the outré character of its features. The police are confounded by the seeming absence of motive—not for the murder itself—but for the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady; these considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen, of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if at all, in its search for the true. In investigations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what has occurred that has never occurred before.’ In fact, the facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the police.”

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our apartment—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the entire riddle. I look for the man here—in this room—every moment. It is true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we both know how to use them when occasion demands their use.”

I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy. I have already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some one at a great distance. His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded only the wall.

“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party upon the stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully proved by the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the question whether the old lady could have first destroyed the daughter and afterward have committed suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of method; for the strength of Madame L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it was found; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed by some third party; and the voices of this third party were those heard in contention. Let me now advert—not to the whole testimony respecting these voices—but to what was peculiar in that testimony. Did you observe any thing peculiar about it?”

I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagreement in regard to the shrill, or, as one individual termed it, the harsh voice.

“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinctive. Yet there was something to be observed. The witnesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous. But in regard to the shrill voice, the peculiarity is—not that they disagreed—but that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that of a foreigner. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his own countrymen. Each likens it—not to the voice of an individual of any nation with whose language he is conversant—but the converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and ‘might have distinguished some words had he been acquainted with the Spanish.’ The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a Frenchman; but we find it stated that ‘not understanding French this witness was examined through an interpreter.’ The Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and ‘does not understand German.’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’ that it was that of an Englishman, but ‘judges by the intonation’ altogether, ‘as he has no knowledge of the English.’ The Italian believes it the voice of a Russian, but ‘has never conversed with a native of Russia.’ A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian; but, not being cognizant of that tongue, is, like the Spaniard, ‘convinced by the intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual must that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this could have been elicited!—in whose tones, even, denizens of the five great divisions of Europe could recognise nothing familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic—of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will now merely call your attention to three points. The voice is termed by one witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It is represented by two others to have been ‘quick and unequal.’ No words—no sounds resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as distinguishable.

“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made, so far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony—the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion which should give direction to all farther progress in the investigation of the mystery. I said ‘legitimate deductions;’ but my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the deductions are the sole proper ones, and that the suspicion arises inevitably from them as the single result. What the suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to bear in mind that, with myself, it was sufficiently forcible to give a definite form—a certain tendency—to my inquiries in the chamber.

“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What shall we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It is not too much to say that neither of us believe in preternatural events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits. The doers of the deed were material, and escaped materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode must lead us to a definite decision.—Let us examine, each by each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in the room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at least in the room adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only from these two apartments that we have to seek issues. The police have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the walls, in every direction. No secret issues could have escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting to their eyes, I examined with my own. There were, then, no secret issues. Both doors leading from the rooms into the passage were securely locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a large cat. The impossibility of egress, by means already stated, being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows. Through those of the front room no one could have escaped without notice from the crowd in the street. The murderers must have passed, then, through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities. It is only left for us to prove that these apparent ‘impossibilities’ are, in reality, not such.

“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower portion of the other is hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within. It resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very stout nail was found fitted therein, nearly to the head. Upon examining the other window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and a vigorous attempt to raise this sash, failed also. The police were now entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions. And, therefore, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw the nails and open the windows.

“My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the reason I have just given—because here it was, I knew, that all apparent impossibilities must be proved to be not such in reality.

“I proceeded to think thus—a posteriori. The murderers did escape from one of these windows. This being so, they could not have refastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found fastened;—the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter. Yet the sashes were fastened. They must, then, have the power of fastening themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some difficulty and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now know, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that my premises at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.

“I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person passing out through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would have caught—but the nail could not have been replaced. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The assassins must have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then, the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there must be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand down behind the board, I readily discovered and pressed the spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor. I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted in the same manner—driven in nearly up to the head.

“You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you think so, you must have misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had never for an instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate result—and that result was the nail. It had, I say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window; but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive us it might seem to be) when compared with the consideration that here, at this point, terminated the clew. ‘There must be something wrong,’ I said, ‘about the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with about a quarter of an inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with rust), and had apparently been accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded, in the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this head portion in the indentation whence I had taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete—the fissure was invisible. Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash for a few inches; the head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed. I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was again perfect.

“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassin had escaped through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it had become fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring which had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail—farther inquiry being thus considered unnecessary.

“The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I had been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five feet and a half from the casement in question there runs a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian carpenters ferrades—a kind rarely employed at the present day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bourdeaux. They are in the form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door) except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis—thus affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were both about half open—that is to say, they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in looking at these ferrades in the line of their breadth (as they must have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging to the window at the head of the bed, would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected.—By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room.

“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a very unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing might possibly have been accomplished:—but, secondly and chiefly, I wish to impress upon your understanding the very extraordinary—the almost preternatural character of that agility which could have accomplished it.

“You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to make out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in juxtaposition, that very unusual activity of which I have just spoken with that very peculiar shrill (or harsh) and unequal voice, about whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose utterance no syllabification could be detected.”

At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension without power to comprehend—men, at times, find themselves upon the brink of remembrance without being able, in the end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse.

“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess—a very silly one—and no more. How are we to know that the articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers had originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life—saw no company—seldom went out—had little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the best—why did he not take all? In a word, why did he abandon four thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold was abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts the blundering idea of motive, engendered in the brains of the police by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder committed within three days upon the party receiving it), happen to all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even momentary notice. Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities—that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In the present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have formed something more than a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold and his motive together.

“Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your attention—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this—let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head downward. Ordinary assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they thus dispose of the murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney, you will admit that there was something excessively outre—something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men. Think, too, how great must have been that strength which could have thrust the body up such an aperture so forcibly that the united vigor of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it down!

“Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor most marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses—very thick tresses—of grey human hair. These had been torn out by the roots. You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of the flesh of the scalp—sure token of the prodigious power which had been exerted in uprooting perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from the body: the instrument was a mere razor. I wish you also to look at the brutal ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body of Madame L’Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen are very correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them—because, by the affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.

“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength superhuman, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a grotesquerie in horror absolutely alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What impression have I made upon your fancy?”

I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question. “A madman,” I said, “has done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring Maison de Sante.”

“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not such as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from the rigidly clutched fingers of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you can make of it.”

“Dupin!” I said, completely unnerved; “this hair is most unusual—this is no human hair.”

“I have not asserted that it is,” said he; “but, before we decide this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch I have here traced upon this paper. It is a fac-simile drawing of what has been described in one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and in another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as a ‘series of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.’

“You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon the table before us, “that this drawing gives the idea of a firm and fixed hold. There is no slipping apparent. Each finger has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the fearful grasp by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt, now, to place all your fingers, at the same time, in the respective impressions as you see them.”

I made the attempt in vain.

“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said. “The paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the experiment again.”

I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before. “This,” I said, “is the mark of no human hand.”

“Read now,” replied Dupin, “this passage from Cuvier.”

It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once.

“The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of reading, “is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no animal but an Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could have impressed the indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of tawny hair, too, is identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot possibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides, there were two voices heard in contention, and one of them was unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman.”

“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice—the expression, ‘mon Dieu!’ This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an expression of remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant of the murder. It is possible—indeed it is far more than probable—that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He may have traced it to the chamber; but, under the agitating circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it. It is still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for I have no right to call them more—since the shades of reflection upon which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible to the understanding of another. We will call them guesses then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question is indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement which I left last night, upon our return home, at the office of Le Monde, (a paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought by sailors,) will bring him to our residence.”

He handed me a paper, and I read thus:

CAUGHT—In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the—inst., (the morning of the murder,) a very large, tawny Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner, (who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel,) may have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call at No. ——, Rue ——, Faubourg St. Germain—au troisieme.

“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to be a sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?”

“I do not know it,” said Dupin. “I am not sure of it. Here, however, is a small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and from its greasy appearance, has evidently been used in tying the hair in one of those long queues of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in saying what I did in the advertisement. If I am in error, he will merely suppose that I have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble to inquire. But if I am right, a great point is gained. Cognizant although innocent of the murder, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about replying to the advertisement—about demanding the Ourang-Outang. He will reason thus: ‘I am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself—why should I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is, within my grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the scene of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast should have done the deed? The police are at fault—they have failed to procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the animal, it would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, I am known. The advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property of so great value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the advertisement, get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this matter has blown over.’”

At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither use them nor show them until at a signal from myself.”

The front door of the house had been left open, and the visiter had entered, without ringing, and advanced several steps upon the staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard him coming up. He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up with decision, and rapped at the door of our chamber.

“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.

A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently—a tall, stout, and muscular-looking person, with a certain dare-devil expression of countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly sunburnt, was more than half hidden by whisker and mustachio. He had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.

“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. “I suppose you have called about the Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable animal. How old do you suppose him to be?”

The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone:

“I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five years old. Have you got him here?”

“Oh no, we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the property?”

“To be sure I am, sir.”

“I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin.

“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for the finding of the animal—that is to say, any thing in reason.”

“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me think!—what should I have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power about these murders in the Rue Morgue.”

Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just as quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it and put the key in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table.

The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were struggling with suffocation. He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel, but the next moment he fell back into his seat, trembling violently, and with the countenance of death itself. He spoke not a word. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart.

“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming yourself unnecessarily—you are indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we intend you no injury. I perfectly well know that you are innocent of the atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny that you are in some measure implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know that I have had means of information about this matter—means of which you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus. You have done nothing which you could have avoided—nothing, certainly, which renders you culpable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have robbed with impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason for concealment. On the other hand, you are bound by every principle of honor to confess all you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.”

The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great measure, while Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness of bearing was all gone.

“So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, “I will tell you all I know about this affair;—but I do not expect you to believe one half I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I am innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it.”

What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive possession. After great trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the unpleasant curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it.

Returning home from some sailors’ frolic the night, or rather in the morning of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own bed-room, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where it had been, as was thought, securely confined. Razor in hand, and fully lathered, it was sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation of shaving, in which it had no doubt previously watched its master through the key-hole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the possession of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest moods, by the use of a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window, unfortunately open, into the street.

The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand, occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at its pursuer, until the latter had nearly come up with it. It then again made off. In this manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. In passing down an alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was arrested by a light gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, it perceived the lightning rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against the wall, and, by its means, swung itself directly upon the headboard of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by the Ourang-Outang as it entered the room.

The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He had strong hopes of now recapturing the brute, as it could scarcely escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod, where it might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand, there was much cause for anxiety as to what it might do in the house. This latter reflection urged the man still to follow the fugitive. A lightning rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, when he had arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his left, his career was stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At this glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror. Now it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which had startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had apparently been occupied in arranging some papers in the iron chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into the middle of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the floor. The victims must have been sitting with their backs toward the window; and, from the time elapsing between the ingress of the beast and the screams, it seems probable that it was not immediately perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter would naturally have been attributed to the wind.

As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had seized Madame L’Espanaye by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing it,) and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the motions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she had swooned. The screams and struggles of the old lady (during which the hair was torn from her head) had the effect of changing the probably pacific purposes of the Ourang-Outang into those of wrath. With one determined sweep of its muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her body. The sight of blood inflamed its anger into phrenzy. Gnashing its teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, it flew upon the body of the girl, and imbedded its fearful talons in her throat, retaining its grasp until she expired. Its wandering and wild glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, over which the face of its master, rigid with horror, was just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore still in mind the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into fear. Conscious of having deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of concealing its bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an agony of nervous agitation; throwing down and breaking the furniture as it moved, and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, it seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, which it immediately hurled through the window headlong.

As the ape approached the casement with its mutilated burden, the sailor shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried at once home—dreading the consequences of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish jabberings of the brute.

I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped from the chamber, by the rod, just before the break of the door. It must have closed the window as it passed through it. It was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for it a very large sum at the Jardin des Plantes. Le Don was instantly released, upon our narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police. This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, about the propriety of every person minding his own business.

“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. “Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience, I am satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle. Nevertheless, that he failed in the solution of this mystery, is by no means that matter for wonder which he supposes it; for, in truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat too cunning to be profound. In his wisdom is no stamen. It is all head and no body, like the pictures of the Goddess Laverna—or, at best, all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good creature after all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has attained his reputation for ingenuity. I mean the way he has ‘de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas.[1]’”

1 Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloise.

HELL-BENT FOR THE MORGUE, by Don Larson

Roger Grant didn’t stop when he saw the figure in the darkness opposite the row of cheap apartments. He hunched in his seat and let his roadster coast ahead.

The figure was a man, fat, pugnacious, with a frayed cigar stuck between thick lips, and a low-crowned derby set on his bullet head. He had the look of a stage detective.

Grant could guess who he was. A dick from some private agency, watching the residence of Linda Powers, hoping to get a line on the Van Horn diamonds that the Rinaldi mob was reputed to have stolen.

Roger Grant, free-lance investigator of crime, was after the same thing—hot ice valued at a quarter of a million. It was stained already with a murdered man’s blood, and with a five-grand reward up for its recovery.

He swung his roadster around the block, parked on a street facing the rear of the Powers Apartment, and got quietly out. There were more old-fashioned houses here. He found the areaway door of one open, gumshoed in, crossed a cellar silently, and reached a back yard.

A board fence separated him from the court of the building he sought. He climbed this and raised his eyes to the rusty fire escape that snaked down the apartment’s rear. Then abruptly he crouched behind a privet bush close to the fence.

A window on the second floor had opened. Someone was coming out, feeling for the iron landing with cautious feet. Grant saw that it was a girl.

She came down the ladder slowly, stopping to stare at the lower windows, before she dropped. A light was burning in one. It shed a faint glow over her youthful face and trimly graceful figure. Grant tensed with interest.

She was the girl he was after, Linda Powers, whose brother Stanley, had been taken away by the bandits when they grabbed the ice at Van Horn’s office. Her picture had appeared in the papers. Her brother was under suspicion, thought to be in with the jewel thieves. But she had fiercely defended him when the cops had questioned her.

The other Van Horn clerk had been shot in the holdup. Powers hadn’t been heard from. Grant watched her move cautiously across the court.

It was plain that she, too, had seen the agency man out front. She was giving him the slip, and her stealth indicated that she had something to hide. Her features looked pale and strained. The darting glances of her wide, long-lashed eyes betrayed nervousness.

She moved behind the row of apartments, following the long tradesmen’s court that paralleled the street. Grant followed, keeping her carefully in sight. He had come merely to talk to her. Now he was more interested in seeing where she would go.

She continued along the court to its end and ducked through a gate into a small alley leading to the street. She emerged out of sight of the agency man out front. She walked to the end of the block and unlocked the door of a garage. In a moment she was backing a flivver into the street.

She rattled away, and Grant ran to his own parked roadster. He was two blocks behind when he nosed out of the street at right angles to the one she’d taken. He was alert now. The girl’s tense face and furtive manner made him certain something was up.

He followed the flivver for fifteen minutes, until it finally stopped on a block of suburban houses. There Grant turned into a side street, but braked instantly and hurried back on foot.

The girl was a hundred yards ahead. He could tell even by her silhouette that she was excited. She kept looking behind, and it took all Grant’s skill as a shadower to keep from being seen.

At the end of the block was a small, square park, with a fountain in its center. Concrete paths cut through it, and thickly interlacing shrubbery grew around its edges.

The girl ducked into this. Grant thought for a moment she was taking a short cut somewhere. Instead she stopped by the side fence that skirted the street, and began to grope around. There was no one else in sight. The park was deserted. Grant crouched behind a hydrangea clump and watched without being seen.

He was close enough to see her face. Her eyes had fear shadows in them new. She seemed desperately impatient as her slim hands pushed through the tangled shrubbery and parted leafy bushes.

Five minutes passed, and abruptly she straightened, clutching something. Grant’s pulses leaped in excitement. Before she stepped back on the walk, she tucked the thing under her coat, but he had got a glimpse of it. It was a small, black bag.

Hurrying over the concrete on her clicking heels, she came straight toward him, biting her lips and walking with head bent down. He tried to edge stealthily around the clump of bushes and keep out of sight; but a rose trellis barred his way. A thorny shoot caught his coat and snapped away with a swish.

She lifted her head like a startled doe, gasped, and began to run. She went by him in a flash of silk-clad legs and flying skirts. He was surprised at her lightness and speed. She had reached the park entrance by the time he’d sprung after her. But he had to know what was in that black bag.

She threw a terrified glance over her shoulder and raced toward her flivver standing beside the curb. She leaped into it, slammed the door, and he heard the starter whine. The car was lurching away when he got to its side, but the motor coughed with a half-flooded carburetor.

Grant grabbed the side of the windshield and pulled himself up on the running board. In almost the same movement, he reached down inside and yanked the emergency brake. The next instant he ducked his head and hurled his body sidewise in the nick of time.

For the girl had pulled a gun on him. Its muzzle lanced flame as she jerked the trigger twice, missing both times. He snapped his hand forward and grabbed her wrist with steely fingers.

She struggled madly to get free, twisting over the top of the wheel, gritting her small white teeth tightly.

“You—let me go! I’ll—” She tried again to snap the trigger as Grant wrenched her fingers loose. Then she made a dive for the car’s opposite door with the black bag in her hand. Her dress ripped at the shoulder as Grant caught her and pulled her back. He got in beside her then, holding her still with one tense arm. He was smiling thinly, his voice very calm and cold.

“You’re a regular hell-cat, Miss Powers! I wouldn’t have guessed it—from your pictures.”

She was silent for a moment, her face deathly pale and her eyes dark with fury as she struggled to catch her breath. Then she spoke.

“You—double-crosser! I won’t give them up—until you tell me where Stanley is. I—you’ll have to kill me first.”

Grant shrugged and spoke quietly. “Who do you think I am?”

“I know who you are!” she flared. “One of Rinaldi’s rats. He sent you—to spy—and take the diamonds from me!”

Grant’s arm stiffened about her shoulders. “So you have them then!”

She seemed to realize she’d said too much. Abruptly she whirled and struck at his face with her small, clenched fist, her knuckles sliding harmlessly over Grant’s lean jaw. Grant said with a note of humorous reproach:

“Quit it! You’re a swell fighter, Miss Powers—but let’s get each other straight. I’m not in with Rinaldi. I’m after the ice, it’s true—but not the way you think. There’s five thousand reward on the stones, and I thought I could use a little cash. But since you’ve got them, they’re yours. All you need to do is turn them in and collect. My name’s Grant.”

“Not Roger Grant?”

He nodded, took out his wallet, and showed her the special card he carried. It was signed by the commissioner of police, and gave him carte blanche powers as an unofficial investigator of crime.

“I—I’ve heard of you,” she said, a little awed. “But—I’m not going to turn the diamonds in for the reward, I’ve got—to save my brother!”

A sound of sob came from her throat. She looked small and pitiful suddenly.

“You mean you’re going to hand the stones over to Rinaldi?”

“Yes, they’re holding Stanley. If I don’t give them the diamonds, they’ll kill him.”

“How did you know the stones were in the park?”

“Stanley got away and threw them there—from a car window. Then they caught him again, and tortured him to make him talk. I don’t know what he said exactly. But they got in touch with me a half hour ago, called me on the phone. Stanley, they said, had told them he’d hidden the diamonds in a place we used to play as kids. I knew he must mean this park, so I came and looked.”

Grant nodded somberly. “What did they tell you to do if you found the diamonds?”

“Drive along Harrison Road at ten tonight. They’re going to meet me, and release Stanley when I give them the stones.”

“How do you know they’ll keep their word?”

“I don’t. It’s a chance I’ve got to take.” A sob muffled her speech again.

Grant looked at his watch. “It’s nine,” he said. “We’ll see if we can’t fix up some way to save your brother and the diamonds, too. And, if you don’t object, I’d like to take a look at them. A quarter of a million in ice makes me sort of curious.”

Her gaze swept over the clean, grim lines of his face, the smiling lips under a close-clipped mustache, and the straightness of his eyes. She nodded and handed him the black bag.

Under the instrument-board light, he opened it and saw a small chamois-skin pouch inside. The girl breathed quickly as he pulled back the zipper fastening of this. There was a tissue package at the bottom, with something inside the paper that rattled faintly.

Grant undid the paper with cautious fingers, then heard the abrupt gasp of amazement that Linda Powers gave. Her pointed fingernails dug into his arm. He was staring himself, gazing wideeyed, holding his breath. For there weren’t any diamonds inside the paper, only small round opaque objects.

“Stones!” she gasped. “The diamonds are gone! That’s only a bunch of—pebbles! Oh!” As though she’d been holding herself up on sheer nerve alone and this was the last straw, she began to cry in great sobs.

Grant fingered the pebbles doubtfully. For a brief instant he wondered if she had tricked him, lied to him. But the sight of her tear-wet face assured him. He looked at the pebbles again. They were round, white and even; the sort one would expect to find in a florist’s shop, or in a pet shop for goldfish globes. The girl checked her crying suddenly, and said in a stricken voice:

“What can I do about Stanley now? They’ll murder him—as soon as they find the stones aren’t here.”

Grant nodded again and she clutched him desperately. “Those diamonds were here. My brother wouldn’t lie. Somebody must have found them in the park and put those pebbles in the bag. Now—they’ll never be found, I’d better tell the police. It’s the only thing left to do.”

Grant was silent for a moment, then he said: “Your best chance is to bluff them. Meet them at ten, and pretend to hand over the stones. I’ll help you.”

He didn’t say how. He was wondering about her brother and those pebbles.

“Come to my apartment,” he added. “You can wait there till it’s time to drive along Harrison Road. I’m going to have a talk with Van Horn. You say you think it was Rinaldi who got in touch with you. I want to get a few inside points on the holdup.”

The girl nodded. Now that the diamonds were gone and she could see no way out, she was ready to put herself completely in Grant’s hands.

“Do—anything you want,” she faltered. “Only—save Stanley—somehow.”

Grant directed her to his apartment, drove behind her in his own car, and had her wait while he went in search of Van Horn. It was only a little after nine. The jewel merchant might still be in his office. Grant went there first.

There was a light burning above a frosted transom, and a minute after Grant’s ring, a round, pink, cautious face showed in the crack of the door. Van Horn was a Dutchman obviously. He looked scared, and he held a big automatic in one chubby fist. He waved it toward Grant, eyed him suspiciously, and said:

“Vell—vat do you want?”

Grant opened his wallet and took out his card again. He thrust it under the Dutchman’s nose. Van Horn read it and instantly looked relieved.

“A detective,” he said. “Come in. Excuse please the vay I acted. I haf been nervous, since my place vas robbed.”

He ushered Grant into a small, luxurious office, handsomely furnished with heavy chairs and a glass-topped desk with a velvet pad on it for displaying jewels. There were paintings on the walls, and a half dozen clusters of flowering bulbs gave added decoration; tulips and hyacinths in small, glazed pots and paper-white narcissi in a cut-glass bowl on an ebony settee. Van Horn apparently was something of an esthete. Grant jumped as the Dutchman suddenly spoke.

“It’s all right, Mr. Ellis! Come out.”

Another man entered the room through a small door that led to an inner office. He also had a gun, and Grant’s eyes narrowed when he saw that it was the same fat individual he’d seen outside Linda Powers’ place.

“Meet Mr. Ellis, Mr. Grant,” said Van Horn. “He’s a detective, too—representing der insurance company.”

Ellis nodded glumly and looked along his nose at Grant. There was a sour expression on his face that made Grant conclude he’d discovered that Miss Powers, his quarry, had given him the slip.

Grant turned his back on the company detective and addressed Van Horn.

“I just dropped in for a little information. Stanley Powers was one of your clerks, wasn’t he?”

The Dutchman nodded. “Yes, he vas vid me a year. The other clerk, who vas vid me five years vas shot right vere you are standing. You can see der blood on der carpet if you vill look.”

Grant glanced at his feet, saw a sinister brownish stain on the rug, and glanced back at Van Horn.

“You think the Rinaldi gang is responsible and that young Powers helped them pull off the theft?”

Van Horn hunched his shoulders and sank his voice to a confidential pitch. “I told the police so, and I tell you again. Powers must haf been in vid der gang. He must haf tipped dem off. It iss der only vay dey vould haf known I had so much jewels in der place. Der biggest order of der year had just come in from Amsterdam vere der best diamonds are cut.

“I didn’t even haf my customers selected. Ve vere grading der stones ven der hold-uppers came. Dey shot my other clerk and made Powers open der safe. Dey took him avay vid dem. Now my diamonds are gone—and only a hundred thousand insurance to cover dem—ven der stones are vorth at least a quarter of a million!”

Ellis spoke harshly: “You’ll get your rocks back, Mister. We’ll find that clerk of yours and make him unbutton his lip. My company’s never had to pay a premium as big as that yet. But I’d work better if you didn’t let guys like this crash in. He ain’t even with the police. He’s only trying to horn in on that reward. He’s one of those parlor dicks who wouldn’t know a real crook if he saw one.”

Grant turned and stared at the fat detective whose words and voice were sneering.

“It’s too bad,” he said quietly, “that you let Miss Powers slip out from under your nose. She has an interesting line.”

Ellis gave a violent start, glared, and almost swallowed his cigar. “What? Say, how the hell did you know I was after her?”

Grant only grinned at Ellis. Then he turned and asked Van Horn:

“Where were you when the bandits came?”

“I had just stepped out of der office. My clerks vere der only ones dot saw dem. Now vun is dead and der other vun has disappeared. But I think it vas Rinaldi. He is one of der vorst jewel t’ieves who has made a lot of trouble.”

‘We’ll find him when we find Powers,” said Ellis gratingly. He came close to Grant and thrust out his jaw. “And,” he added, “if you know where that sister of Powers’ is, you’d better spill it. I got a state license. I represent one of the biggest insurance concerns in America, and I know how to make it hot for guys that hold back evidence.”

“The only thing that’s holding anything back,” said Grant mildly, “are your own big feet.” He nodded politely to Van Horn, lighted a cigarette, and strode out of the office. But when he reached the street and walked to the place where his car was parked, he threw a swift glance over his shoulder.

The lumbering figure of Ellis was visible. The big agency detective was following him as he expected.

Grant hopped into his car as if unaware that he was being shadowed. But he stepped on the gas, went back and forth through a maze of streets, and shook Ellis and his chartered cab in ten minutes. He arrived at his own apartment at a quarter of ten to find Linda Powers pacing the floor nervously. Her eyes were wide and frightened now.

“I—I was afraid you weren’t coming back!” she said hoarsely. “I’m nearly crazy! I know they’ll kill Stanley if I hand over those pebbles.” Grant took the girl’s arm and shook it gently. “Buck up, kid,” he said. “You put up a swell scrap when you fought me. Now you’ve got to fight some more, and I know you will. It’s almost time to meet Rinaldi. You’ve got to act as though everything was all right, as though you had the real stones. Be a little nervous if you want to. They’ll think it’s just because you’re afraid over your brother. But act as though you had the stones, and hand them over.”

“I don’t understand,” said the girl fearfully, “If they see anybody with me, they’ll think I’ve brought the police. They’ll kill Stanley.”

“They won’t see me,” said Grant, “even though I’m with you.”

“How—where will you be?”

“In the rumble seat of your car!”

* * * *

They went down to the street together. Grant opened the rumble quickly, took the cushion out, and got inside. He drew the cover down, said: “O. K. let’s go!”

It was the stuffiest, most uncomfortable ride Grant had ever taken. He had drawn his legs up to his chin and twisted his ankles around. The flivver seemed to have solid springs, and a million squeaks and rattles. Fumes from the exhaust filtered up and nearly choked him. He kept a tight grip on his gun, and wondered how soon he’d have to use it.

His right hand with the automatic was twisted up. He could see his wrist watch. The radium hands pointed to ten-five.

At ten-fifteen, after they’d gone a couple of miles along Harrison Road, Grant heard the brakes of Linda’s car squeak. He was thrown violently against the metal partition as she pulled into the curb. He heard the tires of another car swish, heard a car door open and shut.

He waited five tense seconds in the stuffy darkness, then went into action. He lifted the roadster’s rumble seat, twisted his neck, and saw a big car with its engine running drawn up alongside. There were two men in it; the driver and a man in the back seat, holding a machine gun. Another man had just come up to the side of the flivver, said something to Linda, and she had handed him the bag of pebbles.

Grant’s muscles were taut as steel spring. He threw the rumble-seat top back, thrust his head and shoulders up, and shouted an order to Linda. “Get down—quick!”

His gaze was riveted on the machine gunner and the driver of the sedan. They were the most dangerous. The other man had the bag and would probably sprint for it. He did, and the machine gunner, scowling savagely, thrust the nose of his weapon out the side window.

He didn’t have a chance to press the trigger, for Grant’s first bullet caught him in his hunched right shoulder. It spun him around, crippled him, and made him drop the deadly weapon.

The man with the black bag leaped to the sedan’s running board, and screamed a command at the driver. Grant’s second bullet crashed into his leg, made him lose his balance. It sent the man squalling and writhing to the street, with his gun and bag dropping as the car lurched ahead.

Grant fired two more shots in quick succession, ripping lead into the sedan’s rear tires. Air screeched and swished, rims bumped, and the big car became as unwieldy as a steelshod truck.

The driver, swearing fiercely, tried to steer with one hand, and fire back at Grant with the other. Grant, a human cyclone, had leaped out of the rumble compartment now. He fired with swift precision, sending a bullet into the driver’s arm. The sedan lurched over the curb, bumped fifteen feet farther. Then it struck a fence, and stopped with a clatter of broken glass and crumpled metal.

There was utter silence for a moment, until a cop’s whistle sounded down the block. The next second the officer came running into sight, and Grant and the girl had all the help they needed. But Grant had the situation well in hand.

The cop glanced at him, and touched his cap in recognition. Grant was bending over the fallen man in the street. He saw a dank head of hair, a long, thin face, a pair of close-set eyes with a scar above them.

“Rinaldi!” he muttered. “So—you came for the rocks yourself! Where’s Stanley Powers?”

Rinaldi did not answer. He only cursed sibilant Latin phrases. Grant pressed his gun closer.

“Better talk! You’re due to burn, anyway, for the man you bumped off in Van Horn’s office. What did you do with Powers?”

But Rinaldi remained silent. He glared at Grant with murderous hatred, refusing to speak.

It was one of his men, the driver of the sedan, who talked, when Grant explained patiently that the game was up and that the only chance he had to save himself from the chair was to turn state’s evidence.

The man gave the address of a cheap rooming house, then muttered: “You’ll find Powers there, but he ain’t feelin’ good. We beat him up after he double-crossed us.”

“What do you mean—double-crossed you?”

“Well, he tipped us off about the ice, then grabbed it, and tried to walk out on us after the raid. We got him, but he’d hid the sparklers somewhere. He was too punch-drunk to talk straight.

“How did he tip you off?”

“Over the phone. He told the boss that a bunch of rocks had just come in and that he’d help us lift ’em if we’d make it look right and split afterward.”

Grant turned and took Linda Powers’ arm.

“Come on,” he said grimly. “I know where your brother is now. Let’s go get him.”

Another cop had run up. They had the prisoners covered; Grant didn’t care about Rinaldi now. He wanted two things—to see what Stanley Powers had to say, and to locate the stolen diamonds.

They reached the address that Rinaldi’s man had given, but Grant didn’t ring. He used a skeleton key in his pocket and entered a dark hall. A nervous voice called down from a room above.

“Is that you, boss?”

Grant saw a gun gleam dully. He whispered to Linda, made her wait, and ascended the stairs first. He got the drop on the man above, who had been left behind to guard the prisoner. Grant disarmed him, backed him against the wall, and entered the room where Stanley Powers lay.

Young Powers’ head and face were covered with bruises. He had been cruelly beaten, knocked unconscious, possibly given a fractured skull; but he was still alive.

When Grant called her, the girl gave a little moan and ran to her brother’s side. She knelt beside him, passed her trembling hands gently over his battered face, and Powers began to mutter feverishly.

“She’ll know where to find them. Linda’ll know! I dumped them where we used to play when we were kids. I didn’t double-cross you, boys—honest. I never tipped you off. It must—have been somebody else. You’ve got me wrong!” Grant was frowning. He touched Linda’s shoulder, jerked his thumb toward the guard, said: “Keep that mug covered. Give him a dose of lead if you have to. I’m going to take your brother out of here. He’ll be all right, but we’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

While the girl held a gun grimly against the back of Rinaldi’s man, Grant lifted Powers and carried him downstairs. He signaled a cop at the corner, asked him to take charge of the guard, then with Linda and her brother, he went to the nearest hospital. The interne’s superficial examination was enough to convince Grant that Powers would recover. He nodded and hurried out into the street.

Linda had forgotten about the diamonds now, but Grant hadn’t. He knew the law would be waiting to hound young Powers when he got well enough to talk. The testimony of Rinaldi and his men would put him in a bad light. He’d have a tough time explaining, unless the stones were found—and so would Linda Ellis, the company detective, would be certain Powers was guilty, and would make his life miserable.

Grant returned to Van Horn’s office with the black bag in his hand. He smiled grimly when he saw that Ellis had returned also. There was another company dick with him. Their faces tensed as Grant came through the door. Van Horn’s eyes bulged at sight of the black bag.

“Der stones!” he cried. “You’ve got dem, Grant. I know der bag!”

Ellis’ fat face got red. His big hands opened and shut. He clamped his teeth on his cigar.

Grant opened the black bag quietly and lifted the tissue paper package out. His face was grave.

“I wish I did have the diamonds,” he said grimly. “But there’s been a slip somewhere. I’ve located Stanley Powers. He’s in the hospital now, and Rinaldi and his bunch have been rounded up. But the diamonds are still missing. All I’ve brought you are these!”

He flung the worthless contents of the tissue-paper package rattlingly over Van Horn’s desk. The Dutchman’s eyes bulged out still more.

“Pebbles!” he screeched. “You pring me a lot of pebbles! Vat good are dose? I vant my diamonds!”

Ellis sneered and spoke with heavy sarcasm. “Clever work, Grant! You’ve got the boy and the crooks—everything but what you went after—the diamonds. That’s success for you!”

But Grant’s face had suddenly become expressionless. He didn’t seem to take offense at the fat detective’s sneers.

He said: “Linda Powers found that bag with the pebbles inside it in a park. Her brother had thrown them there after he got away from Rinaldi’s mob, and before they grabbed him again and beat him up. If anybody had found the bag with the diamonds in it by chance, they wouldn’t have bothered to substitute pebbles. They’d have gone off with the whole thing.”

“Yeah!” sneered Ellis.

“Yeah! That means the pebbles were in it when Powers threw it there.”

“The first thing you’ve said that ain’t dumb!” Ellis grated. “It means the boy has got ’em, or knows where they are! It means I’m gonna put the finger on him.”

Grant shook his head slowly. “He doesn’t know any more about those diamonds than you do, Ellis—maybe not as much!”

“Look here! What the hell!”

“Powers was out of his head when we found him. He said he hadn’t tipped Rinaldi off, that it must have been someone else. And delirious people don’t lie. Remember that, Ellis!”

“Then the girl got the rocks. You say she found the bag. Well, she musta slipped the pebbles in. She wouldn’t have sneaked off if she hadn’t known—”

But Grant shrugged and turned away. He picked up a couple of the pebbles from Van Horn’s desk, fingered them, and sauntered toward the window. Then he stooped and sniffed at the bowl of paper-white narcissi standing on the black settee.

“Nice flowers you’ve got, Van Horn,” he murmured, and his knee brushed clumsily against the settee, knocking it and the bowl over with a crash. Water and white pebbles spilled out on the carpet as Grant made a seemingly ineffectual grab to save the wreckage he had caused.

Van Horn’s pink face went deathly white. He made a clutch at his desk, staggered toward the flowers, stopped when he met Grant’s eyes. Ellis was staring stupidly, but suddenly an amazed cry came from his lips and he bent down. The other company man was with him. Something among the white pebbles on the floor sent out prismatic gleams.

“Look! Those are—diamonds!”

Van Horn had yanked open his desk drawer fiercely. His fat face was convulsed in sudden anger. He brought a gun into sight, swung it up, but Grant’s hard right fist crashed against his face before he could shoot. Grant spoke coldly.

“I thought so, Van Horn. It was you who tipped Rinaldi off—after you’d taken the diamonds out of the safe and stuck pebbles in the bag. It looks like an airtight trick to steal your own ice, and fix it so Rinaldi would come and grab the pebbles.

“You figured he’d think Powers had doublecrossed him when he found them, and bump Powers off the way he did the other clerk. That would have made it sweet for you. Diamonds are hard to sell these days, so you thought you’d collect the insurance and keep the ice, too.

“But Powers spoiled your stunt without knowing it, when he staged a getaway from Rinaldi long enough to hide the bag. And you tripped up yourself, when you used these pebbles to replace the ice. After what happened the sight of your flowers here began to put me wise. Those pebbles, and that cut-glass bowl—well, they looked like a swell hiding place!”

Ellis, on his hands and knees gathering up the diamonds, growled:

“There’s something phony somewhere. Guys don’t come that smart!”

“I had to have the reward cash,” said Grant, grinning. “There’s somebody I want to split with—a little lady who can swing a mean gun and a meaner fist. I wouldn’t have found the rocks if she hadn’t found the pebbles first.”

DEATH OF THE FLUTE, by Arthur J. Burks

China had left her mark upon Dorus Noel. He thought of that now as he sat musing, in his house on Mott Street, in New York’s Chinatown. From somewhere out in the street, or perhaps in a store next door, a clock sounded the hour of three in the afternoon. At the same time some of his own priceless clocks began to strike. One of them he especially loved because it always gave him a smile. It was a beautiful gem incrusted thing which had been given to Emperor Ch’ien Lung by Louis Fifteenth of France…and when it struck the hour eight tiny human figures in blue came out on its top and danced a tinkling minuet.

A second clock was all of glass, save for its works, which were surrounded like a serpent by a circular staircase. When this clock struck three it did it in odd fashion. A gold ball came through a hole in the fourth step and rolled down three steps, making a tinkling noise. At four o’clock the ball fell a step further, taking the additional hour to travel back up the circular stairway.

Now the one clock danced the minuet, the other rolled its golded ball down the three steps, thus striking the hour. Dorus Noel sighed.

“Thank all the gods,” he murmured, “that Chu Chul is dead. He must be. With my own eyes I saw his clutching yellow hand sink under the muddy waters of the Pei Ho at Tientsin, and I waited for two months for his resurrection, which did not transpire. My work here in New York will be easy compared to the years-long game of hide and seek with The Cricket.”

Noel had formed the habit of talking to himself because he found it easier to think, and he did not speak in Chinese because, in China, anybody who listened might have been a minion of Chu Chul. Now he rose from his desk and strode to a mirror on the wall, threading his way through the many treasures which filled his study. He passed the red lacquer screen with its decorations of tiny bird feathers. He circled the crooked screen just inside the door, which kept out evil spirits because they could only travel in a straight line.

He faced the mirror, before which his “boy” Liu Wong had placed two burning joss sticks for some strange reason of his own. Noel leaned forward, staring at his own handsome face, which looked far too old for his twenty-six years. He had lived three lifetimes in that age, and Chu Chul was responsible for most of his aging. His brown hair, almost red, should, he decided, have been gray. He lifted his hands, one of which was oddly twisted—memory of Chu Chul’s pincers of torture—and pulled the shirt away from his chest, exposing it.

Then he stared long at the mark on his white skin. It was three parallel, horizontal bars, perhaps an inch in length, crossed by a diagonal transversal. They frere the Chinese character “wong” which means “ruler,” or “master of men.” They were not Noel’s chop. They had been burned into Noel’s skin on the one occasion when Noel had fallen into the hands of The Cricket, in the cat-and-mouse game they had played. Even now Noel could remember every word The Cricket had spoken to him in Tangku when he had wielded the branding iron:

“So that you shall never forget, Dorus Noel, that The Cricket is your master, your ruler…as he is master and ruler of many men…and women. If it happens that you live you will go through life bearing my mark. And never, alive or dead, will you ever win over me. I never forget or forgive…and I pay my debts of vengeance!”

Right now Noel could hear the singsong voice of The Cricket speaking. He shook himself to dispel the fancy.

“Thank God that’s over, and The Cricket is dead.”

Noel returned to his desk…thinking back…recalling, planning on how he should perform his secret tasks in Chinatown. Here he must learn all over again. Here he would have what he had always hoped to have; contact with China, however slight, and contact with his own kind.

He didn’t realize how the hours had fled until his stomach told him it was time for dinner. The two clocks struck. The eight little figures danced their minuet. The golden ball rolled down from the eighth step. It was seven o’clock…and vague shadows were creeping into the study. Liu Wong should long since have summoned him to dinner. Oh, well, perhaps the “boy” had forgotten that dinner was at six-thirty instead of nine as in Tientsin. He would remind him. Liu Wong should long since have summoned him by making his strange music on the “wooden fish”—a hollow fish made of wood, suspended from the kitchen ceiling, and used as a gong.

But only silence came from the kitchen. Noel did not even smell the enticing odor of food. Strange, strange indeed. In China the circumstance would have put him instantly on guard. But this was the United States. He started to rise. Then his hands fell back from the desk and he sat bolt upright in his chair. All the color drained out of his face. Perspiration beaded his forehead swiftly. His eyes went wide, mirroring horror, a premonition of disaster…for at last there came a sound from the kitchen. It never should have come from there, yet it came…and it sounded a tocsin of warning to the brain of Dorus Noel. For the sound which came was the note of the five-note Chinese flute. How well Noel remembered the five-note flute! Two Chinese musicians who knew the flute and the secret code of the Classics, could even talk with one another on their flutes, in a weird telegraphy which no “foreigner” could ever hope to understand.

It had been the telegraphy of Chu Chul! God!

But still Noel sat as one transfixed…and his mind named each of the five notes as he heard them, names that would have meant nothing to an American, even when translated, yet which in themselves gave a note of mystery, as the five-note flute ran its weird scale. Noel’s lips shaped the names of the notes: Hung, Ssu, Chang, Chur, Fan, and his brain translated their senselessness into English: labor, four, top, measure and reverse. He kept repeating them over and over again, while inside him the still small voice of warning began to cry out louder and louder.

“Don’t concentrate on the five-note fiute. Don’t concentrate on the five-note fiute! Don’t speak the names of the notes, either in Chinese or English!”

With a distinct effort of will, for it seemed almost as though he were being gradually fastened to his chair, Dorus Noel leaped up and raced to his kitchen. There, beside a cold stove, his eyes set in a fixed stare, his face streaked with oily sweat, sat Liu Wong, his “boy.” Liu Wong did not hear him come. He did not look up. His lips caressed the end of a flute Noel had never seen—or had he? Liu Wong swayed from side to side…and his lips ran the five-note scale without emotion, as though the lips had been dead, or the man himself had been performing in some strange hypnosis, or were a puppet pulled-by strings in the hands of an invisible prompter.

At Liu Wong’s feet was a brazier from which rose a thin spiral of yellow smoke, writhing and twisting like a nightmare snake as it rose to curl its tendrils about the face and head of Liu Wong. The smoke from incense powder, Dorus Noel knew instantly…and something more. He put his face over the smoke, inhaled a little, merely sniffing. His senses reeled. He staggered back. Then he jumped in, struck the flute from the hands of Liu Wong, jerked the boy away from the brazier, pulled him to a window which he flung open. Then he began to slap the boy on either cheek with his open palm.

Even as he labored with Liu Wong, Dorus Noel’s lips shaped words in mandarin:

“Sheng Huang!”

It was the name of a poison which could be administered in burning incense powder. A little of it stupefied much of it killed. Noel struck the boy until Liu Wong’s face was almost a livid bruise. Dully, his eyes looking far away, his face empty and stupid, Liu Wong began to regain consciousness. Noel darted to a taboret and brought a small drink of rice wine. Liu Wong gulped it and gagged, but his brain was reacting.

“You strike me, master,” he said, his voice dull, lifeless, but no longer stupid. “Why?”

Dorus Noel whirled the boy around.

“Look!” he said.

Liu Wong looked at the flute and the smoking brazier. His face showed instantaneous fear. Then it became stolid, expressionless. One who did not know Chinese would have thought him unconcerned. Noel knew that inside Liu Wong strange fires were raging. He knew what Noel knew; that here was warning of impending death, both to Liu Wong and to Dorus Noel.

“So,” said Liu Wong softly, “Chu Chul is not dead! He is here, in New York. He always said he would have revenge, master!”

“Yes,” said Noel. “It is either The Cricket or one of his advance agents.”

“How could he enter the United States?” asked the boy, but the answer didn’t really matter, though Liu Wong waited for it.

“Who is there,” said Noel, hopelessness in his voice, “to prevent The Cricket from entering anywhere? What happened? How did it happen?” Liu Wong shrugged.

“I do not know,” he replied. “I became sleepy. I slept. I wakened, and it was like swimming up from a deep well, to find my master slapping my face.”

“You were swaying over the yellow smoke,” explained Noel, “and you were playing the flute of five notes. I heard it in my study. I listened, unbelieving. I almost lost, Liu Wong, do you understand? He almost had me. I might have become unconscious…had I listened to the five notes long enough…and then Chu Chul could have entered, and…”

Liu Wong straightened.

“It is a warning,” he said. “It is like Chu Chul. It pleased him to try to destroy you by using me, who worship you! It is Chu Chul’s way of jesting.”

Liu Wong held the burning brazier under a water faucet. He moved like a man under the influence of liquor. His face was blank, still sweating. When he had quite finished and the room had been fanned clear of the stifling fumes, Liu Wong spoke to his master.

“I shall seek Chu Chul,” he said. “I shall slay him before he touches my master. I go to the house of the joss to pray for good fortune.”

Noel placed a sympathetic hand on the shoulder of the boy.

“You know you are helpless, Liu,” he said softly. “He has but to see you to command you…even to returning to slay me, your master! He ruled you too many years with his will.”

“I shall go to the joss house and burn candles and make a prayer,” insisted Liu Wong. “Then I return to make food for you, for never must you take food from any hand save that of Liu Wong.”

“And while you are gone?”

“Chu Chul will not hurry. It pleased him to warn you. Now be will leave you to grovel in fear until he strikes again. It is Chu Chul’s way.”

Liu Wong stepped out onto the street and Noel watched him walk down Mott Street toward the nearest joss house.

“Poor devil!” muttered Noel.

He returned to his desk, his back against a wall, to await the return of Liu Wong. Now that he was warned he had no fear. He had crossed mystic sabers too often with Chu Chul to really fear him after the first shock of discovering that the evil genius of North China was not dead, but living. His thoughts were busy.

The eight little figures danced the minuet.

The golden ball rolled down eight steps. Liu Wong had been gone almost an hour. Fear for his safety at last broke in upon Noel’s musings. Had Chu Chul regained control of his onetime minion? Would his next attack on Noel be in the shape of a rush by Liu Wong himself, knife in hand? It was not possible. Noel looked toward the door, but it was masked by the twisted screen which kept out evil spirits. Even as Noel looked, however, he heard dragging steps on the pavement outside and the screen fell into the room with a crash.

And crashing down atop the screen, Liu Wong fell on his face.

From his lips he poured out his soul in mandarin.

“He tried to send me against you, master, but he failed. For this once the will of Liu Wong was stronger than the will of Chu Chul!”

Noel jumped to the fallen man, turned him over. At the same time, out on Mott Street, a police whistle sounded shrilly. Somebody had seen this thing which now rested at Noel’s feet and had notified the police. Far away a siren began screaming. But Noel scarcely heard it. Curious Cantonese who must have followed Liu Wong from the joss house had entered and were standing all around Noel and the supine man. Noel looked quickly at their faces. All were extremely “American,” though all were Chinese. Chu Chul was not among them, nor any of his minions, Noel was sure.

Now he looked down into the face of Liu Wong. The man was suffering agonies and was trying not to show that he suffered. His face was a bloated horror. His body writhed and twisted in spite of all he could do to prevent it. His face was mottled like a bird’s egg…and it had been savagely slashed to the very bone by what might have been the talons of an evil night bird of prey. A fighting cock, with steel spurs on every toe, might have made such marks…provided his legs had had the strength of a strong man’s arms. In a matter of seconds, Liu Wong would be dead, of horribly administered poison.

Dorus Noel’s face was hard, as expressionless as that of any Chinese face around him.

He spoke in quick mandarin to the dying man. The Cantonese audience looked at one another. None was likely to know mandarin, so widely different from Cantonese.

“What did it, Liu?” Noel whispered.

“Nang tze, the two edged knife,” came writhing through the puffed blue lips of Liu Wong, “it happened—it came out of nowhere—when I fought the spell and refused to turn against my master.”

“Who did it? Chu Chul?”

“Not Chu Chul. Another…a minion of The Cricket.”

Then, with a great convulsive writhing, Liu Wong was dead. At that moment two uniformed officers entered, trailing a man in plain clothes who smoked a cigar and stared with arrogance at the circle of yellow faces around the dead man. The Cantonese exchanged glances which meant nothing to Detective Lieutenant Hamas, but spoke volumes to Dorus Noel. Said the glances: “Here this pompous fool is back again, trying to unravel one of our mysteries. Smart as he thinks he is he can’t see his two hands in front of his stupid face.”

All this and more Noel could read in the glances.

“Who are you?” the plainclothes man snapped at Noel.

“Dorus Noel.”

“What-cha doin’ in Chinatown?”

“I live here.”

“Hell of a place to live. No place for a white man who don’t know Chinamen. Better move out. Takes fellows that knows these birds to get along with ’em. Who killed this jaybird? Did you?”

“No. He was my servant.”

“Don’t look like any Chinaman I know.”

“He’s a Tientsin man.”

Hamas stared at Noel, plainly uncomprehending. Noel didn’t think it necessary to tell him that Tientsin was a city in North China. Obviously it would have been news to Hamas.

“Yeah, or, yeah,” said Hamas, nodding. “I thought so! What killed him, did you say? Or do you know who done it?”

Noel spoke the two words Liu Wong had just used.

“Nang tze!”

Hamas whirled on the two officers.

“Go out an’ scour this rabbit warren until you grab a guy named Nang…Nang…well, his last name sounds like a bee buzzin’. You may have to handle some Chinamen rough, but get me this Nang…Nang…whatever his name is. This is the fastest I ever wound up a case!”

He knelt over Liu Wong.

“Lord, certainly carved him, eh? Never saw anybody bloated an’ lookin’ quite so awful as this. Hope we can sweat outa this Nang…Nang…what he used. The newspapers will eat it up, if it’s oriental enough.”

“You’ll need me?” asked Noel. “I live right here. Just moved in. If I may go?”

“Oh, sure, this is simple. Dorus Noel? Fine. I’ll send for you if I need you. Better take my advice and get outa here. Gotta know Chinamen to live among ’em.”

Noel didn’t answer. He donned his hat and strode down Mott Street, hoping that he could follow the back trail of Liu Wong, feeling all the time how futile it was to try, since Chu Chul would come to him if he gave him time.

“Chinatown knows him!” Noel thought. “He’s already cast his spell over the Cantonese. I can’t expect any help from them, not even if I give away who I am. He will rob them blind, bleed them of all their wealth, and they won’t open their mouths. It’s up to me, and I have to travel alone. But that’s best. See what Liu Wong got for his loyalty to me. I can never again ask anyone to share my feud with Cho Chul. But how to find him?”

This was Chinatown at night. Lights showed dimly behind smoke blackened windows. Sprawling characters indicated the type of business which went on behind those windows. Noel knew the characters…for characters did not change with different dialects…China had but one written language. He read the names of shops, “delicious fragrance,” “fragile willow tree,” “graceful longevity,” “gorgeous good fortune,”—it was almost like being back in China.

Dorus Noel stopped dead in his tracks. People bumped into him. He didn’t mind, didn’t feel them. Would Chu Chul dare, here in the United States, to do the things he had done in China? Would he dare, actually, to destroy and torture a white man, almost in the heart of New York? Noel knew he would, but he must take a chance somewhere. He hadn’t yet had time to learn the rabbit warrens of Chinatown, if indeed he would ever be permitted to learn them. Here he wasn’t known, because he was under cover, save to the man, far out on Park Avenue, who had given him his police job in Chinatown. Of that man on Park Avenue he knew only that he was connected with the police, a very high connection, too. He had given Noel a telephone number, to be called in case of grave emergency.

Noel hurried to Canal Street, crossed it, strode west to Lafayette, already in New York, in contrast to Chinatown—and entered a cigar store. He called the secret number, that of his secret police superior, on Park Avenue. The voice he remembered answered. Noel spoke his name by way of identification, and was answered.

“If,” said Noel, “I have not been heard from by you within twenty-four hours from this moment, turn Chinatown upside down to find me. Remember I told you of The Cricket?”

“Yes,” the far voice was low and soft, but with a hint of steel in it.

“He’s in New York, in Chinatown. He or one of his men has just killed my servant, Liu Wong. I’m going after him, in my own way. Know Detective Hamas?”

“Yes.”

“Let him play with the Liu Wong case. He can’t do any harm. I know how it was done…all of it but not, exactly, by whom. I shall discover that, or die.”

“You’d die to avenge a Chinaman?”

“He died for loyalty to me, sir,” said Noel sternly. “How could I do less? And let me tell you something: a Chinese is not a Chinaman, he’s a Chinese!”

Then Noel, the ghost of a smile on his face, clicked up the receiver. He took a deep breath, turned back into Chinatown. He locked his doors, and windows, with the exception of one window—the window by which someone had entered his house, lighted the poisoned brazier at the feet of the sleeping Liu Wong and thrust the five-note fiute into the “boy’s” hand.

Noel, in his eyes a dreamy, faraway expression…sat down on the stool which Liu Wong had occupied, on which he had sat to play with senseless lips the flute of his erstwhile master, Chu Chul.

“A strange manner of returning to China and ways that are dark,” thought Noel, “but it’s one way to get to Chu Chul. Wouldn’t this puzzle Hamas?”

But he didn’t smile. He talked to himself at random, mustering his courage. Then he placed the flute to his lips and began to run the five-note scale. As he did so he rose to his feet and moved softly, like a sleepwalker, to the window which gave onto darkness. Far away he heard the banging of a gong in some joss house. From next door came the chattering of many Cantonese, busy with chopsticks and rice wine. He heard the shrill, high-pitched laughter of young girls.

Back and forth he ran the scale…up and down…and as he he did so he listened, carefully. He would never know how to “talk” on this flute; but he knew that somebody would hear it.

“What is this sound?” the Cantonese would say…and eventually the word would reach someone, maybe several, to whom it would have meaning. In his mind’s eye he could see skulking figures come forth from behind secret panels…sent out by the man who had burned that mark on the skin of his chest. Dark alleys would disgorge the minions of Chu Chul. They would approach the sound of the five-note flute. Then…

All at once he had his answer.

It came from somewhere beyond that window of his, which opened on blackness and an alley that ended on a cul-de-sac at either end. His answer came in the same sounds he was making…the voice of a five-note flute. Only the answering flute made a sound like ribald laughter. It was jeering, sneering…almost demoniac. While he listened Noel could almost hear the queer, chattering laughter of Chu Chul…could almost hear it in the voice of the second flute. Chu Chul and his queer laughter…people who heard it might think The Cricket mad. Perhaps he was, but he had a brain that, mad though it might be, was one of the greatest, trickiest, Noel had ever encountered. The man was genius. A genius who was mad for power, a man who possessed strange knowledge not gained from books, even though he was a master of the Classics, and could repeat by heart whole sections from the Book of Changes.

Chu Chul was a dreadful menace. Once he had all but held North China in the hollow of his hand. He would have, but for Noel. Now he was here, in America…and Americans would be like babies in his hands. He would be able to create an organization which would control the city…the nation…if the whim seized him. So Noel was fighting for something more than mere vengeance for the slaying of Liu Wong.

But still he hesitated, wondering what he should read into the voice of the second flute. The sound of it was approaching, apparently over the housetops. Sometimes it seemed in the alley outside, sometimes atop Noel’s own house, sometimes in the room with him…but always coming nearer. What was its message? Noel remembered how he had almost been tricked when he had listened to the flute as played by Liu Wong, how he had fought off the numbing hypnosis. Now he would deliberately court it.

Chu Chul would not slay him…until Chu Chul, inexpressibly vain, had had his opportunity to gloat over his victim. He would be in Chu Chul’s power, and whether he got out of it again, depended upon himself.

He sat down and ran the five notes twice again. Then he placed the flute beside him on the floor and bent all his will to reading some message into the five notes of the second flute—which now was no longer approaching. His brain caught the names of the notes, ran them through again and again. Hung, ssu, chang, chur, fan—hung, ssu, chang, chur, fan. Over and over he named, the notes as the unseen flutist played them, until the Chinese names—he thought now in the mandarin which was as much his language as English—became like a soothing litany. He knew his limbs were becoming numb, that his will was going out of him—out through the window, into darkness.

He sat, eyes wide open, staring at the open window.

Five minutes passed. The flute still played softly, but he did not hear it. He seemed to hear nothing. He did not seem to see the two evil faces which lifted above the window sill, nor the two shadows which seemed almost to flow across the window sill, into the room. He did not appear to feel it when one of the shadows snarled at him, and kicked him viciously in the ribs. He merely shook a little on the stool, and continued to stare straight to the front. They picked him up and carried him to the window…and he was still in the sitting position, knees drawn up. They dropped him to the alley below…and still he was in the sitting position, though he fell on his side…and remained there, motionless.

They carried him to the end of the cul-de-sac opposite the boarded end of the alley where the street was. A panel opened. Two shadows, carrying between them a figure which sat on air, as though it were Buddha, passed into utter darkness…moving down a flight of steps.

On a roof two houses removed from Noel’s, a crouching third shadow chuckled. A yellow hand tucked a flute into a long sleeve. The shadow darted across the housetop, dropped over the edge…and darkness swallowed it. A pale yellow face was touched for an instant by a ray of vagrant light, before it vanished.

But Dorus Noel, who sat in midair in a Buddha-like posture, was not unconscious, not under the spell of any hypnosis. He had fought back from it at the last moment. Perhaps he could fool Chu Chul into believing him a victim of hypnosis—“power-over-you”—and then he could remember every twist and turn of any labyrinth through which he might be taken.

The two who carried him stopped in the darkness, in the midst of a dank smell—and rapped lightly on the panels of a door. The door was swung open, and over Noel’s ears, all about him, poured the chattering laughter of Chu Chul. There was no mistake then, and Chu Chul was in New York, gathering strings of terror into his hands.

“Take him to the brazier,” said Chu Chul in English. Since Chu Chul did not speak Cantonese he had to use English, for the Cantonese of Chinatown spoke but the two, English and Cantonese. It was odd that Chinese must address Chinese in English.

Then Noel knew that he hadn’t fooled Chu Chul with his fake hypnosis. However, perhaps the man just would not chance it. Noel decided to continue the trick, even when, sitting on the floor in the position he had assumed and had never changed, his head was thrust into the yellow smoke which he could see through his widely staring eyes. It was almost impossible not to blink, but he managed even that.

And Chu Chul laughed.

“Fool!” he said. “Do you think to trick Chu Chul so easily? This time I shall give you something to remember!”

To get it over with quickly, Noel inhaled the Sheng Huang…and darkness filled with bobbing lights flowed over him. He did not even know it when he was lifted again and borne away.

He came to himself with his head throbbing. In his nightmare, preceding his awakening, he had heard the golden ball on one of his clocks roll, down four steps…three o’clock in the morning. Now his wrist-watch, on the hand directly before his eyes when he began to come awake, assured him that it was three in the morning. He did not even puzzle over the seeming coincidence. To one who knew the mysteries of China, that his dream coincided with the fact was trivial, of no consequence.

Chattering laughter. He turned his head dully.

Sitting at one end of a long room, on a dais, dressed in the royal robes of China—a travesty of empire—was Chu Chul, The Cricket! He was small enough to be a Cantonese. His skin was yellow, pitted with smallpox scars. His black eyes seemed to have no pupils. His hands were like claws. He was beardless. He sat leaning forward, stoopingly. It was thus he walked, too…a twisted caricature of a man.

“So, we meet again, Dorus Noel,” he said. “Did you think I would be so foolish as to think I could gain power over you across the housetops as I could Liu Wong? You were smart, as usual, but not smart enough—also as usual. I thought it better to put you out entirely, in order that you might not, if I allow you to escape, remember the way back here with the stupid police who, stupid though they are, are still too strong for Chu Chul—at least yet! When will you learn that you are a baby in the hands of Chu Chul?”

Noel said nothing. Let Chu Chul enjoy his gloating, while Noel recovered his wits entirely, after his dose of the Sheng Huang. Noel was husbanding his strength. His side hurt where he had been kicked. His dull eyes studied Chu Chul’s retainers, all Cantonese but one! There were a dozen of them. Yes, Chu Chul had started an organization. It would specialize, if Chu Chul remained Chu Chul, in murder, robbery, kidnaping—everything that would bring terror to men and wealth to the coffers of The Cricket.

“I thought you were dead,” said Noel.

“No Dorus Noel will ever slay Chu Chul,” replied The Cricket. “I decided to change for a while. I came here. Strange that you should follow. I like it here. There are greater opportunities.”

“Who killed Liu Wong? Oh, I know that you ordered it. Who did it?”

Chu Chul smiled. His eyes played over the faces of his minions. They shifted uneasily. Noel watched the traveling eyes of Chu Chul, which rested for a fleeting moment on the face of one man. Noel spoke quickly in Tientsinese.

“He’s the only North Chinese with you,” he said…and saw by the larger man’s face that he had understood. “In the United States, when a man slays another human being, he dies. What is his name?”

He saw sweat break out on the fellow’s face.

Chu Chul, enjoying the by-play, answered.

“Sung Liao!”

The body of the North Chinese jerked at mention of his name as though he had been pricked with a needle. He was larger and darker than his Cantonese brethren. Noel rose to his feet.

“Well,” he said, “what are you going to do with me?”

“I’m not going to kill you,” replied Chu Chul. “Not when I know that within twenty-four hours of your death the police will turn Chinatown upside down to find you! Let’s see, these were the words you said over the telephone to your plainclothes superior who lives on Park Avenue…”

And Chu Chul gave the telephone number and the exact words that had passed between Noel and his employer. Noel’s heart sank.

“You’ve already got to the police with your bribes,” he said bitterly. “So they’ve tapped Mr. Blank’s telephone wires? Well, what are you going to do, then?”

Chu Chul laughed, the laughter breaking off into a chuckle.

“One can be electrocuted for a slaying,” he said, “but when one puts out the eyes of an enemy one cannot be so severely punished…and one is then forever free of the danger of being spied upon by a man, little and insignificant though he is, Noel, who can be so irritating. So, I shall put out your eyes…and let you find your way out of here and out of Chinatown!”

Noel’s face did not change expression at all. For he still had an ace in the hole. There was one thing about him Chu Chul did not knower…that he was the master of the art of ta chuen, Chinese equivalent of jiu-jitsu.

“Bind him and bring him to me!” snapped Chu Chul.

* * * *

The Cricket leaned forward over a burning charcoal brazier at his feet. It was the one un-Chinese thing in a room decked out with true oriental splendor—for the charcoal burner was a Japanese hibachi. Chu Chul lifted from the coals a pronged piece of steel. The tips of it were white-hot. They would pass easily astride his nose. The tips of white-hot steel would put out the world’s light for him forever, in the batting of an eye.

“Jump quickly, the man is tricky!” snapped Chu Chul.

The Cantonese, while Sung Liao held back fearfully—wondering what manner of white man this was who spoke the Tientsin dialect—jumped in at Dorus Noel, who waited until the last moment, and went into amazing action. He was still loggy from the Sheng Huang, but his strength, coupled with his knowledge of ta chuen, placed on his side the element of surprise. A hand reached for him. He grabbed the wrist with his left hand, thrust his right under the elbow, reached up over it, caught the wrist he held—and bore down swiftly with all his strength.

The Cantonese squealed in agony as his right arm snapped. He fell back, screaming…and from the hand of Chu Chul darted a black, gleaming thing. It struck the Cantonese of the broken arm in the side…and in a trice he was down, writhing as Liu Wong had writhed—while the black streak which had struck him returned to the hand of Chu Chul.

Chu Chul laughed.

“I do not like failures in my organization, new as it is.” he said.

To Noel, fighting now against the remainder of the Cantonese, that black streak meant much. It was a knife, fastened to a rubber about the wrist of Cbu Chul. The knife had been suspended above a brazier in which Pi Hsuang—a poison resembling spun candy or glass—had been burning, mixed with any sort of fat which would congeal into a coating of grease, on anything touched by the poisoned smoke.

After such treatment the knife—the nang tze which had tortured and slain Liu Wong—would be black with the grease, and the grease filled with Pi Hsuang.

* * * *

Sight of what had happened to their fellow spurred the Cantonese to greater effort. They attacked Noel with the desperate fury of wild beasts. Noel broke another arm, and the man came in still fighting, with the arm dangling grotesquely, and his face ravaged with agony. But even as the wounded man fought, he glanced ever and anon at the grinning, evil face of Chu Chul. Chu Chul, by his barbarous cruelty, by his slaying of the one, and Liu Wong, was proving his strength to the Cantonese. Give him six months and he would be able to laugh at the police of New York City.

“He must not! He must not!” down in Noel’s heart the three words kept repeating themselves. Chu Chul must be beaten, forever. If only there were some way…

Two men were down, both unconscious…one with his head twisted under him at an odd angle. Noel didn’t mind killing…for this organization, when it was strong, would specialize in murder. Now Chu Chul ordered Sung Liao into the fray. Chu Chul was enjoying himself. Noel knew that he was beaten when Sung Liao took a hand. The chances were all in favor of Sung Liao’s knowing ta cheun—else Chu Chul would not have brought him from China as bodyguard.

In desperation Noel decided upon a different sort of move. There was no advantage in beating these Cantonese, even if he were able to do it—for Chu Chul probably had a score of others behind half a dozen panels, awaiting his signal to enter. Noel suddenly broke from the fight, hurled himself at Chu Chul. Chu Chul laughed as Noel darted in—laughed and jumped back. But he held the hot tongs in his hand, menacing the face of Noel. Behind the Cantonese were charging. Sung Liao was now leading them. Noel hesitated. Then he stooped, caught up the hibachi of live coals…and though the hibachi burned his hands to a crisp, he hurled the coals full upon the person of Chu Chul.

Chu Chul’s yellow hand released the pronged length of white-hot steel. It fell to the steps of the dais…and smoke rose from the rich carpet which covered the steps. Chu Chul screamed and tore at his clothing. Noel grabbed for him, but in the instant his hands would have touched his enemy…

Chu Chul laughed through the pain he must have been suffering—a laugh filled with menace…and promise of revenge—and dropped into his dais, pressed something on an arm of it. Instantly the dais whirled so that Chu Coul’s back was to Noel, and shot toward the wall. The wall opened. The “throne” of Chu Chul went through the panel. The panel closed.

Noel whirled back as the Cantonese jumped him, knowing that even though he hadn’t captured Chu Chul, he had almost saved himself—for Chu Chul never would have left the scene of a fight so delightful to a man who liked the sort of jests that Chu Chul liked, had it not been that the coals from the hibachi had set his clothing afire. His own safety came first, vengeance afterward. What if Noel escape? Chu Chul could always get him back…his own life might not be restored to him if he lost it.

So Chu Chul had simply vanished. It was a way he had.

Noel was being borne down by his attackers. But he remembered where the pronged steel had been dropped. He fought with the fury of a wildcat until he drove his enemies back for a moment—not difficult to do now that they were not made desperate by the sight of Chu Chul, who would slay any who failed without compunction—and caught up the steel.

He sprang directly at Sung Liao, the pronged length of steel, now a dull red, held in his left hand. His right hand leaped forward. Sung Liao’s mouth was open in amazement, that this man could move so quickly and surprisingly. Noel grabbed at Sung Liao. The forefinger and middle finger of his right hand went into Sung Liao’s mouth, while his thumb fastened under the jaw. It was as though he pinched the man’s lower jaw with two fingers and thumb.

“Bite down on it, Sung Liao,” he said calmly, “and I’ll yank the lower jaw out of your head…and with this piece of steel I’ll do to you what your master would have done to me.”

He said it in Tientsinese, in the tone a master uses when he commands a servant…and Sung Liao, his face alight with terror, did not even move.

“Now lead me out to The Cricket, Sung Liao,” went on Noel. “Or rather, tell me how to lead you, I’ll keep this hold until we are back in Mott Street.”

The Cantonese charged…but he kept them back with the pronged steel.

“The Master mill slay me,” said Sung Liao, moaning, babbling his words crazily around the fingers of Dorus Noel.

“If that were possible,” said Noel grimly, “it would save the State of New York the trouble. But you are going to burn, Sung Liao, as proof that even Chu Chul cannot save his minion from justice.”

Trembling, Sung Liao pressed something on the wall, and again a panel swung back. Sung Liao nodded. They stepped through into darkness—darkness and the odor of burning clothing and burning flesh—closing the panel in the faces of the charging Cantonese.

With the closing of the panel a light flashed on, to show Chu Chul sitting on his dais, crouched on his “throne,” while tendrils of smoke rose from his rigid body. He appeared to be dead.

“Thank God!” said Dorus Noel.

But Chu Chul was not dead. Noel wondered if, after all, there were any power on earth or above it that could destroy the baleful creature known as The Cricket. For, with smoke twisting over his features, with the odor of burning cloth and flesh filling the room, so that it stank in the nostrils and sent Noel into a fit of coughing—The Cricket opened his eyes.

Noel had never before looked so deeply into eyes that were so utterly malignant arid baleful. Chu Chul tried to move his hands. The blackened things tried to form themselves stiffly into fists. The mighty will of Chu Chul was driving its awful power to his hands, trying to make them do his bidding. Noel knew what Chu Chul would have willed: that his hands leap forward and clutch about the throat of Chu Chul’s enemy.

But the hands would not be used.

Chu Chul’s lips writhed back from blackened teeth. His gums were raw and bleeding slightly. He looked like some beast, snarling in a trap.

By an effort of will which Noel regarded as miraculous, Chu Chul rose to his feet.

He tried to put out his right hand, but it refused his bidding.

“See?” came hoarsely from Chu Chul. “My hand will not obey me, but even in death it will not be thwarted, for you feel it, Dorus Noel, even when your eyes tell you it does not move! You feel it rising to fasten at your throat. To the end of your days you will waken, night after night, obsessed by fear of Chu Chul, even in your sleep and, until you are fully awake, you will fight like a madman against my strangling fingers!”

It was horrible. Dorus Noel could distinctly feel the fingers as Chu Chul had just said. He knew he would always feel them.

Chu Chul did not cry out to his minions who battered at the door through which Noel had just come with Sung Liao. There was pride, majesty, in Chu Chul’s bearing. If he were destined to die none would witness his passing. It was awful that the smoke rose about The Cricket’s nostrils, yet the man did not cough, his words were clearly, terribly enunciated. Little fires—fires which were too hot for Noel to forge through, even had he been able to release the murderer, Sung Liao to do so—licked at the flesh of The Cricket, and Chu Chul did not seem to notice. He was mighty in defeat, arousing in Noel greater fear of the man than had ever been Noel’s when Chu Chul had had all his faculties.

“Chu Chul is never beaten!” said The Cricket hoarsely. “If the cat has nine lives, Chu Chul has nine times nine…and all of them shall be dedicated to the destruction of Dorus Noel and the working out of the mighty schemes of The Cricket.

Noel wished to beat out the flames, but the very eyes of The Cricket seemed to forbid him even a show of sympathy. Really Noel had none, for here stood a monster whose killings would have bathed Mott Street with blood. But Noel could appreciate the Satanic greatness of the man.

The Cantonese were still battering at the door as Chu Chul, his eyes set in a fixed stare which never left the white face of Noel, bent in the middle and fell back upon his throne. The flames licked up, and the smoke rose in tendrils…and the black eyes of Chu Chul were set in their stare.

The panel cracked. With another charge it would give away and the Cantonese would enter.

Noel was satisfied by his reason—though deep inside him there was a doubt, always would be a doubt—that Chu Chul was dead. He was satisfied that the dead man was truly The Cricket, for he saw the distinguishing marks on the man’s scarred flesh which were the sign manual of The Cricket and his followers.

A vast relief flooded Noel. But even as he turned away hurriedly, while his enemies began to break through into the chamber where Chu Chul had risen to his most exalted heights of greatness, he could feel those unblinking black eyes, boring into his back. All his life, he felt, he would feel them. They would go with him, watching him, spying upon him, no matter where he went or what he did. He tried to shrug his grim impressions away and partially succeeded. He forced Sung Liao to lead him out of that labyrinth. On Canal Street he delivered Sung Liao to a copper.

“For murder,” he said briefly. “Watch him carefully while you call the wagon.”

Then he telephoned the Park Avenue number.

“The Cricket is dead,” he said flatly, doubting his own words as he heard them. “You will find him in the basement of the shop called Graceful Longevity.”

As he clicked up the receiver the sound of heavy traffic came to him from the busy street. The very rule of the whole city, of which this traffic was a part, had just been saved from transfer into awful hands. He grinned as a taxicab rubbed fenders with a truck, and both drivers said, almost at once, the ancient formula:

“Why’n hell don’t’cha watch where ya goin’?”

OH FANNY, by Raymond Lester

“No, don’t, Ruth! Leave it alone. We’ve been spotted again.”

Scarcely had the last word of her warning left Fanny Eden’s lips when the small, daintily gloved hand of Ruth Nevein returned to its owner’s side—empty. Her wide-set, innocent blue eyes flashed an upward, inquiring look of alarm. Without a question, she followed her companion.

Fanny—tall, distinguished, and predatory—led the way to the elevator.

“There’s a jinx on us today,” murmured Fanny when they reached the ground floor. “I am not superstitious, but when the same sleuth-like fellow trails two nice-appearing girls through three stores, it is time to think of going home. We’ll do our shopping another day.”

“Such a beautiful little neckpiece it was, too,” said Ruth regretfully. “Real sable. Don’t you think you must have made a mistake? Store detectives don’t work for different firms, do they? Perhaps, after all, it is only some masher.”

“It is my job to watch and yours to pinch,” retorted Fanny as they approached the exit. “I’m the eyes and you are the hands, but take a look over your shoulder as we go out. Why, that fellow couldn’t smile at a girl if she were ever so—he’s a dick. It is tempting fate to be within three blocks of his ugly face. Take my word for it, Ruthie, the stores are working out some follow-up system. The foxy brute! He gave me cold shivers directly I set eyes on him. See him? Gray overcoat, green tie, flatfooted, and has a face like a stale hamburger.”

Ruth’s blue eyes took a rearward glance. “Oh, Fanny!” she gasped. “He’s right behind us!”

“Sure, I knew it, and that’s where he’ll stay until the stores close or we quit. May as well beat it right now. In another ten minutes, business will shut down. Let’s take this trolley.”

At the corner of Thirty-Fourth Street, the girls boarded an uptown car, and Fanny’s dark eyes burned with resentment when their shadow followed and seated himself facing them.

“Does the big boob think we’re a couple of dips?” she asked herself. “Or is he playing for time?”

In no wise perturbed by the looks of scorn bestowed upon him by the stylishly dressed pair, the gentlemen with the hamburger-countenance stolidly kept his seat until closing time.

“So that was his dodge,” said Fanny when they reached their apartment. “Followed us all the afternoon. Spoiled some of the best chances we ever had, and quit when he knew there was not a department store open.”

“Better luck tomorrow, maybe,” said Ruth.

“Maybe!” echoed Fanny with morose sarcasm. “I’m off the hopeful stuff. This is where we pack up and go. That fellow is after us for keeps. He’ll most likely be waiting for us at the corner of the block tomorrow morning. I’ll bet he’s got our height, weight, and style of beauty all card-indexed by now. He had time enough in the stores, and while we were in that trolley he checked up on us in forty different ways. Tomorrow morning every house dick from Fourteenth to Forty-Second will be snooping ’round looking for a dainty little dame with a mole on the side of her nose. That’s you. As for me, even these homely, low-heeled shoes won’t let me pass in a crowd without my head projecting a good two inches above the average. You might work alone, but the two of us! The combination, actually the long and the short of it, is enough to give us away now that we’ve been spotted. It’s too bad to think we’ll have to split partnership—or move.”

“I can’t do anything by myself,” protested Ruth. “You know that. Besides, I don’t want to. We get along fine together. Why I’d—I’d rather take a job than give up you, or this place. It is the only home either of us have had for a good long time. Buck up, hon, I guess you’ll think differently tomorrow. Anyway, that beast didn’t trail us home.”

“No need for him to. He doesn’t care where we live. All he wants to do is to get us on the job and with the goods on us. We might, of course, get away with it for a day or even a week, but sooner or later he’ll land us. He’s big and ugly and slow on his feet, but those pig eyes of his give me the creeps. I got the smell of the police court and a nasty three-by-seven cell directly I saw him. I tell you—”

“Oh, Fanny, do stop,” cried blue-eyed, light-fingered Ruth suddenly. “I’ll make a cup of tea. That’ll cheer us up.”

Without waiting for reply from her downcast and pessimistic partner, the girl bustled into the kitchenette.

Fanny Eden leaned back on the couch and sighed. Facing her in the corner stood an expensive gramophone flanked by a cabinet full of records. Comfortable easy-chairs stood here and there on the thick, velvety carpet. There were pictures on the walls, silk curtains at the windows, and heavy satin portieres draped the doors. Altogether it was a nicely furnished living room, and the bedroom shared by the two of them was similarly well equipped.

“Three rooms and—a bath,” murmured Fanny. “Seventy-five dollars a month. Select neighborhood, and over a hundred paid off on the furniture. A closet full of clothes and— Gee! Tomorrow’s rent day, and we’re— What’s the matter, Ruth?”

“The kettle is boiling and there’s not a speck of tea!”

“Let’s have coffee then.”

“There isn’t any,” wailed Ruth. “There’s nothing in the place but condensed milk and sugar.

“Nothing to eat?”

“There’s a bag of beans!”

“Beans? You forgot to order?”

“I didn’t. They wouldn’t send any more goods without the money. I didn’t say anything to you about it this morning. I thought surely we’d have some cash tonight. That wretched detective drove everything out of my head. Oh, Fanny, what shall we do?”

“That’s done it,” remarked Fanny, slumping back on the couch. “No money to speak of. All the hock-shops closed, no credit, and nothing but sugar, condensed milk and dried beans in the house. It is time I got busy. I’m not going without anything to eat tonight, so shut up and let me think. We’ve been up against it before, and when the old game has petered out I’ve generally managed to pull off something or other.”

* * * *

Twenty minutes passed. Then, after a careful survey of the telephone directory, Fanny Eden went into the bedroom. She returned to the living room wearing a plain black dress and with her wavy, dark hair decorously smoothed and parted in the center. A lace handkerchief was perched on the top of her head. She carried a long black cape and a small soberly trimmed hat. What was still more important than this remarkable change in her appearance, all the moodiness had gone from her face and she smiled mischievously at the round-eyed Ruth.

“Don’t gawp,” admonished Fanny. “Get one of those lace doily things and fix me up with a dinky little apron like a maid wears. Run a thread round the edge and make it frilly. You know the kind of thing I mean. I’m the new maid at Mrs. Trevor’s. Hustle! It’s only three blocks west, but I want to phone before the grocery store closes. I know where she deals. I’ve seen the delivery wagon outside her place.”

Pinning the hastily improvised apron round her waist, Fanny put on the cape, concealed her maid’s cap under her arm and hurried briskly to the door.

“Back with the eats in half an hour, unless I’m pinched. No, there’s nothing to explain. No real danger of getting copped, and thank goodness this is a walk-up apartment. No nosy hall-boys piking around. Get out the best service, Ruthie. Fanny’s coming home with the bacon.”

* * * *

Following a brief and entirely satisfactory conversation in the telephone booth of a nearby drug store, Fanny Eden walked to the street where resided Mrs. Trevor. Twice did the cloaked figure pass the sombre brown-stone mansion, then about two minutes before a delivery wagon turned the corner of the street Fanny hurried through the gate and disappeared beneath the stoop. The shades of the barred basement windows of the old-fashioned house were drawn, but a light burned within, and now and again a shadow moved on the blind. The top half of the window nearest the basement door was down about three inches and the sound of voices and the occasional clatter of kitchen utensils clearly reached the girl’s ears.

The conversation that she overheard was peculiar, opportune and, it might be said, interesting; but for the moment Fanny did not grasp its full value. She was all on the alert for the arrival of the grocery boy. She had nothing very difficult to do, but it required nice judgment in timing.

When the delivery wagon stopped outside the Trevor house a tall, smiling, dark-haired maid met the boy at the gate.

“All right,” she said as she took the parcel from his arms. “I’ll take it. What? Yes, I’m the new maid. Sorry to order so late, but cook ran short. Thank you. Goodnight.”

“’Night, Cutie,” chirruped the boy and hopped back to his seat.

As quickly, but with less noise, Fanny ran back to the arch beneath the stoop, resumed her cape and hat and tripped away as she had come, unobserved. The parcel was weighty, but her spirits were light enough to compensate for any burden.

“It wasn’t anything very big that I pulled off,” she said when she stood in the kitchenette facing the astonished Ruth, “but if I say it, as I shouldn’t, it was rather neat. I only wish I could have ordered more, but I couldn’t for fear the parcel would be too heavy for me to carry.”

“But what would you have done if they hadn’t tied the things up? Supposing the boy had brought all this stuff loose in a basket?”

Fanny Eden shrugged her shoulders. “I’d have told him to leave the basket and collect tomorrow. I was all primed for any little thing like that. Sometimes, Ruthie dear, I’m nearly as good with my head as you are at lifting things from shop counters. Now, I guess we’ll make a start on that canned lobster and mayonnaise. There’s crackers, and coffee, dates, chocolate, shrimps, pickles, sardines, two cans of peas and—oh, well, there’s everything we need to see us through for tonight, at any rate.”

* * * *

Half way through the feast, so easily but so illicitly obtained, Fanny drifted from talkativeness to absent-minded inattention.

“Say!” she demanded with sudden return to animation. “Among all that junk we’ve got stowed away, there’s a couple of fluffy opera cloaks, isn’t there?”

Ruth nodded.

“Think we can fake up a pair of classy evening dresses?” asked Fanny with strange eagerness.

“Why, yes. There’s the pink silk you wore when we did the society act at Atlantic City, and I’ve got that crepe—”

“Of course. That’s all right. Get ’em out while I talk. When I’ve finished you can tell me if you’ll take a chance. I heard something tonight while I was waiting for that grocery boy. Now, listen: Mrs. Trevor was due to go to some swell affair tonight, but her sister’s been sick and she had to put it off. I heard the maid tell the cook she was scared stiff, and that made me listen all the more.”

“Who was scared stiff? Mrs. Trevor?”

“No, no. The maid. Don’t butt in, Ruth. There’s five or ten thousand dollars worth of jewels in that house and nobody there but those two servants. Thinking she was going to wear the family heirlooms, Mrs. Trevor got ’em out of the safe deposit this afternoon. Now they’re in her boudoir. I know, because I heard the maid tell the cook all about it. Are you on, Ruthie? A little bluff and we’ll be on easy street.”

“But how are you going to get in?”

“Dress and a line of talk, plus a little on-the-purpose accident. Get an iron, and while we’re getting the creases out of our glad rags, I’ll give you the cues.”

III.

Soon after ten o’clock, the maid at the Trevor mansion cautiously opened the front door. The prolonged ringing at the bell had given her no cause for suspicion, but the knowledge that her mistress’s valuable jewels were in the house made her nervous. She peered through a crack of the door and gazed into the reassuring, innocent blue eyes of a young lady clad in shimmering crêpe de Chine. Behind this dainty vision stood a tall, dark beauty in pink.

Blue eyes laughed merrily.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Afraid of burglars? We’ve called to see Mrs. Trevor. Hasn’t she reached home yet?”

The maid opened the door wide. Evidently there was nothing to be feared from these young ladies.

Ruth and Fanny stepped into the hall.

“I don’t think Mrs. Trevor will return until about eleven,” said the maid.

“Oh, but we can’t wait until then!” exclaimed Fanny. “We thought she would surely be home from her sister’s by now. What an awful nuisance! Our car has gone on to pick up a friend. So we’ll have to stay a few minutes.”

“Won’t you step in here?” invited the maid, now thoroughly convinced that these were intimate friends of her mistress.

Ruth moved toward the door of the drawing room, and as she passed an elaborately carved stand the on-purpose accident took place. There was a rip of tearing silk and she stooped over her torn skirt with a faint cry of dismay.

“I’ll get a needle and thread and sew it up for you,” offered the maid and hastened away.

“Now!” Fanny’s eyes flashed as she gave the word, and the two girls flew up the stairs.

The first door they opened proved to be the bathroom. It faced the stairs. Further along they came to a bedroom and then—the boudoir. The light was on and it was evident from a magazine that lay on the floor near a chair that the maid had been sitting on guard, waiting the return of Mrs. Trevor.

“You take the bureau,” ordered Fanny “I’ll go through the dressing table! Ah! I’ve got them!”

“Oh, Fanny! We’ll do it in time. We’re on velvet.”

Ruth’s exclamations of joy were nipped in the bud.

From the hall below came the sound of hurrying feet. Pale faced and with popping eyes the two girls leaned over the banisters and watched the maid running to the front door.

A stout, elderly lady entered. “The young ladies,” commenced the maid. “They were here. One of them tore her dress—”

“What young ladies? What are you talking about?” snapped Mrs. Trevor, and in a few seconds of quick questioning scented unpleasant possibilities to the situation.

“My jewels!” she shrieked, and followed by the maid, she rushed up the stairs and plunged headlong for her boudoir. It was not a moment for dignity.

“The door is locked. They’re in here. Run down and phone the police. Quick! Run! I’ll stay here and keep guard.”

Sobbing hysterically, the maid scuttled down the stairs, and ran to the telephone at the rear of the long hall.

Ten minutes later a sergeant, two policemen and a plain-clothes man pounded up the stairs. They hammered at the door.

“Break it down!” cried Mrs. Trevor. “There are only two girls in there. There’s nothing at all to be afraid of.”

There wasn’t! At the first shove of the sergeant’s shoulder the door burst inward. Four men and two women stared silently at an empty room. The birds had flown, and it was quite some considerable time before the detective discovered there was no key in the lock. By that time it was too late to capture the young ladies.

* * * *

In their cozy little walk-up apartment, two girls stood admiring a pile of glittering jewels that lay on the kitchen table.

“Some haul,” whispered Ruth. “But what a narrow squeak we had. How ever did you think of doing what you did? I was scared out of my wits.”

“That’s because your fingers are quicker than your brain, hon,” said Fanny easily. “That bathroom was certainly handy, and the position of that telephone was another thing in our favor. Just fancy the old girl wearing her knuckles out on that door, and never thought to look behind her when we were slipping down the stairs. She never even heard the front door latch click as we went out. I wonder, too, what she’ll make of the bill for our eats when she gets it.”

“Oh, Fanny!” breathed Ruth, “You’re—”

“The limit,” finished a deep voice, “and—she has reached it.”

The two startled girls looked round, and after a long moment of petrified silence they located the owner of the voice. It was the gentleman of the features described by Fanny as genus hamburgian. He stood on the ledge of the kitchen window. He was smiling. No. It was not a smile, but a grin. Horrid, grossly triumphant.

“You two slick dames can get into your go-to-meeting duds and come along with me,” he observed, as he pushed down the window and landed on the floor with flatfooted, ponderous agility. “While you’re getting ready, I’ll gather up this stuff.”

Game to the last, Fanny turned without a word and led the way to the bedroom.

To the accompaniment of quivering sighs and choking sobs, Ruth changed into her street clothes, but not a word or sound came from Fanny’s tight pressed lips.

One glance around the empty kitchen, the table bare of glittering jewels was enough for Fanny.

“The mean, sneaking piker!” she shrilled, glaring at Ruth’s pop-eyed face of wonder. “Don’t you see what happened! He’s beat it. What ails you?”

Ruth wilted and sank into a chair.

“But—but you said he was a dick,” she gasped.

“What I said,” sniffed Fanny. “That don’t make any difference now. Some dicks are crooks and some crooks are gentlemen. If there’s any word that fits us, say it.”

“Oh, Fanny!” sighed Ruth.

“Darn your ‘Oh, Fanny!’” snapped the other. “Call me boob and be done with it.”

CLANCY, DETECTIVE, by H. Bedford-Jones

Half a second more and the truck would have backed the little old man out of existence. It was one of those traffic jams for which Paris is famous, at the corner of the narrow Rue Caumartin. Caught between two lines of taxicabs, oblivious of the truck coming at him from behind, with everybody vociferously shouting at everybody else, the old chap stood bewildered and hesitant, or so I thought.

Consequently, I made a grab for him, rushed him under the nose of a taxi, and literally carried him to the sidewalk. There, to my surprise, he turned on me savagely with a flood of French.

“Save your breath,” I said. “I don’t savvy half what you say, anyhow—”

His face lit up, and he switched into English.

“American, are you? Well, what the purgatory do you mean by assaulting me that way?”

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. ‘When a man saves your life, you jump on him! In another—”

“Oh, you make me tired!” he snapped. “You’re another fool tourist who thinks this is America. Don’t you know such things don’t happen here? They have jams, but accidents are rare, and they never run over anyone except—”

“Suit yourself,” I told him. “In another jiffy you’d have been the exception, that’s all.”

He laughed suddenly and put out his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “I was thinking about something, to tell the truth. Perhaps you’re right. Allow me—”

He extended a card. I read: “Peter J. Clancy, D.D.S.,” and then heard the suggestion that we have a drink. I assented.

“Sorry I haven’t a card, Doc,” I said. “My finances haven’t extended that far yet. I came over here to take a newspaper job, got done out of it, and am on my way to book steerage home again. Here’s a cafe. My name’s Jim Logan.”

We strolled into the cafe and ordered a drink, and I took stock of Clancy.

He was a queer duck. He was small, about five foot five in his boots, and had long gray hair and a gray imperial. His clothes were black once, perhaps, but now they were greenish and frayed; he wore the red ribbon of the Legion in his buttonhole. His face was wrinkled—kindly, shrewd wrinkles, they were—and his eyes were very bright, of a piercing gray. He wore the wide-brimmed black felt hat of the Parisian, and looked as French as they make them.

“Glad to meet you, Logan,” he said. “I’ve lived here fifteen years, and sometimes I get pretty homesick. So you’re going back steerage, eh?”

“Anyway at all,” I said, sipping my Rossi. “This is the land of liberty, all right, but what I need is a job and not liberty.”

“Very well,” he said, with a nod. “I’ll give you a job—if you can tell me the difference between a Sydney View and a Saint Helena grilled.”

For a moment he had me stumped, until I saw in his eyes that he was earnest enough, and deadly serious. Then I laughed. If this was a test, he had chosen it just right for me!

“The difference would be about a hundred dollars, if both were in good condition,” I said. “Or, the difference between high value and worthlessness, as you prefer.”

“Good!” he exclaimed. “Then you collect stamps?”

“I don’t,” I told him frankly. “But I used to. And I know a good deal about ’em. Do you?”

“Everybody in France does,” he said. “Bless my soul, this is providential, Logan! Do you know, I’m really in need of you? Can you speak French?”

“Army French,” I said. “I can understand it perfectly, but I’m no linguist.”

“Better and better! And I perceive you’re something of a boxer, from the way you handled your feet. You’re powerful, you have a good brain, and you’re not afraid to look at a dead man, or you’d not be in the newspaper game. I can use all these qualities.”

“How?” I asked, rather amused, to tell the truth. “Pulling molars?”

“No.” He glanced at his watch and paid for the drinks, with a careful French tip. “We’ve got time—just. Have you a pencil? Give me that card of mine.”

I gave him card and pencil. He scribbled a few words in French and returned them to me.

“My office is at 33 Bis, Rue Cambon,” he said. “Second floor, French style—you’d call it the third. You have some money?”

“Enough for my steerage passage home.”

“Good. I needed a messenger—and I have him.” He drew me out on the sidewalk as he spoke. “Take a taxi and go to the Prefecture of Police, the central bureau on the Ile de la Cite. Ask for the prefect himself—show this card. It’ll get you instant admittance. Tell him I want to take over the case of the stamp dealer Colette, who was murdered this morning in his shop in Rue St. Honore, just around the corner. Tell him I’ll go there at twelve-thirty and want him to have all arrangements made to put me in charge.”

I took him by the arm.

“Listen, Doc,” I said quietly. “This cat can jump three ways. Either you’re crazy, you’re trying to work a practical joke on a tourist, or else I’m in over my head. Which is it?”

He looked at me, and broke into a laugh.

“Oh! I forgot to explain, Logan. You see, I’m pretty well known at the Prefecture, but my connection must remain unknown to the public at large. I often take over interesting cases. This is most interesting—”

“Are you a dentist or a detective?” I demanded. “Both,” he said. “And good either way, young man! I’ll give you a hundred a month—not francs, but dollars—and all the rewards that happen along, to throw in with me.”

“You’re on,” I said. “I’ll take a chance once, anyhow, and if the prefect kicks me out, no harm done. I’ll be back at your office by noon, if this is on the level; if not, I’ll be back there before then.”

I hopped a passing taxi and went on my way.

* * * *

To be honest, it seemed to me that the little dentist was probably just a bit cracked in the upper story. From what I had seen of Paris, however, this was nothing extraordinary, as anybody would know from walking down the street a few blocks. If, by any accident, he could make good on his promises, I would get on the inside of a few police jobs and this would mean the glad hand to me at any newspaper office. I was risking nothing except being kicked out at police headquarters, so it was a good gamble.

As my taxi purred up the quay toward Notre Dame, however, and I thought things over, I grew less positive as to Clancy’s mental disturbance. Those sharp gray eyes of his were very sane, very humorous, sparkling with vigor and acuity. It was much more likely that he was putting over a practical joke, and that I would find myself politely deposited outside the Prefecture with a gendarme for company.

“Well, I can risk that, too,” I reflected. “Wonder if there was a murder in Rue St. Honore this morning? Come to think of it, I did see quite a crowd down toward Castiglione. But that test question of his—there was a queer one!”

No mistake about it, either. Only for the odd chance that I knew something about stamp collection, about which all the French are crazy, Clancy would not have gone on with his line of talk. This went to show he was in earnest, and the whole affair left me up in the air and puzzled.

* * * *

We got to the Prefecture at last, and I passed the sentries without difficulty. Having applied for a card of identity after being tipped off how to do it easily, I knew how much stock to take in the usual methods of reaching anybody in Paris. Pull, influence and the back door were all invented by Frenchmen.

I reached the offices of the prefect, and they were crowded. I beckoned the gendarme and gave him Clancy’s card. It bore, in French fashion, a tiny miniature cross of the Legion of Honor after his name. With the card, I gave him a ten franc note.

“My business is important, and I’m in a hurry,” I said.

He shrugged and disappeared through a doorway. In two minutes he was back again, holding the door open for me. Then I had an idea whether or not my friend Clancy was crazy.

I was ushered into an office, where the prefect sat behind his desk, talking with a man whom I recognized instantly from his pictures. He happened to be the Premier of France, the actual ruler of a nation whose president is a figurehead meant to preside over charity bazaars. I waited. The Premier rose, shook hands, and departed. The chief of police looked at me and then stood up for the usual handshake and polite phrases.

Summoning up my best French, which was perfectly understood by chauffeurs and the usual Parisian, but which made educated Frenchmen grin, I gave him Clancy’s message. He fingered his flowing whiskers, and then nodded.

“Very well, it shall be as M. Clancy wishes,” he said. “Tell him, however, that there is no mystery whatever in this case. Certain fingerprints were found, left by the murderer. They were investigated. The man who made them was arrested forty-five minutes ago. He cannot account for his whereabouts during the early hours of the morning, and M. Colette was murdered shortly after nine o’clock, upon his arrival to open the shop. The murderer had been hiding there. He is a common Apache with a bad record, Gersault by name.”

“I’m surprised,” I said.

“Most people are usually surprised by the efficiency of Paris police,” he returned, beaming on me. I gave him a smile.

“No, it’s the other way round, monsieur. I’m surprised that you should be so far behind the times as to place any dependence on fingerprints. It has been proved over and over in the American courts that they can be forged. There are different ways of transferring the fingerprints of an innocent man to the scene of a crime. The chief of police of Los Angeles was charged with a crime by a friend, who thus demonstrated the feasibility of transferring prints, for by all evidence the chief was guilty. The Australian courts have recognized these things and have dismissed—”

The prefect rubbed his whiskers the wrong way, in some agitation.

“We are aware of these things, my friend,” he said hastily. “We are aware of them, I can assure you, and shall bring them all into consideration. In the meantime, you will honor me by informing M. Clancy that full details of the affair will be waiting for him at the scene of the crime, by twelve-thirty. I shall be very glad to place the case in his hands, and pending the result of his inquiry we shall do nothing, beyond keeping the man Gersault in prison.”

He bowed, I bowed, and with the parting ceremonial handshake, I got away.

It was five minutes to twelve when I reached Clancy’s address in Rue Cambon. It was an old barn of a place, gained through a courtyard, and his offices were old-fashioned and high-ceilinged. He had a patient in his dental chair, and nodded to me.

“I’ll be free presently,” he said, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “So you didn’t get kicked out?”

“No,” I said, and let it go at that.

* * * *

I had a look around the outer or waiting-room. Obviously, the old chap had an eye for good furniture, and knew a rug when he saw one; he had few of the gimcracks which crowd the usual office of the French professional man.

At one side of the room was a big, glass-doored cabinet, standing open. An unmistakable loose-leaf album lay inside, and I could not resist the temptation to take it out and have a look. Then I saw half a dozen other albums below. Glancing over the book, I found that Clancy had a superb collection of Great Britain and colonies, largely in blocks of four. Then I put back the album, as he escorted his patient to the door, and turned to meet him.

“Isn’t it rather injudicious to leave the cabinet open?” I asked.

“Nothing there worth your time or trouble,” he answered. “Shut it, and come along inside. We’ll have a chat, and get a bite to eat when the opportunity offers.”

He must have left the cabinet open by forgetfulness, since it had a spring lock, opening only to some intricate key. He motioned me to the dental chair, and I declined promptly.

“Too reminiscent, thanks.”

“Please yourself.” He offered a cigarette. “Of course, our friend the prefect has caught the murderer by this time?”

“How did you know that?”

“It’s the usual custom, unless the affair is something very simple or very big. Well, what happened?”

I told him, and he listened in silence until I had finished. Then those bright gray eyes of his flamed suddenly.

“So you didn’t think it unusual that the Premier would be calling on the chief of police, eh?”

I whistled. Now that he mentioned it, the incident was unusual—in the ordinary course of nature, it would have been the other way round. I said so, and he nodded.

“Of course, of course. However, the prefect is unlike the majority of his countrymen. He is not a stamp collector. He collects something, of course—a Frenchman has to collect something—but he runs to coins.”

“Old or new?” I queried facetiously. Clancy chuckled.

“Old. Hm! Our little murder case, except for the Premier calling on the prefect, would be simple robbery—”

“How do you know the call has anything to do with this case?” I demanded.

“I don’t. I just make a guess, my good friend! But yes, it would be simple robbery.”

He was silent for a moment, smoking thoughtfully, then he broke into explanation.

“Colette had a pair of the Niger Coast one-pound surcharge—of which only two copies were ever in existence. It is less known than the Mauritius ‘post-office’ stamp, but equally rare. The two stamps were overprinted together, and one was subsequently torn off and used. What became of it is unknown; neither the sender nor the recipient was a collector, apparently. The other one came into Colette’s hands about six months ago. He has advertised it at the price of twenty-five thousand dollars, but has not yet sold it. Thus, an apparent motive for robbery.”

“The police have arrested a man named Gersault, of the Apache class, on the strength of his fingerprints,” I reminded him.

“And Gersault will probably confess,” said Clancy. “We must look up everything and everyone connected with him, and lose valuable time—humph! Meanwhile, we’d better get along to the late and lamented Colette’s place. When we have played our little parts to the satisfaction of M. le Prefect and his men, we’ll begin the serious end of the business—humph!”

* * * *

For the time being, he forgot me, and went into dreamy abstraction. He reached down his black felt hat, put it on and made for the door, stroking his gray imperial. I followed him.

In two minutes we were in the Rue St. Honore, and strode along till we reached the tiny shop of Colette. The steel shutters were pulled down, leaving the only entrance at the rear, by way of the courtyard. A gendarme stood there—not the usual agent, but the rarely seen gendarme, in all his glory—and he saluted Clancy at once. Clancy nodded recognition.

“Ah, the prefect sent you, eh?”

“To receive you, monsieur,” said the gendarme. He took out a sheaf of papers and handed them to Clancy, who pocketed them impatiently. “The formalities have been finished, but everything has been left untouched for your inspection.”

We went in, and he switched on the electric light. Narrow-fronted as it was, the shop was twenty feet deep. In the right-hand corner at the back, facing the rear entry, was a large safe. Anyone standing at the safe would be invisible, for the entire window and front door were closed in by cards of stamps offered for sale. Colette’s body lay before the safe.

“Stabbed?” demanded Clancy abruptly.

The gendarme, who apparently had charge of the case, nodded.

“Under the left arm, monsieur. The main artery, not the heart.”

“Where is the knife?”

“Not found, monsieur, but it was no knife. It was a long, stiletto-like blade, very thin. The doctor could only judge from the nature of the wound.”

“Of course,” said Clancy. He had an irritating way of saying the two words, as though everything was clear to him. After the two questions, he disregarded the body and turned his attention to the safe. “Gersault’s fingerprints were found here?”

The gendarme nodded and showed us. The safe door was partly open, and Clancy took a magnifying glass from his pocket, pushing open the door. The shelves were filled with albums, small classeurs or pocketbooks for stamps, and loose sheets. Below these was a row of small drawers, one standing open and empty. Clancy pointed down at it.

“Gersault’s fingerprints there, also?”

“Yes, monsieur,” answered the gendarme.

“And on the front door, also?”

‘Yes, monsieur.”

“How much money did Gersault have on him when arrested?”

“Two thousand-franc notes, six hundred-franc notes, two ten-franc notes, eighteen francs in bronze, two ten-centime copper pieces, and two five-centime nickel pieces,” said the gendarme without hesitation. “Also, five Italian thousand-lire notes.”

“Ah!” said Clancy in a curious tone. He turned and looked at me gravely. “Logan, never dare tell me these police are not efficient!”

He went to the safe and peered into it, inquisitively. On the upper shelf was a row of little books or carnets bound in morocco. One projected slightly beyond its fellows, and it was bound in red, instead of in black like the others. Clancy suddenly reached up and pulled it from its place, and gave it a quick examination. Then he sniffed.

“So that’s it!” he exclaimed. “There’d be no prints, of course—gloved hands.” He swept around and thrust it under my nose. “Know the smell?”

“Apple-blossom,” I said promptly, wondering what he was driving at.

“Hm! They’re so used to scenting themselves—” He broke off, and handled the little carnet almost reverently. “He kept his rarities in this. A true collector, Colette! Now, Logan, we’ll see! Everything neat, immaculate, in the best French manner—except this little book of rarities! It’s obvious. Everything’s obvious!”

I watched him go through the little book page by page, entirely disregarding the two of us. Here and there he lifted a specimen carefully to inspect its back. There were things in this booklet to make my fingers itch; the rare first printings of Newfoundland, French and English colonials, early Mauritius—all with prices penciled beneath, of from one to ten thousand francs, even more.

Clancy turned page after page. About two thirds of the way through, he came to a page on which was a ruled oblong in the center, but no stamp. Below the oblong was this inscription:

No. 37, Gibbons—10s., in black, on is.—$25,000

The price of twenty-five thousand dollars, in dollars, showed that Colette had hoped to sell the vanished stamp to some American tourist or dealer. One might have equally set a value on the unique Guiana rarity, on the Venus de Milo, or any other treasure of which only one specimen exists. And Clancy examined this blank page very carefully with his magnifying glass, and then held it under my nose.

“Gloves save prints,” he observed grimly, “but they carry scent.”

Apple-blossom again. The gendarme, who spoke English fluently, smiled.

“M. Clancy has found something?”

“What I sought is not here,” said Clancy evasively, then his tone became sharper. “I have finished, m’sieur. If you question Gersault, you’ll find that he’ll confess to theft from this safe—”

“He has confessed, monsieur,” said the gendarme. “A copy is in the dossier I gave you.”

“Good,” said Clancy. “Take a look at the body, Logan. The rest is a matter for the nose—the trained, inquisitive nose—and for plodding research.”

I looked at the dead man. A small, swarthy, fat little chap, he had been one who dressed carefully for his business, with morning coat, starched front and cuffs—even a rosebud in his buttonhole. The left arm was stretched out away from the body. Under it, the coat had been pulled away, vest and underwear cut to permit examination of the wound. From the man’s immaculate appearance, I concluded he had been caught unawares. Whoever had looked at the wound had probably done the slight disarrangement visible—or so I thought.

“Come along, Logan,” said Clancy.

* * * *

We said farewell to the gendarme, and went out to the street. Clancy led the way, more or less in one of his absent-minded dreams, and I tagged along toward the Madeleine. At the Trois Quartiers corner, he halted suddenly.

“How much money have you, Logan?”

“All of it,” I responded. “A couple of thousand francs.”

“You may need to use some of it. I expect you to work—no Watson business for you, my friend! I’m depending on you for a good deal. To follow your nose, for one thing—would you know that smell again?”

“Anywhere,” I answered readily. “It was faint, but remarkable. Quite unlike the ordinary perfume, I imagine.”

He nodded approvingly, then gave me a sample of his surprising general knowledge.

“It’s used very seldom—is made by an English firm, oddly enough. They put it on the market some fifteen years ago and at first it swept things. Then the demand died out, for this apple-blossom had no lasting qualities. It could not be fixed, like ordinary perfume, but died out and was gone. Women wouldn’t use it, despite its rare flavor, for this reason. There are others like it, of course, but none with its peculiar bouquet. Think you’d be misled?”

“No,” I said, with conviction. One could not easily be misled there.

“One thing will help you—whoever uses it, must use it heavily, owing to its evanescent quality. Colette was murdered this morning. Whoever did it, used this perfume at home, put on gloves, came straight to Colette’s place and killed him, then got the stamp. Perhaps took off the gloves to pull the stamp loose and pocket it—well, no matter! You must follow your nose.”

“To find who uses this perfume—in Paris?” I laughed skeptically. “It’s a large order.”

“You’re not Watson—I hope,” came the biting response. Then Clancy smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. “Go to it! The stuff is imported from England and very few people use it nowadays; that’s all the help I can give you. You’re new to this game?”

I shrugged. “I’m a newspaper man.”

“There are as big fools in that game as in others,” he said calmly. “You know enough, then, to neglect no customer who buys that scent. And remember the sort of weapon used! I must interview Gersault and one or two others. We’ll meet around the dental chair at eight this evening—eh? If not before.”

“Right,” I said.

* * * *

Back in my youthful days, I once had a girl who liked apple-blossom perfume, and I bought her so much of it, and she used it so freely, that I became sick of the odor for life. The usual odor, that is. This one particular brand was different, a sweet and freshly invigorating smell that took one straight back to an apple orchard.

I left Clancy on the corner and ducked down to Prunier’s for a bite to eat. Not the grand joint where tourists get bled, but the little one where you sit at the counter and pay French prices. And, as I crossed the street intersection, apple-blossom struck at me from a gorgeous limousine—the same rare scent. It’s odd how you neglect the existence of a thing until the need comes for finding it, and then you meet it from every angle!

It was a big car. I was dodging through the traffic, and could only tell from the back wheel hubs that it was of Italian make. When I reached safety and turned to look, the limousine had swept away and gone in the tide of traffic. I had to give it up and run along to get my sandwich and demi of bock. There was no particular haste, for despite the apparent magnitude of my task, I could do little until the noon hour was past and the shops opened up at two.

A little reasoning over my lunch showed me that one who used apple-blossom and knew Colette’s, must be in the habit of shopping in the Rue St. Honore neighborhood among the solemn tourists with their long purses and omnipresent canes. So I set forth to dip into the perfume shops, even unto the Rue de Rivoli, but none of them yielded anything beyond the modern variant of my apple-blossom—a sweeter, more enduring, sickish smell. The one I wanted could not be fixed in its alcohol base, so was not popular; but while it lasted, it was like a breath of orchard with children playing in it.

I thought of an English druggist, and looked one up. Here I struck oil. He found a wholesaler’s list which gave the address of the Paris importers of this stuff, he gave me a card and his blessing, and I sallied forth on sounder premises.

This trail took me to a third-floor office near the Porte de St. Denis, where the druggist’s card made things easy for me. A very efficient girl clerk looked up the four shops in Paris where this perfume was sold and wrote down the addresses—four places in all Paris! Which shows how one cannot see the trees for the forest. One of those shops, and the likeliest, was in the Rue de Rivoli, not far from Rumpelmayer’s, and had been almost under my nose!

This shop drew me first. I found a stodgy, middle-aged man who regarded my inquiries with distinct suspicion until, French fashion, I reached his interest by telling my personal affairs, or seeming to. When my hints made him understand that this was an affair of a secret passion and a beautiful incognita, he woke up.

He had two steady customers for my apple-blossom. One was the Baronne de la Seigny, at present in charge of a base hospital on the Moroccan front, where her husband held high command. She, obviously, was out of it. The other was a certain Madame de Lautenac, probably gone to her villa at Nice, but perhaps still in Paris. The address of this so charming madame—he hesitated doubtfully, but the fact of being in on the edge of a love affair shattered his commercial virtue. So did my hundred-franc note. I got the Lautenac address.

* * * *

I departed for the other three establishments. In one I was refused information point-blank: confidential hints effected nothing, nor did the bank notes. I tried to buy two bottles of the perfume, but they had only one. Back to the Porte St. Denis I went, interviewed the wholesaler’s clerk again, spent a little money. The last order from this shop had been for three bottles, twelve months previously. Obviously, they had no regular customer for it. Time gone to waste!

One other shop, toward the Place de la Republique, was uncertain of its customers and afforded nothing. The fourth and last, near the Printemps, yielded gracefully to my persuasion. Four regular customers; Marquise d’Auteuil, a wealthy title bought under the Empire and of high society. A premiere danseuse at one of the Folies run for tourists. A lady, about whom the less said the better, just now sharing the establishment of a deposed potentate from the far east; and last—ah! A milliner in the Rue St. Honore!

There came the difficulty; a flat-footed refusal to furnish names and addresses of the last three.

The hunt was over, I told myself, and went for the milliner’s address. I bought her business name—Nicolette—for five hundred francs, and went my way rejoicing to see her.

I think Nicolette had a lot of fun with me. She was fat and fifty, if a day. When I asked to buy a hat and obviously knew nothing about millinery, she gave me pleasant ridicule. Neither she nor her assistant was perfumed. My idea of buying a hat without bringing a lady to try it on struck them as delicious. When I asked abruptly if there were any stamp dealers in the vicinity, they evidently thought me crazy.

“Ah! That poor M’sieur Colette was murdered this morning!” responded Nicolette. “So far as I know, there are no others nearer than the Rue Drouot. My husband, who was killed at Verdun, was a collectioneur, but I myself am not interested. Perhaps if you will bring madame, or mademoiselle, to choose her own hat—”

I got out of the place. In Paris, they suffer fools gladly.

The afternoon was wearily wasting along by this time. I went back to the English druggist to make sure of my premises. No, the English makers would supply only through the wholesale house; they were very strict about it as regarded the Paris trade. I had missed nobody.

I went to Fauchon’s, which opened earlier than most, and dined by myself. The four shops selling my apple-blossom had not provided one decent clue among them. The premiere danseuse and the potentate’s lady friend I had failed to locate, and Nicolette was ruled out. None of these was probably on the lookout for a Niger Coast one-pound surcharge at any price, even that of murder. There remained two very unlikely candidates—Madame de Lautenac, who seemed out of the city, and the Marquise d’Auteuil, member of very exclusive circles. I got an evening paper and read about the murder of Colette.

Nothing new there, except that he was really an Italian, whose original name had been Coletti.

* * * *

In something of a bad humor, I entered Clancy’s office at eight o’clock. He was in the dental chair, with a packet of stamp mounts scattered over the instrument tray, a loose-leaf album in his lap, and the operating light blazing on him. He glanced up but did not rise.

“This business started me off again,” he said dreamily. “Niger Coast—mine is a fine set, too. The ten-shilling red surcharge on five pence, for example: I came across it ten years ago at the Hotel Drouot—”

He closed the album and nodded happily.

“I’ve tracked down the apple-blossom,” I said abruptly.

“With no result, eh?”

“How do you know that?”

“By your face. How much did you expend?”

I told him. He brought out a wad of notes and refunded my expenditures, and I gave him an exact account of all I had done. He stroked his goatee and nodded.

“You did well. Hm! The premiere danseuse can be ruled out—she would not be up before noon, and those ladies are hard-working. They do not go around sticking knives into shopkeepers. About Madame de Lautenac, I know nothing; it will be easy to find whether she has gone to Nice. However, I am attracted by the two remaining possibilities; the Marquise, and the pretty favorite of the eastern potentate. She must be Lottie Harfleur—of course!”

He got out of his chair and went to the shelves on the wall. He took down first one and then another volume of “Le Bottin”—the voluminous directory that will give you all France and its people, if you know how to use the thing. Then he gave me a cigarette and lighted another at my match, and smoked thoughtfully.

“There’s a stamp auction tomorrow at the Drouot,” he observed dreamily. “Another of those sweet little games managed by the dealers for their own benefit. Everything in Paris touches the Hotel Drouot at some point; draft horses and Greek statuary, all come to the auction block there—they sold Marie Antoinette’s nightcap the other day. I’d be tempted to look there, except—the Premier visiting the prefect of police—”

“Politics?” I asked hopefully. Clancy smiled. “Why not? This Colette was an Italian, yet in Paris you can never tell who anybody is in reality. He may have been a secret agent for some foreign government—anything! Yet, his murderer took a stamp of priceless value, a Niger Coast stamp also, a colony in which few collectors here are interested—”

He tossed his cigarette to the floor, French fashion, and stepped on it, then looked at me.

“Do you know any newspaper men here?”

“One or two,” I said.

“Good. Find out all you can about the private life of the Marquise d’Auteuil. Leave the others to me. Follow your nose. To tell the exact truth,” and he smiled in his whimsical, kindly fashion, “you and I are both up a stump, young man! I want more information and I mean to have it—from somewhere. There’s something to this I don’t know.”

“Obviously,” I said with heavy wit. He chuckled and slapped my shoulder.

“Right! We’ll get it tomorrow. Follow your nose—follow your nose! Eight tomorrow night at the dental chair, if not before. And here’s luck to you!”

I went back to my lodgings, feeling that my first essay as a detective was not up to storybook style, by a long shot.

With Phil Brady, who does a weekly column for New York and syndicate papers, and who knows everything and everybody in Paris, I had a nodding acquaintance. Like most of the top-notch correspondents, Brady has the Legion of Honor. I reached him by telephone, and next morning he met me at a corner terrace table outside the Cafe Madrid. He was large, comfortable and middle-aged, had married a Frenchwoman, and was universally liked.

“Spill it,” said Brady, when we had ordered a cafe fine. “What d’you want?”

“The Marquise d’Auteuil,” I said.

“Expensive,” grunted Brady, “but get her if you want her—not with my help. Run your own tourist agency. I thought this was serious business.”

“Confound you!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t mean what you mean. I’ve got a line on something in this Colette murder affair, if you’ve heard of it, and this dame is one of the exhibits.”

“Oh!” Brady grinned. “Exclusive story to me when it’s ready for release.”

“Agreed. If I’m on the right track we’ll both win.”

“Who you working with or for?”

“A chap named Clancy.”

He gave me a queer look. “Oh! You’re a lucky devil. What do you want?”

“The lady’s life history. Perhaps an introduction.”

He grunted. “You don’t want much. Meet me at the Gallos Cafe, back of the Louvre store, at one-thirty. Best place to eat in the city and not a confounded tourist to be seen. I don’t carry life histories in my head, but I’ll have the dope for you then. Order a bottle of their Vouvray ’06 but go light on it—strong stuff. What’s back of this Colette murder?”

“Search me, so far. Know anything? Politics?”

He sniffed. “I know your friend Clancy—he doesn’t fool away time on nothing. If it’s politics, it may reach anywhere. Well, see you for lunch, then.”

His opinion of my new employer was extremely reassuring, but I wondered whether Clancy had not side-tracked me. It did not seem probable that a marquise would have committed the murder, though I did not have any high opinion of Continental nobility. Clancy’s half-formed notions about the Hotel Drouot, however, struck me as more to the point. This huge building of lofty halls, center of all the auctions in Paris, was a remarkable institution. Here were sold estates, goods seized for taxes, government confiscations, collections of books, stamps, coins, everything! Few tourists ever reached it: the place was haunted every afternoon by all the antique dealers in Paris, by collectors of every walk in life, by society women and hotelkeepers. Something might show up in line with my quest at this afternoon’s sale, and I determined to drop around.

* * * *

At the time and place appointed, I met Brady again. He brought three different portraits of the Marquise d’Auteuil, two being studio views and the third a snap taken at Longchamps. This gave her as tall and willowy, wearing the last thing in summer frocks, with a feather boa about her swanlike neck—the odious phrase fitted her exactly. The portraits showed her classic features as cold and proud, somewhere in the early thirties, and I did not care for her looks a bit.

“And what about her?” I demanded.

“Convent educated,” said Brady. “Daughter of Armand de Chevrier, of the old noblesse. Married Auteuil at nineteen, when he was forty. They have a big place in Auteuil, another at Cannes, another in Normandy, but have let the chateaux—money is rather tight with them just at present. Neither she nor her husband are up to snuff. He has his actresses, she has her lovers, to put it baldly. Just now, Jean Galtier is the favorite of the fair dame. That’s about all the general information I can pick up, and blessed if I can see where it would lead to the Colette affair.”

I agreed with him. “Who’s this Jean Galtier?”

“Average man about town,” replied Brady. “If you golf, I can get you in with him—if he’s any use to you. He has money and time to spend, that’s all; a languid devil, despite his passion for golf.”

“Does he collect stamps?”

“You can search me.” Brady shook his head and attacked his Chateaubriand. “However, I have something useful for you. There’s a big political reception in the Avenue Kleber tonight, with some of the press invited—you can take my card and go if you like. Galtier will be there; he has stock in a newspaper, which means politics. The Marquise may be there. Georges Lebrun is the general master of ceremonies. Tell him I sent you, and he can manage an introduction to the lady—if you want it.”

I pocketed the pasteboards he handed me. “And the Marquis?”

“If he’s not at the reception, you’ll find her there, and vice versa,” said Brady with a touch of cynical amusement. “He patronizes Montmartre, however, rather than social affairs.”

“And this Georges Lebrun?”

“You can’t miss him. Just five feet, rosette of the Legion, beautiful black hair with a white patch over the left brow. He’s very proud of it. Mention my name and he’ll do anything in reason for you. I’ve a few further details, if they’re any use.”

He had—many of them, and I wondered how he had got hold of them. An expensive lady was the Marquise. He had a list of her debts, her habits, and her companions; and before our luncheon was finished I had a worse opinion of my fellow man than previously. It was a scandalously intimate story, once Brady was fairly launched.

“She doesn’t look it,” I observed.

“Hm! Does any woman ever look it? Though at the back of my mind I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, and Gersault will go to the guillotine for the murder. Why should a marquise murder a stamp-dealer?”

“I never said she did,” I returned.

“Well, get the yarn, old man, and then spill it to me.”

I promised and we separated.

* * * *

Since it was now past two, I made for the Hotel Drouot, having nothing better on hand. I knew the place slightly—knew it well enough not to seek my quarry on the first floor, where only cheap things were sold. The upper floor was devoted to collections and art sales, and for this I struck.

Passing down the central hall, glancing at the huge rooms to either hand, I came to a pause. To my right was the sale—chairs and benches three deep around a green baize table the length of the room, with a scanty crowd standing behind. Before the table was the desk of the auctioneer and accountants. Commissaires displayed the lots, passing them around. To one side of the desk sat the expert, who looked as though he might possibly, as a baby, have suffered the indignity of a bath. He was handing out the lots.

I wormed my way along to a good spot and waited. British colonials were being sold. A scraggy old woman and a fat collector were pushing a first issue Nauru ten-shilling to fabulous prices. Dealers around me whispered; the woman had ten million stamps in her collection, the fat man was an industrial millionaire. Both were fools, said the dealers angrily.

The next lot came up, and I started at hearing its description. Niger Coast, ten-shilling surcharge on English five-penny! The catalog value of the stamp was fifteen hundred francs. No dealer would pay more than five or six hundred for it at the outside. The expert started the lot at fifty francs.

The old woman and Fatty pushed it up to a hundred at once, then others chipped in and it went to two hundred. “Two-fifty,” said the expert, with a magnificent air. This staggered the others: your Frenchman counts the centimes, let alone the francs! However, Fatty came back, and the old woman snapped into the bidding again, and they shoved it up to four hundred.

Then, close beside me, spoke out a cool, lazy drawl. “Five hundred!” I looked at the bidder. He was faultlessly attired and looked much out of place here. He had been tailored and hatted at the best establishments; was young, fairly good-looking, and like four out of five French people, ran to nose.

The old woman glared; Fatty looked stupefied. The expert barked: “Cinquante!” in a savage tone, as though to frighten off the exquisite. The latter waited until the ivory hammer rose, then spoke again.

“Six hundred.”

The expert shoved a dirty hand in the air, as though to say that the fool could take the lot for all of him. Fatty examined the stamp, and nodded a bid. The old woman fought him up to seven hundred. Again the ivory hammer rose, and again the fashion-plate near me spoke.

“Seven-fifty.”

One could see the old woman committing murder in her mind. “Soixante!” she snapped, and Fatty stuck with her. Youth and beauty let them contest it up to nine hundred, then came in with a flat bid of a thousand. All eyes went to him. Fatty pulled at his collar apoplectically and shook his head. The old woman snapped a raise of ten francs, and the exquisite went to eleven hundred. That was killing. The hammer fell, and the commissaire handed him the stamp.

“Name and address, monsieur, if you please.”

“Levallois, twenty Avenue Wagram.”

He paid, took his change, and then he sauntered out carelessly. I watched one or two more lots go, but lost interest. I departed, sought the chauffeurs’ rendezvous near the end of the Passage Jouffroy, and ordered a demi of brune.

Levallois! It was a keen letdown to me. Here was a Frenchman sufficiently interested in Niger Coast stamps to pay eleven hundred francs—much more than actual value—for one. I had confidently expected to hear him give the name of Galtier. It was a stamp of the same set as that for which Colette had been murdered, and the man had obviously attended the sale in order to buy this one stamp and no others. My disappointment, then, was acute. My notion of connecting Marquise d’Auteuil with the crime, through him, had suffered a setback. If this had only been Galtier, I would have been convinced.

I went along to my lodgings, across the river, and got into my glad rags. By the time I got out and dined—the usual restaurant does not serve until seven—it was nearly eight, and I went on to Clancy’s apartment-office. I found him working over some dental instruments.

“Going gay, are you?” he exclaimed. For response, I handed him the card of invitation Brady had given me.

“Nine o’clock—that means nine-thirty,” he commented. “On the trail of the Marquise, eh? You’ve begun, but not finished, a good day’s work.”

“Then you think—”

Clancy shook his head. “I don’t. It’s fatal, in this game. I had an interesting talk with Gersault.”

“Then you learned something?”

“No. The type of man, not the talk, was interesting. Not a sound tooth in his head, and knows a dozen places to get absinth by asking for Rossi-Vermouth.”

“Sounds rather silly.”

“All life is silly,” said Clancy, and gave me a cigarette. “Why do any of us ever do anything? Crackling of thorns under a pot, as the preacher said a long time ago. Why did Colette deal in little bits of paper? Silly. Sillier still to have any thousand-lire notes in his safe. Sillier still of Gersault to take them. Why did the Premier call on the prefect of police?”

“I’ll bite,” I said. “Why? What are you hinting at?”

“Politics,” and Clancy chuckled. “Come, give an account of yourself.”

I did so.

“Interesting,” he commented. “This Levallois is a friend of Galtier. You’ll see him there tonight. I’m half tempted to be there myself—hm! Of course. By the way, Madame de Lautenac is in town. She moves in the same set. Well, run along! See you tomorrow if I’m not there tonight.”

I ran along, feeling rather disgusted with my new profession.

* * * *

The reception at a big mansion in the Avenue Kleber, being political, was a full-dress affair, “le smoking” being held to its strictly masculine place by fashionable Paris. My poor glad rags looked nothing at all amid the uniforms, for your Frenchman runs to decoration and medals in quantity, and is happy as a child when wearing high colors.

Lebrun was not hard to locate. He was almost a dwarf in size, but his pride made up for lack of inches. When I presented Brady’s card, he shook hands warmly and spoke in English of a sort.

Yes, any friend of M’sieur Brady might rest assured of his services. Of course, I would want to know who was who. He began pointing out couples, lingering with appreciation upon their titles, and then going into a cynical chronicle of their doings. It was amusing, but in the midst of his discourse I caught a passing breath of apple-blossom.

To trace it was impossible. Everyone was perfumed insufferably, new arrivals were coming in every moment, and I gave it up. Then Lebrun interrupted some highly spiced tale to indicate a man just entering.

“There is Galtier, Jean Galtier.”

I caught at the name. “The stamp collector?” Lebrun shrugged. “Why not? Everyone collects stamps—perhaps Galtier does.”

Pale-haired, chalky of face, indeterminate, thinlipped, a man of perhaps thirty-five, Galtier looked no man to be the lover of a fashionable beauty. I understood that these women reduced their lovers to a platonic state, however, making them fetch and carry more like dogs than men. For such a part, it struck me, this Galtier would be an ideal subject. “What does he do?” I asked.

“What would you do, if you could spend a thousand francs before breakfast and not miss it?”

“Probably what he does,” I said, and laughed. “You would find him interesting,” said Lebrun. The spacious, ornately decorated salon, with its shifting groups, was well filled. For the moment Lebrun left me, to speak with some friends. Galtier came toward me, looking around as though in search of someone, until he was within three feet of me. Then he spoke suddenly as someone tapped him on the shoulder. That someone was Levallois. “Ah, my dear friend! I was looking for you—”

“And,” said Levallois, laughingly, “your dear friend will undertake no more such commissions! It was very amusing, but a filthy place, filthy people—bah!”

“You got it?” demanded Galtier.

Levallois nodded. “Eleven hundred francs, and the tax besides—”

“Spare me the details,” said Galtier. “You did not bring it? Then, in the morning.”

“Yes. An excellent copy, too. You now have the set complete?”

Galtier shook his head mournfully. “Nobody will ever complete it,” he replied. “There are two I can never hope to see, at any price.”

Obviously, Levallois had been buying the stamp at that sale for his friend. Good! My hopes rose. I knew, too, that even if Galtier possessed the stamp stolen from Colette, his statement would still be correct, for three of those stamps are extremely rare. Of two, only two copies were printed, and five copies of the third, making them easily among the rarest stamps in the world.

Did Galtier hope to get one of the five copies, or did he already have Colette’s stamp? His words gave no clue, yet his manner showed that the hobby was an absorbing one to him. I was now convinced that my time had not been wholly wasted. Somehow, Galtier would prove to be connected with the murder in the Rue St. Honore.

Again, suddenly, the tang of apple-blossom drew my gaze swiftly around. Now I saw the Marquise, recognizing her instantly. She was approaching Galtier, and Levallois turned away. Galtier bowed over her hand, and my eyes went to the diamond-studded object on her corsage—a tiny stiletto, an ancient bit of gold-work. Its hilt would have meant a year’s income to me. Small as it was, it was large enough to let out a man’s life.

The two talked together, low-voiced. Galtier seemed embarrassed, and I thought she must be reproaching him. I could build it up in my mind—despite Clancy’s remark anent the folly of thinking. Galtier would never murder for the sake of a stamp, which he might buy, but here was a woman who would put her soul in pawn for the sake of the man she wanted.

Galtier had cooled toward her, then, and she wanted to keep him. She, not he, had gone to Colette’s shop. Perhaps Colette had promised the stamp to someone else, and refused to sell it; perhaps she was unable to pay some extortionate demand. Perhaps she had tried to steal it, and had been detected—

No. Somehow, it wouldn’t hold water, though it was very plausible. I could not see a woman like this one killing Colette, though she had both strength and courage for it. Then her voice lifted a little and reached me clearly.

“Tomorrow, then, before dejeuner. A surprise for you, my friend—”

So, then, it was settled! She had the stamp, and on the morrow would hand it over to him; such a gift would cement him firmly. She was safe enough, for the supposed murderer was already in custody and the stamp would not be traced—indeed, only Clancy had divined its loss.

* * * *

The two parted. Galtier stood alone, rubbing his forehead and looking distinctly relieved at her departure. Exactly. He was tired of the intrigue, and she was mad to get him back at her beck and call.

Meantime, I thought, watch Galtier and let her alone. She had the stamp. The chief thing would be to call at her house in the morning, and obtain it. Clancy must handle this end of it, naturally. Galtier moved about the place, speaking, shaking hands, kissing fingers. He still seemed searching. Levallois had disappeared in the throng. I followed Galtier, feeling awkward and conspicuous, yet exultant over my success—

Apple-blossom again! Galtier swung around, and a sparkle of animation came into his face as he bowed above the hand of a very brunette, almost swarthy, young woman. Her lack of any jewelry was noticeable. So was the brilliance of her eyes, the extreme vigor and depth of her personality. She was beautiful, and she had character plus. Galtier retained her hand and beamed at her.

“It is good to see you again, mon ami!” she said. “You see, since you would not come to Cannes, I have come back to Paris!”

“But you did not tell me!” he ejaculated.

She laughed. “I waited for tonight. You are leaving?”

“I am due at the Opera, to my sorrow, madame!”

“But that does not take the entire evening,” she said, with a significant look. Galtier gave her an eager smile, and murmured something I could not hear. Undoubtedly, he was going to call on her later in the evening, whoever she was.

Knowing now that Galtier was bound for the Opera and later for her, I felt it was no use hanging on his trail longer, and I might as well drift along. I obtained my things, and left the place, pausing at the entrance to light a cigarette.

Two men were standing outside, talking. One was a tall man in brilliant uniform—the minister of something, war or foreign affairs or state—and the other was very short and dressed up to the nines. Both had their backs to me. Suddenly the shorter man swung around, showing his decorations in all their glory—

“You might bring up a taxi for me, Logan,” he said.

I was stupefied, then went on past and at the street hailed a taxi. Clancy here! Then something was up! I waited, standing in the porte-cochere to which the taxicab had come. A moment more, and Clancy appeared. He took my arm, and told the chauffeur to wait.

“But, m’sieur,” came a flunky protesting, “it is not allowed here—there will be other vehicles—”

“The other vehicles,” said Clancy dryly, “may go somewhere else.”

The flunky waxed indignant. A gendarme, stationed outside the place, came up to us; he was the same who had come as messenger from the prefecture. The flunky appealed to him hotly.

“But what has M. Clancy said?” asked the gendarme.

“That this species of a taxicab must stand here while others—”

“Then it must stand here,” said the gendarme, and that was that.

Clancy drew me to one side, out of earshot, and lighted a cigarette.

“We’re waiting for a lady,” he said.

“I know,” I told him. “I’ve got the whole thing clear enough now—”

He smoked silently while I outlined the case, but made no comment until I was through. Then he chuckled.

“Suppose you listen to me—I’ve been busy. First, Gersault told me a queer yarn. He passed the door of Colette’s shop, saw it open, saw a woman come out. He had a back view of her only. Then, glancing into the shop, he saw a pair of feet—and knew something was up. He was sharp enough to slip in. An open safe, a dead or dying man—why resist? He went for the cash, got it, and slipped out and away. He left fingerprints, however.”

“And the woman was the marquise?”

“It was not,” said Clancy, and laughed at my disconcerted expression. “The description doesn’t fit her—she’s tall, above the average. Well, you ran down the apple-blossom, and I ran down the narrowed trail. All the time, I was wondering about Colette being an Italian, and the thousand-lire notes Gersault had grabbed with the rest. There was one lady unaccounted for, your Madame de Lautenac, presumably gone to the Riviera. I found she had gone last week.”

“So she’s out of it too, then?”

“Not at all. She returned to Paris the night before Colette was killed. So I looked her up—yes, my friend, I’ve been a busy man today! She has an apartment in the Avenue Friedland, not far from here; she is presumably a widow, but little is known about her. I had a chat with her concierge this afternoon.”

Significant enough. To every apartment-block a concierge—a registered person, too, who must be responsible, who must be known to the police as of good character. Male or female, a concierge in Paris does not get the place easily. He knows every detail in the life of his tenants.

“Two minutes after you left me this evening,” went on Clancy, “the concierge telephoned me that Madame de Lautenac was departing shortly to this reception. Also, her bonne a tout faire had departed, and her maid was leaving for the night. So I dressed and went to her place—and searched it. I had some luck, but there are many points I do not understand, so we must wait for her to explain them.”

I was bursting with questions, but just then came out to us the same dignitary who had been talking with Clancy on the steps. The gendarme, at one side, saluted him impressively. He glanced at me, and then spoke to Clancy, with an anxious air.

“You did not say, monsieur, when you would let me know—”

“M. le Ministre is going to the Opera, I think?” said Clancy reflectively.

“But yes. We are very late now—but it is Faust, which matters nothing until the ballet at the end—”

“Very well,” said Clancy. “When the ballet begins, monsieur, I will come to your loge, with the treaty.”

The minister started. “You—you are certain?”

“I have promised, monsieur,” said Clancy. He enjoyed being theatrical, and laughed softly to himself when the minister departed.

“The treaty?” I demanded. “Clancy, what in the devil’s name are you driving at?”

He touched my arm. “You’ll learn presently—there she comes, now! Madame de Lautenac, poor woman! Come along.”

I stared. The woman descending the short steps toward us, ordering her car brought up, ordering our taxi out of the way, was the brunette with whom Galtier had made an appointment. Madame de Lautenac! And she was unescorted.

My friend removed his hat and bowed. “Madame, I have a taxicab awaiting you,” he said pleasantly.

She looked at him, with a puzzled frown. “You mistake, monsieur.”

“Not at all, madame,” returned Clancy. “If you will honor us, we will escort you home in our taxicab, instead of in your car. Unless, of course, madame would prefer going direct to the prefecture with a gendarme.”

Possibly a newspaper man sees more singular things than most people, because he is looking for them. However, never have I seen anything more swift and shocking than the change in Madame de Lautenac. One moment proudly beautiful, the next she was shrinking in stark terror.

Clancy offered his arm, and mechanically she accepted. The three of us went to the taxicab, and Clancy directed the driver. None of us spoke a word on the way, and when the short drive was ended, Clancy ordered the chauffeur to wait and the three of us went into the elevator and up to her floor.

There, before her door, she paused and turned on us as though to resist or protest. She lost her nerve again, and produced a key.

“Allow me, madame,” said Clancy, and opened the door. “Into the small salon, madame.”

We followed her inside. She seemed dazed, hopeless, as she led us into a very beautifully fitted salon. Then, throwing aside her wrap, she faced us with returning composure and a hint of defiance. “What does this mean—”

“It means we had better sit down, if madame will permit,” said Clancy. When she met his gaze, terror flickered again in her eyes. She seated herself abruptly.

“What I would like most to know,” said Clancy reflectively, as though we were engaged in a light conversation over the coffee cups, “is the connection between Madame de Lautenac and the stamp dealer Colette. I refer, of course, to the antecedent connection.”

“I never heard of such a man,” said the woman coldly, her self-possession returning.

“No?” said Clancy softly. He looked at me and smiled, and spoke in English. “Did you notice that Colette’s inside coat pocket had the lining pulled out?”

“Perhaps it had,” I said. “It had been disarranged by the surgeon, no doubt.”

“No, not by the surgeon.” Clancy nodded and reverted to French. The woman’s eyes showed me she had understood every word perfectly. “I suppose, madame, it is useless to ask for the document you took from Colette’s pocket after you stabbed him?”

Her pale face became yet paler, but her composure was perfect. Even her fingers, which had been nervously playing with a handkerchief in her lap, became still.

“I know nothing of what you refer to,” she said calmly, her eyes fastened on Clancy.

He nodded and turned to me.

“Will you be good enough to invert the Dresden china vase at the left of the mantel?”

I rose, went to the mantel, took the vase from it, and inverted it. Something heavy fell to the carpet, and I picked up one of those tiny miniature swords which can be found everywhere in Paris. This one was a rapier, perhaps six inches long, beautifully made and inlaid with gold. It might have served as a cabinet curio, as a hair ornament, or as anything. Halfway up the blade, toward the golden hilt, was a brownish stain.

“Now, perhaps,” said Clancy quietly, to the woman, “you will tell me the antecedent connection between yourself and Colette?”

“He was my husband,” she said, half whispering the words.

There was a moment of silence—a moment can be a long time. Only the ticking of the clock on the mantel disturbed us, and I saw the woman’s eyes go to it with a sudden flash. She had remembered her appointment with Galtier—there was still hope!

“The document,” said Clancy gravely, “is for the present immaterial. I wonder why you stopped to abstract a rare stamp from Colette’s safe, madame? There was your mistake.”

“It is nothing to you,” she answered, calm again. A good antagonist, this woman! “I admit nothing. I know nothing.”

“But,” said Clancy inexorably, “you expect to give that stamp to Jean Galtier in an hour or less.” She sagged a little, and her steady gaze flickered. Clancy saw it, and drove home at once. “Perhaps you’d better give me the stamp, instead.”

“Very well,” she said, to my surprise.

On the table lay a card-case. She reached out and took it, opened it, and extracted a tiny bit of paper. For a moment, it fell to me to see one of the world’s rarest stamps. Clancy held out his hand to take it.

Instead, with a swift movement she shot it into her mouth and swallowed it.

Clancy uttered an exclamation of dismay. So rapid was her action, neither of us had a chance to stop it, and Cleopatra’s vinegar destroyed no greater value than this little meal. Madame de Lautenac smiled slightly.

“I do not know what stamp you are talking about,” she said calmly. “One cannot have committed a crime without evidence—”

Clancy recovered, and pointed to the little rapier, which I had laid on the table.

“The principal evidence, madame.”

“Planted here by you, evidently during my absence.”

Well shot. But Clancy only smiled.

“And then, madame, have we also planted the text of the Franco-Italian treaty, which you removed from Colette’s pocket?”

In a moment, her defiant beauty became haggard, she became an old woman. The glitter of her eyes swept into a frightful despair. Somehow, Clancy had nailed her this time.

“How long is it since you left Colette?” demanded Clancy.

“Six years,” she whispered. “Because—because he was a spy for Germany—in the war—”

“And you,” said Clancy, pitiless, “take money from Moscow. Where is the difference? This treaty was signed three days ago in Paris. You were told at Cannes that Colette had it, for Germany. You were told to get it. You came and got it. Then—the stamp! Why the stamp?”

“For—for Jean,” she whispered, her face terrible to see.

“And he will be here for his stamp presently,” said Clancy. “Good. Then he, too, will become implicated in the murder—”

She half came to her feet.

“Stop, stop!” she cried out horribly. “He is innocent of it—he knows nothing of it—you must not drag him into it!” She thrust a hand into her low corsage and dragged out a paper packet, and flung it to the floor. “There is the treaty—take it, but do not bring Jean into it—spare him, spare him!”

She sank back, put her handkerchief to her face, and huddled down in her chair.

Clancy picked up the paper packet and broke it open. He nodded slightly, and put it in his pocket. Then he got out a cigarette and lighted it, and handed me one.

‘Well, Logan,” he said in English, “I think we’d better be getting along. We must not miss the ballet, you know. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

“But—”

I motioned toward the woman, who had not moved. Clancy sniffed slightly, and I started. In place of apple-blossom, a thin odor of bitter almonds was quivering on the air.

“A prussic-acid capsule in her handkerchief,” said Clancy, with only a glance at her huddled, motionless figure. “No need to verify it. Shall we go?”

We went. Phil Brady did not get much of a story out of it, after all.

THE TATTOOED MAN, by William J. Makin

“The tattooed man has died,” I said to Isaac Heron quietly. “I thought you would like to see the body before it is buried.”

Detective Inspector Graves, swathed in a raincoat, his bowler hat dripping wet, exploded amazement and exasperation at his friend the gypsy. They stood on the edge of a fair-ground, where a gasoline lamp hissed and spluttered in the rain.

“D’you really mean to tell me, Heron, that you’ve brought me from a comfortable fireside to this God-forsaken part of London to see a corpse! Good heavens, don’t I see enough bodies in the course of my work?”

“But not tattooed bodies,” said Isaac Heron, with a queer smile.

“But you said this tattooed man had died.”

“Oh, everything is in order,” said the gypsy. “The doctor has signed the death-certificate, and the poor fellow is to be buried in the morning. Unless you stop it.”

Detective Inspector Graves frowned.

“But why should I? If the doctor is satisfied that the man died from natural causes—”

Isaac Heron shrugged his shoulders.

“Better come inside the tent out of the rain, anyhow,” he suggested.

And because this well-to-do gypsy had on a number of occasions been of very real help in solving difficult cases, the Scotland Yard man followed the lithe figure of Isaac Heron into that maze of drenched light that called itself, ironically, a Fun Fair.

They passed gaudy roundabouts churning out last year’s jazz. Booths with dart-throwers, shooting galleries with spouting celluloid balls, and lemonade stalls with bellied bowls of yellow liquid impeded their progress. Eventually pushing through an apathetic and drifting crowd of damp people they reached a dark, deserted booth where no lights were flaring.

It was possible, however, to glimpse a gaudy painting of a man whose torso was smothered with fantastic and writhing designs.

Graves stopped to read an announcement on a signboard which assaulted the eyes with the wording:

SEE THE EIGHTH WONDER OF THE WORLD!

THE GREATEST OF ALL TATTOOED MEN

ELMER HAYES

HE BEARS 350 DESIGNS

UNIQUELY ARTISTIC

ON EVERY PART OF HIS BODY

Walk Up and See Him for Yourself.

“And so he’s dead, eh?” said Graves.

“Died in front of a crowd of thirty people who had paid threepence each to see him.”

“Well, I suppose they thought they’d had their money’s worth!”

Graves stumbled up the wooden steps, across a little platform, and followed the gypsy into the booth.

A strange scene was revealed. A single low-burning lamp was slung from the canvas roof. A group of figures, as fantastic as any painted by Goya, were clustered beneath it. The Fat Lady, in a baby frock, glycerine-like tears squeezing from her eyes. The Lion-tamer, uncomfortably tapping his stained riding-breeches with a whip. Three dwarfs standing on chairs to peer over the shoulders of others. Shirt-sleeved men from the booths, and a solitary Italian icecream vendor.

The group fell apart as Isaac Heron advanced, and in the dim light their faces seemed filled with genuine sorrow. For a moment Graves hesitated; then, with an uncomfortable feeling, he removed his hat. He found himself regarding two trestles which upheld a coffin in which lay the body of Elmer Hayes, the Tattooed Man.

Even in death that purple-pricked body was exhibited. The huge chest displayed a series of fantastic designs—butterflies, snakes, airplanes winging among purple clouds, hearts with daggers in them and purple blood dripping, a Union Jack and the American Stars and Stripes, a clipper on a rough purple sea—there was no end to the conglomeration of pictures.

But it was to the now rigid face that Graves turned his gaze. Although the eyes were closed and the face possessed a semblance of peace in death, there was something drawn, something tortured, in those features that suggested the end was no happy one.

“He must have suffered,” muttered the Scotland Yard man.

“Poisoned!” wheezed a voice at his very elbow.

The detective turned. A mustached man with eyes magnified by spectacles was standing there.

“What d’you mean by that—poisoned?” snapped Graves.

“Just what I said, poisoned,” went on the mustached man. “Poisoned by his tea, I should say. He would eat mussels, and drink any sort of liquid that was given to him. That was the tea he had before he died. I warned him against it. Told him his stomach couldn’t stand it. But of course he paid no attention. Nobody ever does, to me. But I come in at the death.”

He cackled, in a grim fashion.

“Who are you, anyhow?” asked the Inspector.

“A doctor,” replied the other, twisting his mustache importantly. “They call me the shilling doctor, but I don’t always get my shilling.”

“And you say this man was poisoned?”

“By himself! Acute toxins resulting from indigestion attacking the heart. Or as we physicians call it, gastric enteritis. You’ll find that on the death-certificate.… Have you a match?”

His tobacco-stained mouth was slanting a cigarette at the detective.

But it was Isaac Heron who obliged.

“I’d like my friend to see the designs on the back of the body, Doctor, if you’ve no objection,” he said, holding a match to the cigarette.

“None at all. Delighted,” said the medical man. “Allow me.”

He plunged his hands into the coffin and with a deft twist of powerful wrists turned the body over. The back of the corpse was revealed, also smothered in purple-pricked designs.

“I think I’ve seen enough,” grunted Graves. There was something about this group of freaks and the sardonic “shilling doctor” that made him feel sick, and he was anxious to regain the rain-slashed darkness of the open air.

“But I particularly want you to see this design, Graves,” insisted the quiet voice of Isaac Heron.

Reluctantly, the Inspector followed the pointing brown finger and bent his head nearer. For among that phantasmagoria of dragons and flaming torches and yawning crocodiles was a tombstone. And marked on the tombstone, minutely pricked but clearly discernible were the words:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

ELMER HAYES

Died Nov. 30, 1935.

Y.S.

“And when did this poor fellow die?” asked Graves.

“Yesterday,” replied the doctor importantly. He was not looking at the body. “You will find it on the death certificate, which is quite in order. ‘Gastric enteritis. November 30, 1935.’”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Isaac Heron.

“But—but has he seen this?” blurted out Graves.

“Seen what?” asked the physician. He bent down over the corpse. “Umph! That’s queer. November 30th. The very day he died. I wonder how he got that tattoo mark?”

“It seems fairly recent to me,” said Heron.

The doctor nodded. “Yes, it is. Very recent.” He swung round upon the little group of freaks. “Has anybody been fooling about with this body?”

His eyes were blazing behind the spectacles.

A shirt-sleeved individualpushed his way forward.

“P’raps I can explain, guv’nor!”

“Who are you?”

The shirt-sleeved individual jerked his head in the direction of the body.

“He was my show. I paid him his wages.”

“And what do you know about this tattoo mark?” demanded Graves.

The showman scratched his head.

“Well, guv’nor, all I can say is he had it done hisself. He was allus anxious to add a new picture to his collection, as it were. Most big towns we stopped at, he would look round for a tattooer and ask for a new picture. That one you’re looking at now was done about a week ago. Leastways, that’s when Elmer started going to a new tattooer he’d found.”

The doctor grunted.

“Well, that explains it,” He turned to the Scotland Yard man and the gypsy. “Seen enough?”

“Quite enough, thank you, Doctor,” said Isaac Heron.

Deftly the body was turned over. As the men moved away, the group of show people, the freaks, the dwarfs, and the workers closed in again upon the coffin and resumed their silent staring mourning.

“There’s Elmer’s daughter,” indicated the shirt-sleeved man. “Poor girl, she misses her father, shocking!”

Isaac Heron, followed by the detective, moved over to a figure sitting on an upturned bucket and crouched in an attitude of grief.

“My dear,” he murmured.

A shock of black hair was raised, revealing a face whose slightly yellow tinge, high cheek-bones and oblique eyes emphasized an Asiatic origin.

“Her mother was a Jap,” whispered the showman. “She died when the girl was born, so Elmer told me.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Heron.

The girl shook her head.

“Nothing—nothing. Father is dead—and that’s all.”

Sobs choked the rest of her utterance. Sadly the gypsy turned away. He whispered something to the showman, who nodded. It was the shilling doctor who broke in upon them.

“Well, I suppose there’s a queue of patients waiting for me. You won’t need me any more.” The end of his glowing cigarette was almost burning his lips. “Everything is in order. You’ve got the death-certificate.… Good night, gentlemen.”

And peering through his spectacles, he shuffled away into the night.

Five minutes later Isaac Heron and Detective Inspector Graves were standing once more in the rain on the edge of the fair-ground.

“Well?” asked the Scotland Yard man. “Queer, isn’t it, that Elmer Hayes should die on the very day that the tattooed tombstone on his back indicated?” observed the gypsy.

“Might be coincidence,” said Graves.

“And it might be murder,” Heron rejoined quietly.

The Scotland Yard man started. “1 saw no indications of that.”

“Not even the redness and swelling beneath the tattooing of the tombstone?”

“Heavens, no! Are you suggesting—”

“Poison!” nodded Isaac Heron. “Certainly not gastric enteritis. That shilling doctor is overworked and careless. And once he’s signed a death-certificate, he believes in it implicitly.”

Graves stared at his companion. “Aren’t you rather jumping to conclusions?”

“Maybe I am,” admitted the gypsy. “But here’s a taxi. Let’s take it. There’s something else I want to show you tonight.”

Graves was too bewildered to protest.

* * * *

“I saw the body of Elmer Hayes earlier in the day,” explained Isaac Heron, leaning back comfortably in the taxi. “And incidentally, I spotted that peculiarly new tattoo mark.”

“Who told you of his death?” asked Graves.

“A brother of the black tents,” smiled the gypsy. “News travels fast among show folk. And I confess to a Barnum-like fascination for freaks. Yes, I went to see the body of that poor fellow out of sheer curiosity.”

“And having seen it?”

“I telephoned for one of the best tattooists in London to come and see it. You probably know the man. He has his shop, or studio, as he prefers to call it, near Waterloo Bridge.”

“I know him,” nodded Graves.

“I showed him that tombstone on the back of the dead man. He examined it through a magnifying glass. To him that design was as plain as a fingerprint to your department at Scotland Yard.”

“What was plain about it?”

“That it was the work of a Japanese tattoo artist. I don’t know whether you are aware, Graves, but the art of tattooing began in the East and reached its highest development in Japan. The Japanese became past-masters of the art. Then it was prohibited in the East, and it traveled across the world and flourished in our East End.”

“Japanese!” said the startled Graves. “That girl we saw weeping for her father was half Japanese.”

Isaac Heron nodded.

“Her mother was pure Japanese. She married Elmer Hayes when, as a sailor, he landed in Japan. And as my tattoo expert pointed out, the majority of the three hundred and fifty designs on that body we saw had been done by Japanese artists.”

“As also the tombstone?”

“Yes, the tombstone that was pricked into his body only a few days ago,” emphasized the gypsy. “But the artist who executed that design, even though murder was in his heart and stringing at the end of his needles, couldn’t resist putting his signature to his devilment.”

“Signature! I saw no signature.” protested Graves.

“Just the letters ‘Y.S.’ beneath the inscription on the tombstone,” said Heron. “They were enough.”

The Scotland Yard man gave a quick glance out of the window of the taxi.

“I say, Heron, this fellow is heading for Limehouse. Is that all right?”

“Quite all right. Limehouse is where the Orientals insist upon clustering, in London. Chinese—and Japanese,” he added significantly.

“Japanese?”

“I took the liberty of telephoning the Poplar police-station in your name,” explained Heron. “I asked them if they knew of any Japanese claiming to be a tattooer, with the initials Y.S., who had set up shop in their district. I must say they were exceedingly smart. Within ten minutes they had the information for me. Yogai Safu was my man. His address was Limehouse Causeway. And here we are!”

Heron tapped sharply on the driver’s window. The man slurred his cab against the pavement and stopped. The two men stepped out. They were at the entrance to that dark, twisting gully of a street where solitary men shuffle quietly against unlighted houses.

Limehouse Causeway.

Followed by the Scotland Yard man, Isaac Heron plunged into that cleft in the darkness. They walked for about a hundred yards, then the gypsy stopped outside a shuttered shop that presented a blind exterior. The gypsy stretched out a hand, found a door-knob, turned it and padded along a narrow corridor. Then he opened another door and entered a room badly lit by a shield of bluish white gas.

Graves shuffled after him and peered about expectantly. It was the second strange interior he had seen that evening. The dirty yellow of the walls was an almost perfect camouflage for the wrinkled almond face of an old Japanese squatting on a heap of greasy cushions. There was not even a blink of surprise on that impassive Oriental face as it regarded the intruders.

“Yogai Safu?” asked the gypsy.

“Your honorable servant,” replied the Japanese, bowing and displaying a smooth bald head. “What would you have me do, gentlemen?”

His English was passable, his manner completely assured. Isaac Heron smiled easily.

“I’ve a friend here who wants to be tattooed.” Graves started; but Heron went on without a pause: “A sailorman tells me that Japs are the best at the job, and I saw the card in your window yesterday. Can you do the job?”

“It is, gentlemen, somewhat late in the evening.”

“But my friend is willing to pay,” added Heron.

The Scotland Yard man sniffed. This opening conversation was not to his liking. He preferred more direct methods. He opened his mouth and spoke roughly.

“What I want to know—” he began.

But Heron quickly interposed.

“My friend, as you will gather, is a little nervous. But then they all are, eh? Graves, strip off your coat and bare your arm to the gentleman.”

Mechanically, but more worried than ever, the Scotland Yard man obeyed. Despite the absurdity of the situation, his trained eyes were observing every detail, every object in that strange room.

A long low table was covered with little colored bowls and bottles—inks for the tattooer. A bunch of gleaming needles lay in a tray. And behind the table, against the wall, was pasted a medley of designs: mermaids rising on their tails, cherry trees dripping blossoms, a naked diver fighting a shark under water, a dragon breathing fire—these and scores of other sensational and murderous designs were ranged there.

“What a beautiful white skin for tattooing!”

The old Japanese was purring as he took the bared left arm of Graves in his own yellow fingers. The Scotland Yard man shuddered at the touch. At the same time he gave an appealing glance at Isaac Heron which suggested that the farce had gone far enough.

“And will the gentleman decide upon the design?” asked the Japanese.

Heron replied with that subtle smile:

“My friend is often in dangerous situations. He might easily be killed and his body be unrecognized. Now I suggest that, as a form of identification, you tattoo a tombstone on his arm.”

“A tombstone!”

The oblique eyes of the Japanese seemed to become mere slits in a yellow mask as he repeated the words.

“Why not?” inquired the gypsy. “It’s not an unusual design, is it?”

“No.”

“Then go ahead.”

The yellow hand stretched out for a needle. The point was tried against a thumb. He lit a spirit lamp and dabbed the needle in the flame. Then he dipped it into a little bowl of purple ink.

“And what name would the honorable gentleman like to have tattooed on the tombstone?” asked the Japanese, the needle poised in the air.

“Detective Inspector Graves of Scotland Yard,” replied Isaac Heron.

Graves felt the clutch on his arm tighten. But on the face of the tattooer there was no expression.

“Very well,” he murmured and dipped the needle into another bowl.

The slitted eyes were regarding the sinewy white arm that he held in his grasp. Beads of perspiration broke out on the brow of the detective. His own gaze was fixed upon that gleaming needle that was about to plunge into his arm.

But even as the needle came toward the white skin, the hand of Isaac Heron was quicker. His fingers clutched the hand of the old Japanese in a vise-like grip.

“Grab the other hand, Graves!” came his warning voice.

The Scotland Yard man was only too eager to obey. In a few seconds the Japanese was lying on the cushions, his yellow wrists circled with the steel handcuffs which Graves always thoughtfully carried about with him.

“Poison, as I suspected,” said Heron, sniffing at one of the little bowls. “Once he heard you were from Scotland Yard, he realized he was suspected. He intended you to go the same way as Elmer Hayes. Isn’t that so, Yogai Safu?”

For once the yellow mask was twisted with rage.

“Elmer Hayes was a white dog. He deserved to die. Twenty years ago I swore, at the shrine of my ancestors, to kill him!”

“Twenty years ago!” Isaac Heron lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.

The Japanese hissed through clenched teeth: “Twenty years ago, Elmer Hayes posed as an honorable gentleman, and came to my studio in Yokohama for be tattooed. He wanted many, many designs upon body. I not know it was intention to show himself to crowds and make money by displaying body. Ugh! A vulgar practice. But many things I did not know at that time.”

“What else didn’t you know?” asked the gypsy.

“Elmer Hayes had infatuated my daughter, my only daughter. She was as sweet as cherry blossom in spring. I loved her as the last descendant of most honorable ancestors. That white dog from overseas smuggled her away in steamer.”

The old man’s voice was firm. Not a tear trickled down that wrinkled face.

“And then?” encouraged Heron.

“I make for hara-kiri,” said the old man. “But even as I prepare before shrine of ancestors, voice told me it was duty to get vengeance first. Honor had been violated. Until stain had been washed out with blood, my work on this miserable earth not ended. I packed up my needles, my inks and my kakemono, and sailed for America.

“A stranger in strange countries, it was not easy for me to follow their path. I find myself always too late. Across America, into Europe, through far lands I follow—for twenty years! I must stop often to earn money with tattoo. I open studio here in London. Then one morning the man himself walked into studio.

“The gods of my ancestors had answered my prayers and given enemy into my hands. He not recognize me. I used the same initials, but fake name. He saw only an old Nipponese who practice ancient art of tattooing. He asked me to prick design on back, one of few empty places left. I think first kill him quick. Then I remember he taken my daughter to live his life of shame; she had died in poverty. He must suffer for that. So, slowly, with cunning, I pricked poison into his body while making tombstone on his back. I knew just when that poison would take effect. So I pricked date on tombstone.”

“Yes, we saw it,” said Graves roughly. “On his dead body, eh?” chuckled the old man.

There was silence for a moment. Then Isaac Heron spoke.

“There is one thing you do not know, old man,” he said.

“And what is that, honorable sir?”

“Elmer Hayes has a daughter. You are her grandfather.”

Once again came that hiss of emotion through clenched teeth. The old Japanese seemed to age before their eyes.

“That I did not know,” he faltered. “Is—is she beautiful?”

“Like her mother.”

The old man sighed.

“It is not right that her grandfather should be branded as a murderer.”

The remark seemed to rouse Detective Inspector Graves. He reached out for his coat and struggled into it.

“We’ll be making our way to the station,” he said. “I must phone to stop the burial of Elmer Hayes for tomorrow.”

He took hold of the old Japanese and raised him from the couch of cushions. In that moment the man seemed to age incredibly; he swayed and almost crumpled to the floor. With a jerk Graves brought him to his feet.

“I apologize, honorable sir,” smiled the Japanese weakly. “You see, I am dying.”

“Dying!” Graves stared, disconcerted. “Yes,” mumbled the old man. “My work now is finished. I have avenged. It is better for the girl—she who is my granddaughter—that I do not live.”

He seemed to lapse into a coma. With the help of Isaac Heron the detective carried the Japanese to the door. Under the light of the street lamp the gypsy gave the old man a searching glance.

“Yes,” he nodded to Graves. “I think he is dying—and because he has determined in his mind to die. I doubt whether you’ll ever get him to trial. The ways of the Oriental are strange, Graves.” And he went off in search of a taxi, leaving Graves supporting a very old and unconscious man.

TRIGGER MEN, by Eustace Cockrell

Mudd didn’t want to go. We’d been having a nice time as we were: Mudd because I’d brought a bottle of very special Scotch over to him, I because I had finally got him to talking. Detective Sergeant Joe Mudd couldn’t talk without being interesting.

He had been telling me about the time two or three years before when a couple of guns had tried to free Jake Zeppechi when they were putting him on the train, taking him to the Federal prison. The guns were dead; they had killed Zeppechi and killed three of his guards; two of them had been F.B.I. men, and the Department of Justice had squared up with them. The other one had been Red Armstrong, a White Falls detective.

“Yes,” Mudd had said. “They took care of the trigger men. A couple of coked-up lads doin’ a job of work for their price. The papers said they were tryin’ to lift Zeppechi. They weren’t. They were hired to kill Zeppechi, because Zeppechi was gonna talk. The guards just happened to be in the way when they turned loose with their typewriter.”

Just then the phone had rung.

Mudd came back swearing dispassionately. “Yes,” he went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “they can’t ever prove that, but I know it’s so. And I know the guy that had it done, and I’ll take care of that some time. Red Armstrong got his that day, and Red was a friend of mine.… I got to go downtown now. You want to come?”

“Where to?” I asked.

“Carlotta’s,” Mudd said, pulling on his coat. I got up and put on my coat too. Carlotta’s was exciting, even if nothing happened.

We went down in the elevator and out in through the lobby and got in Mudd’s car. I didn’t ask him why we were going, or what the phone-call had been, because I knew he wouldn’t tell me until he wanted to, and then I wouldn’t have to ask.

Carlotta’s is down on the river-front; you have to drive over three blocks of rough cobblestones, between high walls of unlighted dinginess, to reach it.

Inside, the ceiling is low and the lights are never bright. Usually the air is stale. But the rough tables are solid walnut, the checked cloths are linen, the glass is crystal. And there is a swell band there—the swellest that has ever been in White Falls.

Mudd pulled his car up across the street from the little sign, and my heart started beating a bit faster in spite of myself as I watched him check over his service revolver, which he was wearing in a shoulder-holster under his coat.

“Just routine,” he said. “Some dame called me up and told me to come down here. Said somebody was scheduled to get bumped off, and if I was sittin’ in the place it probably wouldn’t come off. The chances are a hundred to one it was some crank, or some of my so-called friends with that kind of a sense of humor.” He put the gun back in its holster. “But anyway,” he added, “there’s no use takin’ chances.”

There was a good crowd when we got there at ten-thirty. All sorts of people. It was always like that. Thugs and punks and gangsters, play-boys and men-about-town and aristocrats.

“Margot,” as the orchestra leader had announced her, was dancing. Margot was a small blonde, and to my mind no dancer. I was looking around.

Joe Mudd and I were seated at a table for two over against one wall, and from it I could see the entire room; but I saw it only as a composite picture with little attention to any person or detail that went to make up the whole.

Later I was sorry there was no complete clarity to my mental image—a clarity about which I could be definite and certain. But as I looked back on it, I got only the same picture I got that night when I tried to reconstruct the scene of those first few minutes.

Margot had finished her dance and was leaving the floor. I remember that. The place was now full of people. A lot of them I knew myself, and some of them Mudd had identified for me.

But I didn’t see them as people so much, this important moment. I saw them more as impressionistic flashes of different things that went to make up the night-club that was Carlotta’s.

Carlotta herself had come onto the floor and begun her song. And when you saw and heard Carlotta, you knew why the place was as popular as it was. She was singing “Midnight Babies,” and the light on her had begun to dim. All the other lights in the house were out then, as always when she sang.

In the hazy reflection from the spot, as my eyes swept the room and then fastened on Carlotta, I got only these momentary glimpses of people.

I saw Ike Stein, a small-time racketeer, sitting at a table by himself at the edge of the dance floor and eying the sultry beauty of the singer with a not too subdued covetousness in his eyes.… I saw Arnold Marshalt sitting at a table behind Ike Stein’s. He was with his sister and Bud Fenston, his sister’s fiance. Marshalt was young and good-looking and rich. His eyes were not readable but they had something somber in them and they were not on Carlotta. They were on Bud Fenston—Bud Fenston, sitting pale and drawn, looking determinedly at Evelyn Marshalt, whose face held a hopelessness strangely out of place on those finely chiseled features you felt were designed to reflect gayety.… I saw Junky Rothfuss sitting at a table beside Marshalt’s. He was with some other people, but he might have been alone. He was cold and quiet, and there was no more in his eyes than in those things that hang in front of optometrists’ shops. He was a known power in the White Falls underworld. How high his power reached no one knew; Carlotta was said to be his girl.

I saw—but of course, I didn’t see these things: I only got impressions of them. All I saw was Carlotta, for she was singing, and when she sang, that’s all you knew about.

The spot of light was getting dimmer, as it always did when she sang. Then on the last note of her song the light would go out entirely, and there would be darkness complete for one moment while utter silence held the place. Then the light would come on, and the band would play, and everyone would be talking at once in a sort of uneasy way. That’s what Carlotta did.

That’s why you watched her. Tonight it was like other nights. She was standing there singing. Then it happened.

There was no warning unless you count the tenseness that always hung over things down there. But it went very quickly. Too much so, for when it was over, I could remember it only in fleeting glimpses, like a movie in which everything has been falsely speeded up.

The detonation of the shot rumbled in that low room, and I saw a figure dive awkwardly toward Carlotta’s feet and lie there, blood spurting from what had been a head.

The spotlight on Carlotta, the only light, went out. But as it went out, there was quick movement across the room, scuffling noise, a grunt; I saw Bud Fenston moving, and I saw Marshalt move, jostling Rothfuss as he rose.

And then across the table from me a chair scraped harshly on the floor, and there was a rattle as it fell.

* * * *

Joe Mudd was standing up, and in the darkness there was the hoarse and reassuring bellow of his voice:

“Lights!”

Maybe it was two seconds; it couldn’t have been a minute. The lights came on—the spot first, then the little lights that hung around the wall; then the faint lights overhead. And then—

“Drop that guy! Get him!”

They got him near the door. A waiter tackled him. It was Arnold Marshalt, and I remembered that the flame that had stabbed the darkness on the far side of the room had come from his table or from very near it.

Carlotta stepped back slowly, chalk-colored, and the long white evening dress she wore had a red border on the bottom where it trailed in Ike Stein’s blood.

Mudd strode across the floor, knelt a moment. Then he rose, and I saw his lips form the obvious words to Carlotta, still moving slowly back: “He’s dead.”

Then there came a steady rustle of brittle chatter, punctuated by chairs scraping on the floor as they were pushed back from the tables.

Mudd’s voice cut through everything loudly:

“Sit down! Everybody stay right where he is for the moment.”

A man who had got to his feet said patronizingly, bold with drink: “Who the hell are you, anyhow?”

Mudd reached in his pocket for his shield. “I’m Detective Sergeant Mudd, buddy; and I love it when people get cute with me. Sit down.” The man sat down. “I’m sorry,” Mudd went on to the crowd. “Well get through here and let you go just as soon as we can. In the meantime just keep your seats and take it easy.” I sidled onto the floor, and Mudd turned and told me to call Headquarters.

When I came back into the room a minute later, Mudd had moved from the dance-floor and was walking between the tables toward where the waiter had tackled Marshalt.

Mudd turned to Carlotta, who had followed him. “I’ll need a room—”

Carlotta nodded automatically. “You can use my office,” she said. Then there was the scream of sirens outside and in a moment men from headquarters started pouring in. Inspector Jaffre, men in uniform, plainclothesmen, photographers, men from the lab. There must have been fifteen or sixteen of them.

Mudd walked over and talked hurriedly to Inspector Jaffre, and I saw the Inspector nod.

He came back then to Marshalt. “Okay, son,” he said. “Let’s go.” He nodded to me, and the three of us started for Carlotta’s little office in the back. Jaffre stopped us.

“I want him,” Mudd said, jerking a thumb toward me. “He came down with me. I want him.” Jaffre nodded again doubtfully, and we went on back through an aisle of white faces, Marshalt in front, I following Mudd. As we went into the little office I heard Bud Fenston, his voice desperate, yell: “Wait!”

I turned and saw him half rise before a big cop standing behind his chair shoved him back down.

We sat down in the office, Mudd behind the desk. “You killed him,” Mudd said. “What did you do it for?”

“No,” Marshalt said, and his voice was little more than a whisper. “No.”

Mudd said amiably: “You shot him, all right.” He turned to me and barked: “The shot came from his table?”

“I—yes,” I stammered. “It looked like it.”

“No,” Marshalt said again in that small voice. “No.”

“Your sister speaks with a broad A, doesn’t she?” Mudd asked then, unexpectedly.

“Why, yes, but she hadn’t anything—”

“She called me up,” Mudd said. “You shot him. Where’s the gun?”

“I didn’t,” Marshalt said. “I didn’t.” Then suddenly his expression changed. “Yes,” he said dully, “I killed him. He had some letters—my sister’s. He was blackmailing her, trying to. Yes, I killed him. Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute,” Mudd said. He looked puzzled and the heavy creases in his face deepened. “Where’s the gun?”

Marshalt stuck his hand into his inside jacket pocket. “Here it is,” he said, “What difference does it make? I lost my nerve and ran.”

Mudd took the gun, and holding it by the barrel with his handkerchief, he sniffed it. He grunted.

“I’m glad Stein’s dead,” Marshalt said slowly. “The letters were old letters. I don’t know how he got hold of them. They didn’t mean anything, but they looked as if they did. My sister wants to marry Bud Fenston,” he concluded disjointedly.

“Son,” Mudd said, and his voice sounded as though he were trying to make it kindly, “go out there and sit down. Give me your word you won’t say anything to anyone, until I tell you or send you word. Give me your word.”

“All right,” Marshalt said. “What difference does it make? I’ll give my word.”

When Marshalt had left, Mudd called me to the desk. The gun was lying there. “What kind of gun is that?” he asked me. “Don’t touch it.”

“It’s a thirty-eight,” I said, “seven-shot automatic—say, what in the blazes is this? You’re not blind. You know more about guns than I do.”

Mudd picked it up and began polishing it with his handkerchief. “I may want you to take a message for me,” he said, “and I won’t have time to explain—if you take the message. If anything happens in here in the next fifteen minutes, I want you to pick up the gun on the desk and put it in your pocket, and throw it in the river going home. And then forget all about it.” He left then, but in a minute he was back, and Bud Fenston was with him.

He didn’t question Fenston. Fenston didn’t give him time. When he saw the gun on the table, he said quickly, his voice tense: “That’s my gun. I killed Stein. Arnold grabbed the gun away from me. I killed him. It’s my gun.”

“You shot him?” Mudd asked.

“Yes, I shot him. I—I had to. Arnold grabbed the gun away from me.”

Mudd grinned. “What did you shoot him for?”

“That’s my affair,” Fenston said defiantly.”

“All right. All right.” Mudd’s voice was soothing. “Will you go out there and sit down and not say anything, not say anything to anyone until I send you word? Will you give me your word? Your word of honor?”

“It won’t involve Miss Marshalt or Arnold?” Fenston asked, and keen hope showed in his face.

“No,” Mudd said. “My word on that.”

“All right,” Fenston said. And Mudd let him go.

He turned to me. “Open the window,” he said. “From the bottom. What sort of a drop is it to the ground?”

I looked down out of the window. “No drop at all,” I said. “Six feet, maybe.” And then, because I couldn’t keep back any longer, though I knew it wouldn’t do me any good, I blurted out a question. “What’s the answer? Fenston killed him—Marshalt killed him. Which one did? And why all this stuff about the gun, the window? Tell me something?”

“I’ll tell you this,” Mudd said. “I’m the greatest detective that ever hit the city of White Falls, and there’s no question about that. Let me handle this case. Let me try to solve a case without you buttin’ in with a lot of questions. And if I solve it, you keep your trap shut. You do what I tell you and keep your trap shut. I know what I’m doing. You watch.”

“But,” I said, trying to keep exasperation out of my voice, “one of those boys is bound to have done it. There’s the gun, and there’s the motive. Why all this business about letting you solve the case? The case is solved.”

Mudd looked at me. “Sit down there in the corner,” he said to me, “and let me be the detective.” And so I did.

He went out then, but in a minute he came back, with Junky Rothfuss.

Mudd sat down at the desk and beckoned Rothfuss to the chair by the window. “Well, Junky,” Mudd said, and though his voice was soft, it gave me a shivery feeling, “it’s nice to see you here. You’re heeled, I guess?”

“I got a permit, copper, from the sheriff’s office,” Junky Rothfuss growled.

“Okay, Junky. Just routine. Let me see the rod,” Mudd said.

Junky Rothfuss looked at Mudd a minute. “Sure,” he said. He reached under his coat and handed Mudd a gun. Mudd took it, holding it by the barrel with his handkerchief.

“I don’t want my prints on any gun of yours, Junky,” he said good-humoredly.

I noticed then, suddenly, that the gun on the desk was gone.

“Yeah,” Mudd said, sitting down behind the desk. “Thirty-eight automatic. Nice gun.” He laid it in his lap. “Now let me see the permit, Junky.”

Rothfuss dug in his billfold and handed Mudd a card. Mudd looked at it carelessly, picked up the gun with his handkerchief and handed it back with the card. “All shipshape, Junky!”

Junky Rothfuss replaced the gun and card. “Talk fast, copper,” he said. “I got other things to do besides listenin’ to you gab. I gotta get home.”

“All right, Junky,” Mudd said evenly. “You’ll get home—home through the green door! Home to the old easy-chair. You’ve been away too long.”

Junky Rothfuss grinned, and his grin was mirthless too. “Make ’em up as you go along, flatfoot?” he asked.

And Mudd grinned back. “Carlotta was your girl, wasn’t she, Junky? Carlotta was your girl, and you had shot off your kisser about rubbin’ out Ike Stein if he didn’t stay away. That was dangerous talk, Junky. I thought you were smarter than that. Lots of people heard you. It even got around so bad that the dumb coppers heard about it.”

Junky Rothfuss made his voice weary. “You got nothin’ on me. And I’m gettin’ sleepy. Speak your piece.”

“Well,” Mudd said, “you’re the best suspect we got. We’ll have to run you in, Junky.”

“You won’t make that hold, copper,” Junky Rothfuss said. “I’ll be out in an hour. I seen the guy that let Ike have it. It was the Fenston punk, and the kid with him grabbed the gun and run.”

“Yes,” Mudd said. “We’ll make it stick. We’re gonna burn you, Junky. We’ll make it stick.” He paused a moment, and lit a cigarette. “Who’ll believe a member of one of the town’s finest families would kill a rat like Stein for no reason, when they know that you’d threatened to kill him yourself for a damned good one?”

Rothfuss didn’t change expression except a hair’s breadth, but it converted his face into a sneer. “You got nothing on me,” he repeated.

“Yes,” Mudd went on as if he hadn’t heard him. “They shave your head, and they hook the plates on tight to your legs, and then they pull the volts through you. The scientists say it doesn’t hurt, but they don’t know. It looks to me like it hurts when the smoke comes up, and you smell the old burning flesh, and you sort of jerk and twitch—”

I sat tense, listening to Mudd’s droning voice, dripping conviction and grim assurance, and I wondered.

“It looks like it hurts plenty—and nobody has ever come back to say it didn’t.”

“You’ve jumped your trolley,” said Rothfuss. But his smile was mirthless.

Mudd said evenly: “We’ve frisked everybody in the joint. The gun ain’t there. The gun in your holster has been fired once. The ballistics boys will check the slug with the one in Ike Stein’s head, and they’ll prove it came out of your gun. The one in your holster.”

Junky Rothfuss jerked his gun, and he sniffed the barrel. He whipped the clip open and looked. He sat there tense, the gun in his hand.

Mudd had his service revolver out, and he was leveling on Junky Rothfuss.

Junky put the gun back under his coat. Mudd said slowly, putting his own gun up too: “I’ve been after you for two years, Junky. And now I’ve got you framed. Framed cold!”

“Switched guns, eh?” Junky Rothfuss whispered.

“You guessed it,” Mudd told him. “Here’s your gun.” He laid another thirty-eight automatic on the desk.

And Junky Rothfuss moved, a fraction of an inch only, it seemed to me. And suddenly there was the gun in his hand again, and he fired once as Mudd slid down behind the desk.

I half jumped up as Junky snaked over the window-sill. I couldn’t help it. I figured that it was suicide, but I liked Joe Mudd. I was on my feet and starting to move as Junky saw me and turned, one arm crooked over the window-ledge, his gun in the other.

But I started to move forward even as Junky began bringing his gun into careful alignment. Then I heard Mudd’s voice as he crawled around the desk.

“Here’s one for Red Armstrong, Junky!” the voice said. And there was a shot. I saw Rothfuss’ thin-lipped snarling mouth go suddenly, horribly, red and round. And his arm relaxed, and there was the empty window.

I grabbed the gun off the desk and I stuffed it into my pocket as Jaffre broke into the door then, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.

“Junky Rothfuss,” Mudd said, standing up. “Killed while attempting to escape, He’s out the window there. His gun has been fired twice, and the ballistics men will find the slug in Ike’s head was the first one. You can tell the people to go home.” He walked over to me and hit me on the shoulder, and then started awkwardly peeling off his coat, and I noticed one hand dripping blood.

“Damn,” he said to me. “You scared me when you jumped up. What were you gonna do—bite him?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted shakily, feeling foolish; but I looked up and saw Mudd looking at me with a funny light in his eyes, and I quit feeling foolish because his look was one of respect. And I was suddenly proud. Joe Mudd didn’t respect or admire many things.

“Send the sawbones in here, Chief,” Mudd said, turning, and unbuttoning his shirt with one hand, clumsily. “I gave him too much head start. He got lucky and nicked me. I must be gettin’ slow.”

He turned to me and added, bending so no one could hear: “Go out and tell the kids how it is—all three of ’em.” Straightening up, he concluded; in a normal voice: “And come up to the hotel pretty soon, and I’ll tell you the end of that story.”

“Okay,” I told him, but as I made my way to Marshalt’s table, it occurred to me that I knew the end of the story now.

So I told it to Bud Fenston, and Marshalt, and Marshalt’s sister, while they drove me home; and they stopped on the bridge over the river, and I threw the gun a mile.

BUTTERFLY OF DEATH, by Harold Gluck

On that particular Friday evening, I was exceedingly tired. Working for Frank Parker, of Parker Publications, wasn’t exactly the type of work in which you could take it easy. My job was to edit three of his magazines, Detective Adventures, Science and Crime, and Private Eye. It meant spending hours reading all kinds of manuscripts, good, bad, and indifferent. Which all accounted for the fact that at about 7:30 I tried to relax in the easy chair that faced the street, in the living room of my apartment on East 53rd Street.

I closed my eyes to get some kind of relief. The meal I had eaten at Luigi’s was light; there were thousands of little round red dots dancing around my two eyeballs. I opened both eyes as though to chase them away; it was futile.

The phone rang twice. “Odd” was the only comment I made to myself. I had a private, unlisted, number—known only to my editor, the printer, and my personal physician. Not once had my phone rung during the past year. I arose, went over to my desk, and lifted the receiver from the hook.

A muffled voice asked, “Joe Delaney?”

Mechanically I replied, “Yes, who is this and what do you wish?”

An odd kind of a chuckle hit my eardrum. “You’re Joe Delaney,” repeated the voice, and then it added, “So you think you can take my little Butterfly away from me and nothing will happen to you?”

Remember, I was tired, and that accounted for the fact my brain cells failed to react quickly. Something had to be said, and I went searching for words. Then I found them. “What kind of a trick is this?” was what finally came from my lips.

“This isn’t a gag,” was the reply. “I’m going to make your life a living hell, just like you made mine. And don’t think I’m kidding; you’re going to be tortured, and when you have suffered enough, then I’ll kill you.”

Nice words to hear over a phone. I was getting back to myself and trying to think a mile a second. “There are lots of Joe Delaneys in the phone book,” I protested; “You got the wrong one.”

“No,” was the reply, “I got the right one. The one who works as an editor at Parker Publications and thinks in his spare time he can play around with my wife. You damaged my butterfly; I’m going to damage you.”

This was getting on what was left of my nerves. “I’m going to hang up now,” I shouted through the mouthpiece of the phone.

“Still think I’m kidding,” the voice continued. “I’ll show you I’m not bluffing. Wait fifteen minutes, then walk down on the east side of 47th Street, between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, and see what happens. Then you’ll know whether this is a joke or the beginning of the end for you, Joe Delaney.”

That was all. I heard a little laugh, and then I, too, hung up.

Back I went to my easy chair to try a bit of thinking. This had to be a joke. Some fool who knew me was having fun at my expense. My inner brain snapped back, But if you don’t take that dare and walk out, you will never know whether it is a joke.

I arose from my easy chair and looked at my wrist watch. If I walked quickly, I could just make it. When I got downstairs, my heart was beating so rapidly, I realized it would be silly to walk. I hailed a cab and got out at 47th Street and Ninth Avenue. I walked slowly towards Tenth Avenue. As I passed an alley, I turned instinctively, just pressing my head to one side. From somewhere out of the alley came a baseball, thrown with tremendous force, just missing my skull. It hit against the side of the wall and fell to the ground. I gasped for breath, then came a little unconscious hysterical laughter from my lips.

“Some kids playing baseball,” I said to reassure myself.

I picked the ball up and walked down the alley, looking for the kids so I could return their baseball. Yet I knew deep down in my heart that I wouldn’t find any youngsters.

Then, slowly, I walked home, trying to make sense out of this situation. It wasn’t a joke; there actually existed a person who was determined to torture and eventually kill me. Why? He must be some kind of a nut, who had a mistaken idea that I had played around with his wife; somehow, I had to get hold of that fellow.

When I reached my apartment, I sank into that easy chair, completely exhausted. Maybe I slept for an hour or two. But I had a nightmare; I saw an executioner trying to throw stones at me. He missed the first five. Then the sixth hit my head, bounced off and landed on a large bell. I could hear it ring. It rang, and rang, and rang.

When my eyes opened, I realized the phone was ringing. Wearily I lifted the receiver.

“Missed you,” said the voice, “but don’t worry; I’ll get you before the week is over. And don’t think you can trace this phone; I’m too smart for you.”

He hung up. That was all.

I knew the phone call couldn’t be traced; the devil take the new dial phone. And my caller was probably using different pay stations.

* * * *

Saturday morning, instead of playing tennis, I went over to the Fifth Avenue apartment of Frank Parker. His wife, Eleanor, was there at the door to greet me. “Come in, Joe,” she said, “What brings you over at this time of the day?” And then, as though she were answering her own question, she added, “Must be very important for you to give up your tennis match. Frank is in the studio, poring over circulation figures, when he should be with me in Atlantic City.”

I walked through the living room, into the room on the left, without the formality of knocking. There, seated before a long mahogany desk, was a tremendously tall man, but one who was not a bit ungainly or awkward. He had a narrow, high forehead, and a long thin nose, rather fleshy at the tip. There wasn’t much left of his chestnut hair. I don’t know what any woman could see in him, except the simple arithmetical fact that his bankroll was in the millions.

“What’s up, Joe?” he asked, as he pointed to a chair at the side of the table. I actually slumped into it.

“Some nut has been making phone calls threatening my life. And last night, I was almost beaned on the skull with a baseball when I answered a challenge over the phone to go down and see whether my caller was joking or not. I am going over to the police station to make a formal complaint. The 63rd Precinct station is near my home.”

When I finished, Frank looked at me, arose, and took hold of both of my shoulders with his hands. “Joe, this is the most wonderful publicity stunt I have ever heard of; it certainly is worthy of you. Go ahead and make a bee-line for the police station. I will run a full page ad in Monday’s papers offering ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of your unknown enemy. Why, that ought to run circulation figures of the detective magazines into the hundreds of thousands.”

I stroked my chin twice, trying to figure out what to reply.

“Look, Frank, this isn’t a joke. I actually got those calls over the phone. My life is in danger.”

A peculiar smile played over the lips of my boss. “After all, you have read enough manuscripts to know what to do with almost any crime situation. I won’t quarrel with you; let’s say it really did happen. It still will be the best publicity stunt of the year.”

I stood, shrugged my shoulders, and left the room without waiting to hear a formal good-bye. Eleanor was still in the living room, reading a magazine. I looked at her intensely. She was a beautiful creature, with corn-colored hair, blue eyes, a nose with just a wee bit of an upturn, and a smile that could dazzle the hardest of males.

She realized I was studying her carefully, but before she could say anything, I asked, “Did anyone ever call you Butterfly?”

“How perfectly charming a question to ask,” she replied. “I have been called lots of names by various people, from those who loved me to those who hated me. But not one of them ever compared me to a butterfly.”

* * * *

I left the apartment, took the elevator down, then started to walk along Fifth Avenue. Suppose Parker was the man who had called me? From the thousands of detective manuscripts I had read, I knew the proper procedure was to consider anyone and everyone as my potential enemy in this situation. The police would probably laugh at me, once they came to the natural conclusion my complaint was a publicity stunt. I would be powerless to convince them it was the real McCoy until I was dead.

An hour later I was in the 63rd Precinct. The sergeant at the desk sent me upstairs, and there in a large room were two men. I spoke to the older one, Detective Ralph Pierson. He was in his late forties, with a head of bushy black hair and deep-set brown eyes. Maybe he had been an athlete in his youth, but Mother Nature now had retaliated and presented him with a large stomach. He asked me my name.

“Francis Geronimo Delaney,” I answered. Then I told him the entire story, omitting nothing. At the other end of the room was a much younger man, with horn-rimmed glasses, bothering himself only to the extent of removing dirt from his fingernails with his pocket knife. But he was taking in every word I said.

When I was finished, Detective Pierson looked at me very carefully. “This is the worst kind of a publicity stunt I ever heard a supposedly sane man create. You got your nerve, even to tell me your boss thought it was tops; get out before I throw you out.”

I didn’t budge an inch. “The law says that when a person makes a complaint in regard to a threat to his life, he is entitled to police protection.”

Detective Pierson snapped right back at me. “And the law also provides that any person who tries to use the machinery of the law for publicity purposes has committed a misdemeanor.”

The younger man arose from his seat and came over to where I was. “May I ask him a question, Ralph?”

“Go ahead, suit yourself, Herman. I’m through with this fellow. If he has any complaint to make, he can go down to Center Street. This smells to high heaven.”

“I am Detective Herman Butler,” said the younger man. “You said your name was Francis Geronimo Delaney; yet the person you claimed who spoke to you over the phone addressed you as ‘Joe’ Delaney. Why the difference in first names?”

Then it dawned upon me. “Say, you just gave me something of a clue. Only the people down at the office, and a few of my close friends, call me Joe. To the rest of the people who know me, my name is exactly as you have it.”

“Any objection if I give up some of my time and see nothing happens to this poor editor?” asked Butler in a rather sarcastic voice.

Pierson laughed, “If you want to play nursemaid to a publicity stunt on your own time, why that’s your funeral. If you catch the ghost who has been calling him up, it would make departmental history.”

* * * *

In utter disgust, I left the room. There was an inward feeling that urged me to tell both of them to go to a warmer region in the portion of this world below the surface.

It was rather delightful outside, and I walked slowly towards my apartment. Perhaps I was absentminded as I crossed Park Avenue on 52nd Street. A woman shouted, “Look out!” and I jumped back to the curb. A black sedan was headed straight for me; then it swerved. I didn’t need much intelligence to realize someone behind that wheel was deliberately trying to run me down. The driver got the car back into the center of the street and stepped on the gas—but not before I had observed that the man behind the wheel had his hat pulled down so he couldn’t be recognized. But I saw it was a 1948 black Cadillac sedan with the license number C768-452.

I rushed home and called up the police station, asking for Detective Butler. He came to the phone, and I told him what had happened, giving him the number of the car. He told me to remain home until he came over to see me.

* * * *

Maybe it was three centuries later—that’s how long it seemed to me—before he arrived at my apartment, carrying a small leather case which he placed on my table. “It didn’t take long to find the owner of that car,” he announced with a certain measure of pride.

My eagerness asserted itself, “Who’s the guilty party?”

Butler laughed. “The car belongs to your boss; he said he left it in front of his house. We found it around the corner with a damaged fender.”

I know exactly what was in Butler’s mind. “Guess that means you still think the entire set-up is a publicity stunt.”

“Could be, could be,” was his retort. “However, your boss did agree to drop any idea of capitalizing upon what you have, so far, claimed to be attempts on your life. He isn’t going to run any full page ads in the newspapers; I read him the riot act about that. Meanwhile, I am going to keep you company until another telephone call comes across. I have a tape-recorder outfit with me; there is a tiny microphone that can be attached to the receiver of your phone, and it will record every word coming in. So let’s just sit tight till the phone jingles.”

* * * *

It was most annoying to watch that officer of the law sit so comfortably in one of my chairs. According to all the rules of fiction, he should either have been upset or finding relief in a couple of highballs. Instead, he merely placed the fingertips of his right hand against those of his left hand and looked up at the ceiling.

I just couldn’t sit still. I rose and paced like a caged beast.

Once the detective remarked, “If you keep that up, you’ll land in the nuthouse within a week.”

I was going to snap back that, after all, it was my life at stake, but on second thought I said nothing. After all, he was there to help me.

At last the phone rang, and he signaled me to answer. I lifted the receiver to my ear as he adjusted the tape recorder.

It was the same voice at the other end, “Hello, Joe; sorry I missed you with the car. That fool woman ruined everything; almost made me crash. But don’t worry; I’ll get you before the next week end comes around. Hope you are suffering and going to pieces.”

That was all; he hung up. I hung up my receiver, too, and Butler started playing back what he had recorded. I could hear every word over, and when finished he looked like a man possessed with a single idea.

“Get your hat,” he ordered. “My car is outside. We are going up to see a friend of mine—Professor Hubert Musterman, who lives at ll6th Street and the Drive. He’s one of the best analysis men in the country.”

* * * *

Down we went, and he opened the door of his rather old coupe for me. We both got in, and he started uptown. For five minutes nothing was said, then I began, “Mind if I ask some questions?”

“Go right ahead,” he replied. “Get them out of your system, if it will make you feel any better.”

“Number one,” I began, “Did you dust the car for fingerprints?”

He took his eyes off traffic momentarily to give me a “drop-dead” look. “That’s what you get for living in a world of detective fiction. The man who drove that car, if he did exist, wore gloves. There were several messes of what once had been finger contacts with the door, but utterly useless.”

If he did exist. Evidently, he still doubted me. I might as well come right to the point.

“If you don’t believe that all this is on the level, why are you bothering with the case?”

He didn’t bother to look at me as he replied, “My father was the late Nelson Butler. Died some five years ago. Guess the name doesn’t mean much to you. My father was arrested and convicted for forging four checks on the Third National bank. He spent three years in Sing Sing; not a soul would believe he was innocent. I was a kid then, but my mother worked herself to the bone to get funds to fight for my father’s freedom.

“Finally she found a flatfoot who believed she might be right. He looked into my father’s claim that somewhere in this country there was a man who was my his exact double. That man was finally arrested in Los Angeles, confessed everything, and my father was freed. The state at least had enough decency to compensate him financially for the wrong it had done to him. It was his wish that I dedicate my life to preventing injury to the innocent. That’s how I became a detective—and for your information, the flatfoot who got my father freed is now Detective Pierson, my best friend.”

I wanted to ask also whether he was on the case officially, but I just let that go. When we came to 116th Street, he parked the car around the corner, and we went up to see the Professor. He lived in a penthouse all by himself.

He must have been expecting both of us, for he looked at me and said, “Ah, that must be the editor in search of a crime.”

I couldn’t help laughing. The professor looked more like a retired businessman, weighing about 230 pounds, with a full head of light grey hair; and a pair of real friendly brown eyes.

“I have the voice on the tape recorder,” explained Butler. “Take a listen and give me your verdict.”

He set up the machine and played it once, and the professor motioned for a re-play. This went on for six consecutive times.

“Your voice is speaking through a handkerchief,” declared the Professor, “and he is also doing his best to disguise the voice. That means it is someone close to Mr. Delaney—someone whom Mr. Delaney hears frequently, and would recognize at once. The man probably once lived in New England and also spent some time in the Middle West. The voice also has a nasal quality to it which means either the speaker has trouble with his adenoids or can handle French with ease.”

I had to put my two cents in. “Professor,” I asked, “I notice you refer to the owner of the voice as a man. Why couldn’t it be a female?”

All I get in response was another of those “drop-dead” looks that probably are very destructive in a classroom. Then, realizing that he had before him not a student but a potential murder victim, he hastened to explain: “While the range of tone is within the frequency used by a woman, its quality is definitely masculine.”

Detective Butler asked, “What’s my next step?”

The Professor opened a box on his table. From it he took a small purple flower, which he inserted in Butler’s coat lapel. Then he connected a small wire which he then hooked up to an outfit that resembled a hearing device.

“You can use this Mitone recorder,” he suggested in no uncertain terms. “It will run for twenty minutes, then you can insert another reel. Listen to all your suspects. All I need is about five or six sentences from each. Then I can compare with the voice on your recorder. Maybe it will help, though I can’t guarantee results. The microphone in the flower will pick up any voice within fifteen feet from yourself.”

We both thanked him for his interest in the case.

* * * *

I must admit I was sort of glad when we landed back in Butler’s car. “You know,” I said, “In all my excitement, I forgot about the simple necessary fact that a human being must have food. On our way home, we will pass Luigi’s, and there you can eat the best plate of spaghetti in town.”

When we entered the restaurant, the redhaired cashier signaled to me. “Good evening, Mr. Delaney, there is a little package here for you. Haven’t any idea how it got here, but I found it on the side of my cash register when I took over at six this evening.”

I thanked her, and she handed me a small box, about 4 inches by 2, wrapped in brown paper, sealed with two rubber bands. It had my name on it, very carefully printed.

Butler followed me to a booth in the back of the restaurant. We sat down and I opened the box. Then I turned a sickly pale white. He looked at its contents—there was a butterfly in it with a broken wing.

“Now comes the play on your nerves,” was all he said. “Put it away and let’s eat.”

I would have had to be made of iron to have digested my meal. Luigi came over midway between my coffee and cigar. “Meet Herman Butler, Luigi,” I said. The two men shook hands, and Luigi sat down.

Butler said something merely to make conversation. “Learn how to cook in Italy?”

Luigi laughed. “I was born in Sweden,” he explained. “My grandfather went there in the early 1870s. When I came to this country, all I could speak was Swedish and French. I have learned Italian since by the simple trick of listening to a set of language records.”

Butler looked at his wrist watch. “The hour’s getting late. We better start back now.”

Before we left, Luigi handed me an envelope. When we were outside the restaurant, Butler turned to me. “How stupid, we forgot to pay our bill.”

“Not at all,” I disclosed; “you see I have a half interest in the restaurant. Inside the envelope is a check for this month’s profit.”

When we got into the car Butler asked, “If it’s not too personal, how does an editor become a partner in an Italian restaurant run by a Swede?”

“Nothing mysterious,” I began. “You see, it all started in the days of the depression back in the ’30’s. Luigi was broke; I gave him three thousand dollars to open a small place. It prospered until he opened this restaurant, and my return was the half interest.”

Then my tongue froze in my mouth. My eyes almost popped out as I remembered something.

“Hey, what’s wrong—poisoned? Or did you swallow your tongue.”

“I just remembered something terrible,” I confessed. “You see, the partnership agreement contains a clause that in case of death of either partner, the survivor gets the entire business and also the sum of $25,000—which would result from a partnership policy we took out.”

“That makes Luigi on par with your boss as a possible suspect,” was the only comment I got from Butler. “Don’t worry, I got a recording of his voice on the Mitone recorder. I’m going to take you directly to your apartment, then go home for some sleep.”

He rode up silently with me on the elevator. I took my key case from my pocket and inserted the key in the lock. As I opened in the door, I heard something snap. Detective Butler threw his body against mine, and we both went down in a heap, as a sawed-off shotgun missed me with a hail of buckshot.

* * * *

When I recovered consciousness, Butler was standing over me and a doctor was bandaging my hand.

“It’s not serious,” said the doctor. “Your hand was grazed by some of those buckshot. Don’t use it for a few days and it will be okay.”

My eyes spoke that I wanted the puzzle cleared up.

“Your voice almost got you this time; he rigged up a sawed-off shot gun connected to a mouse trap. When you opened the door, you pulled the string that set off the mouse trap. That in turn pulled another string which pulled the trigger of the shot gun. He rigged that gun up with a clamp on your table. I just got a glimpse of the barrel and we made it by a split second.”

I was shaky, and Butler could spot the trembling in my voice. “Can’t take very much more of this kind of a game. If this keeps up, the fellow who wants to bump me off can’t have a straight run of errors. All he has to do is connect once and that finishes me.”

And there wasn’t any doubt that my bodyguard had the same idea going through his brain cells. “Get some sleep, if that’s possible. Tomorrow morning you go to the office and I’ll be at your side. As soon as I get a recording of everyone there, we’ll go straight to the Professor’s place. I’m not kidding myself, either. Time is of the essence when you got Death staking the cards against you.”

Sleep was near impossible. I wasn’t conscious of the pain in the hand; I just wanted to go on living, and that didn’t seem to be an unreasonable desire on my part. If the someone we were looking for happened to be part of the office staff, that narrowed the search down. But cold sweat gathered on my forehead when I thought of the possibility it might be a person outside the office. Then we could never spot him.

* * * *

Butler and I went to my office promptly at nine o’clock the next morning. I slumped at my desk; he sat in a chair in the corner, looking through the current issue of Detective Adventures and shaking his head.

One by one most of the staff stopped in to see me and give their sympathies. Apparently the boss had told everyone about the attempts on my life, and I was the talk of the office. Everyone expressed sympanthies.

At closing time, Roger Hartly stopped in to see me. He was in charge of the art department—one of those fellows who could have been in his late twenties or early forties. You couldn’t win a bet guessing his age. He had a busy head of hair that told you, “either musician or artist.”

Roger spread a few drawings out on my desk.

“Here’s some nice stuff by the fellow who wrote us last week. Harold Gibson is his name. He’s been freelancing for some of the pulps out in Chicago, and I think he’s going places.”

I looked at the drawings and nodded automatically.

“Guess that accident last night unnerved you,” said Roger. “But as long as you got that nursemaid from the police department around, I guess your killer wouldn’t have an easy job making a victim out of you.”

I felt like telling Roger to jump into the lake when I caught Herman’s eyes. It was first names now, especially when Death has almost given you a fatal kiss and you sort of feel a closeness to the man who is doing his best to keep you alive. I arose from my desk and went over to the corner of the room where my detective pal was going through some back issues of our magazines.

“We better leave now,” he suggested in a low voice. “I got all the recordings we need. The sooner we get over to the Professor’s apartment, the better.”

The suggestion seemed sound to me, and we were on our way uptown in five minutes.

* * * *

I watched with eager eyes, like a kid of ten, as Professor Musterman played those recordings. He did it a second time, and then a third time. On a sheet of paper he had the names of the people.

“Your man is Roger Hartly,” was his verdict. “New England in it, a bit of the Middle West, and that nasal touch. I can place a handkerchief over this speaker and show you a recording of the voice as it would be when it is disguised.” Five minutes later we listened to a second recording and there wasn’t the slightest bit of doubt as to the identity of the man.

“Where does he live?” asked Herman.

“Uptown, off Central Park West. I’ve never been there. He’s not a very sociable fellow and likes to keep to himself; I guess he has his own crowd and goes out with them.”

* * * *

The apartment house was relatively new, and we went up to the sixteenth floor. When my bodyguard rang the bell, an eye appeared at the peep-hole. I told her who I was, and she let us both in. Then we got the shock of our lives. She must have been about five feet six, thin, and in perfect proportion. Jet black hair drawn back and narrow eyes. She was dressed in a kimono!

I got what was off my mind first.

“Tell me—why they call you Butterfly,” I tried to remark in an offhand manner. It was a shot in the dark and it worked. My ego went up one hundred per cent as she replied in a musical tone of voice.

“I was born in the Orient. My parents were missionaries, and Roger met me in Japan while he was painting some pictures for a millionaire. He gave me that pet name. Maybe I reminded him of the tragic heroine of a certain opera.”

We waited and waited for Roger to come. If his wife knew anything was wrong, she never once betrayed it.

“Can I get you drinks?” she offered as we heard the key turn in the lock.

Roger looked at the three of us, and you could see a wild cast to his face.

He pointed his index finger at me and demanded, “What kind of a cat and-mouse game are you playing with me? You knew all along I wanted to kill you. And I had every right to do so; you took my wife’s love away from me. Are you trying to drive me mad?”

How do you reason with a madman? One who has let jealousy deprive him of the power of clear reasoning? Then Roger raised his other hand, and it held a snub-nose .32 which he pointed directly at me.

Herman got into action with words.

“Look here—before you do any shooting with that gun—you can make a mistake and kill the wrong man. Why not ask your wife if there happens to be another man? And if so, let her name him.”

“If you go for your gun, Mr. Detective,” warned Roger, “I’ll let you have it too.” Then he turned towards his wife and kept his eyes focused on us at the same time. “Is Joe the man?” was all he asked.

Mrs. Hartly nervously bit her lower lips as she tried to avoid her husband’s piercing gaze. I guess I was about ready to sink to the floor; all she had to do was to mention my name and that was my finish. Whoever the other fellow happened to be, if she loved him, she probably wouldn’t betray him; I could be a sacrificial goat.

Then, all of a sudden, the expression on Roger’s face changed as though he had suddenly become conscious of some fact he had long overlooked.

“You don’t have to answer,” he recommended with sarcasm in his voice. “I think I know who has been responsible for all of this. I’ve been blind a long time, but now I see things clearly.”

His eyes shifted to me. “Sorry, Joe, for the mess I have made of things. The man who likes my wife must be the same one who suggested you were playing around with her. That rat is…”

But he never finished the words. Four shots in rapid succession poured into his back as he slumped to the floor—dead.

There was the glint of a gun-barrel in the door behind him, and Herman got out his gun and emptied its contents at the narrow opening. Then the door slammed tight. We smashed through that wooden door into a hall and then spotted the service door to the apartment.

Butler opened it and commented as we looked into an empty hall, “The killer must have had a key to the apartment. All the time he was behind that door taking in every word being spoken. Well, Mrs. Hartly knows who he is; I’m going to take her to Police Headquarters. She’ll talk.”

As we turned to retrace our steps, we heard one shot. We raced back to the room to see Mrs. Hartly on the floor with her husband’s gun in her outstretched hand. She had put one bullet into her brain—which was all that was needed for the job.

* * * *

Detective Pierson came over with the boys from Homicide, and they took charge of things. Butler saw I was ready to collapse.

“I’m going to Kansas, where I have an aunt, for a rest or I’ll have a mental breakdown,” I said. “But first I’m going over to my boss’ place and tell him to get a new editor.”

“I might as well go with you,” suggested Herman Butler. “After all there is a killer still on the loose. Whether or not he wants you, the law wants him. It’s going to be my job to get him, even though we I haven’t the slightest clue as to his identity. If one of my bullets nicked him, he’s got to go to a doctor, and the law requires a physician to make a report within twenty-four hours of such a case. Let’s go over to Mr. Parker’s house.”

* * * *

I saw Eleanor first and told her what had happened.

“You certainly need a rest, Joe,” she said sympathetically. “My husband is in his library. Go on in and settle things with him.”

I entered the library followed by Detective Butler. I came right to the point and to my surprise found my boss very nice about it.

“You take off as long as you want, Joe,” he said. “A month, two, three—as long as it takes. And remember, it’s with pay; I never forget the loyalty of a good man.”

I extended my hand, and we shook with my nervous fingers holding his in a tight grasp. Then I saw the red trickle of blood coming down his sleeve and staining my fingers.

“So you never forget the loyalty of a good man,” I echoed. “You killed Roger; his wife is dead because of you; and you nearly sent me to a grave.”

“Don’t reach for your gun,” advised Butler, behind me, “because there is nothing I would like better than to say in my report that you were killed resisting arrest.”

* * * *

Three months later, after the jury had returned a verdict of guilty in the first degree, without a recommendation for mercy, Herman and I sat in Luigi’s. I had taken two month’s rest and looked much better.

“I’m going to continue with the magazines,” I told him. “Eleanor wants me to carry on. Somehow, when you go through an experience like mine, you get a different attitude when you read fiction manuscripts. To think that Parker even told Roger to take the car and run me down. Parker was just as jealous as Roger; even though he had been cheating, making love to Mrs. Hartly, he thought I was making love to his wife. He wanted me out of the way, as well Roger. Poor Butterfly. I guess I’ll always think of this as ‘The Butterfly of Death.’ Parker had a gold key to her apartment, and he always knew when her husband was out. Women are a funny lot.”

There was a peculiar smile creeping over Detective Butler’s face. “Women are a funny lot? Which reminds me. I get married next month, and you are going to be my best man.”

MY BONNIE LIES…, by Ted Hertel

Shortly before I graduated from law school, my great-aunt Anna took my arm and pulled me aside at a cousin’s wedding. “Why do you want to be a lawyer, Bonnie? All lawyers are liars.”

I reminded her of the honored tradition of such great attorneys as Lincoln. I told her of the proud profession of well-respected men and women who held to the truth and sought justice in all they did.

“Bah! Remember Nixon. Get out while you still can.”

From that moment on I vowed to be honest and straightforward with my clients, my fellow attorneys, the judges I would appear before, and the public at large.

That, of course, was my first lie.

* * * *

When I graduated, I became an associate with a large, prestigious, law firm. I was paid more money in a year than my father had earned in the seven years it took for him to put me through college and law school. In return the firm expected me to live there 24 hours a day in order to bill the absurd number of hours I had to meet to remain on the partnership track. Billing fifty hours a week does not mean working fifty hours a week. More like a hundred, actually. Something always interrupted the day: a cold call from a securities broker; the two-hour, three martini lunch, so fashionable in those days; the continuing legal education classes; or the pro bono work the firm also expected of associates.

So I learned creative billing. Our minimum billable unit was a quarter hour. It took only a minute to read a letter? Bill it at “0.25.” A three-minute phone call? Another quarter-hour on the time-sheet. Thirty to forty-five minutes on a brief? An hour. The little lies became the necessities of staying sane.

There were no fax machines when I first entered the practice. It was easy to tell the complaining client that her work was actually done and would go out in the mail that night. Of course, I would then do it and get it to the post office for last pickup. Even backdating the bill became standard operating procedure. The advent of the fax gave birth to a new lie: “Oh, my secretary is out sick today. We’ll fax it to you first thing in the morning.”

Next, I found myself encouraging frail, elderly clients to appoint me as the personal representative of their estates. Funny how soon afterwards they died—and how quickly their probate assets were eaten up. Those legal fees will kill a person.…

Did I have any regrets? Only that I didn’t have more frail, elderly clients.

* * * * *

Eventually I left the firm and set up my own, Cunningham Law Offices. I shifted my focus from a civil practice to helping people I believed were wrongly accused of a crime, assuming, of course, they had enough money to convince me of their innocence. Over the fifteen years of my criminal defense work, I had rarely lost a case. Further, I had developed quite a reputation for getting the job done right the first time. There aren’t a lot of second chances in criminal law. So I worked—and I worked hard. After all, it’s the duty of the lawyer to use every means to keep wealthy clients out of prison.

* * * *

When they weren’t jetting around the world, Paula and Gene Fischer appeared nearly every week on the local society pages. Gene owned a computer consulting company. Paula, according to the papers, did nothing besides serve on the boards of several charitable organizations. The Fischers lived on a sprawling, secluded estate on Shore Drive. They had everything money could buy.

So it was with some degree of surprise that I saw a panic-stricken Gene Fischer barge into my office without an appointment that Monday morning. A recent newspaper article covering the exclusive Carillon Ball had described him as “fashionable and strikingly handsome,” which upon meeting him turned out to be an understatement. Tall, broad-shouldered, and very tan, he was dressed to kill, which turned out to be the perfect attire for what he had to tell me. I stood to greet him and directed him to one of the leather chairs facing my desk. He started right in, just as if we were old friends.

“I killed Paula. Late last night. She was—”

“Whoa! Stop right there. Just so you understand, I only represent people who are innocent.”

“Well, then you obviously can’t help me.”

“That’s not what I said at all. I merely want you to know that if I take your case, it’ll be because I believe you aren’t guilty. You obviously haven’t been arrested or you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“Let’s just say that so far I haven’t been caught. When the police find me, they’ll arrest me.”

“And why will they do that?”

“I told you: because I killed my wife.”

“Yes, I understand that you believe, wrongly of course, that you killed your wife, but why will the police believe that?”

“Well, for one thing, somebody saw me do it.”

“That’s the sort of mistake an amateur makes—”

“I’m hardly a professional.”

“Of course you’re not. What I’m saying is an amateur believes an eyewitness to a crime is infallible. Quite the contrary, actually. Witnesses are generally unreliable—and the police can easily be convinced of their mistakes once a professional, like me, presents the true facts to them. Now, tell me what you think happened.”

Fischer related that over the last ten years of their marriage he had become more obsessed with his business and less absorbed with his wife. Between their frequent trips Paula filled her life with committee work, he had assumed. However, within the last year or so she had become careless, raising Gene’s suspicions. Phone calls were abruptly terminated when he entered a room. Several times in the past few months he had tried to reach her at this or that committee meeting, only to be told she had called with some excuse for not attending. Yet when they talked later, Paula would tell him all about how much had been accomplished at the meeting.

Although Fischer suspected his wife’s affair, he wasn’t in a position to make an accusation since he himself had begun an affair some months earlier with a young woman named Karen Goodrich. She was “beautiful and about as smart as a couch cushion.” A mutual friend had introduced Paula and him to Karen at a party. Gene and Karen found they had a lot in common, not the least of which was an interest in his money. They met secretively several times a week for an expensive meal and sex.

Last night Fischer had come home with a migraine from a business meeting. He heard some noise out in the back yard and, upon investigating, saw Paula and Karen, both very naked, caressing each other in the hot tub. They did not see Gene, however, until he walked out of the patio doors with the gun from the study in his hand.

“Betrayed, not only by my wife, but also by my mistress.” I didn’t point out the obvious irony in that statement.

“My only mistake was not making sure the gun was fully loaded. I shot Paula twice and then the damn thing just ‘clicked.’ I wish there’d have been at least one left for the other slut.”

“So, let me get this straight. You were at a business meeting last night and left because you weren’t feeling well. You stopped at Del Mondo’s for dinner, had a few too many drinks—not a good thing with a migraine, I’m sure you know—saw a couple people you know, and finally went home. Because you’d been drinking, you took a cab home. When you got there, the driver helped you to the house. You heard some noise around back, so you both went to the rear yard. You and the cabbie found your wife dead in the hot tub, with her girl friend standing over her holding the still smoking gun. She saw you and, thinking you were next, you took off until you could come here this morning. Right?”

“What the hell are you talking about? That’s not what I said!”

“No, but I’m convinced that’s what happened. I told you I don’t represent the guilty. Bad for the reputation to lose all those cases, you know. Since I am in fact representing you, it follows that you are innocent. All those drinks at Del Mondo’s apparently left you very confused. I have a rather straightforward defense litany for my clients: ‘You don’t have a wife. If you have a wife, she’s not dead. If she is dead, she wasn’t murdered. If she was murdered, you didn’t kill her. If you did kill her, you were crazy.’ We know the first three aren’t true in your case, so we’ll approach it from the fourth line of defense, namely, you didn’t kill her. It’s never necessary to get to that ‘crazy’ one, by the way.”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s crazy.…”

“I assure you that I’m not, as you’ll see when we discuss my fee: $100,000, whether we go through trial and appeal or I pick up that phone right now and get any potential charges dropped.”

“A hundred grand for a phone call.…”

“Better that than spending it and the next two years fighting these ridiculous charges. In fact the sooner you’re out from under suspicion, the happier you’ll be and the more you’ll believe I earned my fee. Which I need in full up front. And yes, I will take your check.”

As he handed it to me, I told him I hoped to call him in a few days with good news. In the meantime he should do his best to stay out of sight of the police and in touch with me.

* * * *

Actually, it didn’t even take that long. Two days later Gene Fischer reappeared in my office, looking slightly less fashionable and handsome than he had on his first visit. He sat in the same leather chair in front of my desk, rubbing his face as he waited for me to start talking.

“The cops have the real killer. They picked her up last night.”

“That can’t be. That just can’t be.”

“But it is. The police arrested Karen Goodrich at her home.”

“She—she saw me kill Paula.”

“That’s what her story is, but we know that’s just not possible, is it? The cops have proof that she did it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s all very simple. She killed her. She got caught. That’s it.”

“There has to be more.”

“You’re a detail person, I see. Okay, it seems that this woman and your wife were seen in Del Mondo’s several hours before you arrived. The same maitre d’ who seated you—”

“I didn’t go to Del Mondo’s!”

“I’m sorry, but I really have to believe the witnesses who saw you and her and Paula.”

“You said eyewitnesses were unreliable.”

“True, one or two could be wrong, but they can’t all be mistaken.”

“But I didn’t…did I?”

“I’m sure all that alcohol must have affected you. That’s why the cabbie drove you home—and a good thing he did, too. So don’t worry about it. Now, let’s see, where…oh, yes, the maitre d’, the staff, and most of the customers heard the two of them fighting during dinner. She was screaming and crying because Paula had told her that it was over between them. Seems Paula didn’t want to risk losing all that money you were constantly lavishing on her. Goodrich said something trite like if she couldn’t have Paula, no one could. Then she stormed out of the place. They tell me Paula was rather calm, even finished her dinner.

“Apparently, your wife went to your house and eventually got into the hot tub. That’s when Karen showed up with the gun. She must have gotten it from the study. I understand that’s where you kept it. Just two bullets, but they did the trick. That must have been about the time you showed up with the cab driver. Did you hear the shots?”

“Of course I did. I was there when I shot her!”

“You mean, when you heard Karen Goodrich shoot her.”

“I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

“Turns out you rushed out of there with the cabbie and he took you back to Del Mondo’s where you’d left your car. You’d sobered up pretty well by then—a shock like that can do it. He said he’d call the police and you took off. By the time he called the cops, Goodrich had already gotten to them with a story about your having shot Paula. But it turns out that her prints were all over the gun. Yours weren’t. Curiously, the gun had been missing from the police lab for a couple of hours, but they found it after a little looking around. And of course, I informed the police that you and the driver had arrived in time to see Goodrich standing over Paula with the gun in her hand. Naturally, you were too distraught to call the police yourself. I told them I’d bring you in for a statement in a day or two. I’ll help you get your thoughts in order before we go see them.

“So, you see, it’s really all over.”

Gene stood to go and I rose along with him, accompanying him to the door. I thought about mentioning that the maitre d’, his staff, the customers, and the cab driver were all former clients of mine, that they all owed me an occasional favor for my having gotten them out of a tight situation of one kind or another over the years. But all I said was “By the way, Gene, one day, I may need a favor from you, maybe something as simple as saying you ate at a particular restaurant at a certain time. I’m sure you’d have no problem with that.…”

Ashen-faced, he nodded, then left the office without saying a word.

* * * *

The day after I stood by Gene Fischer’s side as he gave the police his statement, my phone rang again.

“I need your help. I’ve been arrested.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’ve been framed for murder. My name is Karen Goodrich.”

Naturally, I took her case—and her hundred grand.

As I’ve said, I only represent the innocent.

THUBWAY THAM, FASHION PLATE, by Johnston McCulley

Having partaken of an excellent breakfast, Thubway Tham strolled from the little restaurant, lit a cigarette, and wandered toward Union Square like a man who is pleased with life and what it offers.

It had been three days since Tham had invaded the subway for the purpose of “lifting a leather.” Tham was in funds due to a windfall of a week before, when a wallet he had obtained by nefarious means proved to hold a considerable amount.

“Thith ith great weather,” Tham told himself.

Autumn was in the air, men and women walked with a swinging stride, eyes sparkled; hot summer was behind, and cold winter still some distance ahead. Thubway Tham enjoyed it. His breakfast had been good, and his cigarette tasted better than usual.

“Muth have made a mithtake and put thome tobacco in thith one,” Tham decided.

He went around Union Square and continued toward the north, having no particular place to go. For two days he had not seen Craddock, the one detective who trailed him with a determination that was creditable, and who had sworn to catch him “with the goods” some fine day, much to Thubway Tham’s amusement. Tham enjoyed his conflict with Craddock; it kept him alert, which is good for any man known to officers of the law as a professional pickpocket of more than usual ability.

In time, Tham stopped before the window of an art store to look at the pictures displayed there. Somebody touched him on the shoulder. Tham did not flinch, as crooks are supposed to do when anybody touches them on the shoulder. He merely turned slowly, inquiry in his countenance. “Nifty” Noel stood before him.

It may be remarked that Nifty Noel was a sort of jack-of-all-trades in the underworld, and seemed to be prosperous. The mode of the moment, as far as clothes were concerned, was not quite modern enough for Noel. He was a delight to the eye. His shirts were things of beauty, his coat and trousers possessed an ultra-fashionable cut; he wore spats and carried a stick, and always had the latest in hats on his head tilted in a becoming fashion. Noel was a walking fashion plate; Thubway Tham was not.

“I haven’t seen you for some time, Tham,” said Nifty Noel. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Jutht around,” Tham replied.

“I thought maybe you’d been sick; you certainly do look seedy.”

“Tho?”

“Yes. You aren’t beginning to feel your age, are you?”

“Thay!”

“Well, you look it. Slowing up, Tham? On the square, haven’t you been sick?”

“Thertainly not,” Tham declared.

“Look frayed and frazzled, you do. Been working too hard or something, I guess. The bulls haven’t been worrying you, have they?”

“Nothin’ of the thort!”

“Come on, now, tell an old pal what the trouble is. I’m dead willing to help. I always liked you, Tham.”

“Thay, there ain’t anything the matter with me!”

“Just between ourselves, Tham. Maybe I can help you a lot. You must either be sick, or else you’re worrying too much. Worry is bad business, Tham, and you should know it. Walk on down the street with me and spill it. I’m right here with the helping hand, old-timer.”

“My goodneth! There ain’t anything the matter with me, I thaid. Where do you get that thtuff? What ith the matter with you yourthelf? You make me thick!”

“Surely you can trust me, Tham,” said Nifty Noel. “I’m a square guy, I am.”

“Nobody thaid you wath not thquare.”

“Then come through with your tale of woe. Is it coin?”

“I have all the coin I need.”

“Better let me help you, Tham. There’s a hollow look around your eyes and the corners of your mouth are drawn. You’re pale, too. Been getting plenty of sleep?”

Thubway Tham snarled at him and turned his back.

“Anxious to help you, Tham,” Noel went on. “You look like you were down on your luck. You certainly do look seedy. Don’t you ever get your pants pressed? And look at the wrinkles in that coat! And no shine! Good Lord, Tham, I hate to see an old-timer like you go to pieces—”

“Thay,” Tham cried, whirling upon him, “I feel all right and I am all right. Thee? And you are a thilly ath!”

Thubway Tham walked briskly up the street and left Nifty Noel standing at the curb swinging his stick and looking after him, a thoughtful expression upon his face. Tham turned the corner and made his way toward Broadway. Why, he had remarked to himself a few minutes before meeting Noel that the weather was great, and that he felt great, that breakfast had been good, and the cigarette made from real tobacco! And now this Nifty Noel spoke as if—

Tham began wondering whether he really was all right. Possibly those hot cakes he had eaten would give him a slight attack of indigestion. Come to think of it, he was experiencing a sort of tired feeling. And his head felt light, just as it does when—

“It ith juth the talk of that thimp,” Tham declared to himself. “He ith enough to make any man thick. I am all right. I thaid I wath all right, and I am all right. I thay it again—I am all right.”

He turned another corner, and bumped into Detective Craddock. The officer grinned, and Thubway Tham removed his cap and scratched at his head.

“It wath a fine day until juth a thecond ago,” he announced. “Tho I thee your ugly fathe again, do I?”

“You certainly do, Tham, old boy. I haven’t had the pleasure of looking into your glowing countenance for a few days. Been behaving yourself?”

“I alwayth behave mythelf.”

“Tell that to some infant, Tham. You couldn’t behave yourself in the subway, and you know it. How are the wallets running now, fat and juicy?”

“Thay! Juth becauthe I wath railroaded up the river on the—”

“Don’t make me laugh now, Tham! Cut out that innocent stuff with me,” said Craddock. “I’ve been neglecting you for a few days and keeping an eye on a certain other gent who likes to pick up a jewel here and there. But he’s behind bars now, Tham, where I’ll have you some day.”

“It theemth to me that I have heard thomething like that before,” Tham told him.

“All jokes aside, Tham, old boy, what’s the matter with you?”

“With me? I am all right. I juth wath thayin’ to mythelf that I am all right.”

“Trying to kid yourself along, are you? Really, Tham, you do look pretty seedy.”

Tham blinked his eyes rapidly as he surveyed the detective. “Where do you get that thtuff?” he demanded. “What ith the matter with me, Craddock?”

“Look sick,” Craddock commented. “Been drinking?”

“You know I don’t drink.”

“Smoking too much, perhaps. How are your nerves?”

“Thay! I’m all right, I thaid!”

“It’s all right to try to influence yourself that way, Tham, and I admire a man who won’t give up; but when a man is really sick, he’d better call a doctor.”

“Well, my goodneth,” Tham cried. “I ain’t thick! Ith everybody in thith town crathy?”

“Run down at the heels, too,” Craddock commented. “Business must have been bad with you lately. You wouldn’t be a bad-looking chap, Tham, if you’d spruce up a bit. But some men don’t know how to dress.”

“Ith that tho?”

“Well, take care of yourself, Tham, old boy. I’ve got a little business on now, but I’ll have my eye on you a little later. I’ll get you yet, old-timer!”

Detective Craddock hurried on down the street. Thubway Tham stood at the curb and watched the seething traffic without seeing it. Was he sick? Did he look pale?

He stepped back to a show window and looked at his reflection there.

“I am all right,” he stubbornly declared again. “I juth need a thave and a hair cut and a mathage. Thith thuit ith an old one, too. I need thome new thenery!”

Then and there, in some peculiar manner and without being heralded, twin ideas were born in the brain of Thubway Tham. The first was that if a man got seedy as to clothes and general appearance, that condition was reflected in his thoughts and manner. So, to be full of “pep,” and alive to the experiences of the moment, a man should dress well and force himself to respect himself, thus forcing other folk to do the same.

The second idea was that Nifty Noel enjoyed a reputation for sartorial display that should be dimmed and put in the background.

“He ith no better lookin’ than I am,” Thubway Tham declared to himself. “The thilly ath thinkth he ith the only man that can wear clothe.”

Tham chuckled as he walked on up the street, slowly, allowing the twin ideas to expand. He had ample funds, and he really needed clothes. Why not play a double game? Why not purchase clothing that would influence his disposition and health, and at the same time dim the luster of Nifty Noel, dude of New York’s underworld?

“It would be a good thtunt,” Thubway Tham decided, after due reflection. “It ith a long time thinthe I have given anybody a thock. It thall be done!”

Tham walked briskly now, and stopped to look in at the windows of establishments that catered to gentlemen who desired to wear clothing that would attract attention. Presently he turned and walked back, and went into a store he had noticed, one noted for its window displays. A salesman took Tham in charge, and there followed a lengthy conversation.

The salesman was an artist in his line, without doubt. He made suggestions—some of them with his hand before his lips to hide a smile—and Thubway Tham accepted the majority of the suggestions as excellent.

Finally, Thubway Tham departed from the establishment with several large bundles beneath his arms, and left behind a sum of money that substantially increased the salesman’s totals for the week.

II.

For business reasons, Thubway Tham lived in a lodging house that was conducted by a reformed convict, and where the other tenants were gentlemen liable at any time to a visit from the police. The rooms were small and not over-clean, the hallways were dark, the stairs were rickety.

The landlord, who really operated quite a decent place of its kind, had a habit of sitting behind the battered desk in the office, from where he could watch every one who entered or left the place. It was his habit, too, to speak to men of his ilk of the good old days when he had been an active criminal, the burden of his song being that criminals of the present day were a ladylike brood who feared to crack a skull or carry a gun.

Thubway Tham, having listened to these recitals often, had become a sort of pet of the landlord’s. He always greeted Thubway Tham with a smile and a wave of his hand, and had been known, upon two occasions, to give Tham a cigar.

It was no more than natural, then, that the landlord was waiting to see Tham leave the place the following morning. Tham was regular—he generally went down the stairs and out for his breakfast at the same hour.

The landlord glanced at the clock on the morning after Tham made his purchases, and wondered why Tham did not put in an appearance; it was fifteen minutes past the hour. For an instant he had a fleeting thought that Tham might be ill and confined to his bed, but he decided to wait half an hour longer before climbing the rickety stairs to ascertain whether that was the truth.

And then he blinked his eyes and got up slowly from his chair, his hand reaching mechanically in a drawer of the desk, where he kept an old revolver about which he had woven many fanciful tales. Down the rickety stairs was coming a man that the landlord felt sure he never had seen before.

Nifty Noel in all his glory never had been arrayed like this. The landlord saw, first, a suit of clothes that fairly shrieked its presence. The pattern, to say the least, had not been designed with a thought toward modesty. The style was more than ultra-fashionable.

Then there was a shirt that made Joseph’s coat a thing of drab inconspicuousness. There were yellow gloves and spats to match, and a hat with a yellow ribbon for a band. This being who descended the rickety stairs also carried a stick like a willow wand.

The landlord blinked his eyes again and decided to allow the gun to remain in the desk and resort to his fists. He opened and closed his hands, shot out his lower jaw, gritted his teeth, and narrowed his eyes.

“Say, you!” he called in stentorian tones.

The being turned to face him, and the landlord collapsed.

“Thay it,” Thubway Tham advised. “I wath thinkin’ of thomethin’ and didn’t mean to path without thpeakin’.”

“Is—is that you, Tham?”

“It thertainly ith! Did you think it wath a cop?”

“No cop would dare appear at headquarters dressed like that, Tham,” the landlord said, his tone sorrowful. “I didn’t think it of you, Tham. Here I’ve been your close friend, and all that, and let everybody know it—”

“What theemth to be the matter?” Tham wanted to know.

“You must have been workin’ too hard, Tham, and it’s touched your brain. You ain’t goin’ insane with age, are you?”

“Thay!”

“Is that a shirt, Tham?”

“Thome thirt!”

“I’ll say it is. I’ll remark that it certainly, without doubt, all others to the contrary, is some shirt. Looks like it had been made out of scraps!”

“Thay! I paid good coin for that thirt.”

“Have those gloves faded, Tham, or is that their natural color? My eyes ain’t as good as they were once, and I’ve only got one at that; but them gloves—”

“Your act ith good,” Tham commented.

“And the band around your hat is lemon, Tham—lemon! It’s as yellow as a stool pigeon, Tham! To think I have lived to see this. And everybody in this end of town knows that you’re a friend of mine. What have I ever done to you, Tham, that you should bring my gray hairs in sorrow to the grave?”

“I’ll bring them to the grave, all right, if you don’t thtop your nonthenthe,” Tham declared. “Ith it thomethin’ awful if a man dretheth up now and then?”

“Oh, so you are dressed up? Where is the masquerade, Tham, and why don’t they hold it at night instead of morning? Got your mask in your pocket? What are you supposed to represent, anyway? I’ll bet you’ll have all of ’em guessin’.”

“Your remarkth,” said Tham, “are thilly!”

“Maybe so, Tham—maybe so! But let me say—Great and noble Sing Sing! What are you carryin’ around that long lead pencil for? Is that a part of the costume?”

“A lead—Thay! That ith a cane, you thimp!”

“A cane,” the landlord said, gasping. “He says it is a cane. Well, we have been pals for several years, Tham, and far be it from me to contradict you. A cane! Mighty Auburn!”

Thubway Tham glared at him, flicked an imaginary spot of dust from the sleeve of his coat, twirled his stick, and went on down the stairs to the street. Tham was painfully conscious of his clothes, but judged that the feeling would wear away. He swung down the street to his favorite restaurant, entered as usual, and took his place at the regular table. The customary waitress went forward to take his order.

Tham did not notice that the girl grinned and winked at another, for he was busy glancing over the morning paper. And when his breakfast arrived he ate it quickly, picked up his check, and hurried to the cashier’s cage.

The little cashier Tham knew well. He had eaten there for more than a year, and she had been in the cage during that time. Once, Tham had made her a present of a box of candy, and once he had hustled away a man who had endeavored to convince the little cashier that she should wine and dine with him.

And so Tham and the little cashier were friends in a way, and could talk to each other frankly.

“Good mornin’,” Tham said. “It ith a nithe day.”

“It’s all of that,” said the little cashier. “Oh, boy! Did you lose a bet?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How long do you have to wear ’em? It’s better than rollin’ a peanut around the block, at that!”

“I don’t theem to get you,” Tham complained.

“I’ll say it’s some scenery, boy!”

“Thome thenery ith right,” said Tham, realizing at last. “There ith clath to it.”

“Yeh! But there are all kinds of classes,” said the little cashier. “Why waste steam blowin’ sirens to welcome the homecomin’ heroes when they could hire you to stand down on the Battery? Noise? Oh, lad!”

“Do I gather,” Thubway Tham asked, “that you do not like thith outfit?”

“I trust that you do, little one.”

“Well, what ith the matter with it?”

“Um! You’re askin’ a mouthful, and I’m a busy woman. If I start in to tell you what’s the matter with that outfit, I’d have to do it in installments.”

“You are a great little kidder,”’ Tham said.

“All jokes aside, boy, why are you wearin’ ’em? Did you really lose a bet? Are you workin’ at some advertisin’ scheme now? Slip it to me; I’ll keep mum.”

Thubway Tham gulped, and a glare came into his eyes. “There ith a time,” he replied, “when a joke theatheth to be a joke. You have had your merry jetht, and let it go at that. Thith thtuff ith thtyle—get me? If you ever went north of Fourteenth Threet you’d know it!”

“Is—that—so? Let me tell you; boy, that I know more about style than half these fashion experts. Fourteenth Street, huh? I live in the Bronx, you simp.”

Without further comment Tham turned and went out upon the street again.

III.

Nifty Noel turned the corner and started southward. This morning he wore the latest in gentlemanly apparel, and was well satisfied with himself. His cigarette protruded from the holder at an angle that expressed the self-confidence of the man who smoked.

Looking far ahead, Noel beheld the approach of a burst of radiance. He blinked his eyes and looked again. The street was thronged, yet the one who approached stood out from the others as if in bas-relief.

Nifty Noel stopped, stood back against the entrance of an office building, and waited. Now and then he looked at the stranger, and then away. It was a crucial moment with Noel; the next minute would tell whether there was a worthy rival for his honors.

Again he turned to look, and then he smiled. There was no denying the splendor of the cloth, yet there was something wanting in the style. Then Noel recognized Thubway Tham, and grinned.

Tham, dodging a hurrying messenger boy, swung in toward the entrance of the building and felt somebody touch him on the shoulder. He turned slowly, to face the grinning Noel.

“Well, Tham, how are you feeling today?” Noel asked.

“I am all right,” Tham stubbornly replied. “It ith a nithe day and I am all right. I am not thick or pale or got hollowth under my eyeth. I am all right.”

“Um!” Noel grunted. “Why don’t you dress up now and then, Tham? I told you the other day that I am here with the helping hand if you happen to be a bit short.”

“I’ve got all the coin I need at prethent,” Tham declared.

“Then why, in the name of Broadway, don’t you loosen up and spend some of it? Why not get some clothes?”

“What do you think thith ith that I am wearin’?” Tham asked, with some show of anger.

“Heaven alone knows, Tham. I supposed it was some old stuff you had in your trunk; supposed you were unable to buy new duds at present.”

“Thay! Thethe are new dudth,” Tham declared. “You are juth jealouth, that ith all!”

“You’ve been stung, Tham. It’s a loud suit, I’ll admit, old-timer, but look at the cut of it. Those lapels are out of date, and the curls of the trousers are too wide. And the coat has a semi-fitting back. Hips a little too full, too.”

“Thay!”

“And your gloves and spats are off a couple of shades, Tham. And you shouldn’t wear a lemon-colored hatband, really, you know. It isn’t being done this season. Mouse gray is the thing, Tham. Somebody must have steered you wrong, old-timer. Did you really buy those things recently? I believe you’re spoofing me.”

“‘I’ll thpoof you with a fitht to the eye,” Tham threatened. “Thith outfit ith the very latetht, and you know it. You’re thore becauthe thomebody elthe ith drethed up, that ith all”

“Do not cause me to indulge in undue merriment, Tham, please,” Noel said. “I believe you are up to some clever trick. You wouldn’t wear those things unless there was a mighty good reason for it. Is it some sort of a joke, Tham? Tell a fellow!”

Thubway Tham’s face turned red, and he gulped and seethed with rage. For a moment Nifty Noel was a bit afraid that Thorn would so far forget himself as to indulge in fisticuffs, and Noel was not noted for fighting. But Tham seemed to think better of it.

“Ath!” he cried, exploding; and then he went on his splendid way up the street.

It was his ill fortune to meet Detective Craddock in the middle of the next block.

“Good Lord!” Craddock exclaimed.

“Thome thenery, eh?” Tham asked. “I wath gettin’ rundown, and everybody thought that I muth be thick, and tho I thought I’d buy me thome new clothe.”

“Shades of Beau Brummel!” Craddock said, gasping. “Did you pay real money for that stuff, Tham? You’re a crook, and I know it, but I won’t stand for you being fleeced yourself. You just give me the name of the thief who sold you that mess of duds, Tham, and I’ll threaten him with the law. It’s a crime and a shame—”

“Thay, what ith the matter with theth thingth anyway?” Tham demanded.

“It’s beyond me, Tham. You’ll have to ask an expert. But, speaking strictly as a layman and not as an authority, I should say that the ensemble was incorrect, whatever that may mean. There appears to be something lacking. Maybe it isn’t that; maybe it is that there is too much present and not enough lacking. What a delicate shade to those gloves.”

“It ith, ain’t it?”

“And a yellow ribbon on your hat. Fancy!”

“It thertainly ith,” said Tham.

“Well, I’m glad of one thing, Tham. I won’t have to keep my eyes peeled so much. You’ll have a hard time dodging me in a crowd as long as you wear that scenery. With one eye shut and the other closing rapidly, as the sport writers say, I could observe you half a mile away, Tham, against a background of water dancing in the sunshine. I’ll say you are to be seen!”

“Tho?”

“So! I’m not sure that I shouldn’t take you in and have you investigated in regard to your sanity.”

“Thay! When I wath in Atlantic Thity thome time ago, I thaw loth of men drethed louder than thith.”

“Possibly, Tham. But this is not Atlantic City.”

“Thee here,” said Tham, “are you goin’ to pethter me today?”

“Possibly, Tham. One never knows,” Craddock replied. “But I don’t think it’ll be necessary today.”

“No?”

“No. The wallets of the gentry are safe, Tham, old boy, as far as you are concerned. Farewell, Tham!”

Craddock, chuckling, walked on down the street, and for a time Thubway Tham stood at the curb looking after him and wondering what he had meant. He was glad, at least, that Craddock did not remain with him. For Tham had spent considerable money on new attire, and felt that he should replenish his funds.

It would soon be rush hour in the subway, and that was Tham’s period of work. One fat wallet would repay him for what he had spent, he knew. And getting a wallet should not be difficult.

Tham walked on up the street until he came to Times Square. Somehow, dressed as he was, he felt that he belonged there. It was a district where fashionable clothes were appreciated, Tham thought.

He noticed, as he loitered along the street, that he was attracting considerable attention, both from men and women.

“Thome clath,” Tham’ whispered to himself. “Noel wath jealouth—and tho wath Craddock. Can’t wear clotheth, can’t I? I’ll thay I can!”

He descended into the subway and caught a train going downtown. And then the thought came to him that he would not be able to work if he carried the cane. There was no crook on the end of it, so that he could hang it over his arm. Tham felt that it would be in the way if he attempted to lift a leather, and yet he did not want to throw it away.

He left the train at Pennsylvania Station and hurried to the checkroom. The attendant blinked his eyes when he saw Thubway Tham before him, and he marveled again when Tham announced that he wished to check his stick.

“You act like it wath not uthual,” Tham complained, as he received his check.

“Anything is usual, boy,” the check clerk told him. “If you’d worked in this station a couple of years, as I have, you’d know that there ain’t any such thing as a new kind of a nut.”

Tham digested that as he walked away. He stopped on the flight of steps for a time, wondering what train to take, waiting to receive a “hunch,” and he was not insensible to the fact that he was attracting attention.

Finally he went to the subway platform again and boarded a downtown train. The car was comfortably crowded, and Thubway Tham stood. That was as he wished, for he wanted to be in a position to study his fellow passengers and pick out a victim.

Tham turned around slowly and looked about the car. It seemed that every pair of eyes was upon him. Tham was conspicuous, and he did not care to be at present. Moreover, there did not appear to be a likely victim aboard.

Tham left the train in the financial district. It was rush hour in truth, now, a time meant for pickpockets. Tham, if he worked this day, would have to be about it.

He loitered near a subway entrance, watching those about him, and hoping a prospective victim would put in an appearance. Two men came to “a stop directly before him. They looked prosperous, and Thubway Tham decided that they were brokers. What interested him most was that one pulled out a wallet and took a bill from it to hand to the other. Tham’s eyes bulged when he saw what was in the wallet—a pad of currency, the majority of the bills being for one hundred dollars each.

Tham continued to watch. The wallet was returned to the man’s hip pocket.

“Why, the ath ought to be robbed,” Tham told himself. “Anybody who carrieth a wallet in a hip pocket ith a thimp! If he only goeth into the thubway—”

He did. Thubway Tham followed at his heels, his heart rejoicing. Getting a wallet from a hip pocket was an easy job, as Tham knew from experience. And that certain wallet contained enough to repay him for what he had expended, and would purchase considerable more new “scenery,” should Tham desire.

An uptown express roared in, and Tham followed the prosperous-looking man into a crowded car. A quick glance assured Tham that no officer of the law was among those present. The train darted away from the station, and Tham got as close as possible to his intended victim and awaited the proper moment for the work.

Tham always lifted a leather just as the train was going into a station. There always was some confusion in a crowded car at that moment, and Tham, the wallet in his possession, could dart out of the car and up the steps to the street, and be in safety before the victim discovered his loss.

Tham glanced around the car again—and ground his teeth. It appeared that every man and woman near him was watching him closely. In every direction he faced, he found eyes peer-ing into his. Young women were smiling at him openly. “Older women were grinning. Men had peculiar expressions in their faces.

Tham knew better than to attempt to lift the wallet at that moment. He supposed that it was the “scenery” that was attracting all this attention to him. The train pulled into the station, and Tham could not do his work. And the victim left the car.

Tham left the car also. He had not given up in despair; he remembered the amount in the wallet. He followed the prosperous-looking individual to the street and along it, and saw him enter a small cafe, where another man met him.

It became evident that this was a luncheon engagement, and Tham decided to wait. He did not want to enter and order lunch himself, for fear the other would get through earlier and leave, and Tham did not intend to lose him.

He walked to the corner, crossed the street, went up the other side, and stood in a doorway from where he could watch the cafe entrance. The walk was thronged at that hour, and an endless stream of people were leaving the building and entering it. Thubway Tham found that he was attracting attention again. Now and then a remark was wafted gently in his direction, that cut him more deeply than he cared to admit.

Thubway Tham began to have the feeling that perhaps Nifty Noel and Detective Craddock had been right—that his clothes were just a shade too fashionable. But he did not spend much time thinking about that; he was remembering the fat wallet.

“Thothe thimpth muth have ordered everything in the plathe,” he growled to himself.

But, in time, his prospective victim and the other man emerged from the cafe, and Tham went to the corner and crossed the street, and so came up behind them. If that man went into the subway again, and still had the wallet in his hip pocket, Tham intended to replenish his funds in great fashion.

Down the street he followed, and saw the two men separate at a corner. And the one Tham had marked as his own hurried straight toward a subway entrance.

“Thome luck at latht,” Tham mused. “Everything cometh to the man what waith, and I thertainly waited thome little time!”

They were forced to spend a few minutes waiting for a downtown express, and when the prosperous-looking man boarded it, Tham was right behind him. The car was only half crowded, yet there were enough passengers to make Tham’s work comparatively safe.

Tham glanced around the car swiftly, to make sure that there was no officer of his acquaintance aboard, and then he lurched forward and came to a stop just behind the broker. Everything seemed to be as Tham wished it. He had only to wait, now, until the train stopped at the next station, until the passengers began crowding through the doors, and then he would do his work and be on his way, leaving the victimized broker behind.

He glanced around the car again, and again he gnashed his teeth in rage. Every person who could see Thubway Tham was looking at him intently, examining him from hat to shoes, smiling, chuckling. Tham did not dare make a move, and it pained him when he thought of the fat wallet.

Was he to lose the chance to get that currency just because he was dressed so well that everybody observed him? Was he to fail in regaining the money spent for the new scenery?

The train reached the station, and the prosperous-looking one left the car. Tham was at his heels, but did not dare attempt to get the wallet. Every eye was upon him. And he was overhearing remarks again.

“Looks like a lighthouse!”

“Some of those window dressers sure do dress up their dummies in funny ways!”

“Suppose it escaped from the zoo?”

Thubway Tham, his face burning, a snarl on his lips, turned away from the prospective victim and went up the street. Rage was in his soul. He did not care for the comments, still being sure they were born of jealousy, but when he thought of the wallet he had lost, he cursed the idea of new clothes.

A hand touched him on the shoulder. Tham whirled around to find himself facing Detective Craddock.

“Well, Tham, how does the scenery go?” Craddock asked. “Makes you feel nervous and self-conscious, doesn’t it? I noticed that you didn’t seem yourself in the train.”

“Tho?”

“So. I had my two eyes on you, Tham, and I guess everybody else did. I was in the car ahead, you see, but standing so I could watch you. Hard luck, wasn’t it, Tham? I noticed that you had a victim all picked out and ready to slaughter. Tough luck, Tham!”

Thubway Tham did not reply. He turned his back and walked rapidly toward the lodging house he called home. The check clerk at the Pennsylvania Station, Tham knew, would have a slender cane forever. And a certain landlord would see him arrayed just once more—as he entered the building. And some old clothes man would get a bargain!

“New thenery ith all bunk,” declared Thubway Tham. “A man cannot work when he ith drethed up. Therveth me right for tryin’ to imitate an ath like Nifty Noel.”

THE MURDER AT TROYTE’S HILL, by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

“Griffiths, of the Newcastle Constabulary, has the case in hand,” said Mr. Dyer; “those Newcastle men are keen-witted, shrewd fellows, and very jealous of outside interference. They only sent to me under protest, as it were, because they wanted your sharp wits at work inside the house.”

“I suppose throughout I am to work with Griffiths, not with you?” said Miss Brooke.

“Yes; when I have given you in outline the facts of the case, I simply have nothing more to do with it, and you must depend on Griffiths for any assistance of any sort that you may require.”

Here, with a swing, Mr. Dyer opened his big ledger and turned rapidly over its leaves till he came to the heading “Troyte’s Hill” and the date “September 6th.”

“I’m all attention,” said Loveday, leaning back in her chair in the attitude of a listener.

“The murdered man,” resumed Mr. Dyer, “is a certain Alexander Henderson—usually known as old Sandy—lodge-keeper to Mr. Craven, of Troyte’s Hill, Cumberland. The lodge consists merely of two rooms on the ground floor, a bedroom and a sitting-room; these Sandy occupied alone, having neither kith nor kin of any degree. On the morning of September 6th, some children going up to the house with milk from the farm, noticed that Sandy’s bed-room window stood wide open. Curiosity prompted them to peep in; and then, to their horror, they saw old Sandy, in his night-shirt, lying dead on the floor, as if he had fallen backwards from the window. They raised an alarm; and on examination, it was found that death had ensued from a heavy blow on the temple, given either by a strong fist or some blunt instrument. The room, on being entered, presented a curious appearance. It was as if a herd of monkeys had been turned into it and allowed to work their impish will. Not an article of furniture remained in its place: the bed-clothes had been rolled into a bundle and stuffed into the chimney; the bedstead—a small iron one—lay on its side; the one chair in the room stood on the top of the table; fender and fire-irons lay across the washstand, whose basin was to be found in a farther corner, holding bolster and pillow. The clock stood on its head in the middle of the mantelpiece; and the small vases and ornaments, which flanked it on either side, were walking, as it were, in a straight line towards the door. The old man’s clothes had been rolled into a ball and thrown on the top of a high cupboard in which he kept his savings and whatever valuables he had. This cupboard, however, had not been meddled with, and its contents remained intact, so it was evident that robbery was not the motive for the crime. At the inquest, subsequently held, a verdict of ‘willful murder’ against some person or persons unknown was returned. The local police are diligently investigating the affair, but, as yet, no arrests have been made. The opinion that at present prevails in the neighbourhood is that the crime has been perpetrated by some lunatic, escaped or otherwise and enquiries are being made at the local asylums as to missing or lately released inmates. Griffiths, however, tells me that his suspicions set in another direction.”

“Did anything of importance transpire at the inquest?”

“Nothing specially important. Mr. Craven broke down in giving his evidence when he alluded to the confidential relations that had always subsisted between Sandy and himself, and spoke of the last time that he had seen him alive. The evidence of the butler, and one or two of the female servants, seems clear enough, and they let fall something of a hint that Sandy was not altogether a favourite among them, on account of the overbearing manner in which he used his influence with his master. Young Mr. Craven, a youth of about nineteen, home from Oxford for the long vacation, was not present at the inquest; a doctor’s certificate was put in stating that he was suffering from typhoid fever, and could not leave his bed without risk to his life. Now this young man is a thoroughly bad sort, and as much a gentleman-blackleg as it is possible for such a young fellow to be. It seems to Griffiths that there is something suspicious about this illness of his. He came back from Oxford on the verge of delirium tremens, pulled round from that, and then suddenly, on the day after the murder, Mrs. Craven rings the bell, announces that he has developed typhoid fever and orders a doctor to be sent for.”

“What sort of man is Mr. Craven senior?”

“He seems to be a quiet old fellow, a scholar and learned philologist. Neither his neighbours nor his family see much of him; he almost lives in his study, writing a treatise, in seven or eight volumes, on comparative philology. He is not a rich man. Troyte’s Hill, though it carries position in the county, is not a paying property, and Mr. Craven is unable to keep it up properly. I am told he has had to cut down expenses in all directions in order to send his son to college, and his daughter from first to last has been entirely educated by her mother. Mr. Craven was originally intended for the church, but for some reason or other, when his college career came to an end, he did not present himself for ordination—went out to Natal instead, where he obtained some civil appointment and where he remained for about fifteen years. Henderson was his servant during the latter portion of his Oxford career, and must have been greatly respected by him, for although the remuneration derived from his appointment at Natal was small, he paid Sandy a regular yearly allowance out of it. When, about ten years ago, he succeeded to Troyte’s Hill, on the death of his elder brother, and returned home with his family, Sandy was immediately installed as lodge-keeper, and at so high a rate of pay that the butler’s wages were cut down to meet it.”

“Ah, that wouldn’t improve the butler’s feelings towards him,” ejaculated Loveday.

Mr. Dyer went on: “But, in spite of his high wages, he doesn’t appear to have troubled much about his duties as lodge-keeper, for they were performed, as a rule, by the gardener’s boy, while he took his meals and passed his time at the house, and, speaking generally, put his finger into every pie. You know the old adage respecting the servant of twenty-one years’ standing: ‘Seven years my servant, seven years my equal, seven years my master.’ Well, it appears to have held good in the case of Mr. Craven and Sandy. The old gentleman, absorbed in his philological studies, evidently let the reins slip through his fingers, and Sandy seems to have taken easy possession of them. The servants frequently had to go to him for orders, and he carried things, as a rule, with a high hand.”

“Did Mrs. Craven never have a word to say on the matter?”

“I’ve not heard much about her. She seems to be a quiet sort of person. She is a Scotch missionary’s daughter; perhaps she spends her time working for the Cape mission and that sort of thing.”

“And young Mr. Craven: did he knock under to Sandy’s rule?”

“Ah, now you’re hitting the bull’s eye and we come to Griffiths’ theory. The young man and Sandy appear to have been at loggerheads ever since the Cravens took possession of Troyte’s Hill. As a schoolboy Master Harry defied Sandy and threatened him with his hunting-crop; and subsequently, as a young man, has used strenuous endeavours to put the old servant in his place. On the day before the murder, Griffiths says, there was a terrible scene between the two, in which the young gentleman, in the presence of several witnesses, made use of strong language and threatened the old man’s life. Now, Miss Brooke, I have told you all the circumstances of the case so far as I know them. For fuller particulars I must refer you to Griffiths. He, no doubt, will meet you at Grenfell—the nearest station to Troyte’s Hill, and tell you in what capacity he has procured for you an entrance into the house. By-the-way, he has wired to me this morning that he hopes you will be able to save the Scotch express to-night.”

Loveday expressed her readiness to comply with Mr. Griffiths’ wishes.

“I shall be glad,” said Mr. Dyer, as he shook hands with her at the office door, “to see you immediately on your return—that, however, I suppose, will not be yet awhile. This promises, I fancy, to be a longish affair?” This was said interrogatively.

“I haven’t the least idea on the matter,” answered Loveday. “I start on my work without theory of any sort—in fact, I may say, with my mind a perfect blank.”

And anyone who had caught a glimpse of her blank, expressionless features, as she said this, would have taken her at her word.

Grenfell, the nearest post-town to Troyte’s Hill, is a fairly busy, populous little town—looking south towards the black country, and northwards to low, barren hills. Pre-eminent among these stands Troyte’s Hill, famed in the old days as a border keep, and possibly at a still earlier date as a Druid stronghold.

At a small inn at Grenfell, dignified by the title of “The Station Hotel,” Mr. Griffiths, of the Newcastle constabulary, met Loveday and still further initiated her into the mysteries of the Troyte’s Hill murder.

“A little of the first excitement has subsided,” he said, after preliminary greetings had been exchanged; “but still the wildest rumours are flying about and repeated as solemnly as if they were Gospel truths. My chief here and my colleagues generally adhere to their first conviction, that the criminal is some suddenly crazed tramp or else an escaped lunatic, and they are confident that sooner or later we shall come upon his traces. Their theory is that Sandy, hearing some strange noise at the Park Gates, put his head out of the window to ascertain the cause and immediately had his death blow dealt him; then they suppose that the lunatic scrambled into the room through the window and exhausted his frenzy by turning things generally upside down. They refuse altogether to share my suspicions respecting young Mr. Craven.”

Mr. Griffiths was a tall, thin-featured man, with iron-grey hair, but so close to his head that it refused to do anything but stand on end. This gave a somewhat comic expression to the upper portion of his face and clashed oddly with the melancholy look that his mouth habitually wore.

“I have made all smooth for you at Troyte’s Hill,” he presently went on. “Mr. Craven is not wealthy enough to allow himself the luxury of a family lawyer, so he occasionally employs the services of Messrs. Wells and Sugden, lawyers in this place, and who, as it happens, have, off and on, done a good deal of business for me. It was through them I heard that Mr. Craven was anxious to secure the assistance of an amanuensis. I immediately offered your services, stating that you were a friend of mine, a lady of impoverished means, who would gladly undertake the duties for the munificent sum of a guinea a month, with board and lodging. The old gentleman at once jumped at the offer, and is anxious for you to be at Troyte’s Hill at once.”

Loveday expressed her satisfaction with the programme that Mr. Griffiths had sketched for her, then she had a few questions to ask.

“Tell me,” she said, “what led you, in the first instance, to suspect young Mr. Craven of the crime?”

“The footing on which he and Sandy stood towards each other, and the terrible scene that occurred between them only the day before the murder,” answered Griffiths, promptly. “Nothing of this, however, was elicited at the inquest, where a very fair face was put on Sandy’s relations with the whole of the Craven family. I have subsequently unearthed a good deal respecting the private life of Mr. Harry Craven, and, among other things, I have found out that on the night of the murder he left the house shortly after ten o’clock, and no one, so far as I have been able to ascertain, knows at what hour he returned. Now I must draw your attention, Miss Brooke, to the fact that at the inquest the medical evidence went to prove that the murder had been committed between ten and eleven at night.”

“Do you surmise, then, that the murder was a planned thing on the part of this young man?”

“I do. I believe that he wandered about the grounds until Sandy shut himself in for the night, then aroused him by some outside noise, and, when the old man looked out to ascertain the cause, dealt him a blow with a bludgeon or loaded stick, that caused his death.”

“A cold-blooded crime that, for a boy of nineteen?”

“Yes. He’s a good-looking, gentlemanly youngster, too, with manners as mild as milk, but from all accounts is as full of wickedness as an egg is full of meat. Now, to come to another point—if, in connection with these ugly facts, you take into consideration the suddenness of his illness, I think you’ll admit that it bears a suspicious appearance and might reasonably give rise to the surmise that it was a plant on his part, in order to get out of the inquest.”

“Who is the doctor attending him?”

“A man called Waters; not much of a practitioner, from all accounts, and no doubt he feels himself highly honoured in being summoned to Troyte’s Hill. The Cravens, it seems, have no family doctor. Mrs. Craven, with her missionary experience, is half a doctor herself, and never calls in one except in a serious emergency.”

“The certificate was in order, I suppose?”

“Undoubtedly. And, as if to give colour to the gravity of the case, Mrs. Craven sent a message down to the servants, that if any of them were afraid of the infection they could at once go to their homes. Several of the maids, I believe, took advantage of her permission, and packed their boxes. Miss Craven, who is a delicate girl, was sent away with her maid to stay with friends at Newcastle, and Mrs. Craven isolated herself with her patient in one of the disused wings of the house.”

“Has anyone ascertained whether Miss Craven arrived at her destination at Newcastle?”

Griffiths drew his brows together in thought.

“I did not see any necessity for such a thing,” he answered. “I don’t quite follow you. What do you mean to imply?”

“Oh, nothing. I don’t suppose it matters much: it might have been interesting as a side-issue.” She broke off for a moment, then added:

“Now tell me a little about the butler, the man whose wages were cut down to increase Sandy’s pay.”

“Old John Hales? He’s a thoroughly worthy, respectable man; he was butler for five or six years to Mr. Craven’s brother, when he was master of Troyte’s Hill, and then took duty under this Mr. Craven. There’s no ground for suspicion in that quarter. Hales’s exclamation when he heard of the murder is quite enough to stamp him as an innocent man: ‘Serve the old idiot right,’ he cried: ‘I couldn’t pump up a tear for him if I tried for a month of Sundays!’ Now I take it, Miss Brooke, a guilty man wouldn’t dare make such a speech as that!”

“You think not?”

Griffiths stared at her. “I’m a little disappointed in her,” he thought. “I’m afraid her powers have been slightly exaggerated if she can’t see such a straight-forward thing as that.”

Aloud he said, a little sharply, “Well, I don’t stand alone in my thinking. No one yet has breathed a word against Hales, and if they did, I’ve no doubt he could prove an alibi without any trouble, for he lives in the house, and everyone has a good word for him.”

“I suppose Sandy’s lodge has been put into order by this time?”

“Yes; after the inquest, and when all possible evidence had been taken, everything was put straight.”

“At the inquest it was stated that no marks of footsteps could be traced in any direction?”

“The long drought we’ve had would render such a thing impossible, let alone the fact that Sandy’s lodge stands right on the graveled drive, without flower-beds or grass borders of any sort around it. But look here, Miss Brooke, don’t you be wasting your time over the lodge and its surroundings. Every iota of fact on that matter has been gone through over and over again by me and my chief. What we want you to do is to go straight into the house and concentrate attention on Master Harry’s sick-room, and find out what’s going on there. What he did outside the house on the night of the 6th, I’ve no doubt I shall be able to find out for myself. Now, Miss Brooke, you’ve asked me no end of questions, to which I have replied as fully as it was in my power to do; will you be good enough to answer one question that I wish to put, as straightforwardly as I have answered yours? You have had fullest particulars given you of the condition of Sandy’s room when the police entered it on the morning after the murder. No doubt, at the present moment, you can see it all in your mind’s eye—the bedstead on its side, the clock on its head, the bed-clothes half-way up the chimney, the little vases and ornaments walking in a straight line towards the door?”

Loveday bowed her head.

“Very well, Now will you be good enough to tell me what this scene of confusion recalls to your mind before anything else?”

“The room of an unpopular Oxford freshman after a raid upon it by undergrads,” answered Loveday promptly.

Mr. Griffiths rubbed his hands.

“Quite so!” he ejaculated. “I see, after all, we are one at heart in this matter, in spite of a little surface disagreement of ideas. Depend upon it, by-and-bye, like the engineers tunneling from different quarters under the Alps, we shall meet at the same point and shake hands. By-the-way, I have arranged for daily communication between us through the postboy who takes the letters to Troyte’s Hill. He is trustworthy, and any letter you give him for me will find its way into my hands within the hour.”

It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when Loveday drove in through the park gates of Troyte’s Hill, past the lodge where old Sandy had met with his death. It was a pretty little cottage, covered with Virginia creeper and wild honeysuckle, and showing no outward sign of the tragedy that had been enacted within.

The park and pleasure-grounds of Troyte’s Hill were extensive, and the house itself was a somewhat imposing red brick structure, built, possibly, at the time when Dutch William’s taste had grown popular in the country. Its frontage presented a somewhat forlorn appearance, its centre windows—a square of eight—alone seeming to show signs of occupation. With the exception of two windows at the extreme end of the bedroom floor of the north wing, where, possibly, the invalid and his mother were located, and two windows at the extreme end of the ground floor of the south wing, which Loveday ascertained subsequently were those of Mr. Craven’s study, not a single window in either wing owned blind or curtain. The wings were extensive, and it was easy to understand that at the extreme end of the one the fever patient would be isolated from the rest of the household, and that at the extreme end of the other Mr. Craven could secure the quiet and freedom from interruption which, no doubt, were essential to the due prosecution of his philological studies.

Alike on the house and ill-kept grounds were present the stamp of the smallness of the income of the master and owner of the place. The terrace, which ran the length of the house in front, and on to which every window on the ground floor opened, was miserably out of repair: not a lintel or door-post, window-ledge or balcony but what seemed to cry aloud for the touch of the painter. “Pity me! I have seen better days,” Loveday could fancy written as a legend across the red-brick porch that gave entrance to the old house.

The butler, John Hales, admitted Loveday, shouldered her portmanteau and told her he would show her to her room. He was a tall, powerfully-built man, with a ruddy face and dogged expression of countenance. It was easy to understand that, off and on, there must have been many a sharp encounter between him and old Sandy. He treated Loveday in an easy, familiar fashion, evidently considering that an amanuensis took much the same rank as a nursery governess—that is to say, a little below a lady’s maid and a little above a house-maid.

“We’re short of hands, just now,” he said, in broad Cumberland dialect, as he led the way up the wide stair case. “Some of the lasses downstairs took fright at the fever and went home. Cook and I are single-handed, for Moggie, the only maid left, has been told off to wait on Madam and Master Harry. I hope you’re not afeared of fever?”

Loveday explained that she was not, and asked if the room at the extreme end of the north wing was the one assigned to “Madam and Master Harry.”

“Yes,” said the man; “it’s convenient for sick nursing; there’s a flight of stairs runs straight down from it to the kitchen quarters. We put all Madam wants at the foot of those stairs and Moggie herself never enters the sick-room. I take it you’ll not be seeing Madam for many a day, yet awhile.”

“When shall I see Mr. Craven? At dinner to-night?”

“That’s what naebody could say,” answered Hales. “He may not come out of his study till past midnight; sometimes he sits there till two or three in the morning. Shouldn’t advise you to wait till he wants his dinner—better have a cup of tea and a chop sent up to you. Madam never waits for him at any meal.”

As he finished speaking he deposited the portmanteau outside one of the many doors opening into the gallery.

“This is Miss Craven’s room,” he went on; “cook and me thought you’d better have it, as it would want less getting ready than the other rooms, and work is work when there are so few hands to do it. Oh, my stars! I do declare there is cook putting it straight for you now.” The last sentence was added as the opened door laid bare to view, the cook, with a duster in her hand, polishing a mirror; the bed had been made, it is true, but otherwise the room must have been much as Miss Craven left it, after a hurried packing up.

To the surprise of the two servants Loveday took the matter very lightly.

“I have a special talent for arranging rooms and would prefer getting this one straight for myself,” she said. “Now, if you will go and get ready that chop and cup of tea we were talking about just now, I shall think it much kinder than if you stayed here doing what I can so easily do for myself.”

When, however, the cook and butler had departed in company, Loveday showed no disposition to exercise the “special talent” of which she had boasted.

She first carefully turned the key in the lock and then proceeded to make a thorough and minute investigation of every corner of the room. Not an article of furniture, not an ornament or toilet accessory, but what was lifted from its place and carefully scrutinized. Even the ashes in the grate, the debris of the last fire made there, were raked over and well looked through.

This careful investigation of Miss Craven’s late surroundings occupied in all about three quarters of an hour, and Loveday, with her hat in her hand, descended the stairs to see Hales crossing the hall to the dining-room with the promised cup of tea and chop.

In silence and solitude she partook of the simple repast in a dining-hall that could with ease have banqueted a hundred and fifty guests.

“Now for the grounds before it gets dark,” she said to herself, as she noted that already the outside shadows were beginning to slant.

The dining-hall was at the back of the house; and here, as in the front, the windows, reaching to the ground, presented easy means of egress. The flower-garden was on this side of the house and sloped downhill to a pretty stretch of well-wooded country.

Loveday did not linger here even to admire, but passed at once round the south corner of the house to the windows which she had ascertained, by a careless question to the butler, were those of Mr. Craven’s study.

Very cautiously she drew near them, for the blinds were up, the curtains drawn back. A side glance, however, relieved her apprehensions, for it showed her the occupant of the room, seated in an easy-chair, with his back to the windows. From the length of his outstretched limbs he was evidently a tall man. His hair was silvery and curly, the lower part of his face was hidden from her view by the chair, but she could see one hand was pressed tightly across his eyes and brows. The whole attitude was that of a man absorbed in deep thought. The room was comfortably furnished, but presented an appearance of disorder from the books and manuscripts scattered in all directions. A whole pile of torn fragments of foolscap sheets, overflowing from a waste-paper basket beside the writing-table, seemed to proclaim the fact that the scholar had of late grown weary of, or else dissatisfied with his work, and had condemned it freely.

Although Loveday stood looking in at this window for over five minutes, not the faintest sign of life did that tall, reclining figure give, and it would have been as easy to believe him locked in sleep as in thought.

From here she turned her steps in the direction of Sandy’s lodge. As Griffiths had said, it was graveled up to its doorstep. The blinds were closely drawn, and it presented the ordinary appearance of a disused cottage.

A narrow path beneath over-arching boughs of cherry-laurel and arbutus, immediately facing the lodge, caught her eye, and down this she at once turned her footsteps.

This path led, with many a wind and turn, through a belt of shrubbery that skirted the frontage of Mr. Craven’s grounds, and eventually, after much zig-zagging, ended in close proximity to the stables. As Loveday entered it, she seemed literally to leave daylight behind her.

“I feel as if I were following the course of a circuitous mind,” she said to herself as the shadows closed around her. “I could not fancy Sir Isaac Newton or Bacon planning or delighting in such a wind-about-alley as this!”

The path showed greyly in front of her out of the dimness. On and on she followed it; here and there the roots of the old laurels, struggling out of the ground, threatened to trip her up. Her eyes, however, had now grown accustomed to the half-gloom, and not a detail of her surroundings escaped her as she went along.

A bird flew from out the thicket on her right hand with a startled cry. A dainty little frog leaped out of her way into the shriveled leaves lying below the laurels. Following the movements of this frog, her eye was caught by something black and solid among those leaves. What was it? A bundle—a shiny black coat? Loveday knelt down, and using her hands to assist her eyes, found that they came into contact with the dead, stiffened body of a beautiful black retriever. She parted, as well as she was able, the lower boughs of the evergreens, and minutely examined the poor animal. Its eyes were still open, though glazed and bleared, and its death had, undoubtedly, been caused by the blow of some blunt, heavy instrument, for on one side its skull was almost battered in.

“Exactly the death that was dealt to Sandy,” she thought, as she groped hither and thither beneath the trees in hopes of lighting upon the weapon of destruction.

She searched until increasing darkness warned her that search was useless. Then, still following the zig-zagging path, she made her way out by the stables and thence back to the house.

She went to bed that night without having spoken to a soul beyond the cook and butler. The next morning, however, Mr. Craven introduced himself to her across the breakfast-table. He was a man of really handsome personal appearance, with a fine carriage of the head and shoulders, and eyes that had a forlorn, appealing look in them. He entered the room with an air of great energy, apologized to Loveday for the absence of his wife, and for his own remissness in not being in the way to receive her on the previous day. Then he bade her make herself at home at the breakfast-table, and expressed his delight in having found a coadjutor in his work.

“I hope you understand what a great—a stupendous work it is?” he added, as he sank into a chair. “It is a work that will leave its impress upon thought in all the ages to come. Only a man who has studied comparative philology as I have for the past thirty years, could gauge the magnitude of the task I have set myself.”

With the last remark, his energy seemed spent, and he sank back in his chair, covering his eyes with his hand in precisely the same attitude as that in which Loveday had seen him over-night, and utterly oblivious of the fact that breakfast was before him and a stranger-guest seated at table. The butler entered with another dish. “Better go on with your breakfast,” he whispered to Loveday, “he may sit like that for another hour.”

He placed his dish in front of his master.

“Captain hasn’t come back yet, sir,” he said, making an effort to arouse him from his reverie.

“Eh, what?” said Mr. Craven, for a moment lifting his hand from his eyes.

“Captain, sir—the black retriever,” repeated the man.

The pathetic look in Mr. Craven’s eyes deepened.

“Ah, poor Captain!” he murmured; “the best dog I ever had.”

Then he again sank back in his chair, putting his hand to his forehead.

The butler made one more effort to arouse him.

“Madam sent you down a newspaper, sir, that she thought you would like to see,” he shouted almost into his master’s ear, and at the same time laid the morning’s paper on the table beside his plate.

“Confound you! leave it there,” said Mr. Craven irritably. “Fools! dolts that you all are! With your trivialities and interruptions you are sending me out of the world with my work undone!”

And again he sank back in his chair, closed his eyes and became lost to his surroundings.

Loveday went on with her breakfast. She changed her place at table to one on Mr. Craven’s right hand, so that the newspaper sent down for his perusal lay between his plate and hers. It was folded into an oblong shape, as if it were wished to direct attention to a certain portion of a certain column.

A clock in a corner of the room struck the hour with a loud, resonant stroke. Mr. Craven gave a start and rubbed his eyes.

“Eh, what’s this?” he said. “What meal are we at?” He looked around with a bewildered air. “Eh!—who are you?” he went on, staring hard at Loveday. “What are you doing here? Where’s Nina?—Where’s Harry?”

Loveday began to explain, and gradually recollection seemed to come back to him.

“Ah, yes, yes,” he said. “I remember; you’ve come to assist me with my great work. You promised, you know, to help me out of the hole I’ve got into. Very enthusiastic, I remember they said you were, on certain abstruse points in comparative philology. Now, Miss—Miss—I’ve forgotten your name—tell me a little of what you know about the elemental sounds of speech that are common to all languages. Now, to how many would you reduce those elemental sounds—to six, eight, nine? No, we won’t discuss the matter here, the cups and saucers distract me. Come into my den at the other end of the house; we’ll have perfect quiet there.”

And utterly ignoring the fact that he had not as yet broken his fast, he rose from the table, seized Loveday by the wrist, and led her out of the room and down the long corridor that led through the south wing to his study.

But seated in that study his energy once more speedily exhausted itself.

He placed Loveday in a comfortable chair at his writing-table, consulted her taste as to pens, and spread a sheet of foolscap before her. Then he settled himself in his easy-chair, with his back to the light, as if he were about to dictate folios to her.

In a loud, distinct voice he repeated the title of his learned work, then its sub-division, then the number and heading of the chapter that was at present engaging his attention. Then he put his hand to his head. “It’s the elemental sounds that are my stumbling-block,” he said. “Now, how on earth is it possible to get a notion of a sound of agony that is not in part a sound of terror? or a sound of surprise that is not in part a sound of either joy or sorrow?”

With this his energies were spent, and although Loveday remained seated in that study from early morning till daylight began to fade, she had not ten sentences to show for her day’s work as amanuensis.

Loveday in all spent only two clear days at Troyte’s Hill.

On the evening of the first of those days Detective Griffiths received, through the trustworthy post-boy, the following brief note from her:

“I have found out that Hales owed Sandy close upon a hundred pounds, which he had borrowed at various times. I don’t know whether you will think this fact of any importance.—L. B.”

Mr. Griffiths repeated the last sentence blankly. “If Harry Craven were put upon his defence, his counsel, I take it, would consider the fact of first importance,” he muttered. And for the remainder of that day Mr. Griffiths went about his work in a perturbed state of mind, doubtful whether to hold or to let go his theory concerning Harry Craven’s guilt.

The next morning there came another brief note from Loveday which ran thus:

“As a matter of collateral interest, find out if a person, calling himself Harold Cousins, sailed two days ago from London Docks for Natal in the Bonnie Dundee?”

To this missive Loveday received, in reply, the following somewhat lengthy dispatch:

“I do not quite see the drift of your last note, but have wired to our agents in London to carry out its suggestion. On my part, I have important news to communicate. I have found out what Harry Craven’s business out of doors was on the night of the murder, and at my instance a warrant has been issued for his arrest. This warrant it will be my duty to serve on him in the course of to-day. Things are beginning to look very black against him, and I am convinced his illness is all a sham. I have seen Waters, the man who is supposed to be attending him, and have driven him into a corner and made him admit that he has only seen young Craven once—on the first day of his illness—and that he gave his certificate entirely on the strength of what Mrs. Craven told him of her son’s condition. On the occasion of this, his first and only visit, the lady, it seems, also told him that it would not be necessary for him to continue his attendance, as she quite felt herself competent to treat the case, having had so much experience in fever cases among the blacks at Natal.

“As I left Waters’s house, after eliciting this important information, I was accosted by a man who keeps a low-class inn in the place, McQueen by name. He said that he wished to speak to me on a matter of importance. To make a long story short, this McQueen stated that on the night of the sixth, shortly after eleven o’clock, Harry Craven came to his house, bringing with him a valuable piece of plate—a handsome epergne—and requested him to lend him a hundred pounds on it, as he hadn’t a penny in his pocket. McQueen complied with his request to the extent of ten sovereigns, and now, in a fit of nervous terror, comes to me to confess himself a receiver of stolen goods and play the honest man! He says he noticed that the young gentleman was very much agitated as he made the request, and he also begged him to mention his visit to no one. Now, I am curious to learn how Master Harry will get over the fact that he passed the lodge at the hour at which the murder was most probably committed; or how he will get out of the dilemma of having repassed the lodge on his way back to the house, and not noticed the wide-open window with the full moon shining down on it?

“Another word! Keep out of the way when I arrive at the house, somewhere between two and three in the afternoon, to serve the warrant. I do not wish your professional capacity to get wind, for you will most likely yet be of some use to us in the house.

Loveday read this note, seated at Mr. Craven’s writing-table, with the old gentleman himself reclining motionless beside her in his easy-chair. A little smile played about the corners of her mouth as she read over again the words—“for you will most likely yet be of some use to us in the house.”

Loveday’s second day in Mr. Craven’s study promised to be as unfruitful as the first. For fully an hour after she had received Griffiths’ note, she sat at the writing-table with her pen in her hand, ready to transcribe Mr. Craven’s inspirations. Beyond, however, the phrase, muttered with closed eyes—“It’s all here, in my brain, but I can’t put it into words”—not a half-syllable escaped his lips.

At the end of that hour the sound of footsteps on the outside gravel made her turn her head towards the window. It was Griffiths approaching with two constables. She heard the hall door opened to admit them, but, beyond that, not a sound reached her ear, and she realized how fully she was cut off from communication with the rest of the household at the farther end of this unoccupied wing.

Mr. Craven, still reclining in his semi-trance, evidently had not the faintest suspicion that so important an event as the arrest of his only son on a charge of murder was about to be enacted in the house.

Meantime, Griffiths and his constables had mounted the stairs leading to the north wing, and were being guided through the corridors to the sick-room by the flying figure of Moggie, the maid.

“Hoot, mistress!” cried the girl, “here are three men coming up the stairs—policemen, every one of them—will ye come and ask them what they be wanting?”

Outside the door of the sick-room stood Mrs. Craven—a tall, sharp-featured woman with sandy hair going rapidly grey.

“What is the meaning of this? What is your business here?” she said haughtily, addressing Griffiths, who headed the party.

Griffiths respectfully explained what his business was, and requested her to stand on one side that he might enter her son’s room.

“This is my daughter’s room; satisfy yourself of the fact,” said the lady, throwing back the door as she spoke.

And Griffiths and his confrères entered, to find pretty Miss Craven, looking very white and scared, seated beside a fire in a long flowing robe de chambre.

Griffiths departed in haste and confusion, without the chance of a professional talk with Loveday. That afternoon saw him telegraphing wildly in all directions, and dispatching messengers in all quarters. Finally he spent over an hour drawing up an elaborate report to his chief at Newcastle, assuring him of the identity of one, Harold Cousins, who had sailed in the Bonnie Dundee for Natal, with Harry Craven, of Troyte’s Hill, and advising that the police authorities in that far-away district should be immediately communicated with.

The ink had not dried on the pen with which this report was written before a note, in Loveday’s writing, was put into his hand.

Loveday evidently had had some difficulty in finding a messenger for this note, for it was brought by a gardener’s boy, who informed Griffiths that the lady had said he would receive a gold sovereign if he delivered the letter all right.

Griffiths paid the boy and dismissed him, and then proceeded to read Loveday’s communication.

It was written hurriedly in pencil, and ran as follows:

“Things are getting critical here. Directly you receive this, come up to the house with two of your men, and post yourselves anywhere in the grounds where you can see and not be seen. There will be no difficulty in this, for it will be dark by the time you are able to get there. I am not sure whether I shall want your aid to-night, but you had better keep in the grounds until morning, in case of need; and above all, never once lose sight of the study windows.” (This was underscored.) “If I put a lamp with a green shade in one of those windows, do not lose a moment in entering by that window, which I will contrive to keep unlocked.”

Detective Griffiths rubbed his forehead—rubbed his eyes, as he finished reading this.

“Well, I daresay it’s all right,” he said, “but I’m bothered, that’s all, and for the life of me I can’t see one step of the way she is going.”

He looked at his watch: the hands pointed to a quarter past six. The short September day was drawing rapidly to a close. A good five miles lay between him and Troyte’s Hill—there was evidently not a moment to lose.

At the very moment that Griffiths, with his two constables, were once more starting along the Grenfell High Road behind the best horse they could procure, Mr. Craven was rousing himself from his long slumber, and beginning to look around him. That slumber, however, though long, had not been a peaceful one, and it was sundry of the old gentleman’s muttered exclamations, as he had started uneasily in his sleep, that had caused Loveday to open, and then to creep out of the room to dispatch, her hurried note.

What effect the occurrence of the morning had had upon the household generally, Loveday, in her isolated corner of the house, had no means of ascertaining. She only noted that when Hales brought in her tea, as he did precisely at five o’clock, he wore a particularly ill-tempered expression of countenance, and she heard him mutter, as he set down the tea-tray with a clatter, something about being a respectable man, and not used to such “goings on.”

It was not until nearly an hour and a half after this that Mr. Craven had awakened with a sudden start, and, looking wildly around him, had questioned Loveday who had entered the room.

Loveday explained that the butler had brought in lunch at one, and tea at five, but that since then no one had come in.

“Now that’s false,” said Mr. Craven, in a sharp, unnatural sort of voice; “I saw him sneaking round the room, the whining, canting hypocrite, and you must have seen him, too! Didn’t you hear him say, in his squeaky old voice: ‘Master, I knows your secret—’” He broke off abruptly, looking wildly round. “Eh, what’s this?” he cried. “No, no, I’m all wrong—Sandy is dead and buried—they held an inquest on him, and we all praised him up as if he were a saint.”

“He must have been a bad man, that old Sandy,” said Loveday sympathetically.

“You’re right! you’re right!” cried Mr. Craven, springing up excitedly from his chair and seizing her by the hand. “If ever a man deserved his death, he did. For thirty years he held that rod over my head, and then—ah where was I?”

He put his hand to his head and again sank, as if exhausted, into his chair.

“I suppose it was some early indiscretion of yours at college that he knew of?” said Loveday, eager to get at as much of the truth as possible while the mood for confidence held sway in the feeble brain.

“That was it! I was fool enough to marry a disreputable girl—a barmaid in the town—and Sandy was present at the wedding, and then—” Here his eyes closed again and his mutterings became incoherent.

For ten minutes he lay back in his chair, muttering thus; “A yelp—a groan,” were the only words Loveday could distinguish among those mutterings, then suddenly, slowly and distinctly, he said, as if answering some plainly-put question: “A good blow with the hammer and the thing was done.”

“I should like amazingly to see that hammer,” said Loveday; “do you keep it anywhere at hand?”

His eyes opened with a wild, cunning look in them.

“Who’s talking about a hammer? I did not say I had one. If anyone says I did it with a hammer, they’re telling a lie.”

“Oh, you’ve spoken to me about the hammer two or three times,” said Loveday calmly; “the one that killed your dog, Captain, and I should like to see it, that’s all.”

The look of cunning died out of the old man’s eye—“Ah, poor Captain! splendid dog that! Well, now, where were we? Where did we leave off? Ah, I remember, it was the elemental sounds of speech that bothered me so that night. Were you here then? Ah, no! I remember. I had been trying all day to assimilate a dog’s yelp of pain to a human groan, and I couldn’t do it. The idea haunted me—followed me about wherever I went. If they were both elemental sounds, they must have something in common, but the link between them I could not find; then it occurred to me, would a well-bred, well-trained dog like my Captain in the stables, there, at the moment of death give an unmitigated currish yelp; would there not be something of a human note in his death-cry? The thing was worth putting to the test. If I could hand down in my treatise a fragment of fact on the matter, it would be worth a dozen dogs’ lives. so I went out into the moonlight—ah, but you know all about it—now, don’t you?”

“Yes. Poor Captain! did he yelp or groan?”

“Why, he gave one loud, long, hideous yelp, just as if he had been a common cur. I might just as well have let him alone; it only set that other brute opening his window and spying out on me, and saying in his cracked old voice: ‘Master, what are you doing out here at this time of night?’”

Again he sank back in his chair, muttering incoherently with half-closed eyes.

Loveday let him alone for a minute or so; then she had another question to ask.

“And that other brute—did he yelp or groan when you dealt him his blow?”

“What, old Sandy—the brute? he fell back—Ah, I remember, you said you would like to see the hammer that stopped his babbling old tongue—now didn’t you?”

He rose a little unsteadily from his chair, and seemed to drag his long limbs with an effort across the room to a cabinet at the farther end. Opening a drawer in this cabinet, he produced, from amidst some specimens of strata and fossils, a large-sized geological hammer.

He brandished it for a moment over his head, then paused with his finger on his lip.

“Hush!” he said, “we shall have the fools creeping in to peep at us if we don’t take care.” And to Loveday’s horror he suddenly made for the door, turned the key in the lock, withdrew it and put it into his pocket.

She looked at the clock; the hands pointed to half-past seven. Had Griffiths received her note at the proper time, and were the men now in the grounds? She could only pray that they were.

“The light is too strong for my eyes,” she said, and rising from her chair, she lifted the green-shaded lamp and placed it on a table that stood at the window.

“No, no, that won’t do,” said Mr. Craven; “that would show everyone outside what we’re doing in here.” He crossed to the window as he spoke and removed the lamp thence to the mantelpiece.

Loveday could only hope that in the few seconds it had remained in the window it had caught the eye of the outside watchers.

The old man beckoned to Loveday to come near and examine his deadly weapon. “Give it a good swing round,” he said, suiting the action to the word, “and down it comes with a splendid crash.” He brought the hammer round within an inch of Loveday’s forehead.

She started back.

“Ha, ha,” he laughed harshly and unnaturally, with the light of madness dancing in his eyes now; “did I frighten you? I wonder what sort of sound you would make if I were to give you a little tap just there.” Here he lightly touched her forehead with the hammer. “Elemental, of course, it would be, and—”

Loveday steadied her nerves with difficulty. Locked in with this lunatic, her only chance lay in gaining time for the detectives to reach the house and enter through the window.

“Wait a minute,” she said, striving to divert his attention; “you have not yet told me what sort of an elemental sound old Sandy made when he fell. If you’ll give me pen and ink, I’ll write down a full account of it all, and you can incorporate it afterwards in your treatise.”

For a moment a look of real pleasure flitted across the old man’s face, then it faded. “The brute fell back dead without a sound,” he answered; “it was all for nothing, that night’s work; yet not altogether for nothing. No, I don’t mind owning I would do it all over again to get the wild thrill of joy at my heart that I had when I looked down into that old man’s dead face and felt myself free at last! Free at last!” his voice rang out excitedly—once more he brought his hammer round with an ugly swing.

“For a moment I was a young man again; I leaped into his room—the moon was shining full in through the window—I thought of my old college days, and the fun we used to have at Pembroke—topsy turvey I turned everything—” He broke off abruptly, and drew a step nearer to Loveday. “The pity of it all was,” he said, suddenly dropping from his high, excited tone to a low, pathetic one, “that he fell without a sound of any sort.” Here he drew another step nearer. “I wonder—” he said, then broke off again, and came close to Loveday’s side. “It has only this moment occurred to me,” he said, now with his lips close to Loveday’s ear, “that a woman, in her death agony, would be much more likely to give utterance to an elemental sound than a man.”

He raised his hammer, and Loveday fled to the window, and was lifted from the outside by three pairs of strong arms.

* * * *

“I thought I was conducting my very last case—I never had such a narrow escape before!” said Loveday, as she stood talking with Mr. Griffiths on the Grenfell platform, awaiting the train to carry her back to London. “It seems strange that no one before suspected the old gentleman’s sanity—I suppose, however, people were so used to his eccentricities that they did not notice how they had deepened into positive lunacy. His cunning evidently stood him in good stead at the inquest.”

“It is possible” said Griffiths thoughtfully, “that he did not absolutely cross the very slender line that divided eccentricity from madness until after the murder. The excitement consequent upon the discovery of the crime may just have pushed him over the border. Now, Miss Brooke, we have exactly ten minutes before your train comes in. I should feel greatly obliged to you if you would explain one or two things that have a professional interest for me.”

“With pleasure,” said Loveday. “Put your questions in categorical order and I will answer them.”

“Well, then, in the first place, what suggested to your mind the old man’s guilt?”

“The relations that subsisted between him and Sandy seemed to me to savour too much of fear on the one side and power on the other. Also the income paid to Sandy during Mr. Craven’s absence in Natal bore, to my mind, an unpleasant resemblance to hush-money.”

“Poor wretched being! And I hear that, after all, the woman he married in his wild young days died soon afterwards of drink. I have no doubt, however, that Sandy sedulously kept up the fiction of her existence, even after his master’s second marriage. Now for another question: how was it you knew that Miss Craven had taken her brother’s place in the sick-room?”

“On the evening of my arrival I discovered a rather long lock of fair hair in the unswept fireplace of my room, which, as it happened, was usually occupied by Miss Craven. It at once occurred to me that the young lady had been cutting off her hair and that there must be some powerful motive to induce such a sacrifice. The suspicious circumstances attending her brother’s illness soon supplied me with such a motive.”

“Ah! that typhoid fever business was very cleverly done. Not a servant in the house, I verily believe, but who thought Master Harry was upstairs, ill in bed, and Miss Craven away at her friends’ in Newcastle. The young fellow must have got a clear start off within an hour of the murder. His sister, sent away the next day to Newcastle, dismissed her maid there, I hear, on the plea of no accommodation at her friends’ house—sent the girl to her own home for a holiday and herself returned to Troyte’s Hill in the middle of the night, having walked the five miles from Grenfell. No doubt her mother admitted her through one of those easily-opened front windows, cut her hair and put her to bed to personate her brother without delay. With Miss Craven’s strong likeness to Master Harry, and in a darkened room, it is easy to understand that the eyes of a doctor, personally unacquainted with the family, might easily be deceived. Now, Miss Brooke, you must admit that with all this elaborate chicanery and double dealing going on, it was only natural that my suspicions should set in strongly in that quarter.”

“I read it all in another light, you see,” said Loveday. “It seemed to me that the mother, knowing her son’s evil proclivities, believed in his guilt, in spite, possibly, of his assertions of innocence. The son, most likely, on his way back to the house after pledging the family plate, had met old Mr. Craven with the hammer in his hand. Seeing, no doubt, how impossible it would be for him to clear himself without incriminating his father, he preferred flight to Natal to giving evidence at the inquest.”

“Now about his alias?” said Mr. Griffiths briskly, for the train was at that moment steaming into the station. “How did you know that Harold Cousins was identical with Harry Craven, and had sailed in the Bonnie Dundee?”

“Oh, that was easy enough,” said Loveday, as she stepped into the train; “a newspaper sent down to Mr. Craven by his wife, was folded so as to direct his attention to the shipping list. In it I saw that the Bonnie Dundee had sailed two days previously for Natal. Now it was only natural to connect Natal with Mrs. Craven, who had passed the greater part of her life there; and it was easy to understand her wish to get her scapegrace son among her early friends. The alias under which he sailed came readily enough to light. I found it scribbled all over one of Mr. Craven’s writing pads in his study; evidently it had been drummed into his ears by his wife as his son’s alias, and the old gentleman had taken this method of fixing it in his memory. We’ll hope that the young fellow, under his new name, will make a new reputation for himself—at any rate, he’ll have a better chance of doing so with the ocean between him and his evil companions. Now it’s good-bye, I think.”

“No,” said Mr. Griffiths; “it’s au revoir, for you’ll have to come back again for the assizes, and give the evidence that will shut old Mr. Craven in an asylum for the rest of his life.”

THE AFFAIR OF THE CORRIDOR EXPRESS, by Victor L. Whitechurch

Thorpe Hazell stood in his study in his London flat. On the opposite wall he had pinned a bit of paper, about an inch square, at the height of his eye, and was now going through the most extraordinary contortions.

With his eyes fixed on the paper he was craning his neck as far as it would reach and twisting his head about in all directions. This necessitated a fearful rolling of the eyes in order to keep them on the paper, and was supposed to be a means of strengthening the muscles of the eye for angular sight.

Presently there came a tap at the door.

“Come in!” cried Hazell, still whirling his head round.

“A gentleman wishes to see you at once, sir!” said the servant, handing him a card.

Hazell paused in his exercises, took it from the tray, and read:

“Mr F. W. Wingrave, M.A., B.Sc.”

“Oh, show him in,” said Hazell, rather impatiently, for he hated to be interrupted when he was doing his “eye gymnastics”

There entered a young man of about five-and-twenty, with a look of keen anxiety on his face.

“You are Mr Thorpe Hazell?” he asked.

“I am.”

“You will have seen my name on my card—I am one of the masters at Shillington School—I had heard your name, and they told me at the station that it might be well to consult you—I hope you don’t mind—I know you’re not an ordinary detective, but—”

“Sit down, Mr Wingrave,” said Hazell. interrupting his nervous flow of language. “You look quite ill and tired.”

“I have just been through a very trying experience,” replied Wingrave, sinking into a seat. “A boy I was in charge of has just mysteriously disappeared, and I want you to find him for me, and I want to ask your opinion. They say you know all about railways, but—”

“Now, look here, my dear sir, you just have some hot toast and water before you say another word. I conclude you want to consult me on some railway matter. I’ll do what I can, but I won’t hear you till you’ve had some refreshment. Perhaps you prefer whiskey—though I don’t advise it.”

Wingrave, however, chose the whiskey, and Hazell poured him out some, adding soda-water.

“Thank you,” he said. “I hope you’ll be able to give me advice. I am afraid the poor boy must be killed; the whole thing is a mystery, and I—”

“Stop a bit, Mr Wingrave. I must ask you to tell me the story from the very beginning. That’s the best way.”

“Quite right. The worry of it has made me incoherent, I fear. But I’ll try and do what you propose. First of all, do you know the name of Carr-Mathers?”

“Yes, I think so. Very rich, is he not?”

“A millionaire. He has only one child, a boy of about ten, whose mother died at his birth. He is a small boy for his age, and idolized by his father. About three months ago this young Horace Carr-Mathers was sent to our school—Cragsbury House, just outside Shillington. It is not a very large school, but exceedingly select, and the headmaster, Dr Spring, is well known in high—class circles. I may tell you that we have the sons of some of the leading nobility preparing for the public schools. You will readily understand that in such an establishment as ours the most scrupulous care is exercised over the boys, not only as regards their moral and intellectual training, but also to guard against any outside influences.”

“Kidnapping, for example,” interposed Hazell.

“Exactly. There have been such cases known, and Dr Spring has a very high reputation to maintain. The slightest rumour against the school would go ill with him—and with all of us masters.

“Well, this morning the headmaster received a telegram about Horace Carr-Mathers, requesting that he should be sent up to town.”

“Do you know the exact wording?” asked Hazell.

“I have it with me,” replied Wingrave, drawing it from his pocket.

Hazell took it from him, and read as follows:

‘Please grant Horace leave of absence for two days. Send him to London by 5.45 express from Shillington, in first—class carriage, giving guard instructions to look after him. We will meet train in town—Carr-Mathers’

“Um,” grunted Hazell, as he handed it back. “Well, he can afford telegrams.”

“Oh, he’s always wiring about something or other,” replied Wingrave; “he seldom writes a letter. Well, when the doctor received this he called me into his study.

“‘I suppose I must let the boy go,’ he said, ‘but I’m not at all inclined to allow him to travel by himself. If anything should happen to him his father would hold us responsible as well as the railway company. So you had better take him up to town, Mr Wingrave.’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘You need do no more than deliver him to his father. If Mr Carr-Mathers is not at the terminus to meet him, take him with you in a cab to his house in Portland Place. You’ll probably be able to catch the last train home, but, if not, you can get a bed at an hotel.’

“‘Very good, sir.’

“So, shortly after half—past five, I found myself standing on the platform at Shillington, waiting for the London express.”

“Now, stop a moment,” interrupted Hazell, sipping a glass of filtered water which he had poured out for himself. “I want to get a clear notion of this journey of yours from the beginning, for, I presume, you will shortly be telling me that something strange happened during it. Was there anything to be noticed before the train started?”

“Nothing at the time. But I remembered afterwards that two men seemed to be watching me rather closely when I took the tickets and I heard one of them say ‘Confound,’ beneath his breath. But my suspicions were not aroused at the moment.”

“I see. If there is anything in this it was probably because he was disconcerted when he saw you were going to travel with the boy. Did these two men get into the train?”

“I’m coming to that. The train was in sharp to time, and we took our seats in a first—class compartment.”

“Please describe the exact position.”

“Our carriage was the third from the front. It was a corridor train, with access from carriage to carriage all the way through. Horace and myself were in a compartment alone. I had bought him some illustrated papers for the journey, and for some time he sat quietly enough, looking through them. After a bit he grew fidgety, as you know boys will.”

“Wait a minute. I want to know if the corridor of your carriage was on the left or on the right—supposing you to be seated facing the engine?”

“On the left.”

“Very well, go on.”

“The door leading into the corridor stood open. It was still daylight, but dusk was setting in fast—I should say it was about half—past six, or a little more. Horace had been looking out of the window on the right side of the train when I drew his attention to Rutherham Castle, which we were passing. It stands, as you know, on the left side of the line. In order to get a better view of it he went out into the corridor and stood there. I retained my seat on the right side of the compartment, glancing at him from time to time. He seemed interested in the corridor itself, looking about him, and once or twice shutting and opening the door of our compartment. I can see now that I ought to have kept a sharper rye on him, but I never dreamed that any accident could happen. I was reading a paper myself, and became rather interested in a paragraph. It may have been seven or eight minutes before I looked up. When I did so, Horace had disappeared.

“I didn’t think anything of it at first, but only concluded that he had taken a walk along the corridor.”

“You don’t know which way he went?” inquired Hazell.

“No. I couldn’t say. I waited a minute or two, and then rose and looked out into the corridor. There was no one there. Still my suspicions were not aroused. It was possible that he had gone to the lavatory. So I sat down again, and waited. Then I began to get a little anxious, and determined to have a look for him. I walked to either end of the corridor, and searched the lavatories, but they were both empty. Then I looked in all the other compartments of the carriage, and asked their occupants if they had seen him go by, but none of them had noticed him.”

“Do you remember how these compartments were occupied?”

“Yes. In the first, which was reserved for ladies, there were five ladies. The next was a smoker with three gentlemen in it. Ours came next. Then, going towards the front of the train, were the two men I had noticed at Shillington; the last compartment had a gentleman and lady and their three children.”

“Ah! how about those two men—what were they doing?”

“One of them was reading a book, and the other appeared to be asleep.”

“Tell me. Was the door leading to the corridor from their compartment shut?”

“Yes, it was.”

“I was in a most terrible fright, and I went back to my compartment and pulled the electric communicator. In a few seconds the front guard came along the corridor and asked me what I wanted. I told him I had lost my charge. He suggested that the boy had walked through to another carriage, and I asked him if he would mind my making a thorough search of the train with him. To this he readily agreed. We went back to the first carriage and began to do so. We examined every compartment from end to end of the train; we looked under every seat, in spite of the protestations of some of the passengers; we searched all the lavatories—every corner of the train—and we found absolutely no trace of Horace Carr-Mathers. No one had seen the boy anywhere.”

“Had the train stopped?”

“Not for a second. It was going at full speed all the time. It only slowed down after we had finished the search—but it never quite stopped.”

“Ah! We’ll come to that presently. I want to ask you some questions first. Was it still daylight?”

“Dusk, but quite light enough to see plainly—besides which, the train lamps were lit.”

“Exactly. Those two men, now, in the next compartment to yours—tell me precisely what happened when you visited them the second time with the guard.”

“They asked a lot of questions—like many of the other passengers—and seemed very surprised.”

“You looked underneath their seats?”

“Certainly.”

“On the luggage—racks? A small boy like that could be rolled up in a rug and put on the rack.”

“We examined every rack on the train.”

Thorpe Hazell lit a cigarette and smoked furiously, motioning to his companion to keep quiet. He was thinking out the situation. Suddenly he said:

“How about the window in those two men’s compartment?”

“It was shut—I particularly noticed it.”

“You are quite sure you searched the whole of the train?”

“Absolutely certain; so was the guard.”

“Ah!” remarked Hazell, “even guards are mistaken sometimes. It—er—was only the inside of the train you searched, eh?”

“Of course.”

“Very well,” replied Hazell, “now, before we go any further, I want to ask you this. Would it have been to anyone’s interest to have murdered the boy?”

“I don’t think so—from what I know. I don’t see how it could be.”

“Very well. We will take it as a pure case of kidnapping, and presume that he is alive and well. This ought to console you to begin with.”

“Do you think you can help me?”

“I don’t know yet. But go on and tell me all that happened.”

“Well, after we had searched the train I was at my wits’ end—and so was the guard. We both agreed, however, that nothing more could be done till we reached London. Somehow, my strongest suspicions concerning those two men were aroused, and I travelled in their compartment for the rest of the journey.”

“Oh! Did anything happen?”

“Nothing. They both wished me good-night, hoped I’d find the boy, got out, and drove off in a hansom.”

“And then?”

“I looked about for Mr Carr-Mathers, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then I saw an inspector, and put the case before him. He promised to make inquiries and to have the line searched on the part where I missed Horace. I took a hansom to Portland Place, only to discover that Mr Carr-Mathers is on the Continent and not expected home for a week. Then I came on to you—the inspector had advised me to do so. And that’s the whole story. It’s a terrible thing for me, Mr Hazell. What do you think of it?”

“Well,” replied Hazell, “of course it’s very clear that there is a distinct plot. Someone sent that telegram, knowing Mr Carr-Mathers’ proclivities. The object was to kidnap the boy. It sounds absurd to talk of brigands and ransoms in this country, but the thing is done over and over again for all that. It is obvious that the boy was expected to travel alone, and that the train was the place chosen for the kidnapping. Hence the elaborate directions. I think you were quite right in suspecting those two men, and it might have been better if you had followed them up without coming to me.”

“But they went off alone!”

“Exactly. It’s my belief they had originally intended doing so after disposing of Horace, and that they carried out their original intentions.”

“But what became of the boy?—how did they—”

“Stop a bit, I’m not at all clear in my own mind. But you mentioned that while you were concluding your search with the guard the train slackened speed?”

“Yes. It almost came to a stop—and then went very slowly for a minute or so. I asked the guard why, but I didn’t understand his reply.”

“What was it?”

“He said it was a P.W. operation.”

Hazell laughed. “P.W. stands for permanent way,” he explained, “I know exactly what you mean now. There is a big job going on near Longmoor—they are raising the level of the line, and the up-trains are running on temporary rails. So they have to proceed very slowly. Now it was after this that you went back to the two men whom you suspected?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Now let me think the thing over. Have some more whiskey? You might also like to glance at the contents of my book-case. If you know anything of first editions and bindings they will interest you.”

Wingrave, it is to be feared, paid but small heed to the books, but watched Hazell anxiously as the latter smoked cigarette after cigarette, his brows knit in deep thought. After a bit he said slowly:

“You will understand that I am going to work upon the theory that the boy has been kidnapped and that the original intention has been carried out, in spite of the accident of your presence in the train. How the boy was disposed of meanwhile is what baffles me; but that is a detail—though it will be interesting to know how it was done. Now, I don’t want to raise any false hopes, because I may very likely be wrong, but we are going to take action upon a very feasible assumption, and if I am at all correct, I hope to put you definitely on the track. Mind, I don’t promise to do so, and, at best, I don’t promise to do more than put you on a track. Let me see—it’s just after nine. We have plenty of time. We’ll drive first to Scotland Yard, for it will be as well to have a detective with us.”

He filled a flask with milk, put some plasmon biscuits and a banana into a sandwich case, and then ordered his servant to hail a cab.

An hour later, Hazell, Wingrave, and a man from Scotland Yard were closeted together in one of the private offices of the Mid—Eastern Railway with one of the chief officials of the line. The latter was listening attentively to Hazell.

“But I can’t understand the boy not being anywhere in the train, Mr Hazell,” he said.

“I can—partly,” replied Hazell, “but first let me see if my theory is correct.”

“By all means. There’s a down-train in a few minutes. I’ll go with you, for the matter is very interesting. Come along, gentlemen.”

He walked forward to the engine and gave a few instructions to the driver, and then they took their seats in the train. After a run of half an hour or so they passed a station.

“That’s Longmoor,” said the official, “now we shall soon be on the spot. It’s about a mile down that the line is being raised.”

Hazell put his head out of the window. Presently an ominous red light showed itself. The train came almost to a stop, and then proceeded slowly, the man who had shown the red light changing it to green. They could see him as they passed, standing close to a little temporary hut. It was his duty to warn all approaching drivers, and for this purpose he was stationed some three hundred yards in front of the bit of line that was being operated upon. Very soon they were passing this bit. Naphtha lamps shed a weird light over a busy scene, for the work was being continued night and day. A score or so of sturdy navvies were shovelling and picking along the track.

Once more into the darkness. On the other side of the scene of operations, at the same distance, was another little hut, with a guardian for the up—train. Instead of increasing the speed in passing this hut, which would have been usual, the driver brought the train almost to a standstill. As he did so the four men got out of the carriage, jumping from the footboard to the ground. On went the train, leaving them on the left side of the down track, just opposite the little hut. They could see the man standing outside, his back partly turned to them. There was a fire in a brazier close by that dimly outlined his figure.

He started suddenly, as they crossed the line towards him.

“What are you doing here?” he cried. “You’ve no business here—you’re trespassing.”

He was a big, strong-looking man, and he backed a little towards his hut as he spoke.

“I am Mr Mills, the assistant-superintendent of the line,” replied the official, coming forward.

“Beg pardon, sir; but how was I to know that?” growled the man.

“Quite right. It’s your duty to warn off strangers. How long have you been stationed here?”

“I came on at five o’clock; I’m regular nightwatchman, sir.”

“Ah! Pretty comfortable, eh?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied the man, wondering why the question was asked, but thinking, not unnaturally, that the assistant-superintendent had come down with a party of engineers to supervise things.

“Got the hut to yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

Without another word, Mr Mills walked to the door of the hut. The man, his face suddenly growing pale, moved, and stood with his back to it.

“It’s—it’s private, sir!” he growled.

Hazell laughed. “All right, my man,” he said. “I was right, I think—hullo!—look out! Don’t let him go!”

For the man had made a quick rush forward. But the Scotland Yard officer and Hazell were on him in a moment, and a few seconds later the handcuffs clicked on his wrists. Then they flung the door open, and there, lying in the comer, gagged and bound, was Horace Carr-Mathers.

An exclamation of joy broke forth from Wingrave, as he opened his knife to cut the cords. But Hazell stopped him.

“Just half a moment,” he said: “I want to see how they’ve tied him up.”

A peculiar method had been adopted in doing this. His wrists were fastened behind his back, a stout cord was round his body just under the armpits, and another cord above the knees. These were connected by a slack bit of rope.

“All right!” went on Hazell; “let’s get the poor lad out of his troubles—there, that’s better. How do you feel, my boy?”

“Awfully stiff!” said Horace, “but I’m not hurt. I say, sir,” he continued to Wingrave, “how did you know I was here? I am glad you’ve come.”

“The question is how did you get here?” replied Wingrave. “Mr Hazell, here, seemed to know where you were, but it’s a puzzle to me at present.”

“If you’d come half an hour later you wouldn’t have found him,” growled the man who was handcuffed. “I ain’t so much to blame as them as employed me.”

“Oh, is that how the land lies?” exclaimed Hazell. “I see. You shall tell us presently, my boy, how it happened. Meanwhile. Mr Mills, I think we can prepare a little trap—eh?”

In five minutes all was arranged. A couple of the navvies were brought up from the line, one stationed outside to guard against trains, and with certain other instructions, the other being inside the hut with the rest of them. A third navvy was also dispatched for the police.

“How are they coming?” asked Hazell of the handcuffed man.

“They were going to take a train down from London to Rockhampstead on the East-Northern, and drive over. It’s about ten miles off.”

“Good! they ought soon to be here,” replied Hazell, as he munched some biscuits and washed them down with a draught of milk, after which he astonished them all by solemnly going through one of his “digestive exercises.”

A little later they heard the sound of wheels on a road beside the line. Then the man on watch said, in gruff tones:

“The boy’s inside!”

But they found more than the boy inside, and an hour later all three conspirators were safely lodged in Longmoor gaol.

“Oh, it was awfully nasty, I can tell you,” said Horace Carr-Mathers, as he explained matters afterwards. “I went into the corridor, you know, and was looking about at things, when all of a sudden I felt my coat-collar grasped behind, and a hand was laid over my mouth. I tried to kick and shout, but it was no go. They got me into the compartment, stuffed a handkerchief into my mouth, and tied it in. It was just beastly. Then they bound me hand and foot, and opened the window on the right-hand side—opposite the corridor. I was in a funk, for I thought they were going to throw me out, but one of them told me to keep my pecker up, as they weren’t going to hurt me. Then they let me down out of the window by that slack rope, and made it fast to the handle of the door outside. It was pretty bad, There was I, hanging from the door-handle in a sort of doubled-up position, my back resting on the foot-board of the carriage, and the train rushing along like mad. I felt sick and awful, and I had to shut my eyes. I seemed to hang there for ages.”

“I told you you only examined the inside of the train,” said Thorpe Hazell to Wingrave. “I had my suspicions that he was somewhere on the outside all the time, but I was puzzled to know where. It was a clever trick.”

“Well,” went on the boy, “I heard the window open above me after a bit. I looked up and saw one of the men taking the rope off the handle. The train was just beginning to slow down. Then he hung out of the window, dangling me with one hand. It was horrible. I was hanging below the footboard now. Then the train came almost to a stop, and someone caught me round the waist. I lost my senses for a minute or two, and then I found myself lying in the hut.”

“Well, Mr Hazell,” said the assistant-superintendent, “you were perfectly right, and we all owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Oh,” said Hazell, “it was only a guess at the best. I presumed it was simply kidnapping, and the problem to be solved was how and where the boy was got off the train without injury. It was obvious that he had been disposed of before the train reached London. There was only one other inference. The man on duty was evidently the confederate, for, if not, his presence would have stopped the whole plan of action. I’m very glad to have been of any use. There are interesting points about the case, and it has been a pleasure to me to undertake it.”

A little while afterwards Mr Carr-Mathers himself called on Hazell to thank him.

“I should like,” he said, “to express my deep gratitude substantially; but I understand you are not an ordinary detective. But is there any way in which I can serve you, Mr Hazell?”

“Yes—two ways.”

“Please name them.”

“I should be sorry for Mr Wingrave to get into trouble through this affair—or Dr Spring either.”

“I understand you, Mr Hazell. They were both to blame, in a way. But I will see that Dr Spring’s reputation does not suffer, and that Wingrave comes out of it harmlessly.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You said there was a second way in which I could serve you.”

“So there is. At Dunn’s sale last month you were the purchaser of two first editions of ‘The New Bath Guide.’ If you cared to dispose of one, I—”

“Say no more, Mr Hazell. I shall be glad to give you one for your collection.”

Hazell stiffened.

“You misunderstand me!” he exclaimed icily. “I was about to add that if you cared to dispose of a copy I would write you out a cheque.”

“Oh, certainly,” replied Mr Carr-Mathers with a smile, “I shall be extremely pleased.”

Whereupon the transaction was concluded.

SECRET SUGGESTION, by Vincent H. O’Neil

“You should know I’m a cop. A homicide detective, actually.”

“All right.” A pause. “That can’t be an easy job, in a city this large.”

“Well it is, and it isn’t. The clearance rate is pretty low, so you don’t catch too much heat from the bosses if you’re beating it. One or two easy cases—like when you catch the perpetrator at the scene holding the weapon—can really help your numbers.”

“That sounds a little modest.”

“Oh, I’m good at what I do…I just wouldn’t say that in front of another cop.”

“Hmm. That’s a nice lead-in for my next question: Doesn’t the police department have staff psychiatrists? Someone you could talk to for free?”

“Sure…sure they do. And I’ve heard they’re pretty good…for standard stuff, like cops who are thinking of eating their guns.”

“So whatever brought you here isn’t ‘standard’?”

A long pause.

“Well you tell me, Doc. Is it standard for a homicide cop to think a ghost helped solve a murder?”

* * * *

“You’re smiling, Doc.”

“Only because you are.”

“Is that a bad sign?”

“Not usually. I tell most of my patients that humor is a good release valve.”

“Even when they’re laughing their heads off about something that isn’t funny?”

“It’s a lot better than screaming their heads off.” Shared chuckling. “So tell me more.”

“Okay.” Slight pause. “I’m calling it a ghost because I don’t know what it is…if it’s anything at all. Let me give you a little background: I’ve been working homicide for two years, and I was taught to avoid jumping to conclusions. So I approach every investigation with an open mind. I focus on the facts of the case, the evidence, and the interviews. Drawing conclusions too early can make you miss something.

“What I’m trying to say is I really don’t get ‘gut feelings’ about my cases. I walked a beat for a bunch of years, so I’ve seen humanity at its worst. I think that helps me stay detached; I don’t like or dislike anybody I interview, whether they’re suspects or not.”

“Sounds like you’d make a good psychiatrist.”

“People do open up to me, if that’s what you mean. Somebody once told me I have an ‘empathetic character’…anyway, I was working a big case just a few months ago, and I started getting these…feelings…impulses…that weren’t like me at all. It was really strange.”

“This had never happened before?”

“Not even when I was a rookie.”

“You said this case happened a few months ago. I assume you’ve had others since then.”

“Oh yeah…the phone’s always ringing in Homicide. And I see where you’re going: I haven’t had a similar experience with other cases.”

“Was there anything unusual about that particular investigation? Something that might have struck a chord with you, perhaps?”

“I thought of that. I gave it a lot of thought, in fact. But no, there didn’t seem to be anything that should have got under my skin. The victim was rich, educated, successful…and at first it looked like it might have been a chance killing, like a mugging that went wrong.” A few seconds’ silence. “Nothing special.”

“You might not be allowed to answer this, so feel free to say so. This sounds like the Meriweather murder.”

“It is. And since it’s already been to trial, and since that was in the news, I can discuss it with you. Not everything, but the stuff that’s common knowledge.”

“I just thought it might help if you could speak in specifics…we might find something in that investigation that was influencing you. Something you might not have noticed, perhaps.”

“Good. That’s good—it makes sense. So here goes: Lawrence Meriweather was shot once at a secluded spot overlooking the river. The gun was next to the body, but we could tell it wasn’t a suicide.”

“I know that was ruled out…but how?”

“Several different things: The angle of entry, no gunpowder residue on his hands, no scorching on the clothes.” Throat clearing. “His watch and his wallet were still on him, but that doesn’t always rule out robbery; sometimes the gun goes off accidentally, and the mugger just runs for it. What most bothered me was that we couldn’t figure out why he was there in the first place.”

“The papers said he was found near a highway rest stop. One of those ‘Scenic Overlook’ spots.”

“Right. That’s where he parked his car, and there’s a footpath through a wooded area that leads to where his body was found. The people in Meriweather’s office said he’d been acting a little distracted, and so we wondered if he hadn’t gone out there looking for a quiet spot to think.” A deep exhalation. “That was where I got the first feeling, the first…sensation. At the crime scene.”

“You believe that was when this ghost, or this entity, contacted you?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know it at the time, of course, but that’s what I think now.”

“You felt an emotion that was out of place?”

“Yes. I was doing my initial survey. A jogger had found the body, so it hadn’t been out there even a day. We already knew who he was, and I suppose that made this case a little different, but I started experiencing something that was just…out of place.”

“Like what?”

“Fear. I mean heart-pounding, clammy hands, fight-or-flight dread. I’ve been in a couple of tight spots over the years, and so I recognize the emotion. But this was crazy; it was broad daylight, the guy was dead, I was surrounded by my fellow police…I couldn’t explain it.”

“Did you register anything else?”

“Like what?”

“You mentioned your heart was pounding.”

“You’d make a good interviewer, Doc. You don’t hand out the answers.”

“Most psychiatrists feel it can unduly influence the discussion, or even extract an answer that isn’t…genuine.”

“We do the same thing, in our interviews.”

“I imagine it’s for the same reason—to get an untainted response.”

“Not really. Most of the time we’re trying to get someone to tell us something they said they didn’t know.”

A chuckle. “That’s funny. In a way, that’s what I’m trying to do right now.”

* * * *

“To answer your question, I didn’t feel anything but the emotion, and my reaction to that.”

“Did the feeling stay with you?”

“No. That’s why I kind of dismissed it at first. It went away once I left the scene.”

“Where did you go?”

“The Meriweathers’ place. Big house, acres of land, you’d think the guy could find a quiet spot somewhere on his own property…his wife, Felicia, had started calling around the night before when he didn’t come home. He often stayed late at the office, but she told us he always called to let her know. She’d phoned the family lawyer, and he called the police that night.”

“Don’t you have to wait a certain number of hours before someone can be reported as a missing person?”

“For people like me and you, sure. A rich guy like Meriweather…the department was already looking for him when the jogger found the body. Anyway, my partner and I went to see the widow as soon as we were done with the crime scene. She’s a tough one, you probably read that in the papers…”

“The family lawyer sounded tough, too.”

“Yeah. George Sanderson. He was Meriweather’s buddy from childhood. They played high school football together; Sanderson blocked and Meriweather threw the ball. Pretty much their relationship for the next thirty years.

“He was there for the first interview with the widow, which went pretty well. I didn’t have any more unexplained feelings; it was more like my normal interviews, no emotions at all. Mrs. Meriweather was openly grieving, and I felt it was genuine. She said she hadn’t noticed anything unusual in her husband’s behavior prior to his disappearance, which fit the idea that he was killed in a chance encounter. That is, until we interviewed the people in Meriweather’s office and most of them said he’d been acting screwy.”

“Did you feel anything when you talked to his employees?”

“No. They seemed to have liked Meriweather well enough; more than a few of them said he’d seemed distracted for several days. He’d left the office twice on the day he died, which wasn’t unusual except he hadn’t told anyone where he was going either time. That morning he stepped out for a couple of hours, and late in the afternoon he left and said he wouldn’t be back. His personal assistant asked if he was headed home, and he said yes, but not right away.”

“Did that sound unusual?”

“Not really. Felicia Meriweather was active in the arts scene, so she wasn’t normally home early herself. She went a couple of places the night of the murder, a charity event and then dinner with an old friend. And since we couldn’t pinpoint exactly when her husband died, there was a window of time when she could have gotten out to the river and done it.”

“But you didn’t believe that.”

“Not at first. I did wonder why Meriweather’s wife didn’t notice he was distracted when so many of his employees picked up on it, but there are ways to explain that. And nobody had any idea why he went out to that spot on the river.”

“Including the lawyer?”

“Right. Sanderson was at the residence when we got there, and so I asked him a few questions as well. He didn’t agree with the widow’s assessment of Meriweather’s state of mind, but that was because he’d gotten a strange phone call from him the day before. Sanderson said that Meriweather had wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to be out of town in the next few days, but wouldn’t say what was up. He said Meriweather sounded mildly concerned about something, but since he was the man’s corporate attorney he didn’t think it was anything major. It was the last call Meriweather made before leaving the office—we checked the records.”

“Is that how you found out about the private investigator? From the phone records?”

“Yeah. Turns out that the two hours Meriweather was out of the office that morning he was meeting the PI. He’d just hired him because he was suspicious his wife was having an affair.”

* * * *

“But we didn’t find that out until later, after we’d gone through Meriweather’s phone records. In the meantime we went to his office and interviewed his staff. That’s when we learned that several of them thought something was bugging their boss. None of them had any idea why he’d gone out to that spot, so I decided to go back there. We had people canvassing the area asking questions, but I wanted another look at the crime scene.

“I parked in the rest stop near where Meriweather’s car was found, and then walked into the woods along a foot path that led to the spot. The trail runs along the bluffs over the river, and the view’s pretty good. So it made sense that Meriweather might have come out there to think through whatever was bothering him.

“That’s when I got the feelings again. But this time they were different. On my first visit they’d been sensations of fear, but the second visit I swear I felt…anger. Almost rage, like when you think about somebody who’s really done you dirt.”

“Had anybody done something recently that might have made you resentful?”

“I’m a police officer, Doc; of course they had.”

Laughter. “No, I mean something personal. Maybe something at the scene reminded you of a bad experience, and that triggered the emotion?”

“No, no. Like I said, I really scrubbed the facts of the investigation—and my own reactions—to try and come up with some kind of explanation. Nada. And even if I did, how does that explain one time I felt fear and the next time anger?”

“Well, if you decided there’s no connection to you personally, I can see how you might want to explain the experience in another way…so what happened after that?”

“This was a high-profile investigation, so the paperwork had to be perfect. I had to keep my boss informed of what was going on, and he had to keep the Chief in the loop. The Mayor was involved…this Meriweather had a lot of friends, and they wanted to blame somebody.

“We interviewed the entire household staff, everybody from his office, even some of the folks at his country club. He had a lot of competitors and some people who were jealous of him, but it didn’t sound like he’d made the kind of enemies that would kill him. That’s when we began to suspect it was a crime of opportunity, maybe a mugging that got out of hand.”

“Any more of the sensations?”

“Not during any of that. I was starting to chalk them up to overwork, but then the autopsy results came in. I wanted to see them first, before the brass got involved, so I went down to the morgue. It was just what I expected; cause of death was a single bullet wound to the chest.

“I was talking to the medical examiner, asking a few standard questions, when…out of nowhere…I got this jolt of anger that almost knocked me over. It wasn’t like the feeling I’d had at the crime scene, though; this was more like resentment, as if the ME had put me on the spot or botched something I needed. I’ve known that particular doc for a long time, and consider him a friend, and yet I suddenly had this impulse to haul off and belt him as hard as I could.

“I took a step back, and that’s when I saw a body being wheeled down the corridor. It was covered, but I made them stop.”

A moment of silence.

“And you wanna know the funny thing? The body being wheeled by could have been any stiff at all, and yet I knew it was Meriweather. And it was.

“That’s when I realized something…something I couldn’t see…was sending me a message.”

* * * *

“I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you that I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“You might change your mind once I finish the story, Doc.”

“All right. But one question first: If you’re so sure this is some kind of supernatural being, why did you come to a psychiatrist? Why not go to a psychic, or a paranormal investigator of some kind?”

A long inhalation, and then a sigh.

“I did. Over at one of the universities. He’s a professor of paranormal studies, but he’s also a psychic…or claims to be, anyway.”

“Go on.”

“We talked for a long time, and he suggested that the emotions I was encountering fit the profile of a murder victim’s ghost. Fear. Anger. Resentment—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but was the investigation still ongoing?”

“No. This was a few days ago, just after we’d gotten the verdict. The Prof wasn’t like you, though; he hadn’t followed it in the news so I didn’t have to give specifics. The funny part is that he accepted my story completely.”

“Really?”

“Well think about it: He believes in things nobody can see. It’s his business. So he told me that most of the time a ghost is the spirit of a dead person, stuck here on the Earth because they can’t let go of part of their lives. He even suggested that I was being contacted by Meriweather’s ghost because he was a murder victim.”

“What did you think of that?”

“I said it would be a first. But I know those sensations were real, and I had no other explanation for where they might have come from, so I asked him what else they might be. He said it might not necessarily be Meriweather; according to him, some ghosts can be attracted to living people who share the same vices they enjoyed in life. So if the ghost was a gambler while it was alive, it could be attracted by a living person who bets a lot. He said that kind of visitation would fit my case because this particular entity only communicates through emotion—it’s a creature of appetite.

“Then he told me that I have a personality that ghosts would find sympathetic…that they’d like hanging around me because I’m open-minded.”

“Was he the one who said you have an ‘empathetic character’?”

“That’s very good, Doc. Good memory. Yeah, he was the one who said that.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Yeah…I asked him why a creature of uncontrollable appetites would contact a by-the-book detective and try to help solve a murder. He didn’t want to answer at first, but I wheedled it out of him.”

“And what was the answer?”

“He said that maybe this thing, this entity, was contacting me because it had already tried to communicate with the killer—and failed.”

* * * *

“Okay…so you got some input from this psychic—”

“Hey Doc, I just noticed something: ‘Psychic’ and ‘Psychiatrist’ start with the same syllable. Same spelling, too. Any connection there?”

“None at all.” Subdued laughter. “I was just about to ask you: Did any of these feelings actually help you solve the murder? Everything in the news sounded pretty straightforward.”

“I’ll bet. And did you see me on the news?”

“No…”

“Exactly. You saw a bunch of officers with braid on their caps telling you the city is safe and that the maniac had been caught. Think any of those people had any idea how this case was actually solved?”

“Obviously not.”

“Right. Here’s how it went. We didn’t have much to go on. The gun was old and untraceable. No one had seen anything unusual, at or near the crime scene. The widow didn’t have an alibi, but her window of opportunity was pretty tight to get out to the river, shoot her husband, and get to her next engagement. In the meantime we didn’t have any motive for her to kill him.”

“Until you found the private investigator Meriweather hired.”

“That’s right. We were digging through his phone records, and found that he’d called a PI a few days before he died, and again on morning of. We went to see the PI, and he admitted that he’d been Meriweather’s appointment that morning, the one when he wouldn’t tell his staff where he was going. Meriweather hired him to watch his wife, but he hadn’t even started when the body turned up, so he got as far away from the case as he could.”

“Knowing that his murdered client had believed his wife was cheating on him?”

“PI’s are a funny bunch; some of them would rather go to jail than tell the police a thing. And Meriweather hadn’t given him any money, so he figured he’d just drop it.” Pause. “Yeah, I know; in the movies he’s supposed to swear he’ll find out who murdered his client and start following the widow anyway. That doesn’t happen a lot in real life.

“But he gave us a motive, and so we went and spoke to Mrs. Meriweather again. This time she had a whole room full of defense lawyers—Sanderson brought them in when we asked for a second interview—and we couldn’t even get her to answer whether or not she was stepping out on her late husband. We didn’t really have to, though; she burst out crying and you could tell she was carrying some heavy guilt, maybe just adultery but maybe something worse. We began digging into her story right after that, but something happened as we were leaving that made me think she didn’t do it.”

“What was that?”

“Sanderson spoke to me and my partner privately once the interview ended. He basically walked us to the car, trying to tell us that whatever his old buddy Meriweather might have suspected didn’t mean his wife had killed him. Swearing up and down that their marriage was a good one…”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow. I think the ghost thought the same thing, because as soon as we were outside with Sanderson I got sandbagged by another surge of emotions. This time it was really focused, and it was something I don’t experience much.”

“And that is?”

“Jealousy. Full-on, red-eyed, he’s-dating-the-head-cheerleader envy. Luckily my partner was doing the talking, because I just stood there and tried to ride the sensation to wherever it was taking me.”

“Pardon me?”

“I know it sounds strange, but I’ve had snitches point me in the right direction many times over the years, and I’d decided my ghost was a snitch. Ever since the Prof suggested it might be some Jack the Ripper type, I’d been thinking of what else it might be and finally decided it was a dead snitch. I dunno…somehow that made it less threatening.

“But now I was really trying to listen…and I swear that’s when it finally began to fine-tune the message.”

“How?”

“Simple timing. It had hit me with these feelings at the crime scene and at the morgue, but not when I’d been interviewing Mrs. Meriweather. I mean, why not? She was as connected to this as the scene of the murder, and the PI’s story had promoted her to Suspect Number One. So why not, and why now? Why was it tapping me on the shoulder in the Meriweathers’ driveway?

“And that’s when I figured it out. It hadn’t signaled me during the interviews with Mrs. Meriweather because the real killer had been in the same room both times. It would have been too easy to think it was pointing me toward the widow—but now that I was talking with Sanderson by himself, it let me have it full force.”

“We don’t usually say this in my profession, but that sounds a little farfetched.”

“Of course it does. Until you go over the sensations I’d experienced, and in order: Fear, anger, resentment, and jealousy. I’d made a bad guess that the first three were Meriweather’s reaction to being murdered, but they weren’t. They were the feelings that the killer had for the victim, and the last one was the motive. That’s why the thing didn’t give me a feeling of jealousy until I was almost alone with the killer. Good ol’ lifelong buddy, football teammate, business partner George Sanderson.”

Long silence.

“That’s not much of a case.”

“Oh, no…of course not. It did point him out for me, though, and I began treating him as a suspect while everybody else was trying to prove it was the widow.”

“But didn’t the papers say the connection between Sanderson and the crime scene—that it was a meeting place he and Meriweather had used since high school—came from Meriweather’s mistress?”

“His ex-mistress, actually. That’s why it took her so long to come forward. She was living on the other side of the country, and only heard about the murder in a news story that said we were stumped. It was on TV, and she recognized the rest stop from a few years back. She and Meriweather had been out on a date when Sanderson called him for an emergency meeting. He’d left her in the car while he went off through the trees—Sanderson didn’t know someone could connect him to the murder scene.”

“And he told you he had no idea why Meriweather would be out there.”

“He kinda had to, though; it wouldn’t sound right to say the crime scene was their secret spot for decades, particularly since he was the killer. But I’d connected him to it anyway.”

“How was that?”

“When I dig into somebody’s background, I dig deep. By then I was almost certain it was Sanderson, so I started with his earliest association with Meriweather. I started calling their old high school buddies, and it turns out the spot by the river was a little party location for them way back when. The rest stop wasn’t there then, so it was even more out-of-the-way than it is now.

“That was proof enough that he was lying, but it took Meriweather’s old girlfriend to make it official. We searched Sanderson’s house and found the same caliber bullets as were used in the murder. They were in the bottom of an old backpack in his garage.”

“Now I remember…he’d done a lot of hiking in college and had bought the gun for protection.”

“Right. Sanderson had obviously considered killing Meriweather long before, because he was the one stepping out with Felicia. He’d cleaned the gun, bought new ammo, and had it handy when Meriweather called to ask for a meeting out by the river. Meriweather had just hired the PI that morning, so he didn’t know Sanderson was the guy they were looking for. Sanderson insists he panicked, that he thought Meriweather knew about him and Felicia, and that he feared for his life when he pulled the trigger.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

“No. I think Sanderson was afraid Meriweather was going to find out about him and his wife, but I also think he was tired of blocking for the handsome quarterback. Sanderson was rich, but not like his old high school buddy. I think he really resented Meriweather, and that he was jealous of him, too. Fear, anger, resentment, and jealousy. Just like the spook suggested.

“Anyway, Meriweather probably asked for the meeting—that was the last phone call he placed from his office—just to start getting his divorce ducks in a row if the PI proved Felicia was stepping out on him. I think Sanderson brought the gun just in case, and decided to go ahead once he determined the PI hadn’t started the investigation yet.”

“So what about his confession? Did you feel anything then?”

“That’s what’s strange about it. I didn’t feel a thing. In fact, I haven’t had a single strange impulse since that time in the Meriweathers’ driveway. I took the confession, sat through the entire trial, and…nothing.”

Long silence.

“So how about it, Doc? Am I crazy?”

“Probably not.” Laughter. “Listen: As much as you try to avoid having ‘gut instincts’ about your cases, we humans sometimes pick up on things without knowing it. Ever catch something just as it fell off a table, and then wonder how you knew it was about to tip over? Ever feel like you were being watched, and you looked up to see someone staring at you?

“My point is that there are stimuli all around us, all perfectly normal, that we never consciously detect. I think that’s all that was happening here—with apologies to your psychic. I think you’ve been a cop for a long time, and that something about Sanderson made you suspicious. I mentioned earlier that we all try to assign orderly, logical reasons to the things occurring around us, and I think that goes double for a Homicide detective.”

“I dunno, Doc; some of the cases I’ve worked have been anything but orderly.”

“Touché. So forget what I think, and let’s go with what you know: You never had an experience like this before, and you haven’t had one since solving the case. That alone says this was an anomaly of some kind. And maybe it proves that you sensed something about this particular murder that set you on edge. Doesn’t that make more sense than some vigilante spirit pushing you in the right direction?”

“Maybe…maybe.”

“I might be going out on a limb here, but I think you were looking for an explanation like that when you came to see me.”

“Well, it sure beats being carted out of here in a straightjacket, don’tcha think?”

Laughter.

“Listen: You sound like a pretty well-adjusted individual—which is a little surprising, given how you spend your days. If you want to come back and talk some more, the door’s always open. But I think if you let a little time go by you’ll see that this was a one-time thing, something neither one of us can explain, but that we don’t have to, either—because it won’t happen again.”

“Sounds good to me, Doc.”

“You’ve got my number if anything else pops up.”

“Thanks, Doc. Thanks a lot.”

* * * *

“Hi, Doc.”

“Detective. My answering service said you called. Is anything wrong?”

“You could say that.” Pause. “You know they sentenced Sanderson today, right?”

“I heard he got life. Were you there?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. You sound…”

“Like I’ve seen a ghost?”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“You’d be half right, Doc. I didn’t see one; I heard it.”

“What did you hear?”

“I was standing in the back of the courtroom when the judge pronounced the sentence. There was a little conversation around me, but nothing big, no uproar. I heard it loud and clear. I looked all around me, and I couldn’t see anybody who could have been making that noise.”

“Noise? What noise?”

“Laughter, Doc. High-pitched, mocking…” Deep, shaky breath. “The thing was laughing, Doc, because Sanderson was going away for life. And nobody could hear it but me.”

“I’m still at the office, Detective. Would you like to come by?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” A moment’s silence. “You know what this means, don’t you? The laughter? After all that silence? It followed me here, Doc. It’s been with me since that first visit to the crime scene. The morgue, the Meriweathers’ place…heck, it probably listened to our whole conversation. So maybe it’s not such a good idea, me meeting with you right now. Or anybody, for that matter.”

Loud click.

THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years ’82 and ’90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in connection with it which never have been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up.

The year ’87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the British barque Sophy Anderson, of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man’s watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time—a deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.

It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell’s fine sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother’s, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street.

“Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that was surely the bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?”

“Except yourself I have none,” he answered. “I do not encourage visitors.”

“A client, then?”

“If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the landlady’s.”

Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

“Come in!” said he.

The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great anxiety.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his eyes. “I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber.”

“Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes. “They may rest here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the south-west, I see.”

“Yes, from Horsham.”

“That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite distinctive.”

“I have come for advice.”

“That is easily got.”

“And help.”

“That is not always so easy.”

“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal.”

“Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”

“He said that you could solve anything.”

“He said too much.”

“That you are never beaten.”

“I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and once by a woman.”

“But what is that compared with the number of your successes?”

“It is true that I have been generally successful.”

“Then you may be so with me.”

“I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with some details as to your case.”

“It is no ordinary one.”

“None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal.”

“And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which have happened in my own family.”

“You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray give us the essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be most important.”

The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze.

“My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the affair.

“You must know that my grandfather had two sons—my uncle Elias and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence.

“My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson’s army, and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own brother.

“He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy’s curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such a room.

“One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in front of the colonel’s plate. It was not a common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From India!’ said he as he took it up, ‘Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked, and then, ‘My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!’

“‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.

“‘Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.

“‘They may do what they like, but I’ll checkmate them still,’ said he with an oath. ‘Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’

“I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the envelope.

“‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’

“I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin.

“Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of ‘suicide.’ But I, who knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of some £14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank.”

“One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide.”

“The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later, upon the night of May 2nd.”

“Thank you. Pray proceed.”

“When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’ written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle’s life in America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.

“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of ’85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon himself.

“‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered.

“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I.

“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the very letters. But what is this written above them?’

“‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder.

“‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.

“‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the papers must be those that are destroyed.’

“‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilised land here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the thing come from?’

“‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark.

“‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he. ‘What have I to do with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.’

“‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.

“‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’

“‘Then let me do so?’

“‘No, I forbid you. I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’

“It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.

“On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of ‘death from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.

“In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle’s life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another.

“It was in January, ’85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father.”

The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.

“This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London—eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon my father’s last message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’”

“What have you done?” asked Holmes.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against.”

“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”

“I have seen the police.”

“Ah!”

“But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings.”

Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he cried.

“They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house with me.”

“Has he come with you to-night?”

“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”

Again Holmes raved in the air.

“Why did you come to me,” he cried, “and, above all, why did you not come at once?”

“I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you.”

“It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed before us—no suggestive detail which might help us?”

“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it out upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he, “that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.”

Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical notices:

“4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.

“7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain, of St. Augustine.

“9th. McCauley cleared.

“10th. John Swain cleared.

“12th. Visited Paramore. All well.”

“Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our visitor. “And now you must on no account lose another instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get home instantly and act.”

“What shall I do?”

“There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?”

“Entirely.”

“Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.”

“I thank you,” said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat. “You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise.”

“Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?”

“By train from Waterloo.”

“It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.”

“I am armed.”

“That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case.”

“I shall see you at Horsham, then?”

“No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it.”

“Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular.” He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad elements—blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more.

Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have had none more fantastic than this.”

“Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”

“Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.”

“But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what these perils are?”

“There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered.

“Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this unhappy family?”

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he remarked, “would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion.”

“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis.”

Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the American Encyclopaedia which stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?”

“The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London.”

“From East London. What do you deduce from that?”

“They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.”

“Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the probability—the strong probability—is that the writer was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest anything?”

“A greater distance to travel.”

“But the letter had also a greater distance to come.”

“Then I do not see the point.”

“There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer.”

“It is possible.”

“More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay.”

“Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this relentless persecution?”

“The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner’s jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society.”

“But of what society?”

“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice—“have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”

“I never have.”

Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. “Here it is,” said he presently: “‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic but generally recognised shape—a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the United States government and of the better classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.’

“You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered.”

“Then the page we have seen—”

“Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the pips to A, B, and C’—that is, sent the society’s warning to them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellow men.”

* * * *

It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.

“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw’s.”

“What steps will you take?” I asked.

“It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after all.”

“You will not go there first?”

“No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid will bring up your coffee.”

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart.

“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”

“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account:

“‘Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages.’”

We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken than I had ever seen him.

“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.

“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last. “How could they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!”

“To the police?”

“No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not before.”

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water.

“You are hungry,” I remarked.

“Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since breakfast.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”

“And how have you succeeded?”

“Well.”

“You have a clue?”

“I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!”

“What do you mean?”

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J. O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia.”

“That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him.”

“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”

“The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.”

“How did you trace it, then?”

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names.

“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ’83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union.”

“Texas, I think.”

“I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an American origin.”

“What then?”

“I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque Lone Star was there in January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London.”

“Yes?”

“The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder.”

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone Star.

BLACK SUNRISE, by Jack Halliday

The sky looked like the back of a broad’s black chiffon blouse.

You know the kind: with spider-like fingers of thicker thread fanning up and out from the solid cloth below the shoulder blades. And the sun struggling to elbow its way through the strands of pollution and failing, providing an eerie contrast between what should be and what stubbornly is.

I found myself at the bottom of a ravine as near as I could figure. My horse was long gone and I can’t say I blamed him for “gettin’ outta Dodge.” I would have gladly gone with, if I hadn’t been tossed, ass over teacups, when he spooked and reared at the backfire and blast of exhaust when they made it away from us.

* * * *

I guess it all began back at the Bottoms Up Bar where I was cooling my jets and looking over the facts on the case they’d dumped on me. There seemed to be fewer and fewer rangers available lately and more and more cases, and I know my way around a horse and…well you get the idea.

Kramer slid this one by me before I could decline so there I was nursing a beer and reading all about Joe Jiminy (I kid you not) and his alleged involvement in a “B & E” that left a rich old duffer of a family practitioner with a squashed skull, an empty safe and a missing wife.

More like a daughter.

Don’t you get tired of cliches?

Of course life is where they come from, isn’t it?

I remember a writing class I took back in college. I wrote up a little mob piece and described the protagonist as a rough-hewed feller with a long scar from eyebrow to chin on his left cheek.

The teacher really took me to task over that one: called it “cliched” and “devicey” and informed me that no editor would ever take it seriously.

Like he would have believed me even if I’d told him I was describing a distant relative!

Anyway, I decided to go on out to the doc’s place and examine the crime scene for myself.

The house and surroundings looked about how you would expect them to. The building itself was an overdone brick, stone and wooden affair with one of those wrap around porches you sometimes see in Queensland, Australia today, or the American south of yesteryear.

I tethered Bill (my trusty Quarter horse) to the porch rail, dismounted and saw nothing of interest either in the yard nor nearby. The house itself was set off from the main road and even that isolated thoroughfare was fairly quiet with only a few luxury cars parked nearby and what looked like a lawn care company van situated near the corner.

I slowly made my way onto the front porch and peered through the slits in the blinds on the small window in the front door. I tried the knob and it opened unexpectedly. The cool blast of the air conditioning unit greeted my perspiring body and I was mighty glad of it. The ride over there, though not much over two hours on horseback, had been under the hottest sunlight of the day. Even though it was getting on towards sunset, the damage had already been done as far as my aging anatomy was concerned. I was happy for the overhang of the porch roof shading my old pony outside.

Now I don’t consider myself overly brainy or anything but anytime there are a couple of decades or more difference in spouses’ ages and the “Mr.” is rich and the “Mrs.” isn’t, my gut starts to tingle just a little bit.

Everything looked jake and I was prepared to agree with the crime boys when I heard a tinkling sound coming from the rear of the house. I wouldn’t say the window exploded or anything, but it definitely resisted an unwanted advance.

I’m a big fella an’ all, but I don’t like being cold-cocked anymore than the next guy so I slipped my Colt .38 detective special from its holster and backed against the wall. The sun was just beginning to say goodbye for the night and deep shadows filled the room, darkening the design on the oriental carpet where I stood, rock still and waiting.

The tinkling was replaced by giggling.

Then the most beautiful twenty-something blond my blood-shot orbs had ever had the pleasure of eye-balling came in, accompanied by the usual accomplice. One of those tattooed idiots with the perpetual “What’s it to you?” look on his pock-marked face. And the blond crew cut with yet another tattoo visible in the center of his pointy dome. The lingering light caught the top of his head as he bent over, revealing the words, “What, Me Worry?” etched in deep, red ink.

I took a deep breath and let it seep out, nice and easy like. I figured it’d be a lot simpler to just reconnoiter rather than to tip my hand this early in the game. At this juncture, I didn’t even know the rules.

While I was musing along this line, the two of them were slowly and quietly going over the place in a desperate search for something of apparently great value, at least to the girl. They were moving in and out of rooms, up and down the hallways of the doctor’s digs, checking corners and crevices, openings and other things that might serve as signposts toward their recovering the missing item(s).

I was alone again: with my thoughts and my gun and my breathing.

Or at least I thought I was.

Very faintly I heard what sounded like panting or gurgling or gagging.

I was just beginning to wonder if maybe the good doctor had left a servant of some kind behind: against their will. I heard the rear door open and close and I breathed easier, figuring young “Bonnie and Clyde” had left the building, presumably searching yet somewhere else for Elvis or whomever had gone missing.

The vocal sounds were replaced by a scratching noise. Slowly and carefully I stepped out and followed the sound to a cupboard deep in the back of the well-appointed room. With gun in hand, I moved to the side of the door and slowly turned the polished brass knob with my right hand, pulling the door toward me.

The panting began again and I stepped around placing me eyeball to eyeball with him.

“Maybe they’re shooting the next installment of Men in Black,” I said to myself as the little fawn-colored Pug stared up into my blue eyes with his wall-eyed brown ones. He looked like he was smiling, mouth agape and panting.

“What’s your story?” I asked.

Right on cue, his mouth closed, the panting stopped and the smile was replaced by a look of deadly seriousness as he cocked his head to one side with an expression that looked for all the world like pity for me.

I crouched down and his smile returned as I scratched him behind the ears. They felt smooth like velvet. His eyes were shiny, globular marbles and nature had worked the fur on his forehead into a well-defined fleur-de-lis. My guess was, this was the little dude for which Blondie had been searching so diligently. At any rate, he was safe now.

I moved to the kitchen, filled his dish with water and set it down near the doorway. Right on cue he trotted toward it, his sharp nails making a ticking sound on the ornate marble floor. He was drinking like there was no tomorrow, his little belly moving up and down rhythmically. Then he finally stopped, stepped back, licked his lips and looked up at me with an idiotic smile just before he suddenly spread out on the cool tile, his front paws on either side of his chin which was flat on the floor, making him appear like a little canine sniper. His large kind eyes followed me as I looked around the kitchen in search of clues. It occurred to me that he looked as if someone had somehow fit a human being into a dog’s body.

“Note to self: purchase a Pug at earliest convenience.”

I was starting to wonder exactly what was what when I heard another sound, this one definitely human…and female, if I could trust my forty plus years of meandering around the fair sex. The Pug continued to follow me with his eyes which were slowly closing from boredom. Me? I could use about a lifetime of it. But that was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now. I had a murder/robbery to solve. Or at the very least, to gather a couple of clues concerning.

I realized the sound was definitely coming from upstairs: the far bedroom I would guess.

So how in the world did a dog and an unknown female elude the searching gaze of the CSU?

Who would return to the scene of a crime to deposit one human and one canine?

And where did the young couple fit in?

While I was musing along these lines the sound became a voice, a rather nice one if I may say: insistent and pleading for assistance from the first unlucky ranger to enter the domicile. I grudgingly obliged and began my ascent of the stairs, the sound of my boots apparently disturbing a canine dream of some kind as the little guy’s paws twitched. His squashed face resembled a baby’s as it passes gas. Maybe he was dreaming of finding just the right tree to mark for posterity.

I was in the corridor now, the voice calling out “Help” with the regularity of a metronome. It was coming from the back bedroom all right and I wasn’t taking any chances. I had my .38 at the ready when I opened the door of the overly done master bedroom of the “silenced sawbones.” It was a rather gaudy affair with a lot of shine to it from silken sheets to silver shavers on the nightstand. I moved toward the walk-in closet and announced myself.

“Deputy Ranger Shelton, here” I barked in the best professional voice I could muster. “Are you all right?”

“Yes…but please…get me out of here!”

With that I slowly unlocked the door and was greeted by the “original” of the young blond I’d seen previously prowling the first floor.

“Well?” she intoned, rather indignantly.

“Well, well” I returned and grunted my way onto my knees to undo her restraints.

“Thank you” she said, sardonically, shaking her freckled arms free and getting herself up onto her sandaled feet. I raised myself up in concert with her.

“Did you get him?”

“Did I get whom?”

Exasperated by my apparent stupidity, she repeated the question.

“I said, did you get him?”

I folded my arms over my chest.

“Ma’am, I’m not sure to whom you refer.”

She clicked her tongue and walked to the window, the faint moonlight making her appear almost angelic. She was quite something all right. As if reading my thoughts, she looked over at me as though she were examining an extra-terrestrial. I was beginning to wonder myself if I hadn’t dropped down from outer space, what with the alien looking dog and all downstairs.

“Why don’t you sit down and we’ll have a chat” I offered as I took a seat on the plush red chair in front of the vanity.

She clicked her tongue again and sat on the edge of the bed, opposite me.

“Name, rank and serial number.” The ice began to thaw and she smiled at that one.

“I’m Kay Hawkins, the doctor’s wife, of course.”

“Of course,” I nodded.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m all right or something?” she asked.

“No need for that, that I can see” I returned.

She simply pursed her beautiful lips.

“So here we are then,” I added.

She squinted at me. “Here we are.”

It turned out that she’d heard the sneak-thief enter the house but was sucker-punched from behind before she could even press any alarm buttons (and the house had plenty of them). She had been unconscious during the entire episode, only stirring when the young couple’s breaking and entering routine had roused her from her unwanted sleep.

“What about the CSU?” I asked.

“CS what?” she countered.

“The crime scene unit that investigated this business.”

“Well, if there was one, I wasn’t aware of it. I heard and saw nothing: nothing at all.”

That explained an awful lot. So there was no investigation prior to mine after all. Why would Kramer send me up here to follow up when there had been no preliminary? And how did he know Jiminy figured into this? And just exactly how was that couple of Pug-chasers involved? My head was beginning to hurt trying to fit pieces of a puzzle together that seemed to come from different boxes.

“Mrs. Hawkins, as I said, I’m Ranger Shelton and I was sent up here to follow up on…to…ah, investigate…”

“Yes…to investigate the robbery?”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit more than that” I offered.

“You see, your husband…your husband is deceased.”

Her face nearly exploded as she gasped, “What?!”

I reached over and patted her tan forearm.

“Just calm down, Ma’am. We’re going to take this very slowly.”

With that, the emotion drained out of her face and she sighed into herself as she seemed to fold inward, any remaining emotional strength slowly oozing out of her body as her shoulders slumped in defeat, her expression empty and nonplussed. She looked up, asked weakly, “Dead, really dead?”

“That’s what my supervisor said, yes.”

She shook her lovely head from side to side as though she were being hypnotized.

“I just can’t believe he’s gone, dead: murdered.”

I pursed my lips trying to think of a rejoinder to that one.

“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your husband?”

Looking vacantly at the floor she responded woodenly. “Not a soul. He was very well liked, Vernon was. Working here was almost like being a country doctor for him, only with a much wealthier class of patients of course.”

“No doubt.”

She looked up at me with those unusual blue eyes, almost cobalt-colored, but with tiny flecks of lighter blue floating in the irises. “Robbery I can understand, but not murder, definitely not murder.”

I sighed out some exasperation and folded my arms over what used to be a six-pack that might have passed with a significant push years ago.

“Anyone else live here, on the premises?”

She pulled a face and looked away from me at that one.

“April…my daughter…doesn’t live here exactly, but does show up often and at rather inopportune times, usually looking for money.”

“She the one the pooch belongs to?”

Touching my forearm, she gasped, “My God, don’t tell me Barney’s been hurt.”

“No,” I reassured her.

“He’s downstairs sleeping off a belly full of water.”

She smiled brightly. “Thank God he’s all right; he’s like a little deformed son to us.”

“Kinda grows on you I would imagine.”

I was just going to suggest to her that she take a trip downtown with me to make an official statement, when the telephone rang. She looked at it, startled, then at me. I nodded and she answered it.

“Yes?”

She shrugged her shoulders at me.

“Why I wouldn’t have any idea; I certainly didn’t. No, I don’t know when another time would be convenient.” She hung up the phone.

Her eyebrows bunched together.

“That was a lawn care service.”

“One you normally use?”

She squinted, as though trying to make some sense of the call. “No; that’s the odd thing. He sounded like I knew all about the appointment.”

“And when was that?”

She shrugged. “He said this afternoon, at four.”

Suddenly, she looked up at me with the expression of a child asking permission of a teacher to use the restroom.

“I’m thirsty suddenly. Would you mind terribly if we continued this downstairs?”

“Not a bit” I lied. I was actually thinking of a nice, cold beer someplace back in town. “I wouldn’t mind whetting my whistle either.”

She smiled stiffly and I followed her downstairs and watched and waited at the table while she fixed us up with two iced teas. Pug opened one sleepy eye only slightly and went back to canine dreamland where he could chase another school bus. What would he do if he were ever able to catch up with one?

She evidently noticed my admiration for the little nasally challenged half-pint.

“As I said, his name’s Barney. Been with us for about six years. You’ll notice the black on his muzzle is starting to turn gray. It happens earlier than folks think. They actually used makeup on ‘Frank’ when they did the second ‘Men in Black’ picture.”

“Guess he did need ‘dental’ after all then, didn’t he?”

“I imagine.”

She suddenly just stopped talking and looked at me with those very unusual eyes. I was so intrigued I could only return her stare. She tried to say something, paused, changed her mind and then resumed her gaze. I was beginning to sense a familiar stirring in the usual places. This was starting to become “awkward” as they say in merry old England.

She sighed.

“I can’t believe he’s gone; the doctor is dead.”

I leaned back in the chair.

“Mrs. Hawkins…”

“Kay,” she interrupted.

“‘Kay,’ I don’t think there’s too much more that can be done about things right now. You’re absolutely certain you didn’t hear anything downstairs earlier, before the break-in, nothing at all from the crime unit search?”

She shook her head in a deliberate “No.”

I looked through the kitchen window into the star-filled night on display. Presently I returned my gaze to those mesmerizing eyes of hers.

“What does your gut tell you?”

She looked down at her shoes, the wheels turning within her beautiful blond head. Her eyes returned to mine again and a smile began to slowly creep onto her pink cheeks.

“Maybe I can help a bit.”

I whirled around to identify the source of the voice but before I could draw my weapon I heard the snick of the hammer on his.

She nodded approvingly and rose from her chair.

“It’s about time; I was beginning to wonder if you’d received a better offer.”

He smiled wickedly.

“Darlin’, there ain’t a better offer than yours on this side of the universe. Just had a coupla things to take care of is all.”

“And what are we supposed to do with him?” she asked.

He sniffed in disgust. Then he put his hands on his hips as he inwardly deliberated the dilemma of them being saddled with a Texas ranger who had just now outgrown his usefulness. He smiled in triumph.

“I think we just take him a ways out of town. Maybe he and ol’ ‘Trigger’ had a little riding mishap on their way over here, you know, to check things out.”

“Why there was a robbery and a murder, wasn’t there?” she said, poker-faced.

He smiled broadly at her.

“That’s right.”

It looked as though someone had somehow turned up the power behind those strangely entrancing eyes of hers. They appeared luminous now as though they had been transported from another world altogether.

“You can get up now, officer” he intoned somberly.

“That’s ‘ranger’ if you don’t mind.”

I stood.

“I do mind and I don’t give a rip about what you call yourself.”

Disgustedly she added, “He’s just a small cog in a large wheel.”

He motioned me toward the front door and I reluctantly did as I was told by the wave of the small canon he held in his right hand.

It was cool and dark now as I mounted my horse and he tethered my hands to the saddle horn. The moonlight caught her eyes as she looked up at me with an odd expression of delight.

“You just follow my car and he’ll follow you; very simple, even for a ‘country bumpkin.’ Simply, ‘follow the leader;’ understand?”

“Perfectly” I rumbled.

A couple of last minute adjustments by them sent us on our way.

During the ride I allowed myself to drift off into “alpha-ville,” that in-between state where the brain is in daydream mode and the body relaxes,. My horse and I had navigated all kinds of terrain in all types of weather under sunlight and moonlight. He was practically “bomb-proof.” I say “practically” because he did spook and land me in that ravine right on cue as they’d planned when they left us miles away from nowhere in particular.

Oh, and did I mention that I was blindfolded during the entire episode?

My guess is we were at least five miles from where we’d started out and I had no idea which direction from the house that was. I do know it had been all back roads and rocky paths and a patch of woods where lonely owls serenaded our little impromptu caravan.

I heard the brakes on her car complain a little and I relaxed in the saddle, pulling up slightly on the reins and bringing my horse to a gentler stop than either vehicle’s. The doors opened and slammed in unison and I listened to their footsteps make their way over to me.

There were four pairs of them.

“Who’ve we been joined by?”

He chuckled. “Hey, hey the gang’s all here!”

“Great, let’s have a party” I grunted.

“‘fraid the party’s over, at least as far as you’re concerned” she announced.

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” I offered.

I heard the scuffle of feet, listened to them discussing their final preparations.

“April, you and Jason take Barney with you across the border and just check into the hotel and wait. For God’s sake don’t give the dog any Mexican food.”

“We know better than that, Mom.”

“We got it all under control, Mrs. Hawkins. We did the house bit okay, didn’t we?”

“I want to believe that, Jason. Just don’t disappoint me.”

My friend with the gun added his two cents worth.

“An actual ‘double indemnity’ clause. James M. Cain would be so proud of this deal.”

She responded with a breathy, “Close to five million dollars.”

“Plus the contents of the safe” he added.

“Which will unfortunately never be recovered” she said.

“Unfortunately,” he agreed with a chuckle.

I could sense the seriousness of his next question.

“How much did Captain Kramer get us for, for getting this joker involved?”

“Only fifty grand” she said.

“What a piker!” he added with a click of his tongue.

“To the hungry soul, every bitter thing is sweet” she concluded.

“He’s pinning it on this low-life Jiminy character?”

“That will be his story, yes” she replied calmly.

My head was spinning.

The facts of this case were whirling around my fuzzy brain like swaths of cotton candy, surrounding my slowed thinking like so much invisible gauze.

There was absolutely nothing I could do about any of this, now or later. It was all sewn up tighter than the handkerchief around my head.

The stranger concluded his end of the conversation with, “I guess I can finally say goodbye to this lawn care van and all that goes with.”

With that, they kissed. I heard her moan, him groan and her daughter’s car engine suddenly roar to life and backfire, spraying gravel toward me and my horse.

As Bill reared and I left the saddle, Kay’s lover’s last remark replayed itself in my mind as I prepared for a painful landing on the rough and unforgiving terrain below.

I mused, “So, the gardener did it.”

THE LION’S SMILE, by Thomas W. Hanshew

T was on the very stroke of five when Cleek, answering an urgent message from headquarters, strolled into the bar parlor of “The Fiddle and Horseshoe,” which, as you may possibly know, stands near to the Green in a somewhat picturesque by-path between Shepherd’s Bush and Acton, and found Narkom in the very act of hanging up his hat and withdrawing his gloves preparatory to ordering tea.

“My dear Cleek, what a model of punctuality you are,” said the superintendent, as he came forward and shook hands with him. “You would put Father Time himself to the blush with your abnormal promptness. Do make yourself comfortable for a moment or two while I go and order tea. I’ve only just arrived. Shan’t be long, old chap.”

“Pray don’t hurry yourself upon my account, Mr. Narkom,” replied Cleek, as he tossed his hat and gloves upon a convenient table and strolled leisurely to the window and looked out on the quaint, old-fashioned arbor-bordered bowling green, all steeped in sunshine and zoned with the froth of pear and apple blooms, thick-piled above the time-stained brick of the enclosing wall. “These quaint old inns, which the march of what we are pleased to call ‘progress’ is steadily crowding off the face of the land, are always deeply interesting to me; I love them. What a day! What a picture! What a sky! As blue as what Dollops calls the ‘Merry Geranium Sea.’ I’d give a Jew’s eye for a handful of those apple blossoms, they are divine!”

Narkom hastened from the room without replying. The strain of poetry underlying the character of this strange, inscrutable man, his amazing love of Nature, his moments of almost womanish weakness and sentiment, astonished and mystified him. It was as if a hawk had acquired the utterly useless trick of fluting like a nightingale, and being himself wholly without imagination, he could not comprehend it in the smallest degree.

When he returned a few minutes later, however, the idealist seemed to have simmered down into the materialist, the extraordinary to have become merged in the ordinary, for he found his famous ally no longer studying the beauties of Nature, but giving his whole attention to the sordid commonplaces of man. He was standing before a glaringly printed bill, one of many that were tacked upon the walls, which set forth in amazing pictures and double-leaded type the wonders that were to be seen daily and nightly at Olympia, where, for a month past, “Van Zant’s Royal Belgian Circus and World-famed Menagerie” had been holding forth to “Crowded and delighted audiences.” Much was made of two “star turns” upon this lurid bill: “Mademoiselle Marie de Zanoni, the beautiful and peerless bare-back equestrienne, the most daring lady rider in the universe,” for the one; and, for the other, “Chevalier Adrian di Roma, king of the animal world, with his great aggregation of savage and ferocious wild beasts, including the famous man-eating African lion, Nero, the largest and most ferocious animal of its species in captivity.” And under this latter announcement there was a picture of a young and handsome man, literally smothered with medals, lying at full length, with his arms crossed and his head in the wide-open jaws of a snarling, wild-eyed lion.

“My dear chap, you really do make me believe that there actually is such a thing as instinct,” said Narkom, as he came in. “Fancy your selecting that particular bill out of all the others in the room! What an abnormal individual you are!”

“Why? Has it anything to do with the case you have in hand?”

“Anything to do with it? My dear fellow, it is ‘the case.’ I can’t imagine what drew your attention to it.”

“Can’t you?” said Cleek, with a half smile. Then he stretched forth his hand and touched the word “Nero” with the tip of his forefinger. “That did. Things awaken a man’s memory occasionally, Mr. Narkom, and— Tell me, isn’t that the beast there was such a stir about in the newspapers a fortnight or so ago, the lion that crushed the head of a man in full view of the audience?”

“Yes,” replied Narkom, with a slight shudder. “Awful thing, wasn’t it? Gave me the creeps to read about it. The chap who was killed, poor beggar, was a mere boy, not twenty, son of the Chevalier di Roma himself. There was a great stir about it. Talk of the authorities forbidding the performance, and all that sort of thing. They never did, however, for on investigation— Ah, the tea at last, thank fortune. Come, sit down, my dear fellow, and we’ll talk whilst we refresh ourselves. Landlady, see that we are not disturbed, will you, and that nobody is admitted but the parties I mentioned?”

“Clients?” queried Cleek, as the door closed and they were alone together.

“Yes. One, Mlle. Zelie, the ‘chevalier’s’ only daughter, a slack-wire artist; the other, Signor Scarmelli, a trapeze performer, who is the lady’s fiancé.”

“Ah, then our friend the chevalier is not so young as the picture on the bill would have us believe he is.”

“No, he is not. As a matter of fact, he is considerably past forty, and is, or rather, was, up to six months ago, a widower, with three children, two sons and a daughter.”

“I suppose,” said Cleek, helping himself to a buttered scone, “I am to infer from what you say that at the period mentioned, six months ago, the intrepid gentleman showed his courage yet more forcibly by taking a second wife? Young or old?”

“Young,” said Narkom in reply. “Very young, not yet four-and-twenty, in fact, and very, very beautiful. That is she who is ‘featured’ on the bill as the star of the equestrian part of the program: ‘Mlle. Marie de Zanoni.’ So far as I have been able to gather, the affair was a love match. The lady, it appears, had no end of suitors, both in and out of the profession; it has even been hinted that she could, had she been so minded, have married an impressionable young Austrian nobleman of independent means who was madly in love with her; but she appears to have considered it preferable to become ‘an old man’s darling,’ so to speak, and to have selected the middle-aged chevalier rather than some one whose age is nearer her own.”

“Nothing new in that, Mr. Narkom. Young women before Mlle. Marie de Zanoni’s day have been known to love elderly men sincerely: young Mrs. Bawdrey, in the case of The Nine-fingered Skeleton,’ is an example of that. Still, such marriages are not common, I admit, so when they occur one naturally looks to see if there may not be ‘other considerations’ at the bottom of the attachment. Is the chevalier well-to-do? Has he expectations of any kind?”

“To the contrary; he has nothing, but the salary he earns, which is by no means so large as the public imagines; and as he comes of a long line of circus performers, all of whom died early and poor, ‘expectations,’ as you put it, do not enter into the affair at all. Apparently the lady did marry him for love of him, as she professes and as he imagines; although, if what I hear is true, it would appear that she has lately outgrown that love. It seems that a Romeo more suitable to her age has recently joined the show in the person of a rider called Signor Antonio Martinelli; that he has fallen desperately in love with her, and that——”

He bit off his words short and rose to his feet. The door had opened suddenly to admit a young man and a young woman, who entered in a state of nervous excitement. “Ah, my dear Mr. Scarmelli, you and Miss Zelie are most welcome,” continued the superintendent.

“My friend and I were this moment talking about you.”

Cleek glanced across the room, and, as was customary with him, made up his mind instantly. The girl, despite her association with the arena, was a modest, unaffected little thing of about eighteen; the man was a straight-looking, clear-eyed, boyish-faced young fellow of about eight-and-twenty, well, but by no means flashily, dressed, and carrying himself with the air of one who respects himself and demands the respect of others. He was evidently an Englishman, despite his Italian nom de théâtre, and Cleek decided out of hand that he liked him.

“We can shelve ‘George Headland’ in this instance, Mr. Narkom,” he said, as the superintendent led forward the pair for the purpose of introducing them, and suffered himself to be presented in the name of Cleek.

The effect of this was electrical; would, in fact, had he been a vain man have been sufficient to gratify him to the fullest, for the girl, with a little “Oh!” of amazement, drew back and stood looking at him with a sort of awe that rounded her eyes and parted her lips, while the man leaned heavily upon the back of a convenient chair and looked and acted as one utterly overcome.

“Cleek!” he repeated, after a moment’s despairful silence. “You, sir, are that great man? This is a misfortune indeed.”

“A misfortune, my friend? Why a ‘misfortune,’ pray? Do you think the riddle you have brought is beyond my powers?”

“Oh, no; not that—never that!” he made reply. “If there is any one man in the world who could get at the bottom of it, could solve the mystery of the lion’s change, the lion’s smile, you are that man, sir, you. That is the misfortune: that you could do it, and yet I cannot expect it, cannot avail myself of this great opportunity. Look! I am doing it all on my own initiative, sir, for the sake of Zelie and that dear, lovable old chap, her father. I have saved fifty-eight pounds, Mr. Cleek. I had hoped that that might tempt a clever detective to take up the case; but what is such a sum to such a man as you?”

“If that is all that stands in the way, don’t let it worry you, my good fellow,” said Cleek, with a smile. “Put your fifty-eight pounds in your pocket against your wedding-day and good luck to you. I’ll take the case for nothing. Now then, what is it? What the dickens did you mean just now when you spoke about ‘the lion’s change’ and ‘the lion’s smile’? What lion—Nero? Here, sit down and tell me all about it.”

“There is little enough to tell, Heavens knows,” said young Scarmelli, with a sigh, accepting the invitation after he had gratefully wrung Cleek’s hand, and his fiancée, with a burst of happy tears, had caught it up as it slipped from his and had covered it with thankful kisses. “That, Mr. Cleek, is where the greatest difficulty lies, there is so little to explain that has any bearing upon the matter at all. It is only that the lion, Nero, that is, the chevalier’s special pride and special pet, seems to have undergone some great and inexplicable change, as though he is at times under some evil spell, which lasts but a moment and yet makes that moment a tragical one. It began, no one knows why nor how, two weeks ago, when, without hint or warning, he killed the person he loved best in all the world, the chevalier’s eldest son. Doubtless you have heard of that?”

“Yes,” said Cleek. “But what you are now telling me sheds a new light upon the matter. Am I to understand, then, that all that talk, on the bills and in the newspapers, about the lion being savage and a dangerous one is not true, and that he really is attached to his owner and his owner’s family?”

“Yes,” said Scarmelli. “He is indeed the gentlest, most docile, most intelligent beast of his kind living. In short, sir, there’s not a ‘bite’ in him; and, added to that, he is over thirty years old. Zelie, Miss di Roma, will tell you that he was born in captivity; that from his earliest moment he has been the pet of her family; that he was, so to speak, raised with her and her brothers; that, as children, they often slept with him; and that he will follow those he loves like any dog, fight for them, protect them, let them tweak his ears and pull his tail without showing the slightest resentment, even though they may actually hurt him. Indeed, he is so general a favorite, Mr. Cleek, that there isn’t an attendant connected with the show who would not, and, indeed, has not at some time, put his head in the beast’s mouth, just as the chevalier does in public, certain that no harm could possibly come of the act.

“You may judge, then, sir, what a shock, what a horrible surprise it was when the tragedy of two weeks ago occurred. Often, to add zest to the performance, the chevalier varies it by allowing his children to put their heads into Nero’s mouth instead of doing so himself, merely making a fake of it that he has the lion under such control that he will respect any command given by him. That is what happened on that night. Young Henri was chosen to put his head into Nero’s mouth, and did so without fear or hesitation. He took the beast’s jaws and pulled them apart, and laid his head within them, as he had done a hundred times before; but, of a sudden an appalling, an uncanny, thing happened. It was as though some supernatural power laid hold of the beast and made a thing of horror of what a moment before had been a noble-looking animal. Suddenly a strange hissing noise issued from its jaws, its lips curled upward until it smiled—smiled, Mr. Cleek!—oh, the ghastliest, most awful, most blood-curdling smile imaginable, and then, with a sort of mingled snarl and bark, it clamped its jaws together and crushed the boy’s head as though it were an egg-shell!”

He put up his hands and covered his eyes as if to shut out some appalling vision, and for a moment or two nothing was heard but the low sobbing of the victim’s sister.

“As suddenly as that change had come over the beast, Mr. Cleek,” Scarmelli went on presently, “just so suddenly it passed, and it was the docile, affectionate animal it had been for years. It seemed to understand that some harm had befallen its favorite—for Henri was its favorite—and, curling itself up beside his body, it licked his hands and moaned disconsolately in a manner almost human. That’s all there is to tell, sir, save that at times the horrid change, the appalling smile, repeat themselves when either the chevalier or his son bend to put a head within its jaws, and but for their watchfulness and quickness the tragedy of that other awful night would surely be repeated. Sir, it is not natural; I know now, as surely as if the lion itself had spoken, that some one is at the bottom of this ghastly thing, that some human agency is at work, some unknown enemy of the chevalier’s is doing something, God alone knows what or why, to bring about his death as his son’s was brought about.”

And here, for the first time, the chevalier’s daughter spoke.

“Ah, tell him all, Jim, tell him all!” she said, in her pretty broken English. “Monsieur, may the good God in heaven forgive me if I wrong her; but—but— Ah, Monsieur Cleek, sometimes I feel that she, my stepmother, and that man, that ‘rider’ who knows not how to ride as the artist should, monsieur, I cannot help it, but I feel that they are at the bottom of it.”

“Yes, but why?” queried Cleek. “I have heard of your father’s second marriage, mademoiselle, and of this Signor Antonio Martinelli, to whom you allude. Mr. Narkom has told me. But why should you connect these two persons with this inexplicable thing? Does your father do so, too?”

“Oh, no! oh, no!” she answered excitedly. “He does not even know that we suspect, Jim and I. He loves her, monsieur. It would kill him to doubt her.”

“Then why should you?”

“Because I cannot help it, monsieur. God knows, I would if I could, for I care for her dearly, I am grateful to her for making my father happy. My brothers, too, cared for her. We believed she loved him; we believed it was because of that that she married him. And yet—and yet— Ah, monsieur, how can I fail to feel as I do when this change in the lion came with that man’s coming? And she—ah, monsieur, why is she always with him? Why does she curry favor of him and his rich friend?”

“He has a rich friend, then?”

“Yes, monsieur. The company was in difficulties; Monsieur van Zant, the proprietor, could not make it pay, and it was upon the point of disbanding. But suddenly this indifferent performer, this rider who is, after all, but a poor amateur and not fit to appear with a company of trained artists, suddenly this Signor Martinelli comes to Monsieur van Zant to say that, if he will engage him, he has a rich friend, one Señor Sperati, a Brazilian coffee planter, who will ‘back’ the show with his money, and buy a partnership in it. Of course M. van Zant accepted; and since then this Señor Sperati has traveled everywhere with us, has had the entrée like one of us, and his friend, the bad rider, has fairly bewitched my stepmother, for she is ever with him, ever with them both, and—and— Ah, mon Dieu! the lion smiles, and my people die! Why does it ‘smile’ for no others? Why is it only they, my father, my brother, they alone?”

“Is that a fact?” said Cleek, turning to young Scarmelli. “You say that all connected with the circus have so little fear of the beast that even attendants sometimes do this foolhardy trick? Does the lion never ‘smile’ for any of those?”

“Never, Mr. Cleek, never under any circumstances. Nor does it always smile for the chevalier and his son. That is the mystery of it. One never knows when it is going to happen; one never knows why it does happen. But if you could see that uncanny smile—”

“I should like to,” interposed Cleek. “That is, if it might happen without any tragical result. Hum-m-m! Nobody but the chevalier and the chevalier’s son! And when does it happen in their case, during the course of the show, or when there is nobody about but those connected with it?”

“Oh, always during the course of the entertainment, sir. Indeed, it has never happened at any other time—never at all.”

“Oho!” said Cleek. “Then it is only when they are dressed and made up for the performance, eh? Hum-m-m! I see.” Then he lapsed into silence for a moment, and sat tracing circles on the floor with the toe of his boot. But, of a sudden: “You came here directly after the matinée, I suppose?” he queried, glancing up at young Scarmelli.

“Yes; in fact, before it was wholly over.”

“I see. Then it is just possible that all the performers have not yet got into their civilian clothes. Couldn’t manage to take me round behind the scenes, so to speak, if Mr. Narkom will lend us his motor to hurry us there? Could, eh? That’s good. I think I’d like to have a look at that lion and, if you don’t mind, an introduction to the parties concerned. No! don’t fear; we won’t startle anybody by revealing my identity or the cause of the visit. Let us say that I’m a vet. to whom you have appealed for an opinion regarding Nero’s queer conduct. All ready, Mr. Narkom? Then let’s be off.”

Two minutes later the red limousine was at the door, and, stepping into it with his two companions, he was whizzed away to Olympia and the first step toward the solution of the riddle.

II

As it is the custom of those connected with the world of the circus to eat, sleep, have their whole being, as it were, within the environment of the show, to the total exclusion of hotels, boarding-houses, or outside lodgings of any sort, he found on his arrival at his destination the entire company assembled in what was known as the “living-tent,” chatting, laughing, reading, playing games and killing time generally whilst waiting for the call to the “dining-tent,” and this gave him an opportunity to meet all the persons connected with the “case,” from the “chevalier” himself to the Brazilian coffee planter who was “backing” the show.

He found this latter individual a somewhat sullen and taciturn man of middle age, who had more the appearance of an Austrian than a Brazilian, and with a swinging gait and an uprightness of bearing which were not to be misunderstood.

“Humph! Known military training,” was Cleek’s mental comment as soon as he saw the man walk. “Got it in Germany, too; I know that peculiar ‘swing.’ What’s his little game, I wonder? And what’s a Brazilian doing in the army of the Kaiser? And, having been in it, what’s he doing dropping into this line; backing a circus, and traveling with it like a Bohemian?”

But although these thoughts interested him, he did not put them into words nor take anybody into his confidence regarding them.

As for the other members of the company, he found “the indifferent rider,” known as Signor Antonio Martinelli, an undoubted Irishman of about thirty years of age, extremely handsome, but with a certain “shiftiness” of the eye which was far from inspiring confidence, and with a trick of the tongue which suggested that his baptismal certificate probably bore the name of Anthony Martin. He found, too, that all he had heard regarding the youth and beauty of the chevalier’s second wife was quite correct, and although she devoted herself a great deal to the Brazilian coffee planter and the Irish-Italian “Martinelli,” she had a way of looking over at her middle-aged spouse, without his knowledge, that left no doubt in Cleek’s mind regarding the real state of her feelings toward the man. And last, but not least by any means, he found the chevalier himself a frank, open-minded, open-hearted, lovable man, who ought not, in the natural order of things, to have an enemy in the world. Despite his high-falutin nom de théâtre, he was a Belgian, a big, soft-hearted, easy-going, unsuspicious fellow, who worshiped his wife, adored his children, and loved every creature of the animal world.

How well that love was returned, Cleek saw when he went with him to that part of the building where his animals were kept, and watched them “nose” his hand or lick his cheek whenever the opportunity offered. But Nero, the lion, was perhaps the greatest surprise of all, for so tame, so docile, so little feared was the animal, that its cage door was open, and they found one of the attendants squatting cross-legged inside and playing with it as though it were a kitten.

“There he is, doctor,” said the chevalier, waving his hand toward the beast. “Ah, I will not believe that it was anything but an accident, sir. He loved my boy. He would hurt no one that is kind to him. Fetch him out, Tom, and let the doctor see him at close quarters.”

Despite all these assurances of the animal’s docility Cleek could not but remember what the creature had done, and, in consequence, did not feel quite at ease when it came lumbering out of the cage with the attendant and ranged up alongside of him, rubbing its huge head against the chevalier’s arm after the manner of an affectionate cat.

“Don’t be frightened, sir,” said Tom, noticing this. “Nothing more’n a big dog, sir. Had the care of him for eight years, I have—haven’t I, chevalier?—and never a growl or scratch out of him. No ‘smile’ for your old Tom, is there, Nero, boy, eh? No fear! Ain’t a thing as anybody does with him, sir, that I wouldn’t do off-hand and feel quite safe.”

“Even to putting your head in his mouth?” queried Cleek.

“Lor’, yes!” returned the man, with a laugh. “That’s nothing. Done it many a day. Look here!” With that he pulled the massive jaws apart, and, bending down, laid his head within them. The lion stood perfectly passive, and did not offer to close his mouth until it was again empty. It was then that Cleek remembered, and glanced round at young Scarmelli.

“He never ‘smiles’ for any but the chevalier and his son, I believe you said,” he remarked. “I wonder if the chevalier himself would be as safe if he were to make a feint of doing that?” For the chevalier, like most of the other performers, had not changed his dress after the matinée, since the evening performance was so soon to begin; and if, as Cleek had an idea, the matter of costume and make-up had anything to do with the mystery of the thing, here, surely, was a chance to learn.

“Make a feint of it? Certainly I will, doctor,” the chevalier replied. “But why a feint? Why not the actual thing?”

“No, please—at least, not until I have seen how the beast is likely to take it. Just put your head down close to his muzzle, chevalier. Go slow, please, and keep your head at a safe distance.”

The chevalier obeyed. Bringing his head down until it was on a level with the animal’s own, he opened the ponderous jaws. The beast was as passive as before; and, finding no trace of the coming of the mysterious and dreaded “smile,” he laid his face between the double row of gleaming teeth, held it there a moment, and then withdrew it uninjured. Cleek took his chin between his thumb and forefinger and pinched it hard. What he had just witnessed would seem to refute the idea of either costume or make-up having any bearing upon the case.

“Did you do that to-day at the matinée performance, chevalier?” he hazarded, after a moment’s thoughtfulness.

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “It was not my plan to do so, however. I alter my performance constantly to give variety. To-day I had arranged for my little son to do the trick; but somehow— Ah! I am a foolish man, monsieur; I have odd fancies, odd whims, sometimes odd fears, since—since that awful night. Something came over me at the last moment, and just as my boy came into the cage to perform the trick I changed my mind. I would not let him do it. I thrust him aside and did the trick myself.”

“Oho!” said Cleek. “Will the boy do it to-night, then, chevalier?”

“Perhaps,” he made reply. “He is still dressed for it. Look, here he comes now, monsieur, and my wife, and some of our good friends with him. Ah, they are so interested, they are anxious to hear what report you make upon Nero’s condition.”

Cleek glanced round. Several members of the company were advancing toward them from the “living-tent.” In the lead was the boy, a little fellow of about twelve years of age, fancifully dressed in tights and tunic. By his side was his stepmother, looking pale and anxious. But although both Signor Martinelli and the Brazilian coffee planter came to the edge of the tent and looked out, it was observable that they immediately withdrew, and allowed the rest of the party to proceed without them.

“Dearest, I have just heard from Tom that you and the doctor are experimenting with Nero,” said the chevalier’s wife, as she came up with the others and joined him. “Oh, do be careful, do! Much as I like the animal, doctor, I shall never feel safe until my husband parts with it or gives up that ghastly ‘trick.’”

“My dearest, my dearest, how absurdly you talk!” interrupted her husband. “You know well that without that my act would be commonplace, that no manager would want either it or me. And how, pray, should we live if that were to happen?”

“There would always be my salary; we could make that do.”

“As if I would consent to live upon your earnings and add nothing myself! No, no! I shall never do that, never. It is not as though that foolish dream of long ago had come true, and I might hope one day to retire. I am of the circus, and of it I shall always remain.”

“I wish you might not; I wish the dream might come true, even yet,” she made reply. “Why shouldn’t it? Wilder ones have come true for other people; why should they not for you?”

Before her husband could make any response to this, the whole trend of the conversation was altered by the boy.

“Father,” he said, “am I to do the trick to-night? Señor Sperati says it is silly of me to sit about all dressed and ready if I am to do nothing, like a little super, instead of a performer, and an artist.”

“Oh, but that is not kind of the señor to say that,” his father replied, soothing his ruffled feelings. “You are an artist, of course; never super—no, never. But if you shall do the trick or not, I cannot say. It will depend, as it did at the matinée. If I feel it is right, you shall do it; but if I feel it is wrong, then it must be no. You see, doctor,” catching Cleek’s eye, “what a little enthusiast he is, and with how little fear.”

“Yes, I do see, chevalier; but I wonder if he would be willing to humor me in something? As he is not afraid, I’ve an odd fancy to see how he’d go about the thing. Would you mind letting him make the feint you yourself made a few minutes ago? Only, I must insist that in this instance it be nothing more than a feint, chevalier. Don’t let him go too near at the time of doing it. Don’t let him open the lion’s jaws with his own hands. You do that. Do you mind?”

“Of a certainty not, monsieur. Gustave, show the good doctor how you go about it when papa lets you do the trick. But you are not really to do it just yet, only to bend the head near to Nero’s mouth. Now then, come see.”

As he spoke he divided the lion’s jaws and signaled the child to bend. He obeyed. Very slowly the little head drooped nearer to the gaping, full-fanged mouth, very slowly and very carefully, for Cleek’s hand was on the boy’s shoulder, Cleek’s eyes were on the lion’s face. The huge brute was as meek and as undisturbed as before, and there was actual kindness in its fixed eyes. But of a sudden, when the child’s head was on a level with those gaping jaws, the lips curled backward in a ghastly parody of a smile, a weird, uncanny sound whizzed through the bared teeth, the passive body bulked as with a shock, and Cleek had just time to snatch the boy back when the great jaws struck together with a snap that would have splintered a skull of iron had they closed upon it.

The hideous and mysterious “smile” had come again, and, brief though it was, its passing found the boy’s sister lying on the ground in a dead faint, the boy’s stepmother cowering back, with covered eyes and shrill, affrighted screams, and the boy’s father leaning, shaken and white, against the empty cage and nursing a bleeding hand.

In an instant the whole place was in an uproar. “It smiled again! It smiled again!” ran in broken gasps from lip to lip; but through it all Cleek stood there, clutching the frightened child close to him, but not saying one word, not making one sound. Across the dark arena came a rush of running footsteps, and presently Señor Sperati came panting up, breathless and pale with excitement.

“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” he cried. “Is it the lion again? Is the boy killed? Speak up!”

“No,” said Cleek very quietly, “nor will he be. The father will do the trick to-night, not the son. We’ve had a fright and a lesson, that’s all.” And, putting the sobbing child from him, he caught young Scarmelli’s arm and hurried him away. “Take me somewhere that we can talk in safety,” he said. “We are on the threshold of the end, Scarmelli, and I want your help.”

“Oh, Mr. Cleek, have you any idea, any clue?”

“Yes, more than a clue. I know how, but I have not yet discovered why. Now, if you know, tell me what did the chevalier mean, what did his wife mean, when they spoke of a dream that might have come true but didn’t? Do you know? Have you any idea? Or, if you have not, do you think your fiancée has?”

“Why, yes,” he made reply. “Zelie has told me about it often. It is of a fortune that was promised and never materialized. Oh, such a long time ago, when he was quite a young man, the chevalier saved the life of a very great man, a Prussian nobleman of great wealth. He was profuse in his thanks and his promises, that nobleman; swore that he would make him independent for life, and all that sort of thing.”

“And didn’t?”

“No, he didn’t. After a dozen letters promising the chevalier things that almost turned his head, the man dropped him entirely. In the midst of his dreams of wealth a letter came from the old skinflint’s steward enclosing him the sum of six hundred marks, and telling him that as his master had come to the conclusion that wealth would be more of a curse than a blessing to a man of his class and station, he had thought better of his rash promise. He begged to tender the enclosed as a proper and sufficient reward for the service rendered, and ‘should not trouble the young man any further.’ Of course, the chevalier didn’t reply. Who would, after having been promised wealth, education, everything one had confessed that one most desired? Being young, high-spirited, and bitterly, bitterly disappointed, the chevalier bundled the six hundred marks back without a single word, and that was the last he ever heard of the Baron von Steinheid from that day to this.”

“The Baron von Steinheid?” repeated Cleek, pulling himself up as though he had trodden upon something. “Do you mean to say that the man whose life he saved— Scarmelli, tell me something: Does it happen by any chance that the ‘Chevalier di Roma’s’ real name is Peter Janssen Pullaine?”

“Yes,” said Scarmelli, in reply. “That is his name. Why?”

“Nothing, but that it solves the riddle, and the lion has smiled for the last time! No, don’t ask me any questions; there isn’t time to explain. Get me as quickly as you can to the place where we left Mr. Narkom’s motor. Will this way lead me out? Thanks! Get back to the others, and look for me again in two hours’ time; and Scarmelli?”

“Yes, sir?”

“One last word: don’t let that boy get out of your sight for one instant, and don’t, no matter at what cost, let the chevalier do his turn to-night before I get back. Good-bye for a time. I’m off.”

Then he moved like a fleetly passing shadow round the angle of the building, and two minutes later was with Narkom in the red limousine.

“To the German embassy as fast as we can fly,” he said as he scrambled in. “I’ve something to tell you about that lion’s smile, Mr. Narkom, and I’ll tell it while we’re on the wing.”

III

It was nine o’clock and after. The great show at Olympia was at its height; the packed house was roaring with delight over the daring equestrianship of “Mademoiselle Marie de Zanoni,” and the sound of the cheers rolled in to the huge dressing-tent, where the artists awaited their several turns, and the chevalier, in spangled trunks and tights, all ready for his call, sat hugging his child and shivering like a man with the ague.

“Come, come, buck up, man, and don’t funk it like this,” said Señor Sperati, who had graciously consented to assist him with his dressing because of the injury to his hand. “The idea of you losing your nerve, you of all men, and because of a little affair like that. You know very well that Nero is as safe as a kitten to-night, that he never has two smiling turns in the same week, much less the same day. Your act’s the next on the program. Buck up and go at it like a man.”

“I can’t, señor, I can’t!” almost wailed the chevalier. “My nerve is gone. Never, if I live to be a thousand, shall I forget that awful moment, that appalling ‘smile.’ I tell you there is wizardry in the thing; the beast is bewitched. My work in the arena is done, done forever, señor. I shall never have courage to look into the beast’s jaws again.”

“Rot! You’re not going to ruin the show, are you, and after all the money I’ve put into it? If you have no care for yourself, it’s your duty to think about me. You can at least try. I tell you you must try! Here, take a sip of brandy, and see if that won’t put a bit of courage into you. Hallo!” as a burst of applause and the thud of a horse’s hoofs down the passage to the stables came rolling in, “there’s your wife’s turn over at last; and there—listen! the ringmaster is announcing yours. Get up, man; get up and go out.”

“I can’t, señor, I can’t! I can’t!”

“But I tell you you must.”

And just here an interruption came.

“Bad advice, my dear captain,” said a voice, Cleek’s voice, from the other end of the tent; and with a twist and a snarl the “señor” screwed round on his heel in time to see that other intruders were putting in an appearance as well as this unwelcome one.

“Who the deuce asked you for your opinion?” rapped out the “señor” savagely. “And what are you doing in here, anyhow? If we want the service of a vet., we’re quite capable of getting one for ourselves without having him shove his presence upon us unasked.”

“You are quite capable of doing a great many things, my dear captain, even making lions smile!” said Cleek serenely. “It would appear that the gallant Captain von Gossler, nephew, and, in the absence of one who has a better claim, heir to the late Baron von Steinheid— That’s it, nab the beggar. Played, sir, played! Hustle him out and into the cab, with his precious confederate, the Irish-Italian ‘signor,’ and make a clean sweep of the pair of them. You’ll find it a neck-stretching game, captain, I’m afraid, when the jury comes to hear of that poor boy’s death and your beastly part in it.”

By this time the tent was in an uproar, for the chevalier’s wife had come hurrying in, the chevalier’s daughter was on the verge of hysterics, and the chevalier’s prospective son-in-law, was alternately hugging the great beast-tamer and then shaking his hand and generally deporting himself like a respectable young man who had suddenly gone daft.

“Governor!” he cried, half laughing, half sobbing. “Bully old governor. It’s over—it’s over. Never any more danger, never any more bad times, never any more lion’s smiles.”

“No, never,” said Cleek. “Come here, Madame Pullaine, and hear the good news with the rest. You married for love, and you’ve proved a brick. The dream’s come true, and the life of ease and of luxury is yours at last, Mr. Pullaine.”

“But, sir, I—I do not understand,” stammered the chevalier. “What has happened? Why have you arrested the Señor Sperati? What has he done? I cannot comprehend.”

“Can’t you? Well, it so happens, chevalier, that the Baron von Steinheid died something like two months ago, leaving the sum of sixty thousand pounds sterling to one Peter Janssen Pullaine and the heirs of his body, and that a certain Captain von Gossler, son of the baron’s only sister, meant to make sure that there was no Peter Janssen Pullaine and no heirs of his body to inherit one farthing of it.”

“Sir! Dear God, can this be true?”

“Perfectly true, chevalier. The late baron’s solicitors have been advertising for some time for news regarding the whereabouts of Peter Janssen Pullaine, and if you had not so successfully hidden your real name under that of your professional one, no doubt some of your colleagues would have put you in the way of finding it out long ago. The baron did not go back on his word and did not act ungratefully. His will, dated twenty-nine years ago, was never altered in a single particular. I rather suspect that that letter and that gift of money which came to you in the name of his steward, and was supposed to close the affair entirely, was the work of his nephew, the gentleman whose exit has just been made. A crafty individual that, chevalier, and he laid his plans cleverly and well. Who would be likely to connect him with the death of a beast-tamer in a circus, who had perished in what would appear an accident of his calling? Ah, yes, the lion’s smile was a clever idea. He was a sharp rascal to think of it.”

“Sir! You—you do not mean to tell me that he caused that? He never went near the beast—never—even once.”

“Not necessary, chevalier. He kept near you and your children; that was all that he needed to do to carry out his plan. The lion was as much his victim as anybody else. What it did it could not help doing. The very simplicity of the plan was its passport to success. All that was required was the unsuspected sifting of snuff on the hair of the person whose head was to be put in the beast’s mouth. The lion’s smile was not, properly speaking, a smile at all, chevalier; it was the torture which came of snuff getting into its nostrils, and when the beast made that uncanny noise and snapped its jaws together, it was simply the outcome of a sneeze. The thing would be farcical if it were not that tragedy hangs on the thread of it, and that a life, a useful human life, was destroyed by means of it. Yes, it was clever, it was diabolically clever; but you know what Bobby Burns says about the best-laid schemes of mice and men. There’s always a Power higher up that works the ruin of them.”

With that he walked by and, going to young Scarmelli, put out his hand.

“You’re a good chap and you’ve got a good girl, so I expect you will be happy,” he said; and then lowered his voice so that the rest might not reach the chevalier’s ears. “You were wrong to suspect the little stepmother,” he added. “She’s true blue, Scarmelli. She was only playing up to those fellows because she was afraid the ‘señor’ would drop out and close the show if she didn’t, and that she and her husband and the children would be thrown out of work. She loves her husband—that’s certain—and she’s a good little woman; and, Scarmelli?”

“Yes, Mr. Cleek?”

“There’s nothing better than a good woman on this earth, my lad. Always remember that. I think you, too, have got one. I hope you have. I hope you will be happy. What’s that? Owe me? Not a rap, my boy. Or, if you feel that you must give me something, give me your prayers for equal luck when my time comes, and send me a slice of the wedding cake. The riddle’s solved, old chap. Good-night!”

THE NAIL, by Pedro de Alarçon

I

The thing which is most ardently desired by a man who steps into a stagecoach, bent upon a long journey, is that his companions may be agreeable, that they may have the same tastes, possibly the same vices, be well educated and know enough not to be too familiar.

When I opened the door of the coach I felt fearful of encountering an old woman suffering with the asthma, an ugly one who could not bear the smell of tobacco smoke, one who gets seasick every time she rides in a carriage, and little angels who are continually yelling and screaming for God knows what.

Sometimes you may have hoped to have a beautiful woman for a traveling companion; for instance, a widow of twenty or thirty years of age (let us say, thirty-six), whose delightful conversation will help you pass away the time. But if you ever had this idea, as a reasonable man you would quickly dismiss it, for you know that such good fortune does not fall to the lot of the ordinary mortal. These thoughts were in my mind when I opened the door of the stagecoach at exactly eleven o’clock on a stormy night of the Autumn of 1844. I had ticket No. 2, and I was wondering who No. 1 might be. The ticket agent had assured me that No. 3 had not been sold.

It was pitch dark within. When I entered I said, “Good evening,” but no answer came. “The devil!” I said to myself. “Is my traveling companion deaf, dumb, or asleep?” Then I said in a louder tone: “Good evening,” but no answer came.

All this time the stagecoach was whirling along, drawn by ten horses.

I was puzzled. Who was my companion? Was it a man? Was it a woman? Who was the silent No. 1, and, whoever it might be, why did he or she not reply to my courteous salutation? It would have been well to have lit a match, but I was not smoking then and had none with me. What should I do? I concluded to rely upon my sense of feeling, and stretched out my hand to the place where No. 1 should have been, wondering whether I would touch a silk dress or an overcoat, but there was nothing there. At that moment a flash of lightning, herald of a quickly approaching storm, lit up the night, and I perceived that there was no one in the coach excepting myself. I burst out into a roar of laughter, and yet a moment later I could not help wondering what had become of No. 1.

A half hour later we arrived at the first stop, and I was just about to ask the guard who flashed his lantern into the compartment why there was no No. 1, when she entered. In the yellow rays I thought it was a vision: a pale, graceful, beautiful woman, dressed in deep mourning.

Here was the fulfillment of my dream, the widow I had hoped for.

I extended my hand to the unknown to assist her into the coach, and she sat down beside me, murmuring: “Thank you, sir. Good evening,” but in a tone that was so sad that it went to my very heart.

“How unfortunate,” I thought. “There are only fifty miles between here and Malaga. I wish to heaven this coach were going to Kamschatka.” The guard slammed the door, and we were in darkness. I wished that the storm would continue and that we might have a few more flashes of lightning. But the storm didn’t. It fled away, leaving only a few pallid stars, whose light practically amounted to nothing. I made a brave effort to start a conversation.

“Do you feel well?”

“Are you going to Malaga?”

“Did you like the Alhambra?”

“You come from Granada?”

“Isn’t the night damp?”

To which questions she respectively responded:

“Thanks, very well.”

“Yes.”

“No, sir.”

“Yes!”

“Awful!”

It was quite certain that my traveling companion was not inclined to conversation. I tried to think up something original to say to her, but nothing occurred to me, so I lost myself for the moment in meditation. Why had this woman gotten on the stage at the first stop instead of at Granada? Why was she alone? Was she married? Was she really a widow? Why was she so sad? I certainly had no right to ask her any of these questions, and yet she interested me. How I wished the sun would rise. In the daytime one may talk freely, but in the pitch darkness one feels a certain oppression, it seems like taking an unfair advantage.

My unknown did not sleep a moment during the night. I could tell this by her breathing and by her sighing. It is probably unnecessary to add that I did not sleep either. Once I asked her: “Do you feel ill?” and she replied: “No, sir, thank you. I beg pardon if I have disturbed your sleep.”

“Sleep!” I exclaimed disdainfully. “I do not care to sleep. I feared you were suffering.”

“Oh, no,” she exclaimed, in a voice that contradicted her words, “I am not suffering.”

At last the sun rose. How beautiful she was! I mean the woman, not the sun. What deep suffering had lined her face and lurked in the depths of her beautiful eyes!

She was elegantly dressed and evidently belonged to a good family. Every gesture bore the imprint of distinction. She was the kind of a woman you expect to see in the principal box at the opera, resplendent with jewels, surrounded by admirers.

We breakfasted at Colmenar. After that my companion became more confidential, and I said to myself when we again entered the coach: “Philip, you have met your fate. It’s now or never.”

II

I regretted the very first word I mentioned to her regarding my feelings. She became a block of ice, and I lost at once all that I might have gained in her good graces. Still she answered me very kindly: “It is not because it is you, sir, who speak to me of love, but love itself is something which I hold in horror.”

“But why, dear lady?” I inquired.

“Because my heart is dead. Because I have loved to the point of delirium, and I have been deceived.”

I felt that I should talk to her in a philosophic way and there were a lot of platitudes on the tip of my tongue, but I refrained. I knew that she meant what she said. When we arrived at Malaga, she said to me in a tone I shall never forget as long as I live: “I thank you a thousand times for your kind attention during the trip, and hope you will forgive me if I do not tell you my name and address.”

“Do you mean then that we shall not meet again?”

“Never! And you, especially, should not regret it.” And then with a smile that was utterly without joy she extended her exquisite hand to me and said: “Pray to God for me.”

I pressed her hand and made a low bow. She entered a handsome victoria which was awaiting her, and as it moved away she bowed to me again.

* * * *

Two months later I met her again.

At two o’clock in the afternoon I was jogging along in an old cart on the road that leads to Cordoba. The object of my journey was to examine some land which I owned in that neighborhood and pass three or four weeks with one of the judges of the Supreme Court, who was an intimate friend of mine and had been my schoolmate at the University of Granada.

He received me with open arms. As I entered his handsome house I could but note the perfect taste and elegance of the furniture and decorations.

“Ah, Zarco,” I said, “you have married, and you have never told me about it. Surely this was not the way to treat a man who loved you as much as I do!”

“I am not married, and what is more I never will marry,” answered the judge sadly.

“I believe that you are not married, dear boy, since you say so, but I cannot understand the declaration that you never will. You must be joking.”

“I swear that I am telling you the truth,” he replied.

“But what a metamorphosis!” I exclaimed. “You were always a partisan of marriage, and for the past two years you have been writing to me and advising me to take a life partner. Whence this wonderful change, dear friend? Something must have happened to you, something unfortunate, I fear?”

“To me?” answered the judge somewhat embarrassed.

“Yes, to you. Something has happened, and you are going to tell me all about it. You live here alone, have practically buried yourself in this great house. Come, tell me everything.”

The judge pressed my hand. “Yes, yes, you shall know all. There is no man more unfortunate than I am. But listen, this is the day upon which all the inhabitants go to the cemetery, and I must be there, if only for form’s sake. Come with me. It is a pleasant afternoon and the walk will do you good, after riding so long in that old cart. The location of the cemetery is a beautiful one, and I am quite sure you will enjoy the walk. On our way, I will tell you the incident that ruined my life, and you shall judge yourself whether I am justified in my hatred of women.”

As together we walked along the flower-bordered road, my friend told me the following story:

Two years ago when I was Assistant District Attorney in ——, I obtained permission from my chief to spend a month in Sevilla. In the hotel where I lodged there was a beautiful young woman who passed for a widow but whose origin, as well as her reasons for staying in that town, were a mystery to all. Her installation, her wealth, her total lack of friends or acquaintances and the sadness of her expression, together with her incomparable beauty, gave rise to a thousand conjectures.

Her rooms were directly opposite mine, and I frequently met her in the hall or on the stairway, only too glad to have the chance of bowing to her. She was unapproachable, however, and it was impossible for me to secure an introduction. Two weeks later, fate was to afford me the opportunity of entering her apartment. I had been to the theater that night, and when I returned to my room I thoughtlessly opened the door of her apartment instead of that of my own. The beautiful woman was reading by the light of the lamp and started when she saw me. I was so embarrassed by my mistake that for a moment I could only stammer unintelligible words. My confusion was so evident that she could not doubt for a moment that I had made a mistake. I turned to the door, intent upon relieving her of my presence as quickly as possible, when she said with the most exquisite courtesy: “In order to show you that I do not doubt your good faith and that I’m not at all offended, I beg that you will call upon me again, intentionally.”

Three days passed before I got up sufficient courage to accept her invitation. Yes, I was madly in love with her; accustomed as I am to analyze my own sensations, I knew that my passion could only end in the greatest happiness or the deepest suffering. However, at the end of the three days I went to her apartment and spent the evening there. She told me that her name was Blanca, that she was born in Madrid, and that she was a widow. She played and sang for me and asked me a thousand questions about myself, my profession, my family, and every word she said increased my love for her. From that night my soul was the slave of her soul; yes, and it will be forever.

I called on her again the following night, and thereafter every afternoon and evening I was with her. We loved each other, but not a word of love had ever been spoken between us.

One evening she said to me: “I married a man without loving him. Shortly after marriage I hated him. Now he is dead. Only God knows what I suffered. Now I understand what love means; it is either heaven or it is hell. For me, up to the present time, it has been hell.”

I could not sleep that night. I lay awake thinking over these last words of Blanca’s. Somehow this woman frightened me. Would I be her heaven and she my hell?

My leave of absence expired. I could have asked for an extension, pretending illness, but the question was, should I do it? I consulted Blanca.

“Why do you ask me?” she said, taking my hand.

“Because I love you. Am I doing wrong in loving you?”

“No,” she said, becoming very pale, and then she put both arms about my neck and her beautiful lips touched mine.

Well, I asked for another month and, thanks to you, dear friend, it was granted. Never would they have given it to me without your influence.

My relations with Blanca were more than love; they were delirium, madness, fanaticism, call it what you will. Every day my passion for her increased, and the morrow seemed to open up vistas of new happiness. And yet I could not avoid feeling at times a mysterious, indefinable fear. And this I knew she felt as well as I did. We both feared to lose one another. One day I said to Blanca:

“We must marry, as quickly as possible.”

She gave me a strange look. “You wish to marry me?”

“Yes, Blanca,” I said, “I am proud of you. I want to show you to the whole world. I love you and I want you, pure, noble, and saintly as you are.”

“I cannot marry you,” answered this incomprehensible woman. She would never give a reason.

Finally my leave of absence expired, and I told her that on the following day we must separate.

“Separate? It is impossible!” she exclaimed. “I love you too much for that.”

“But you know, Blanca, that I worship you.”

“Then give up your profession. I am rich. We will live our lives out together,” she said, putting her soft hand over my mouth to prevent my answer.

I kissed the hand and then, gently removing it, I answered: “I would accept this offer from my wife, although it would be a sacrifice for me to give up my career; but I will not accept it from a woman who refuses to marry me.”

Blanca remained thoughtful for several minutes; then, raising her head, she looked at me and said very quietly, but with a determination which could not be misunderstood: “I will be your wife, and I do not ask you to give up your profession. Go back to your office. How long will it take you to arrange your business matters and secure from the government another leave of absence to return to Sevilla?”

“A month.”

“A month? Well, here I will await you. Return within a month, and I will be your wife. To-day is the fifteenth of April. You will be here on the fifteenth of May?”

“You may rest assured of that.”

“You swear it?”

“I swear it.”

“You love me?”

“More than my life.”

“Go, then, and return. Farewell.”

I left on the same day. The moment I arrived home I began to arrange my house to receive my bride. As you know I solicited another leave of absence, and so quickly did I arrange my business affairs that at the end of two weeks I was ready to return to Sevilla.

I must tell you that during this fortnight I did not receive a single letter from Blanca, though I wrote her six. I started at once for Sevilla, arriving in that city on the thirtieth of April, and went at once to the hotel where we had first met.

I learned that Blanca had left there two days after my departure without telling anyone her destination.

Imagine my indignation, my disappointment, my suffering. She went away without even leaving a line for me, without telling me whither she was going. It never occurred to me to remain in Sevilla until the fifteenth of May to ascertain whether she would return on that date. Three days later I took up my court work and strove to forget her.

* * * *

A few moments after my friend Zarco finished the story, we arrived at the cemetery.

This is only a small plot of ground covered with a veritable forest of crosses and surrounded by a low stone wall. As often happens in Spain, when the cemeteries are very small, it is necessary to dig up one coffin in order to lower another. Those thus disinterred are thrown in a heap in a corner of the cemetery, where skulls and bones are piled up like a haystack. As we were passing, Zarco and I looked at the skulls, wondering to whom they could have belonged, to rich or poor, noble or plebeian.

Suddenly the judge bent down, and picking up a skull, exclaimed in astonishment:

“Look here, my friend, what is this? It is surely a nail!”

Yes, a long nail had been driven in the top of the skull which he held in his hand. The nail had been driven into the head, and the point had penetrated what had been the roof of the mouth.

What could this mean? He began to conjecture, and soon both of us felt filled with horror.

“I recognize the hand of Providence!” exclaimed the judge. “A terrible crime has evidently been committed, and would never have come to light had it not been for this accident. I shall do my duty, and will not rest until I have brought the assassin to the scaffold.”

III

My friend Zarco was one of the keenest criminal judges in Spain. Within a very few days he discovered that the corpse to which this skull belonged had been buried in a rough wooden coffin which the grave digger had taken home with him, intending to use it for firewood. Fortunately, the man had not yet burned it up, and on the lid the judge managed to decipher the initials: “A.G.R.” together with the date of interment. He had at once searched the parochial books of every church in the neighborhood, and a week later found the following entry:

“In the parochial church of San Sebastian of the village of ——, on the 4th of May, 1843, the funeral rites as prescribed by our holy religion were performed over the body of Don Alfonzo Gutierrez Romeral, and he was buried in the cemetery. He was a native of this village and did not receive the holy sacrament, nor did he confess, for he died suddenly of apoplexy at the age of thirty-one. He was married to Doña Gabriela Zahara del Valle, a native of Madrid, and left no issue him surviving.”

The judge handed me the above certificate, duly certified to by the parish priest, and exclaimed: “Now everything is as clear as day, and I am positive that within a week the assassin will be arrested. The apoplexy in this case happens to be an iron nail driven into the man’s head, which brought quick and sudden death to A.G.R. I have the nail, and I shall soon find the hammer.”

According to the testimony of the neighbors, Señor Romeral was a young and rich landowner who originally came from Madrid, where he had married a beautiful wife; four months before the death of the husband, his wife had gone to Madrid to pass a few months with her family; the young woman returned home about the last day of April, that is, about three months and a half after she had left her husband’s residence to go to Madrid; the death of Señor Romeral occurred about a week after her return. The shock caused to the widow by the sudden death of her husband was so great that she became ill and informed her friends that she could not continue to live in the same place where everything recalled to her the man she had lost, and just before the middle of May she had left for Madrid, ten or twelve days after the death of her husband.

The servants of the deceased had testified that the couple did not live amicably together and had frequent quarrels; that the absence of three months and a half which preceded the last eight days the couple had lived together was practically an understanding that they were to be ultimately separated on account of mysterious disagreements which had existed between them from the date of their marriage; that on the date of the death of the deceased, both husband and wife were together in the former’s bedroom; that at midnight the bell was rung violently and they heard the cries of the wife; that they rushed to the room and were met at the door by the wife, who was very pale and greatly perturbed, and she cried out: “An apoplexy! Run for a doctor! My poor husband is dying!” That when they entered the room they found their master lying upon a couch, and he was dead. The doctor who was called certified that Señor Romeral had died of cerebral congestion.

Three medical experts testified that death brought about as this one had been could not be distinguished from apoplexy. The physician who had been called in had not thought to look for the head of the nail, which was concealed by the hair of the victim, nor was he in any sense to blame for this oversight.

The judge immediately issued a warrant for the arrest of Doña Gabriela Zahara del Valle, widow of Señor Romeral.

“Tell me,” I asked the judge one day, “do you think you will ever capture this woman?”

“I’m positive of it.”

“Why?”

“Because in the midst of all these routine criminal affairs there occurs now and then what may be termed a dramatic fatality which never fails. To put it in another way: when the bones come out of the tomb to testify, there is very little left for the judge to do.”

In spite of the hopes of my friend, Gabriela was not found, and three months later she was, according to the laws of Spain, tried, found guilty, and condemned to death in her absence.

I returned home, not without promising to be with Zarco the following year.

IV

That winter I passed in Granada. One evening I had been invited to a great ball given by a prominent Spanish lady. As I was mounting the stairs of the magnificent residence, I was startled by the sight of a face which was easily distinguishable even in this crowd of southern beauties. It was she, my unknown, the mysterious woman of the stagecoach, in fact, No. 1, of whom I spoke at the beginning of this narrative.

I made my way toward her, extending my hand in greeting. She recognized me at once.

“Señora,” I said, “I have kept my promise not to search for you. I did not know I would meet you here. Had I suspected it I would have refrained from coming, for fear of annoying you. Now that I am here, tell me whether I may recognize you and talk to you.”

“I see that you are vindictive,” she answered graciously, putting her little hand in mine. “But I forgive you. How are you?”

“In truth, I don’t know. My health—that is, the health of my soul, for you would not ask me about anything else in a ballroom—depends upon the health of yours. What I mean is that I could only be happy if you are happy. May I ask if that wound of the heart which you told me about when I met you in the stagecoach has healed?”

“You know as well as I do that there are wounds which never heal.”

With a graceful bow she turned away to speak to an acquaintance, and I asked a friend of mine who was passing: “Can you tell me who that woman is?”

“A South American whose name is Mercedes de Meridanueva.”

On the following day I paid a visit to the lady, who was residing at that time at the Hotel of the Seven Planets. The charming Mercedes received me as if I were an intimate friend, and invited me to walk with her through the wonderful Alhambra and subsequently to dine with her. During the six hours we were together she spoke of many things, and as we always returned to the subject of disappointed love, I felt impelled to tell her the experience of my friend, Judge Zarco.

She listened to me very attentively and when I concluded she laughed and said: “Let this be a lesson to you not to fall in love with women whom you do not know.”

“Do not think for a moment,” I answered, “that I’ve invented this story.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt the truth of it. Perhaps there may be a mysterious woman in the Hotel of the Seven Planets of Granada, and perhaps she doesn’t resemble the one your friend fell in love with in Sevilla. So far as I am concerned, there is no risk of my falling in love with anyone, for I never speak three times to the same man.”

“Señora! That is equivalent to telling me that you refuse to see me again!”

“No, I only wish to inform you that I leave Granada to-morrow, and it is probable that we will never meet again.”

“Never? You told me that during our memorable ride in the stagecoach, and you see that you are not a good prophet.”

I noticed that she had become very pale. She rose from the table abruptly, saying: “Well, let us leave that to Fate. For my part I repeat that I am bidding you an eternal farewell.”

She said these last words very solemnly, and then with a graceful bow, turned and ascended the stairway which led to the upper story of the hotel.

I confess that I was somewhat annoyed at the disdainful way in which she seemed to have terminated our acquaintance, yet this feeling was lost in the pity I felt for her when I noted her expression of suffering.

We had met for the last time. Would to God that it had been for the last time! Man proposes, but God disposes.

V

A few days later business affairs brought me to the town wherein resided my friend Judge Zarco. I found him as lonely and as sad as at the time of my last visit. He had been able to find out nothing about Blanca, but he could not forget her for a moment. Unquestionably this woman was his fate; his heaven or his hell, as the unfortunate man was accustomed to saying.

We were soon to learn that his judicial superstition was to be fully justified.

The evening of the day of my arrival we were seated in his office, reading the last reports of the police, who had been vainly attempting to trace Gabriela, when an officer entered and handed the judge a note which read as follows:

“In the Hotel of the Lion there is a lady who wishes to speak to Judge Zarco.”

“Who brought this?” asked the judge.

“A servant.”

“Who sent him?”

“He gave no name.”

The judge looked thoughtfully at the smoke of his cigar for a few moments, and then said: “A woman! To see me? I don’t know why, but this thing frightens me. What do you think of it, Philip?”

“That it is your duty as a judge to answer the call, of course. Perhaps she may be able to give you some information in regard to Gabriela.”

“You are right,” answered Zarco, rising. He put a revolver in his pocket, threw his cloak over his shoulders and went out.

Two hours later he returned.

I saw at once by his face that some great happiness must have come to him. He put his arms about me and embraced me convulsively, exclaiming: “Oh, dear friend, if you only knew, if you only knew!”

“But I don’t know anything,” I answered. “What on earth has happened to you?”

“I’m simply the happiest man in the world!”

“But what is it?”

“The note that called me to the hotel was from her.”

“But from whom? From Gabriela Zahara?”

“Oh, stop such nonsense! Who is thinking of those things now? It was she, I tell you, the other one!”

“In the name of heaven, be calm and tell me whom you are talking about.”

“Who could it be but Blanca, my love, my life?”

“Blanca?” I answered with astonishment. “But the woman deceived you.”

“Oh, no; that was all a foolish mistake on my part.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Listen: Blanca adores me!”

“Oh, you think she does? Well, go on.”

“When Blanca and I separated on the fifteenth of April, it was understood that we were to meet again on the fifteenth of May. Shortly after I left she received a letter calling her to Madrid on urgent family business, and she did not expect me back until the fifteenth of May, so she remained in Madrid until the first. But, as you know, I, in my impatience could not wait, and returned fifteen days before I had agreed, and not finding her at the hotel I jumped to the conclusion that she had deceived me, and I did not wait. I have gone through two years of torment and suffering, all due to my own stupidity.”

“But she could have written you a letter.”

“She said that she had forgotten the address.”

“Ah, my poor friend,” I exclaimed, “I see that you are striving to convince yourself. Well, so much the better. Now, when does the marriage take place? I suppose that after so long and dark a night the sun of matrimony will rise radiant.”

“Don’t laugh,” exclaimed Zarco; “you shall be my best man.”

“With much pleasure.”

* * * *

Man proposes, but God disposes. We were still seated in the library, chatting together, when there came a knock at the door. It was about two o’clock in the morning. The judge and I were both startled, but we could not have told why. The servant opened the door, and a moment later a man dashed into the library so breathless from hard running that he could scarcely speak.

“Good news, judge, grand news!” he said when he recovered breath. “We have won!”

The man was the prosecuting attorney.

“Explain yourself, my dear friend,” said the judge, motioning him to a chair. “What remarkable occurrence could have brought you hither in such haste and at this hour of the morning?”

“We have arrested Gabriela Zahara.”

“Arrested her?” exclaimed the judge joyfully.

“Yes, sir, we have her. One of our detectives has been following her for a month. He has caught her, and she is now locked up in a cell of the prison.”

“Then let us go there at once!” exclaimed the judge. “We will interrogate her to-night. Do me the favor to notify my secretary. Owing to the gravity of the case, you yourself must be present. Also notify the guard who has charge of the head of Señor Romeral. It has been my opinion from the beginning that this criminal woman would not dare deny the horrible murder when she was confronted with the evidence of her crime. So far as you are concerned,” said the judge, turning to me, “I will appoint you assistant secretary, so that you can be present without violating the law.”

I did not answer. A horrible suspicion had been growing within me, a suspicion which, like some infernal animal, was tearing at my heart with claws of steel. Could Gabriela and Blanca be one and the same? I turned to the assistant district attorney.

“By the way,” I asked, “where was Gabriela when she was arrested?”

“In the Hotel of the Lion.”

My suffering was frightful, but I could say nothing, do nothing without compromising the judge; besides, I was not sure. Even if I were positive that Gabriela and Blanca were the same person, what could my unfortunate friend do? Feign a sudden illness? Flee the country? My only way was to keep silent and let God work it out in His own way. The orders of the judge had already been communicated to the chief of police and the warden of the prison. Even at this hour the news had spread throughout the city and idlers were gathering to see the rich and beautiful woman who would ascend the scaffold. I still clung to the slender hope that Gabriela and Blanca were not the same person. But when I went toward the prison I staggered like a drunken man and was compelled to lean upon the shoulder of one of the officials, who asked me anxiously if I were ill.

VI

We arrived at the prison at four o’clock in the morning. The large reception room was brilliantly lighted. The guard, holding a black box in which was the skull of Señor Romeral, was awaiting us.

The judge took his seat at the head of the long table; the prosecuting attorney sat on his right, and the chief of police stood by with his arms folded. I and the secretary sat on the left of the judge. A number of police officers and detectives were standing near the door.

The judge touched his bell and said to the warden:

“Bring in Doña Gabriela Zahara!”

I felt as if I were dying, and instead of looking at the door, I looked at the judge to see if I could read in his face the solution of this frightful problem.

I saw him turn livid and clutch his throat with both hands, as if to stop a cry of agony, and then he turned to me with a look of infinite supplication.

“Keep quiet!” I whispered, putting my finger on my lips, and then I added: “I knew it.”

The unfortunate man arose from his chair.

“Judge!” I exclaimed, and in that one word I conveyed to him the full sense of his duty and of the dangers which surrounded him. He controlled himself and resumed his seat, but were it not for the light in his eyes, he might have been taken for a dead man. Yes, the man was dead; only the judge lived.

When I had convinced myself of this, I turned and looked at the accused. Good God! Gabriela Zahara was not only Blanca, the woman my friend so deeply loved, but she was also the woman I had met in the stagecoach and subsequently at Granada, the beautiful South American, Mercedes!

All these fantastic women had now merged into one, the real one who stood before us, accused of the murder of her husband and who had been condemned to die.

There was still a chance to prove herself innocent. Could she do it? This was my one supreme hope, as it was that of my poor friend.

Gabriela (we will call her now by her real name) was deathly pale, but apparently calm. Was she trusting to her innocence or to the weakness of the judge? Our doubts were soon solved. Up to that moment the accused had looked at no one but the judge. I did not know whether she desired to encourage him or menace him, or to tell him that his Blanca could not be an assassin. But noting the impassibility of the magistrate and that his face was as expressionless as that of a corpse, she turned to the others, as if seeking help from them. Then her eyes fell upon me, and she blushed slightly.

The judge now seemed to awaken from his stupor and asked in a harsh voice:

“What is your name?”

“Gabriela Zahara, widow of Romeral,” answered the accused in a soft voice.

Zarco trembled. He had just learned that his Blanca had never existed; she told him so herself—she who only three hours before had consented to become his wife!

Fortunately, no one was looking at the judge, all eyes being fixed upon Gabriela, whose marvelous beauty and quiet demeanor carried to all an almost irresistible conviction of her innocence.

The judge recovered himself, and then, like a man who is staking more than life upon the cast of a die, he ordered the guard to open the black box.

“Madame!” said the judge sternly, his eyes seeming to dart flames, “approach and tell me whether you recognize this head?”

At a signal from the judge the guard opened the black box and lifted out the skull.

A cry of mortal agony rang through that room; one could not tell whether it was of fear or of madness. The woman shrank back, her eyes dilating with terror, and screamed: “Alfonzo, Alfonzo!”

Then she seemed to fall into a stupor. All turned to the judge, murmuring: “She is guilty beyond a doubt.”

“Do you recognize the nail which deprived your husband of life?” said the judge, arising from his chair, looking like a corpse rising from the grave.

“Yes, sir,” answered Gabriela mechanically.

“That is to say, you admit that you assassinated your husband?” asked the judge, in a voice that trembled with his great suffering.

“Sir,” answered the accused, “I do not care to live any more, but before I die I would like to make a statement.”

The judge fell back in his chair and then asked me by a look: “What is she going to say?”

I, myself, was almost stupefied by fear.

Gabriela stood before them, her hands clasped and a far-away look in her large, dark eyes.

“I am going to confess,” she said, “and my confession will be my defense, although it will not be sufficient to save me from the scaffold. Listen to me, all of you! Why deny that which is self-evident? I was alone with my husband when he died. The servants and the doctor have testified to this. Hence, only I could have killed him. Yes, I committed the crime, but another man forced me to do it.”

The judge trembled when he heard these words, but, dominating his emotion, he asked courageously:

“The name of that man, madame? Tell us at once the name of the scoundrel!”

Gabriela looked at the judge with an expression of infinite love, as a mother would look at the child she worshiped, and answered: “By a single word I could drag this man into the depths with me. But I will not. No one shall ever know his name, for he has loved me and I love him. Yes, I love him, although I know he will do nothing to save me!”

The judge half rose from his chair and extended his hands beseechingly, but she looked at him as if to say: “Be careful! You will betray yourself, and it will do no good.”

He sank back into his chair, and Gabriela continued her story in a quiet, firm voice:

“I was forced to marry a man I hated. I hated him more after I married him than I did before. I lived three years in martyrdom. One day there came into my life a man whom I loved. He demanded that I should marry him, he asked me to fly with him to a heaven of happiness and love. He was a man of exceptional character, high and noble, whose only fault was that he loved me too much. Had I told him: ‘I have deceived you, I am not a widow; my husband is living,’ he would have left me at once. I invented a thousand excuses, but he always answered: ‘Be my wife!’ What could I do? I was bound to a man of the vilest character and habits, whom I loathed. Well, I killed this man, believing that I was committing an act of justice, and God punished me, for my lover abandoned me. And now I am very, very tired of life, and all I ask of you is that death may come as quickly as possible.”

Gabriela stopped speaking. The judge had buried his face in his hands, as if he were thinking, but I could see he was shaking like an epileptic.

“Your honor,” repeated Gabriela, “grant my request that I may die soon.”

The judge made a sign to the guards to remove the prisoner.

Before she followed them, she gave me a terrible look in which there was more of pride than of repentance.

* * * *

I do not wish to enter into details of the condition of the judge during the following day. In the great emotional struggle which took place, the officer of the law conquered the man, and he confirmed the sentence of death.

On the following day the papers were sent to the Court of Appeals, and then Zarco came to me and said: “Wait here until I return. Take care of this unfortunate woman, but do not visit her, for your presence would humiliate instead of consoling her. Do not ask me whither I am going, and do not think that I am going to commit the very foolish act of taking my own life. Farewell, and forgive me all the worry I have caused you.”

Twenty days later the Court of Appeals confirmed the sentence, and Gabriela Zahara was placed in the death cell.

* * * *

The morning of the day fixed for the execution came, and still the judge had not returned. The scaffold had been erected in the center of the square, and an enormous crowd had gathered. I stood by the door of the prison, for, while I had obeyed the wish of my friend that I should not call on Gabriela in her prison, I believed it my duty to represent him in that supreme moment and accompany the woman he had loved to the foot of the scaffold.

When she appeared, surrounded by her guards, I hardly recognized her. She had grown very thin and seemed hardly to have the strength to lift to her lips the small crucifix she carried in her hand.

“I am here, señora. Can I be of service to you?” I asked her as she passed by me.

She raised her deep, sunken eyes to mine, and, when she recognized me, she exclaimed:

“Oh, thanks, thanks! This is a great consolation for me, in my last hour of life. Father,” she added, turning to the priest who stood beside her, “may I speak a few words to this generous friend?”

“Yes, my daughter,” answered the venerable minister.

Then Gabriela asked me: “Where is he?”

“He is absent—”

“May God bless him and make him happy! When you see him, ask him to forgive me even as I believe God has already forgiven me. Tell him I love him yet, although this love is the cause of my death.”

We had arrived at the foot of the scaffold stairway, where I was compelled to leave her. A tear, perhaps the last one there was in that suffering heart, rolled down her cheek. Once more she said: “Tell him that I died blessing him.”

Suddenly there came a roar like that of thunder. The mass of people swayed, shouted, danced, laughed like maniacs, and above all this tumult one word rang out clearly:

“Pardoned! Pardoned!”

At the entrance to the square appeared a man on horseback, galloping madly toward the scaffold. In his hand he waved a white handkerchief, and his voice rang high above the clamor of the crowd: “Pardoned! Pardoned!”

It was the judge. Reining up his foaming horse at the foot of the scaffold, he extended a paper to the chief of police.

Gabriela, who had already mounted some of the steps, turned and gave the judge a look of infinite love and gratitude.

“God bless you!” she exclaimed, and then fell senseless.

As soon as the signatures and seals upon the document had been verified by the authorities, the priest and the judge rushed to the accused to undo the cords which bound her hands and arms and to revive her.

All their efforts were useless, however. Gabriela Zahara was dead.

THE ROME EXPRESS, by Arthur Griffiths

CHAPTER I

The Rome Express, the direttissimo, or most direct, was approaching Paris one morning in March, when it became known to the occupants of the sleeping-car that there was something amiss, very much amiss, in the car.

The train was travelling the last stage, between Laroche and Paris, a run of a hundred miles without a stop. It had halted at Laroche for early breakfast, and many, if not all the passengers, had turned out. Of those in the sleeping-car, seven in number, six had been seen in the restaurant, or about the platform; the seventh, a lady, had not stirred. All had reëntered their berths to sleep or doze when the train went on, but several were on the move as it neared Paris, taking their turn at the lavatory, calling for water, towels, making the usual stir of preparation as the end of a journey was at hand.

There were many calls for the porter, yet no porter appeared. At last the attendant was found—lazy villain!—asleep, snoring loudly, stertorously, in his little bunk at the end of the car. He was roused with difficulty, and set about his work in a dull, unwilling, lethargic way, which promised badly for his tips from those he was supposed to serve.

By degrees all the passengers got dressed, all but two—the lady in 9 and 10, who had made no sign as yet; and the man who occupied alone a double berth next her, numbered 7 and 8.

As it was the porter’s duty to call every one, and as he was anxious, like the rest of his class, to get rid of his travellers as soon as possible after arrival, he rapped at each of the two closed doors behind which people presumably still slept.

The lady cried “All right,” but there was no answer from No. 7 and 8.

Again and again the porter knocked and called loudly. Still meeting with no response, he opened the door of the compartment and went in.

It was now broad daylight. No blind was down; indeed, the one narrow window was open, wide; and the whole of the interior of the compartment was plainly visible, all and everything in it.

The occupant lay on his bed motionless. Sound asleep? No, not merely asleep—the twisted unnatural lie of the limbs, the contorted legs, the one arm drooping listlessly but stiffly over the side of the berth, told of a deeper, more eternal sleep.

The man was dead. Dead—and not from natural causes.

One glance at the blood-stained bedclothes, one look at the gaping wound in the breast, at the battered, mangled face, told the terrible story.

It was murder! murder most foul! The victim had been stabbed to the heart.

With a wild, affrighted, cry the porter rushed out of the compartment, and to the eager questioning of all who crowded round him, he could only mutter in confused and trembling accents:

“There! there! in there!”

Thus the fact of the murder became known to every one by personal inspection, for every one (even the lady had appeared for just a moment) had looked in where the body lay. The compartment was filled for some ten minutes or more by an excited, gesticulating, polyglot mob of half a dozen, all talking at once in French, English, and Italian.

The first attempt to restore order was made by a tall man, middle-aged, but erect in his bearing, with bright eyes and alert manner, who took the porter aside, and said sharply in good French, but with a strong English accent:

“Here! it’s your business to do something. No one has any right to be in that compartment now. There may be reasons—traces—things to remove; never mind what. But get them all out. Be sharp about it; and lock the door. Remember you will be held responsible to justice.”

The porter shuddered, so did many of the passengers who had overheard the Englishman’s last words.

Justice! It is not to be trifled with anywhere, least of all in France, where the uncomfortable superstition prevails that every one who can be reasonably suspected of a crime is held to be guilty of that crime until his innocence is clearly proved.

All those six passengers and the porter were now brought within the category of the accused. They were all open to suspicion; they, and they alone, for the murdered man had been seen alive at Laroche, and the fell deed must have been done since then, while the train was in transit, that is to say, going at express speed, when no one could leave it except at peril of his life.

“Deuced awkward for us!” said the tall English general, Sir Charles Collingham by name, to his brother the parson, when he had reëntered their compartment and shut the door.

“I can’t see it. In what way?” asked the Reverend Silas Collingham, a typical English cleric, with a rubicund face and square-cut white whiskers, dressed in a suit of black serge, and wearing the professional white tie.

“Why, we shall be detained, of course; arrested, probably—certainly detained. Examined, cross-examined, bully-ragged—I know something of the French police and their ways.”

“If they stop us, I shall write to the Times” cried his brother, by profession a man of peace, but with a choleric eye that told of an angry temperament.

“By all means, my dear Silas, when you get the chance. That won’t be just yet, for I tell you we’re in a tight place, and may expect a good deal of worry.” With that he took out his cigarette-case, and his match-box, lighted his cigarette, and calmly watched the smoke rising with all the coolness of an old campaigner accustomed to encounter and face the ups and downs of life. “I only hope to goodness they’ll run straight on to Paris,” he added in a fervent tone, not unmixed with apprehension. “No! By jingo, we’re slackening speed—.”

“Why shouldn’t we? It’s right the conductor, or chief of the train, or whatever you call him, should know what has happened.”

“Why, man, can’t you see? While the train is travelling express, every one must stay on board it; if it slows, it is possible to leave it.”

“Who would want to leave it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the General, rather testily. “Any way, the thing’s done now.”

The train had pulled up in obedience to the signal of alarm given by some one in the sleeping-car, but by whom it was impossible to say. Not by the porter, for he seemed greatly surprised as the conductor came up to him.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“Know! Know what? You stopped me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Who rang the bell, then?”

“I did not. But I’m glad you’ve come. There has been a crime—murder.”

“Good Heavens!” cried the conductor, jumping up on to the car, and entering into the situation at once. His business was only to verify the fact, and take all necessary precautions. He was a burly, brusque, peremptory person, the despotic, self-important French official, who knew what to do—as he thought—and did it without hesitation or apology.

“No one must leave the car,” he said in a tone not to be misunderstood. “Neither now, nor on arrival at the station.”

There was a shout of protest and dismay, which he quickly cut short.

“You will have to arrange it with the authorities in Paris; they can alone decide. My duty is plain: to detain you, place you under surveillance till then. Afterwards, we will see. Enough, gentlemen and madame”—

He bowed with the instinctive gallantry of his nation to the female figure which now appeared at the door of her compartment. She stood for a moment listening, seemingly greatly agitated, and then, without a word, disappeared, retreating hastily into her own private room, where she shut herself in.

Almost immediately, at a signal from the conductor, the train resumed its journey. The distance remaining to be traversed was short; half an hour more, and the Lyons station, at Paris, was reached, where the bulk of the passengers—all, indeed, but the occupants of the sleeper—descended and passed through the barriers. The latter were again desired to keep their places, while a posse of officials came and mounted guard. Presently they were told to leave the car one by one, but to take nothing with them. All their hand-bags, rugs, and belongings were to remain in the berths, just as they lay. One by one they were marched under escort to a large and bare waiting-room, which had, no doubt, been prepared for their reception.

Here they took their seats on chairs placed at wide intervals apart, and were peremptorily forbidden to hold any communication with each other, by word or gesture. This order was enforced by a fierce-looking guard in blue and red uniform, who stood facing them with his arms folded, gnawing his moustache and frowning severely.

Last of all, the porter was brought in and treated like the passengers, but more distinctly as a prisoner. He had a guard all to himself; and it seemed as though he was the object of peculiar suspicion. It had no great effect upon him, for, while the rest of the party were very plainly sad, and a prey to lively apprehension, the porter sat dull and unmoved, with the stolid, sluggish, unconcerned aspect of a man just roused from sound sleep and relapsing into slumber, who takes little notice of what is passing around.

Meanwhile, the sleeping-car, with its contents, especially the corpse of the victim, was shunted into a siding, and sentries were placed on it at both ends. Seals had been affixed upon the entrance doors, so that the interior might be kept inviolate until it could be visited and examined by the Chef de la Surêté, or Chief of the Detective Service. Every one and everything awaited the arrival of this all-important functionary.

CHAPTER II

M. Floçon, the Chief, was an early man, and he paid a first visit to his office about 7 A.M.

He lived just round the corner in the Rue des Arcs, and had not far to go to the Prefecture. But even now, soon after daylight, he was correctly dressed, as became a responsible ministerial officer. He wore a tight frock coat and an immaculate white tie; under his arm he carried the regulation portfolio, or lawyer’s bag, stuffed full of reports, dispositions, and documents dealing with cases in hand. He was altogether a very precise and natty little personage, quiet and unpretending in demeanour, with a mild, thoughtful face in which two small ferrety eyes blinked and twinkled behind gold-rimmed glasses. But when things went wrong, when he had to deal with fools, or when scent was keen, or the enemy near, he would become as fierce and eager as any terrier.

He had just taken his place at his table and begun to arrange his papers, which, being a man of method, he kept carefully sorted by lots each in an old copy of the Figaro, when he was called to the telephone. His services were greatly needed, as we know, at the Lyons station and the summons was to the following effect:

“Crime on train No. 45. A man murdered in the sleeper. All the passengers held. Please come at once. Most important.”

A fiacre was called instantly, and M. Floçon, accompanied by Galipaud and Block, the two first inspectors for duty, was driven with all possible speed across Paris.

He was met outside the station, just under the wide verandah, by the officials, who gave him a brief outline of the facts, so far as they were known, and as they have already been put before the reader.

“The passengers have been detained?” asked M. Floçon at once.

“Those in the sleeping-car only—”

“Tut, tut! they should have been all kept—at least until you had taken their names and addresses. Who knows what they might not have been able to tell?”

It was suggested that as the crime was committed presumably while the train was in motion, only those in the one car could be implicated.

“We should never jump to conclusions,” said the Chief snappishly. “Well, show me the train card—the list of the travellers in the sleeper.”

“It cannot be found, sir.”

“Impossible! Why, it is the porter’s business to deliver it at the end of the journey to his superiors, and under the law—to us. Where is the porter? In custody?”

“Surely, sir, but there is something wrong with him.”

“So I should think! Nothing of this kind could well occur without his knowledge. If he was doing his duty—unless, of course, he—but let us avoid hasty conjectures.”

“He has also lost the passengers’ tickets, which you know he retains till the end of the journey. After the catastrophe, however, he was unable to lay his hand upon his pocket-book. It contained all his papers.”

“Worse and worse. There is something behind all this. Take me to him. Stay, can I have a private room close to the other—where the prisoners, those held on suspicion, are? It will be necessary to hold investigations, take their depositions. M. le Juge will be here directly.”

M. Floçon was soon installed in a room actually communicating with the waiting-room, and as a preliminary of the first importance, taking precedence even of the examination of the sleeping-car, he ordered the porter to be brought in to answer certain questions.

The man, Ludwig Groote, as he presently gave his name, thirty-two years of age, born at Amsterdam, looked such a sluggish, slouching, blear-eyed creature that M. Floçon began by a sharp rebuke.

“Now. Sharp! Are you always like this?” cried the Chief.

The porter still stared straight before him with lack-lustre eyes, and made no immediate reply.

“Are you drunk? are you—Can it be possible?” he said, and in vague reply to a sudden strong suspicion, he went on:

“What were you doing between Laroche and Paris? Sleeping?”

The man roused himself a little. “I think I slept. I must have slept. I was very drowsy. I had been up two nights; but so it is always, and I am not like this generally. I do not understand.”

“Hah!” The Chief thought he understood. “Did you feel this drowsiness before leaving Laroche?”

“No, monsieur, I did not. Certainly not. I was fresh till then—quite fresh.”

“Hum; exactly; I see;” and the little Chief jumped to his feet and ran round to where the porter stood sheepishly, and sniffed and smelt at him.

“Yes, yes.” Sniff, sniff, sniff, the little man danced round and round him, then took hold of the porter’s head with one hand, and with the other turned down his lower eyelid so as to expose the eyeball, sniffed a little more, and then resumed his seat.

“Exactly. And now, where is your train card?”

“Pardon, monsieur, I cannot find it.”

“That is absurd. Where do you keep it? Look again—search—I must have it.”

The porter shook his head hopelessly.

“It is gone, monsieur, and my pocket-book.”

“But your papers, the tickets—”

“Everything was in it, monsieur. I must have dropped it.”

Strange, very strange. However—the fact was to be recorded, for the moment. He could of course return to it.

“You can give me the names of the passengers?”

“No, monsieur. Not exactly. I cannot remember, not enough to distinguish between them.”

“Fichtre! But this is most devilishly irritating. To think that I have to do with a man so stupid—such an idiot, such an ass!”

“At least you know how the berths were occupied, how many in each, and which persons? Yes? You can tell me that? Well, go on. By and by we will have the passengers in, and you can fix their places, after I have ascertained their names. Now, please! For how many was the car?”

“Sixteen. There were two compartments of four berths each, and four of two berths each.”

“Stay, let us make a plan. I will draw it. Here, now, is that right?” and the Chief held up the rough diagram. “Here we have the six compartments. Now take a, with berths 1, 2, 3, and 4. Were they all occupied?”

“No; only two, by Englishmen. I know that they talked English, which I understand a little. One was a soldier; the other, I think, a clergyman, or priest.”

“Good! we can verify that directly. Now, b, with berths 5 and 6. Who was there?”

“One gentleman. I don’t remember his name. But I shall know him by appearance.”

“Go on. In c, two berths, 7 and 8?”

“Also one gentleman. It was he who—I mean, that is where the crime occurred.”

“Ah, indeed, in 7 and 8? Very well. And the next, 9 and 10?”

“A lady. Our only lady. She came from Rome.”

“One moment. Where did the rest come from? Did any embark on the road?”

“No, monsieur; all the passengers travelled through from Rome.”

“The dead man included? Was he Roman?”

“That I cannot say, but he came on board at Rome.”

“Very well. This lady—she was alone?”

“In the compartment, yes. But not altogether.”

“I do not understand!”

“She had her servant with her.”

“In the car?”

“No, not in the car. As a passenger by second class. But she came to her mistress sometimes, in the car.”

“For her service, I presume?”

“Well, yes, monsieur, when I would permit it. But she came a little too often, and I was compelled to protest, to speak to Madame la Comtesse—”

“She was a countess, then?”

“The maid addressed her by that title. That is all I know. I heard her.”

“When did you see the lady’s maid last?”

“Last night. I think at Amberieux. about 8 p.m.”

“Not this morning?”

“No, sir, I am quite sure of that.”

“Not at Laroche? She did not come on board to stay, for the last stage, when her mistress would be getting up, dressing, and likely to require her?”

“No; I should not have permitted it.”

“And where is the maid now, d’you suppose?”

The porter looked at him with an air of complete imbecility.

“She is surely somewhere near, in or about the station. She would hardly desert her mistress now,” he said, stupidly, at last.

“At any rate we can soon settle that.” The Chief turned to one of his assistants, both of whom had been standing behind him all the time, and said:

“Step out, Galipaud, and see. No, wait. I am nearly as stupid as this simpleton. Describe this maid.”

“Tall and slight, dark-eyed, very black hair. Dressed all in black, plain black bonnet. I cannot remember more.”

“Find her, Galipaud—keep your eye on her. We may want her—why, I cannot say, as she seems disconnected with the event, but still she ought to be at hand.” Then, turning to the porter, he went on. “Finish, please. You said 9 and 10 was the lady’s. Well, 11 and 12?”

“It was vacant all through the run.”

“And the last compartment, for four?”

“There were two berths, occupied both by Frenchmen, at least so I judged them. They talked French to each other and to me.”

“Then now we have them all. Stand aside, please, and I will make the passengers come in. We will then determine their places and affix their names from their own admissions. Call them in, Block, one by one.”

CHAPTER III

The questions put by M. Floçon were much the same in every case, and were limited in this early stage of the inquiry to the one point of identity.

The first who entered was a Frenchman. He was a jovial, fat-faced, portly man, who answered to the name of Anatole Lafolay, and who described himself as a traveller in precious stones. The berth he had occupied was No. 13 in compartment f. His companion in the berth was a younger man, smaller, slighter, but of much the same stamp. His name was Jules Devaux, and he was a commission agent. His berth had been No. 15 in the same compartment, f. Both these Frenchmen gave their addresses with the names of many people to whom they were well known, and established at once a reputation for respectability which was greatly in their favour.

The third to appear was the tall, gray-headed Englishman, who had taken a certain lead at the first discovery of the crime. He called himself General Sir Charles Collingham, an officer of her Majesty’s army; and the clergyman who shared the compartment was his brother, the Reverend Silas Collingham, rector of Theakstone-Lammas, in the county of Norfolk. Their berths were numbered 1 and 4 in a.

Before the English General was dismissed, he asked whether he was likely to be detained.

“For the present, yes,” replied M. Floçon, briefly. He did not care to be asked questions. That, under the circumstances, was his business.

“Because I should like to communicate with the British Embassy.”

“You are known there?” asked the detective, not choosing to believe the story at first. It might be a ruse of some sort.

“I know Lord Dufferin personally; I was with him in India. Also Colonel Papillon, the military attaché; we were in the same regiment. If I sent to the Embassy, the latter would, no doubt, come himself.”

“How do you propose to send?”

“That is for you to decide. All I wish is that it should be known that my brother and I are detained under suspicion, and incriminated.”

“Hardly that, Monsieur le General. But it shall be as you wish. We will telephone from here to the post nearest the Embassy to inform his Excellency—”

“Certainly, Lord Dufferin, and my friend, Colonel Papillon.”

“Of what has occurred. And now, if you will permit me to proceed?”

So the single occupant of the compartment b, that adjoining the Englishmen, was called in. He was an Italian, by name Natale Ripaldi; a dark-skinned man, with very black hair and a bristling black moustache. He wore a long dark cloak of the Inverness order, and, with the slouch hat he carried in his hand, and his downcast, secretive look, he had the rather conventional aspect of a conspirator.

“If monsieur permits,” he volunteered to say after the formal questioning was over, “I can throw some light on this catastrophe.”

“And how so, pray? Did you assist? Were you present? If so, why wait to speak till now?” said the detective, receiving the advance rather coldly. It behooved him to be very much on his guard.

“I have had no opportunity till now of addressing any one in authority. You are in authority, I presume?”

“I am the Chief of the Detective Service.”

“Then, monsieur, remember, please, that I can give some useful information when called upon. Now, indeed, if you will receive it.”

M. Floçon was so anxious to approach the inquiry without prejudice that he put up his hand.

“We will wait, if you please. When M. le Juge arrives, then, perhaps; at any rate, at a later stage. That will do now, thank you.”

The Italian’s lip curled with a slight indication of contempt at the French detective’s methods, but he bowed without speaking, and went out.

Last of all the lady appeared, in a long sealskin travelling cloak, and closely veiled. She answered M. Floçon’s questions in a low, tremulous voice, as though greatly perturbed.

She was the Contessa di Castagneto, she said, an Englishwoman by birth; but her husband had been an Italian, as the name implied, and they resided in Rome. He was dead—she had been a widow for two or three years, and was on her way now to London.

“That will do, madame, thank you,” said the detective, politely, “for the present at least.”

“Why, are we likely to be detained? I trust not.” Her voice became appealing, almost piteous. Her hands, restlessly moving, showed how much she was distressed.

“Indeed, Madame la Comtesse, it must be so. I regret it infinitely; but until we have gone further into this, have elicited some facts, arrived at some conclusions—But there, madame, I need not, must not say more.”

“Oh, monsieur, I was so anxious to continue my journey. Friends are awaiting me in London. I do hope—I most earnestly beg and entreat you to spare me. I am not very strong; my health is indifferent. Do, sir, be so good as to release me from—”

As she spoke, she raised her veil, and showed what no woman wishes to hide, least of all when seeking the good-will of one of the opposite sex. She had a handsome face—strikingly so. Not even the long journey, the fatigue, the worries and anxieties which had supervened, could rob her of her marvellous beauty.

She was a brilliant brunette, dark-skinned; but her complexion was of a clear, pale olive, and as soft, as lustrous as pure ivory. Her great eyes, of a deep velvety brown, were saddened by near tears. She had rich red lips, the only colour in her face, and these, habitually slightly apart, showed pearly-white glistening teeth.

It was difficult to look at this charming woman without being affected by her beauty. M. Floçon was a Frenchman, gallant and impressionable; yet he steeled his heart. A detective must beware of sentiment, and he seemed to see something insidious in this appeal, which he resented.

“Madame, it is useless,” he answered gruffly. “I do not make the law; I have only to support it. Every good citizen is bound to that.”

“I trust I am a good citizen,” said the Countess, with a wan smile, but very wearily. “Still, I should wish to be let off now. I have suffered greatly, terribly, by this horrible catastrophe. My nerves are quite shattered. It is too cruel. However, I can say no more, except to ask that you will let my maid come to me.”

M. Floçon, still obdurate, would not even consent to that.

“I fear, madame, that for the present at least you cannot be allowed to communicate with any one, not even with your maid.”

“But she is not implicated; she was not in the car. I have not seen her since—”

“Since?” repeated M. Floçon, after a pause.

“Since last night, at Amberieux, about eight o’clock. She helped me to undress, and saw me to bed. I sent her away then, and said I should not need her till we reached Paris. But I want her now, indeed I do.”

“She did not come to you at Laroche?”

“No. Have I not said so? The porter,”—here she pointed to the man, who stood staring at her from the other side of the table—“he made difficulties about her being in the car, saying that she came too often, stayed too long, that I must pay for her berth, and so on. I did not see why I should do that; so she stayed away.”

“Except from time to time?”

“Precisely.”

“And the last time was at Amberieux?”

“As I have told you, and he will tell you the same.”

“Thank you, madame, that will do.” The Chief rose from his chair, plainly intimating that the interview was at an end.

CHAPTER IV

He had other work to do, and was eager to get at it. So he left Block to show the Countess back to the waiting-room, and, motioning to the porter that he might also go, the Chief hastened to the sleeping-car, the examination of which, too long delayed, claimed his urgent attention.

It is the first duty of a good detective to visit the actual theatre of a crime and overhaul it inch by inch—seeking, searching, investigating, looking for any, even the most insignificant, traces of the murderer’s hands.

The sleeping-car, as I have said, had been side-tracked, its doors were sealed, and it was under strict watch and ward. But everything, of course, gave way before the detective, and, breaking through the seals, he walked in, making straight for the little room or compartment where the body of the victim still lay untended and absolutely untouched.

It was a ghastly sight, although not new in M. Floçon’s experience. There lay the corpse in the narrow berth, just as it had been stricken. It was partially undressed, wearing only shirt and drawers. The former lay open at the chest, and showed the gaping wound that had, no doubt, caused death, probably instantaneous death. But other blows had been struck; there must have been a struggle, fierce and embittered, as for dear life. The savage truculence of the murderer had triumphed, but not until he had battered in the face, destroying features and rendering recognition almost impossible.

A knife had given the mortal wound; that was at once apparent from the shape of the wound. It was the knife, too, which had gashed and stabbed the face, almost wantonly; for some of these wounds had not bled, and the plain inference was that they had been inflicted after life had sped. M. Floçon examined the body closely, but without disturbing it. The police medical officer would wish to see it as it was found. The exact position, as well as the nature of the wounds, might afford evidence as to the manner of death.

But the Chief looked long, and with absorbed, concentrated interest, at the murdered man, noting all he actually saw, and conjecturing a good deal more.

The features of the mutilated face were all but unrecognizable, but the hair, which was abundant, was long, black, and inclined to curl; the black moustache was thick and drooping. The shirt was of fine linen, the drawers silk. On one finger were two good rings, the hands were clean, the nails well kept, and there was every evidence that the man did not live by manual labour. He was of the easy, cultured class, as distinct from the workman or operative.

This conclusion was borne out by his light baggage, which still lay about the berth—hat-box, rugs, umbrella, brown morocco hand-bag. All were the property of some one well to do, or at least possessed of decent belongings. One or two pieces bore a monogram, “F.Q.,” the same as on the shirt and under-linen; but on the bag was a luggage label, with the name, “Francis Quadling, passenger to Paris,” in full. Its owner had apparently no reason to conceal his name. More strangely, those who had done him to death had been at no pains to remove all traces of his identity.

M. Floçon opened the hand-bag, seeking for further evidence; but found nothing of importance—only loose collars, cuffs, a sponge and slippers, two Italian newspapers of an earlier date. No money, valuables, or papers. All these had been removed probably, and presumably, by the perpetrator of the crime.

Having settled the first preliminary but essential points, he next surveyed the whole compartment critically. Now, for the first time, he was struck with the fact that the window was open to its full height. Since when was this? It was a question to be put presently to the porter and any others who had entered the car, but the discovery drew him to examine the window more closely, and with good results.

At the ledge, caught on a projecting point on the far side, partly in, partly out of the car, was a morsel of white lace, a scrap of feminine apparel; although what part, or how it had come there, was not at once obvious to M. Floçon. A long and minute inspection of this bit of lace, which he was careful not to detach as yet from the place in which he found it, showed that it was ragged, and frayed, and fast caught where it hung. It could not have been blown there by any chance air; it must have been torn from the article to which it belonged, whatever that might be—head-dress, nightcap, night-dress, or handkerchief. The lace was of a kind to serve any of these purposes.

Inspecting further, M. Floçon made a second discovery. On the small table under the window was a short length of black jet beading, part of the trimming or ornamentation of a lady’s dress.

These two objects of feminine origin—one partly outside the car, the other near it, but quite inside—gave rise to many conjectures. It led, however, to the inevitable conclusion that a woman had been at some time or other in the berth. M. Floçon could not but connect these two finds with the fact of the open window. The latter might, of course, have been the work of the murdered man himself at an earlier hour. Yet it is unusual, as the detective imagined, for a passenger, and especially an Italian, to lie under an open window in a sleeping-berth when travelling by express train before daylight in March.

Who opened that window, then, and why? Perhaps some further facts might be found on the outside of the car. With this idea, M. Floçon left it, and passed on to the line or permanent way.

Here he found himself a good deal below the level of the car. These sleepers have no foot-boards like ordinary carriages; access to them is gained from a platform by the steps at each end. The Chief was short of stature, and he could only approach the window outside by calling one of the guards and ordering him to make the small ladder (faire la petite echelle). This meant stooping and giving a back, on which little M. Floçon climbed nimbly, and so was raised to the necessary height.

A close scrutiny revealed nothing unusual. The exterior of the car was encrusted with the mud and dust gathered in the journey, none of which appeared to have been disturbed.

M. Floçon reëntered the carriage neither disappointed nor pleased; his mind was in an open state, ready to receive any impressions, and as yet only one that was at all clear and distinct was borne in on him.

This was the presence of the lace and the jet beads in the theatre of the crime. The inference was fair and simple. He came logically and surely to this:

1. That some woman had entered the compartment.

2. That whether or not she had come in before the crime, she was there after the window had been opened, which was not done by the murdered man.

3. That she had leaned out, or partly passed out, of the window at some time or other, as the scrap of lace testified.

4. Why had she leaned out? To seek some means of exit or escape, of course.

But escape from whom? from what? The murderer? Then she must know him, and unless an accomplice (if so, why run from him?), she would give up her knowledge on compulsion, if not voluntarily, as seemed doubtful, seeing she (his suspicions were consolidating) had not done so already.

But there might be another even stronger reason to attempt escape at such imminent risk as leaving an express train at full speed. To escape from her own act and the consequences it must entail—escape from horror first, from detection next, and then from arrest and punishment.

All this would imperiously impel even a weak woman to face the worst peril, to look out, lean out, even try the terrible but impossible feat of climbing out of the car.

So M. Floçon, by fair process of reasoning, reached a point which incriminated one woman, the only woman possible, and that was the titled, high-bred lady who called herself the Contessa di Castagneto.

This conclusion gave a definite direction to further search. Consulting the rough plan which he had constructed to take the place of the missing train card, he entered the compartment which the Countess had occupied, and which was actually next door.

It was in the tumbled, untidy condition of a sleeping-place but just vacated. The sex and quality of its recent occupant were plainly apparent in the goods and chattels lying about, the property and possessions of a delicate, well-bred woman of the world, things still left as she had used them last—rugs still unrolled, a pair of easy-slippers on the floor, the sponge in its waterproof bag on the bed, brushes, bottles, button-hook, hand-glass, many things belonging to the dressing-bag, not yet returned to that receptacle. The maid was no doubt to have attended to all these, but as she had not come, they remained unpacked and strewn about in some disorder.

M. Floçon pounced down upon the contents of the berth, and commenced an immediate search for a lace scarf, or any wrap or cover with lace.

He found nothing, and was hardly disappointed. It told more against the Countess, who, if innocent, would have no reason to conceal or make away with a possibly incriminating possession, the need for which she could not of course understand.

Next, he handled the dressing-bag, and with deft fingers replaced everything.

Everything was forthcoming but one glass bottle, a small one, the absence of which he noted, but thought of little consequence, till, by and by, he came upon it under peculiar circumstances.

Before leaving the car, and after walking through the other compartments, M. Floçon made an especially strict search of the corner where the porter had his own small chair, his only resting-place, indeed, throughout the journey. He had not forgotten the attendant’s condition when first examined, and he had even then been nearly satisfied that the man had been hocussed, narcotized, drugged.

Any doubts were entirely removed by his picking up near the porter’s seat a small silver-topped bottle and a handkerchief, both marked with coronet and monogram, the last of which, although the letters were much interlaced and involved, were decipherable as S.L.L.C.

It was that of the Countess, and corresponded with the marks on her other belongings. He put it to his nostril, and recognized at once by its smell that it had contained tincture of laudanum, or some preparation of that drug.

CHAPTER V

M. Floçon was an experienced detective, and he knew so well that he ought to be on his guard against the most plausible suggestions, that he did not like to make too much of these discoveries. Still, he was distinctly satisfied, if not exactly exultant, and he went back towards the station with a strong predisposition against the Contessa di Castagneto.

Just outside the waiting-room, however, his assistant, Galipaud, met him with news which rather dashed his hopes, and gave a new direction to his thoughts.

The lady’s maid was not to be found.

“Impossible!” cried the Chief, and then at once suspicion followed surprise.

“I have looked, monsieur, inquired everywhere; the maid has not been seen. She certainly is not here.”

“Did she go through the barrier with the other passengers?”

“No one knows; no one remembers her; not even the conductor. But she has gone. That is positive.”

“Yet it was her duty to be here; to attend to her service. Her mistress would certainly want her—has asked for her! Why should she run away?”

This question presented itself as one of infinite importance, to be pondered over seriously before he went further into the inquiry.

Did the Countess know of this disappearance?

She had asked imploringly for her maid. True, but might that not be a blind? Women are born actresses, and at need can assume any part, convey any impression. Might not the Countess have wished to be dissociated from the maid, and therefore have affected complete ignorance of her flight?

“I will try her further,” said M. Floçon to himself.

But then, supposing that the maid had taken herself off of her own accord? Why was it? Why had she done so? Because—because she was afraid of something. If so, of what? No direct accusation could be brought against her on the face of it. She had not been in the sleeping-car at the time of the murder, while the Countess as certainly was; and, according to strong presumption, in the very compartment where the deed was done. If the maid was afraid, why was she afraid?

Only on one possible hypothesis. That she was either in collusion with the Countess, or possessed of some guilty knowledge tending to incriminate the Countess and probably herself. She had run away to avoid any inconvenient questioning tending to get her mistress into trouble, which would react probably on herself.

“We must press the Countess on this point closely; I will put it plainly to M. le Juge,” said the detective, as he entered the private room set apart for the police authorities, where he found M. Beaumont le Hardi, the instructing judge, and the Commissary of the Quartier (arrondissement).

A lengthy conference followed among the officials. M. Floçon told all he knew, all he had discovered, gave his views with all the force and fluency of a public prosecutor, and was congratulated warmly on the progress he had made.

“I agree with you, sir,” said the instructing judge: “we must have in the Countess first, and pursue the line indicated as regards the missing maid.”

“I will fetch her, then. Stay, what can be going on in there?” cried M. Floçon, rising from his seat and running into the outer waiting-room, which, to his surprise and indignation, he found in great confusion.

The guard who was on duty was struggling, in personal conflict almost, with the English General. There was a great hubbub of voices, and the Countess was lying back half-fainting in her chair.

“What’s all this? How dare you, sir?”

This to the General, who now had the man by the throat with one hand and with the other was preventing him from drawing his sword. “Desist—forbear! You are opposing legal authority; desist, or I will call in assistance and will have you secured and removed.”

The little Chief’s blood was up; he spoke warmly, with all the force and dignity of an official who sees the law outraged.

“It is entirely the fault of this ruffian of yours; he has behaved most brutally,” replied Sir Charles, still holding him tight.

“Let him go, monsieur; your behaviour is inexcusable. What! you, a military officer of the highest rank, to assault a sentinel! For shame! This is unworthy of you!”

“He deserves to be scragged, the beast!” went on the General, as with one sharp turn of the wrist he threw the guard off, and sent him flying nearly across the room, where, being free at last, the Frenchman drew his sword and brandished it threateningly—from a distance.

But M. Floçon interposed with uplifted hand and insisted upon an explanation.

“It is just this,” replied Sir Charles, speaking fast and with much fierceness: “that lady there—poor thing, she is ill, you can see that for yourself, suffering, overwrought; she asked for a glass of water, and this brute, triple brute, as you say in French, refused to bring it.”

“I could not leave the room,” protested the guard. “My orders were precise.”

“So I was going to fetch the water,” went on the General angrily, eying the guard as though he would like to make another grab at him, “and this fellow interfered.”

“Very properly,” added M. Floçon.

“Then why didn’t he go himself, or call some one? Upon my word, monsieur, you are not to be complimented upon your people, nor your methods. I used to think that a Frenchman was gallant, courteous, especially to ladies.”

The Chief looked a little disconcerted, but remembering what he knew against this particular lady, he stiffened and said severely, “I am responsible for my conduct to my superiors, and not to you. Besides, you appear to forget your position. You are here, detained—all of you”—he spoke to the whole room—“under suspicion. A ghastly crime has been perpetrated—by some one among you—”

“Do not be too sure of that,” interposed the irrepressible General.

“Who else could be concerned? The train never stopped after leaving Laroche,” said the detective, allowing himself to be betrayed into argument.

“Yes, it did,” corrected Sir Charles, with a contemptuous laugh; “shows how much you know.”

Again the Chief looked unhappy. He was on dangerous ground, face to face with a new fact affecting all his theories—if fact it was, not mere assertion, and that he must speedily verify. But nothing was to be gained—much, indeed, might be lost—by prolonging this discussion in the presence of the whole party. It was entirely opposed to the French practice of investigation, which works secretly, taking witnesses separately, one by one, and strictly preventing all intercommunication or collusion among them.

“What I know or do not know is my affair,” he said, with an indifference he did not feel. “I shall call upon you, M. le Général, for your statement in due course, and that of the others.” He bowed stiffly to the whole room. “Every one must be interrogated. M. le Juge is now here, and he proposes to begin, madame, with you.”

The Countess gave a little start, shivered, and turned very pale.

“Can’t you see she is not equal to it?” cried the General, hotly. “She has not yet recovered. In the name of—I do not say chivalry, for that would be useless—but of common humanity, spare madame, at least for the present.”

“That is impossible, quite impossible. There are reasons why Madame la Comtesse should be examined first. I trust, therefore, she will make an effort.”

“I will try, if you wish it.” She rose from her chair and walked a few steps rather feebly, then stopped.

“No, no, Countess, do not go,” said Sir Charles, hastily, in English, as he moved across to where she stood and gave her his hand. “This is sheer cruelty, sir, and cannot be permitted.”

“Stand aside!” shouted M. Floçon; “I forbid you to approach that lady, to address her, or communicate with her. Guard, advance, do your duty.”

But the guard, although his sword was still out of its sheath, showed great reluctance to move. He had no desire to try conclusions again with this very masterful person, who was, moreover, a general; as he had seen service, he had a deep respect for generals, even of foreign growth.

Meanwhile the General held his ground and continued his conversation with the Countess, speaking still in English, thus exasperating M. Floçon, who did not understand the language, almost to madness.

“This is not to be borne!” he cried. “Here, Galipaud, Block;” and when his two trusty assistants came rushing in, he pointed furiously to the General. “Seize him, remove him by force if necessary. He shall go to the violon—to the nearest lock-up.”

The noise attracted also the Judge and the Commissary, and there were now six officials in all, including the guard, all surrounding the General, a sufficiently imposing force to overawe even the most recalcitrant fire-eater.

But now the General seemed to see only the comic side of the situation, and he burst out laughing.

“What, all of you? How many more? Why not bring up cavalry and artillery, horse, foot, and guns?” he asked, derisively. “All to prevent one old man from offering his services to one weak woman! Gentlemen, my regards!”

“Really, Charles, I fear you are going too far,” said his brother the clergyman, who, however, had been manifestly enjoying the whole scene.

“Indeed, yes. It is not necessary, I assure you,” added the Countess, with tears of gratitude in her big brown eyes. “I am most touched, most thankful. You are a true soldier, a true English gentleman, and I shall never forget your kindness.” Then she put her hand in his with a pretty, winning gesture that was reward enough for any man.

Meanwhile, the Judge, the senior official present, had learned exactly what had happened, and he now addressed the General with a calm but stern rebuke.

“Monsieur will not, I trust, oblige us to put in force the full power of the law. I might, if I chose, and as I am fully entitled, commit you at once to Mazas, to keep you in solitary confinement. Your conduct has been deplorable, well calculated to traverse and impede justice. But I am willing to believe that you were led away, not unnaturally, as a gallant gentleman—it is the characteristic of your nation, of your cloth—and that on more mature consideration you will acknowledge and not repeat your error.”

M. Beaumont le Hardi was a grave, florid, soft-voiced person, with a bald head and a comfortably-lined white waistcoat; one who sought his ends by persuasion, not force, but who had the instincts of a gentleman, and little sympathy with the peremptory methods of his more inflammable colleague.

“Oh, with all my heart, monsieur,” said Sir Charles, cordially. “You saw, or at least know, how this has occurred. I did not begin it, nor was I the most to blame. But I was in the wrong, I admit. What do you wish me to do now?”

“Give me your promise to abide by our rules—they may be irksome, but we think them necessary—and hold no further converse with your companions.”

“Certainly, certainly, monsieur—at least after I have said one word more to Madame la Comtesse.”

“No, no, I cannot permit even that—”

But Sir Charles, in spite of the warning finger held up by the Judge, insisted upon crying out to her, as she was being led into the other room:

“Courage, dear lady, courage. Don’t let them bully you. You have nothing to fear.”

Any further defiance of authority was now prevented by her almost forcible removal from the room.

CHAPTER VI

The stormy episode just ended had rather a disturbing effect on M. Floçon, who could scarcely give his full attention to all the points, old and new, that had now arisen in the investigation. But he would have time to go over them at his leisure, while the work of interrogation was undertaken by the Judge.

The latter had taken his seat at a small table, and just opposite was his greffier, or clerk, who was to write down question and answer, verbatim. A little to one side, with the light full on the face, the witness was seated, bearing the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes—the Judge first, and behind him, those of the Chief Detective and the Commissary of Police.

“I trust, madame, that you are equal to answering a few questions?” began M. le Hardi, blandly.

“Oh, yes, I hope so. Indeed, I have no choice,” replied the Countess, bravely resigned.

“They will refer principally to your maid.”

“Ah!” said the Countess, quickly and in a troubled voice, yet she bore the gaze of the three officials without flinching.

“I want to know a little more about her, if you please.”

“Of course. Anything I know I will tell you.” She spoke now with perfect self-possession. “But if I might ask—why this interest?”

“I will tell you frankly. You asked for her, we sent for her, and—”

“Yes?”

“She cannot be found. She is not in the station.”

The Countess all but jumped from her chair in her surprise—surprise that seemed too spontaneous to be feigned.

“Impossible! it cannot be. She would not dare to leave me here like this, all alone.”

“Parbleu! she has dared. Most certainly she is not here.”

“But what can have become of her?”

“Ah, madame, what indeed? Can you form any idea? We hoped you might have been able to enlighten us.”

“I cannot, monsieur, not in the least.”

“Perchance you sent her on to your hotel to warn your friends that you were detained? To fetch them, perhaps, to you in your trouble?”

The trap was neatly contrived, but she was not deceived.

“How could I? I knew of no trouble when I saw her last.”

“Oh, indeed? and when was that?”

“Last night, at Amberieux, as I have already told that gentleman.” She pointed to M. Floçon, who was obliged to nod his head.

“Well, she has gone away somewhere. It does not much matter, still it is odd, and for your sake we should like to help you to find her, if you do wish to find her?”

Another little trap which failed.

“Indeed I hardly think she is worth keeping after this barefaced desertion.”

“No, indeed. And she must be held to strict account for it, must justify it, give her reasons. So we must find her for you—”

“I am not at all anxious, really,” the Countess said, quickly, and the remark told against her.

“Well, now, Madame la Comtesse, as to her description. Will you tell us what was her height, figure, colour of eyes, hair, general appearance?”

“She was tall, above the middle height, at least; slight, good figure, black hair and eyes.”

“Pretty?”

“That depends upon what you mean by ‘pretty.’ Some people might think so, in her own class.”

“How was she dressed?”

“In plain dark serge, bonnet of black straw and brown ribbons. I do not allow my maid to wear colours.”

“Exactly. And her name, age, place of birth?”

“Hortense Petitpré, thirty-two, born, I believe, in Paris.”

The Judge, when these particulars had been given, looked over his shoulder towards the detective, but said nothing. It was quite unnecessary, for M. Floçon, who had been writing in his note-book, now rose and left the room. He called Galipaud to him, saying sharply:

“Here is the more detailed description of the lady’s maid, and in writing. Have it copied and circulate it at once. Give it to the station-master, and to the agents of police round about here. I have an idea—only an idea—that this woman has not gone far. It may be worth nothing, still there is the chance. People who are wanted often hang about the very place they would not stay in if they were wise. Anyhow, set a watch for her and come back here.”

Meanwhile, the Judge had continued his questioning.

“And where, madame, did you obtain your maid?”

“In Rome. She was there, out of a place. I heard of her at an agency and registry office, when I was looking for a maid a month or two ago.”

“Then she has not been long in your service?”

“No; as I tell you, she came to me in December last.”

“Well recommended?”

“Strongly. She had lived with good families, French and English.”

“And with you, what was her character?”

“Irreproachable.”

“Well, so much for Hortense Petitpré. She is not far off, I dare say. When we want her we shall be able to lay hands on her, I do not doubt, madame may rest assured.”

“Pray take no trouble in the matter. I certainly should not keep her.”

“Very well, very well. And now, another small matter. I see,” he referred to the rough plan of the sleeping-car prepared by M. Floçon—“I see that you occupied the compartment d, with berths Nos. 9 and 10?”

“I think 9 was the number of my berth.”

“It was. You may be certain of that. Now next door to your compartment—do you know who was next door? I mean in 7 and 8?”

The Countess’s lip quivered, and she was a prey to sudden emotion as she answered in a low voice:

“It was where—where—”

“There, there, madame,” said the Judge, reassuring her as he would a little child. “You need not say. It is no doubt very distressing to you. Yet, you know?”

She bent her head slowly, but uttered no word.

“Now this man, this poor man, had you noticed him at all? No—no—not afterwards, of course. It would not be likely. But during the journey. Did you speak to him, or he to you?”

“No, no—distinctly no.”

“Nor see him?”

“Yes, I saw him, I believe, at Modane with the rest when we dined.”

“Ah! exactly so. He dined at Modane. Was that the only occasion on which you saw him? You had never met him previously in Rome, where you resided?”

“Whom do you mean? The murdered man?”

“Who else?”

“No, not that I am aware of. At least I did not recognize him as a friend.”

“I presume, if he was among your friends—”

“Pardon me, that he certainly was not,” interrupted the Countess.

“Well, among your acquaintances—he would probably have made himself known to you?”

“I suppose so.”

“And he did not do so? He never spoke to you, nor you to him?”

“I never saw him, the occupant of that compartment, except on that one occasion. I kept a good deal in my compartment during the journey.”

“Alone? It must have been very dull for you,” said the Judge, pleasantly.

“I was not always alone,” said the Countess, hesitatingly, and with a slight flush. “I had friends in the car.”

“Oh—oh”—the exclamation was long-drawn and rather significant.

“Who were they? You may as well tell us, madame, we should certainly find out.”

“I have no wish to withhold the information,” she replied, now turning pale, possibly at the imputation conveyed. “Why should I?”

“And these friends were—?”

“Sir Charles Collingham and his brother. They came and sat with me occasionally; sometimes one, sometimes the other.”

“During the day?”

“Of course, during the day.” Her eyes flashed, as though the question was another offence.

“Have you known them long?”

“The General I met in Roman society last winter. It was he who introduced his brother.”

“Very good, so far. The General knew you, took an interest in you. That explains his strange, unjustifiable conduct just now—”

“I do not think it was either strange or unjustifiable,” interrupted the Countess, hotly. “He is a gentleman.”

“Quite a preux cavalier, of course. But we will pass on. You are not a good sleeper, I believe, madame?”

“Indeed no, I sleep badly, as a rule.”

“Then you would be easily disturbed. Now, last night, did you hear anything strange in the car, more particularly in the adjoining compartment?”

“Nothing.”

“No sound of voices raised high, no noise of a conflict, a struggle?”

“No, monsieur.”

“That is odd. I cannot understand it. We know, beyond all question, from the appearance of the body—the corpse—that there was a fight, an encounter. Yet you, a wretched sleeper, with only a thin plank of wood between you and the affray, hear nothing, absolutely nothing. It is most extraordinary.”

“I was asleep. I must have been asleep.”

“A light sleeper would certainly be awakened. How can you explain—how can you reconcile that?” The question was blandly put, but the Judge’s incredulity verged upon actual insolence.

“Easily: I had taken a soporific. I always do, on a journey. I am obliged to keep something, sulphonal or chloral, by me, on purpose.”

“Then this, madame, is yours?” And the Judge, with an air of undisguised triumph, produced the small glass vial which M. Floçon had picked up in the sleeping-car near the conductor’s seat.

The Countess, with a quick gesture, put out her hand to take it.

“No, I cannot give it up. Look as near as you like, and say is it yours?”

“Of course it is mine. Where did you get it? Not in my berth?”

“No, madame, not in your berth.”

“But where?”

“Pardon me, we shall not tell you—not just now.”

“I missed it last night,” went on the Countess, slightly confused.

“After you had taken your dose of chloral?”

“No, before.”

“And why did you want this? It is laudanum.”

“For my nerves. I have a toothache. I—I—really, sir, I need not tell you all my ailments.”

“And the maid had removed it?”

“So I presume; she must have taken it out of the bag in the first instance.”

“And then kept it?”

“That is what I can only suppose.”

“Ah!”

CHAPTER VII

When the Judge had brought down the interrogation of the Countess to the production of the small glass bottle, he paused, and with a long-drawn “Ah!” of satisfaction, looked round at his colleagues.

Both M. Floçon and the Commissary nodded their heads approvingly, plainly sharing his triumph.

Then they all put their heads together in close, whispered conference.

“Admirable, M. le Juge!” said the detective. “You have been most adroit. It is a clear case.”

“No doubt,” said the Commissary, who was a blunt, rather coarse person, believing that to take anybody and everybody into custody is always the safest and simplest course. “It looks black against her. I think she ought to be arrested at once.”

“We might, indeed we ought to have more evidence, more definite evidence, perhaps?” The Judge was musing over the facts as he knew them. “I should like, before going further, to look at the car,” he said, suddenly coming to a conclusion.

M. Floçon readily agreed. “We will go together,” he said, adding, “Madame will remain here, please, until we return. It may not be for long.”

“And afterwards?” asked the Countess, whose nervousness had if anything increased during the whispered colloquy of the officials.

“Ah, afterwards! Who knows?” was the reply, with a shrug of the shoulders, all most enigmatic and unsatisfactory.

“What have we against her?” said the Judge, as soon as they had gained the absolute privacy of the sleeping-car.

“The bottle of laudanum and the porter’s condition. He was undoubtedly drugged,” answered the detective; and the discussion which followed took the form of a dialogue between them, for the Commissary took no part in it.

“Yes; but why by the Countess? How do we know that positively?”

“It is her bottle,” said M. Floçon.

“Her story may be true—that she missed it, that the maid took it.”

“We have nothing whatever against the maid. We know nothing about her.”

“No. Except that she has disappeared. But that tells more against her mistress. It is all very vague. I do not see my way quite, as yet.”

“But the fragment of lace, the broken beading? Surely, M. le Juge, they are a woman’s, and only one woman was in the car—”

“So far as we know.”

“But if these could be proved to be hers?”

“Ah! if you could prove that!”

“Easy enough. Have her searched, here at once, in the station. There is a female searcher attached to the detention-room.”

“It is a strong measure. She is a lady.”

“Ladies who commit crimes must not expect to be handled with kid gloves.”

“She is an Englishwoman, or with English connections; titled, too. I hesitate, upon my word. Suppose we are wrong? It may lead to unpleasantness. M. le Prefet is anxious to avoid complications possibly international.”

As he spoke, he bent over, and, taking a magnifier from his pocket, examined the lace, which still fluttered where it was caught.

“It is fine lace, I think. What say you, M. Floçon? You may be more experienced in such matters.”

“The finest, or nearly so; I believe it is Valenciennes—the trimming of some underclothing, I should think. That surely is sufficient, M. le Juge?”

M. Beaumont le Hardi gave a reluctant consent, and the Chief went back himself to see that the searching was undertaken without loss of time.

The Countess protested, but vainly, against this new indignity. What could she do? A prisoner, practically friendless—for the General was not within reach—to resist was out of the question. Indeed, she was plainly told that force would be employed unless she submitted with a good grace. There was nothing for it but to obey.

Mother Tontaine, as the female searcher called herself, was an evil-visaged, corpulent old creature, with a sickly, soft, insinuating voice, and a greasy, familiar manner that was most offensive. They had given her the scrap of torn lace and the débris of the jet as a guide, with very particular directions to see if they corresponded with any part of the lady’s apparel.

She soon showed her quality.

“Aha! oho! What is this, my pretty princess? How comes so great a lady into the hands of Mother Tontaine? But I will not harm you, my beauty, my pretty, my little one. Oh, no, no, I will not trouble you, dearie. No, trust to me;” and she held out one skinny claw, and looked the other way. The Countess did not or would not understand.

“Madame has money?” went on the old hag in a half-threatening, half-coaxing whisper, as she came up quite close, and fastened on her victim like a bird of prey.

“If you mean that I am to bribe you—”

“Fie, the nasty word! But just a small present, a pretty gift, one or two yellow bits, twenty, thirty, forty francs—you’d better.” She shook the soft arm she held roughly, and anything seemed preferable than to be touched by this horrible woman.

“Wait, wait!” cried the Countess, shivering all over, and, feeling hastily for her purse, she took out several napoleons.

“Aha! oho! One, two, three,” said the searcher in a fat, wheedling voice. “Four, yes, four, five;” and she clinked the coins together in her palm, while a covetous light came into her faded eyes at the joyous sound. “Five—make it five at once, d’ye hear me?—or I’ll call them in and tell them. That will go against you, my princess. What, try to bribe a poor old woman, Mother Tontaine, honest and incorruptible Tontaine? Five, then, five!”

With trembling haste the Countess emptied the whole contents of her purse in the old hag’s hand.

“Bon aubaine. Nice pickings. It is a misery what they pay me here. I am, oh, so poor, and I have children, many babies. You will not tell them—the police—you dare not. No, no, no.”

Thus muttering to herself, she shambled across the room to a corner, where she stowed the money safely away. Then she came back, showed the bit of lace, and pressed it into the Countess’s hands.

“Do you know this, little one? Where it comes from, where there is much more? I was told to look for it, to search for it on you;” and with a quick gesture she lifted the edge of the Countess’s skirt, dropping it next moment with a low, chuckling laugh.

“Oho! aha! You were right, my pretty, to pay me, my pretty—right. And some day, to-day, to-morrow, whenever I ask you, you will remember Mother Tontaine.”

The Countess listened with dismay. What had she done? Put herself into the power of this greedy and unscrupulous old beldame?

“And this, my princess? What have we here, aha?”

Mère Tontaine held up next the broken bit of jet ornament for inspection, and as the Countess leaned forward to examine it more closely, gave it into her hand.

“You recognize it, of course. But be careful, my pretty! Beware! If any one were looking, it would ruin you. I could not save you then. Sh! say nothing, only look, and quick, give it me back. I must have it to show.”

All this time the Countess was turning the jet over and over in her open palm, with a perplexed, disturbed, but hardly a terrified air.

Yes, she knew it, or thought she knew it. It had been—But how had it come here, into the possession of this base myrmidon of the French police?

“Give it me, quick!” There was a loud knock at the door. “They are coming. Remember!” Mother Tontaine put her long finger to her lip. “Not a word! I have found nothing, of course. Nothing, I can swear to that, and you will not forget Mother Tontaine?”

Now M. Floçon stood at the open door awaiting the searcher’s report. He looked much disconcerted when the old woman took him on one side and briefly explained that the search had been altogether fruitless.

There was nothing to justify suspicion, nothing, so far as she could find.

The detective looked from one to the other—from the hag he had employed in this unpleasant quest, to the lady on whom it had been tried. The Countess, to his surprise, did not complain. He had expected further and strong upbraidings. Strange to say, she took it very quietly. There was no indignation in her face. She was still pale, and her hands trembled, but she said nothing, made no reference, at least, to what she had just gone through.

Again he took counsel with his colleague, while the Countess was kept apart.

“What next, M. Floçon?” asked the Judge. “What shall we do with her?”

“Let her go,” answered the detective, briefly.

“What! do you suggest this, sir,” said the Judge, slyly. “After your strong and well-grounded suspicions?”

“They are as strong as ever, stronger: and I feel sure I shall yet justify them. But what I wish now is to let her go at large, under surveillance.”

“Ah! you would shadow her?”

“Precisely. By a good agent. Galipaud, for instance. He speaks English, and he can, if necessary, follow her anywhere, even to England.”

“She can be extradited,” said the Commissary, with his one prominent idea of arrest.

“Do you agree, M. le Juge? Then, if you will permit me, I will give the necessary orders, and perhaps you will inform the lady that she is free to leave the station?”

The Countess now had reason to change her opinion of the French officials. Great politeness now replaced the first severity that had been so cruel. She was told, with many bows and apologies, that her regretted but unavoidable detention was at an end. Not only was she freely allowed to depart, but she was escorted by both M. Floçon and the Commissary outside, to where an omnibus was in waiting, and all her baggage piled on top, even to the dressing-bag, which had been neatly repacked for her.

But the little silver-topped vial had not been restored to her, nor the handkerchief.

In her joy at her deliverance, either she had not given these a second thought, or she did not wish to appear anxious to recover them.

Nor did she notice that, as the bus passed through the gates at the bottom of the large slope that leads from the Lyons Station, it was followed at a discreet distance by a modest fiacre, which pulled up, eventually, outside the Hôtel Madagascar. Its occupant, M. Galipaud, kept the Countess in sight, and, entering the hotel at her heels, waited till she had left the office, when he held a long conference with the proprietor.

CHAPTER VIII

A first stage in the inquiry had now been reached, with results that seemed promising, and were yet contradictory.

No doubt the watch to be set on the Countess might lead to something yet—something to bring first plausible suspicion to a triumphant issue; but the examination of the other occupants of the car should not be allowed to slacken on that account. The Countess might have some confederate among them—this pestilent English General, perhaps, who had made himself so conspicuous in her defence; or some one of them might throw light upon her movements, upon her conduct during the journey.

Then, with a spasm of self-reproach, M. Floçon remembered that two distinct suggestions had been made to him by two of the travellers, and that, so far, he had neglected them. One was the significant hint from the Italian that he could materially help the inquiry. The other was the General’s sneering assertion that the train had not continued its journey uninterruptedly between Laroche and Paris.

Consulting the Judge, and laying these facts before him, it was agreed that the Italian’s offer seemed the most important, and he was accordingly called in next.

“Who and what are you?” asked the Judge, carelessly, but the answer roused him at once to intense interest, and he could not quite resist a glance of reproach at M. Floçon.

“My name I have given you—Natale Ripaldi. I am a detective officer belonging to the Roman police.”

“What!” cried M. Floçon, colouring deeply. “This is unheard of. Why in the name of all the devils have you withheld this most astonishing statement until now?”

“Monsieur surely remembers. I told him half an hour ago I had something important to communicate—”

“Yes, yes, of course. But why were you so reticent. Good Heavens!”

“Monsieur was not so encouraging that I felt disposed to force on him what I knew he would have to hear in due course.”

“It is monstrous—quite abominable, and shall not end here. Your superiors shall hear of your conduct,” went on the Chief, hotly.

“They will also hear, and, I think, listen to my version of the story—that I offered you fairly, and at the first opportunity, all the information I had, and that you refused to accept it.”

“You should have persisted. It was your manifest duty. You are an officer of the law, or you say you are.”

“Pray telegraph at once, if you think fit, to Rome, to the police authorities, and you will find that Natale Ripaldi—your humble servant—travelled by the through express with their knowledge and authority. And here are my credentials, my official card, some official letters—”

“And what, in a word, have you to tell us?”

“I can tell you who the murdered man was.”

“We know that already.”

“Possibly; but only his name, I apprehend. I know his profession, his business, his object in travelling, for I was appointed to watch and follow him. That is why I am here.”

“Was he a suspicious character, then? A criminal?”

“At any rate he was absconding from Rome, with valuables.”

“A thief, in fact?”

The Italian put out the palms of his hands with a gesture of doubt and deprecation.

“Thief is a hard, ugly word. That which he was removing was, or had been, his own property.”

“Tut, tut! do be more explicit and get on,” interrupted the little Chief, testily.

“I ask nothing better; but if questions are put to me—”

The Judge interposed.

“Give us your story. We can interrogate you afterwards.”

“The murdered man is Francis A. Quadling, of the firm of Correse & Quadling, bankers, in the Via Condotti, Rome. It was an old house, once of good, of the highest repute, but of late years it has fallen into difficulties. Its financial soundness was doubted in certain circles, and the Government was warned that a great scandal was imminent. So the matter was handed over to the police, and I was directed to make inquiries, and to keep my eye on this Quadling”—he jerked his thumb towards the platform, where the body might be supposed to be.

“This Quadling was the only surviving partner. He was well known and liked in Rome, indeed, many who heard the adverse reports disbelieved them, I myself among the number. But my duty was plain—”

“Naturally,” echoed the fiery little detective.

“I made it my business to place the banker under surveillance, to learn his habits, his ways of life, see who were his friends, the houses he visited. I soon knew much that I wanted to know, although not all. But one fact I discovered, and think it right to inform you of it at once. He was on intimate terms with La Castagneto—at least, he frequently called upon her.”

“La Castagneto! Do you mean the Countess of that name, who was a passenger in the sleeper?”

“Beyond doubt! it is she I mean.” The officials looked at each other eagerly, and M. Beaumont le Hardi quickly turned over the sheets on which the Countess’s evidence was recorded.

She had denied acquaintance with this murdered man, Quadling, and here was positive evidence that they were on intimate terms!

“He was at her house on the very day we all left Rome—in the evening, towards dusk. The Countess had an apartment in the Via Margutta, and when he left her he returned to his own place in the Condotti, entered the bank, stayed half an hour, then came out with one hand-bag and rug, called a cab, and was driven straight to the railway station.”

“And you followed?”

“Of course. When I saw him walk straight to the sleeping-car, and ask the conductor for 7 and 8, I knew that his plans had been laid, and that he was on the point of leaving Rome secretly. When, presently, La Castagneto also arrived, I concluded that she was in his confidence, and that possibly they were eloping together.”

“Why did you not arrest him?”

“I had no authority, even if I had had the time. Although I was ordered to watch the Signor Quadling, I had no warrant for his arrest. But I decided on the spur of the moment what course I should take. It seemed to be the only one, and that was to embark in the same train and stick close to my man.”

“You informed your superiors, I suppose?”

“Pardon me, monsieur,” said the Italian blandly to the Chief, who asked the question, “but have you any right to inquire into my conduct towards my superiors? In all that affects the murder I am at your orders, but in this other matter it is between me and them.”

“Ta, ta, ta! They will tell us if you will not. And you had better be careful, lest you obstruct justice. Speak out, sir, and beware. What did you intend to do?”

“To act according to circumstances. If my suspicions were confirmed—”

“What suspicions?”

“Why—that this banker was carrying off any large sum in cash, notes, securities, as in effect he was.”

“Ah! You know that? How?”

“By my own eyes. I looked into his compartment once and saw him in the act of counting them over, a great quantity, in fact—”

Again the officials looked at each other significantly. They had got at last to a motive for the crime.

“And that, of course, would have justified his arrest?”

“Exactly. I proposed, directly we arrived in Paris, to claim the assistance of your police and take him into custody. But his fate interposed.”

There was a pause, a long pause, for another important point had been reached in the inquiry: the motive for the murder had been made clear, and with it the presumption against the Countess gained terrible strength.

But there was more, perhaps, to be got out of this dark-visaged Italian detective, who had already proved so useful an ally.

“One or two words more,” said the Judge to Ripaldi. “During the journey, now, did you have any conversation with this Quadling?”

“None. He kept very much to himself.”

“You saw him, I suppose, at the restaurants?”

“Yes, at Modane and Laroche.”

“But did not speak to him?”

“Not a word.”

“Had he any suspicion, do you think, as to who you were?”

“Why should he? He did not know me. I had taken pains he should never see me.”

“Did he speak to any other passenger?”

“Very little. To the Countess. Yes, once or twice, I think, to her maid.”

“Ah! that maid. Did you notice her at all? She has not been seen. It is strange. She seems to have disappeared.”

“To have run away, in fact?” suggested Ripaldi, with a queer smile.

“Well, at least she is not here with her mistress. Can you offer any explanation of that?”

“She was perhaps afraid. The Countess and she were very good friends, I think. On better, more familiar terms, than is usual between mistress and maid.”

“The maid knew something?”

“Ah, monsieur, it is only an idea. But I give it you for what it is worth.”

“Well, well, this maid—what was she like?”

“Tall, dark, good-looking, not too reserved. She made other friends—the porter and the English Colonel. I saw the last speaking to her. I spoke to her myself.”

“What can have become of her?” said the Judge.

“Would M. le Juge like me to go in search of her? That is, if you have no more questions to ask, no wish to detain me further?”

“We will consider that, and let you know in a moment, if you will wait outside.”

And then, when alone, the officials deliberated.

It was a good offer, the man knew her appearance, he was in possession of all the facts, he could be trusted—

“Ah, but can he, though?” queried the detective. “How do we know he has told us truth? What guarantee have we of his loyalty, his good faith? What if he is also concerned in the crime—has some guilty knowledge? What if he killed Quadling himself, or was an accomplice before or after the fact?”

“All these are possibilities, of course, but—pardon me, dear colleague—a little far-fetched, eh?” said the Judge. “Why not utilize this man? If he betrays us—serves us ill—if we had reason to lay hands on him again, he could hardly escape us.”

“Let him go, and send some one with him,” said the Commissary, the first practical suggestion he had yet made.

“Excellent!” cried the Judge. “You have another man here, Chief; let him go with this Italian.”

They called in Ripaldi and told him, “We will accept your services, monsieur, and you can begin your search at once. In what direction do you propose to begin?”

“Where has her mistress gone?”

“How do you know she has gone?”

“At least, she is no longer with us out there. Have you arrested her—or what?”

“No, she is still at large, but we have our eye upon her. She has gone to her hotel—the Madagascar, off the Grands Boulevards.”

“Then it is there that I shall look for the maid. No doubt she preceded her mistress to the hotel, or she will join her there very shortly.”

“You would not make yourself known, of course? They might give you the slip. You have no authority to detain them, not in France.”

“I should take my precautions, and I can always appeal to the police.”

“Exactly. That would be your proper course. But you might lose valuable time, a great opportunity, and we wish to guard against that, so we shall associate one of our own people with you in your proceedings.”

“Oh! very well, if you wish. It will, no doubt, be best.” The Italian readily assented, but a shrewd listener might have guessed from the tone of his voice that the proposal was not exactly pleasing to him.

“I will call in Block,” said the Chief, and the second detective inspector appeared to take his instructions.

He was a stout, stumpy little man, with a barrel-like figure, greatly emphasized by the short frock coat he wore; he had smallish pig’s eyes buried deep in a fat face, and his round, chubby cheeks hung low over his turned-down collar.

“This gentleman,” went on the Chief, indicating Ripaldi, “is a member of the Roman police, and has been so obliging as to offer us his services. You will accompany him, in the first instance, to the Hôtel Madagascar. Put yourself in communication with Galipaud, who is there on duty.”

“Would it not be sufficient if I made myself known to M. Galipaud?” suggested the Italian. “I have seen him here, I should recognize him—”

“That is not so certain; he may have changed his appearance. Besides, he does not know the latest developments, and might not be very cordial.”

“You might write me a few lines to take to him.”

“I think not. We prefer to send Block,” replied the Chief, briefly and decidedly. He did not like this pertinacity, and looked at his colleagues as though he sought their concurrence in altering the arrangements for the Italian’s mission. It might be wiser to detain him still.

“It was only to save trouble that I made the suggestion,” hastily put in Ripaldi. “Naturally I am in your hands. And if I do not meet with the maid at the hotel, I may have to look further, in which case Monsieur—Block? thank you—would no doubt render valuable assistance.”

This speech restored confidence, and a few minutes later the two detectives, already excellent friends from the freemasonry of a common craft, left the station in a closed cab.

CHAPTER IX

“What next?” asked the Judge.

“That pestilent English officer, if you please, M. le Juge,” said the detective. “That fire-eating, swashbuckling soldier, with his blustering barrack-room ways. I long to come to close quarters with him. He ridiculed me, taunted me, said I knew nothing—we will see, we will see.”

“In fact, you wish to interrogate him yourself. Very well. Let us have him in.”

When Sir Charles Collingham entered, he included the three officials in one cold, stiff bow, waited a moment, and then, finding he was not offered a chair, said with studied politeness:

“I presume I may sit down?”

“Pardon. Of course; pray be seated,” said the Judge, hastily, and evidently a little ashamed of himself.

“Ah! thanks. Do you object?” went on the General, taking out a silver cigarette-case. “May I offer one?” He handed round the box affably.

“We do not smoke on duty,” answered the Chief, rudely. “Nor is smoking permitted in a court of justice.”

“Come, come, I wish to show no disrespect. But I cannot recognize this as a court of justice, and I think, if you will forgive me, that I shall take three whiffs. It may help me keep my temper.”

He was evidently making game of them. There was no symptom remaining of the recent effervescence when he was acting as the Countess’s champion, and he was perfectly—nay, insolently calm and self-possessed.

“You call yourself General Collingham?” went on the Chief.

“I do not call myself. I am General Sir Charles Collingham, of the British Army.”

“Retired?”

“No, I am still on the active list.”

“These points will have to be verified.”

“With all my heart. You have already sent to the British Embassy?”

“Yes, but no one has come,” answered the detective, contemptuously.

“If you disbelieve me, why do you question me?”

“It is our duty to question you, and yours to answer. If not, we have means to make you. You are suspected, inculpated in a terrible crime, and your whole attitude is—is—objectionable—unworthy—disgr—”

“Gently, gently, my dear colleague,” interposed the Judge. “If you will permit me, I will take up this. And you, M. le Général, I am sure you cannot wish to impede or obstruct us; we represent the law of this country.”

“Have I done so, M. le Juge?” answered the General, with the utmost courtesy, as he threw away his half-burned cigarette.

“No, no. I do not imply that in the least. I only entreat you, as a good and gallant gentleman, to meet us in a proper spirit and give us your best help.”

“Indeed, I am quite ready. If there has been any unpleasantness, it has surely not been of my making, but rather of that little man there.” The General pointed to M. Floçon rather contemptuously, and nearly started a fresh disturbance.

“Well, well, let us say no more of that, and proceed to business. I understand,” said the Judge, after fingering a few pages of the dispositions in front of him, “that you are a friend of the Contessa di Castagneto? Indeed, she has told us so herself.”

“It was very good of her to call me her friend. I am proud to hear she so considers me.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Four or five months. Since the beginning of the last winter season in Rome.”

“Did you frequent her house?”

“If you mean, was I permitted to call on her on friendly terms, yes.”

“Did you know all her friends?”

“How can I answer that? I know whom I met there from time to time.”

“Exactly. Did you often meet among them a Signor—Quadling?”

“Quadling—Quadling? I cannot say that I have. The name is familiar somehow, but I cannot recall the man.”

“Have you never heard of the Roman bankers, Correse & Quadling?”

“Ah, of course. Although I have had no dealing with them. Certainly I have never met Mr. Quadling.”

“Not at the Countess’s?”

“Never—of that I am quite sure.”

“And yet we have had positive evidence that he was a constant visitor there.”

“It is perfectly incomprehensible to me. Not only have I never met him, but I have never heard the Countess mention his name.”

“It will surprise you, then, to be told that he called at her apartment in the Via Margutta on the very evening of her departure from Rome. Called, was admitted, was closeted with her for more than an hour.”

“I am surprised, astounded. I called there myself about four in the afternoon to offer my services for the journey, and I too stayed till after five. I can hardly believe it.”

“I have more surprises for you, General. What will you think when I tell you that this very Quadling—this friend, acquaintance, call him what you please, but at least intimate enough to pay her a visit on the eve of a long journey—was the man found murdered in the sleeping-car?”

“Can it be possible? Are you sure?” cried Sir Charles, almost starting from his chair. “And what do you deduce from all this? What do you imply? An accusation against that lady? Absurd!”

“I respect your chivalrous desire to stand up for a lady who calls you her friend, but we are officials first, and sentiment cannot be permitted to influence us. We have good reasons for suspecting that lady. I tell you that frankly, and trust to you as a soldier and man of honour not to abuse the confidence reposed in you.”

“May I not know those reasons?”

“Because she was in the car—the only woman, you understand—between Laroche and Paris.”

“Do you suspect a female hand, then?” asked the General, evidently much interested and impressed.

“That is so, although I am exceeding my duty in revealing this.”

“And you are satisfied that this lady, a refined, delicate person in the best society, of the highest character—believe me, I know that to be the case—whom you yet suspect of an atrocious crime, was the only female in the car?”

“Obviously. Who else? What other woman could possibly have been in the car? No one got in at Laroche; the train never stopped till it reached Paris.”

“On that last point at least you are quite mistaken, I assure you. Why not upon the other also?”

“The train stopped?” interjected the detective. “Why has no one told us that?”

“Possibly because you never asked. But it is nevertheless the fact. Verify it. Every one will tell you the same.”

The detective himself hurried to the door and called in the porter. He was within his rights, of course, but the action showed distrust, at which the General only smiled, but he laughed outright when the still stupid and half-dazed porter, of course, corroborated the statement at once.

“At whose instance was the train pulled up?” asked the detective, and the Judge nodded his head approvingly.

To know that would fix fresh suspicion.

But the porter could not answer the question.

Some one had rung the alarm-bell—so at least the conductor had declared; otherwise they should not have stopped. Yet he, the porter, had not done so, nor did any passenger come forward to admit giving the signal. But there had been a halt. Yes, assuredly.

“This is a new light,” the Judge confessed. “Do you draw any conclusion from it?” he went on to ask the General.

“That is surely your business. I have only elicited the fact to disprove your theory. But if you wish, I will tell you how it strikes me.”

The Judge bowed assent.

“The bare fact that the train was halted would mean little. That would be the natural act of a timid or excitable person involved indirectly in such a catastrophe. But to disavow the act starts suspicion. The fair inference is that there was some reason, an unavowable reason, for halting the train.”

“And that reason would be—”

“You must see it without my assistance, surely! Why, what else but to afford some one an opportunity to leave the car.”

“But how could that be? You would have seen that person, some of you, especially at such a critical time. The aisle would be full of people, both exits were thus practically overlooked.”

“My idea is—it is only an idea, understand—that the person had already left the car—that is to say, the interior of the car.”

“Escaped how? Where? What do you mean?”

“Escaped through the open window of the compartment where you found the murdered man.”

“You noticed the open window, then?” quickly asked the detective. “When was that?”

“Directly I entered the compartment at the first alarm. It occurred to me at once that some one might have gone through it.”

“But no woman could have done it. To climb out of an express train going at top speed would be an impossible feat for a woman,” said the detective, doggedly.

“Why, in God’s name, do you still harp upon the woman? Why should it be a woman more than a man?”

“Because”—it was the Judge who spoke, but he paused a moment in deference to a gesture of protest from M. Floçon. The little detective was much concerned at the utter want of reticence displayed by his colleague.

“Because,” went on the Judge with decision—“because this was found in the compartment;” and he held out the piece of lace and the scrap of beading for the General’s inspection, adding quickly, “You have seen these, or one of them, or something like them before. I am sure of it; I call upon you; I demand—no, I appeal to your sense of honour, Sir Collingham. Tell me, please, exactly what you know.”

CHAPTER X

The General sat for a time staring hard at the bit of torn lace and the broken beads. Then he spoke out firmly:

“It is my duty to withhold nothing. It is not the lace. That I could not swear to; for me—and probably for most men—two pieces of lace are very much the same. But I think I have seen these beads, or something exactly like them, before.”

“Where? When?”

“They formed part of the trimming of a mantle worn by the Contessa di Castagneto.”

“Ah!” it was the same interjection uttered simultaneously by the three Frenchmen, but each had a very different note; in the Judge it was deep interest, in the detective triumph, in the Commissary indignation, as when he caught a criminal red-handed.

“Did she wear it on the journey?” continued the Judge.

“As to that I cannot say.”

“Come, come, General, you were with her constantly; you must be able to tell us. We insist on being told.” This fiercely, from the now jubilant M. Floçon.

“I repeat that I cannot say. To the best of my recollection, the Countess wore a long travelling cloak—an ulster, as we call them. The jacket with those bead ornaments may have been underneath. But if I have seen them—as I believe I have—it was not during this journey.”

Here the Judge whispered to M. Floçon, “The searcher did not discover any second mantle.”

“How do we know the woman examined thoroughly?” he replied. “Here, at least, is direct evidence as to the beads. At last the net is drawing round this fine Countess.”

“Well, at any rate,” said the detective aloud, returning to the General, “these beads were found in the compartment of the murdered man. I should like that explained, please.”

“By me? How can I explain it? And the fact does not bear upon what we were considering, as to whether any one had left the car.”

“Why not?”

“The Countess, as we know, never left the car. As to her entering this particular compartment—at any previous time—it is highly improbable. Indeed, it is rather insulting her to suggest it.”

“She and this Quadling were close friends.”

“So you say. On what evidence I do not know, but I dispute it.”

“Then how could the beads get there? They were her property, worn by her.”

“Once, I admit, but not necessarily on this journey. Suppose she had given the mantle away—to her maid, for instance; I believe ladies often pass on their things to their maids.”

“It is all pure presumption, a mere theory. This maid—she has not as yet been imported into the discussion.”

“Then I would suggest that you do so without delay. She is to my mind a—well, rather a curious person.”

“You know her—spoke to her?”

“I know her, in a way. I had seen her in the Via Margutta, and I nodded to her when she came first into the car.”

“And on the journey—you spoke to her frequently?”

“I? Oh, dear, no, not at all. I noticed her, certainly; I could not help it, and perhaps I ought to tell her mistress. She seemed to make friends a little too readily with people.”

“As for instance—?”

“With the porter to begin with. I saw them together at Laroche, in the buffet at the bar; and that Italian, the man who was in here before me; indeed, with the murdered man. She seemed to know them all.”

“Do you imply that the maid might be of use in this inquiry?”

“Most assuredly I do. As I tell you, she was constantly in and out of the car, and more or less intimate with several of the passengers.”

“Including her mistress, the Countess,” put in M. Floçon.

The General laughed pleasantly.

“Most ladies are, I presume, on intimate terms with their maids. They say no man is a hero to his valet. It is the same, I suppose, with the other sex.”

“So intimate,” went on the little detective, with much malicious emphasis, “that now the maid has disappeared lest she might be asked inconvenient questions about her mistress.”

“Disappeared? You are sure?”

“She cannot be found, that is all we know.”

“It is as I thought, then. She it was who left the car!” cried Sir Charles, with so much vehemence that the officials were startled out of their dignified reserve, and shouted back almost in a breath: “Explain yourself. Quick, quick. What in God’s name do you mean?”

“I had my suspicions from the first, and I will tell you why. At Laroche the car emptied, as you may have heard; every one except the Countess, at least, went over to the restaurant for early coffee; I with the rest. I was one of the first to finish, and I strolled back to the platform to get a few whiffs of a cigarette. At that moment I saw, or thought I saw, the end of a skirt disappearing into the sleeping-car. I concluded it was this maid, Hortense, who was taking her mistress a cup of coffee. Then my brother came up, we exchanged a few words, and entered the car together.”

“By the same door as that through which you had seen the skirt pass?”

“No, by the other. My brother went back to his berth, but I paused in the corridor to finish my cigarette after the train had gone on. By this time every one but myself had returned to his berth, and I was on the point of lying down again for half an hour, when I distinctly heard the handle turned of the compartment I knew to be vacant all through the run.”

“That was the one with berths 11 and 12?”

“Probably. It was next to the Countess. Not only was the handle turned, but the door partly opened—”

“It was not the porter?”

“Oh, no, he was in his seat—you know it, at the end of the car—sound asleep, snoring; I could hear him.”

“Did any one come out of the vacant compartment?”

“No; but I was almost certain, I believe I could swear that I saw the same skirt, just the hem of it, a black skirt, sway forward beyond the door, just for a second. Then all at once the door was closed again fast.”

“What did you conclude from this? Or did you think nothing of it?”

“I thought very little. I supposed it was that the maid wished to be near her mistress as we were approaching Paris, and I had heard from the Countess that the porter had made many difficulties. But you see, after what has happened, that there was a reason for stopping the train.”

“Quite so,” M. Floçon readily admitted, with a scarcely concealed sneer.

He had quite made up his mind now that it was the Countess who had rung the alarm-bell, in order to allow of the escape of the maid, her confederate and accomplice.

“And you still have an impression that some one—presumably this woman—got off the car, somehow, during the stoppage?” he asked.

“I suggest it, certainly. Whether it was or could be so, I must leave to your superior judgment.”

“What! A woman climb out like that? Bah! Tell that to some one else!”

“You have, of course, examined the exterior of the car, dear colleague?” now said the Judge.

“Assuredly, once, but I will do it again. Still, the outside is quite smooth, there is no foot-board. Only an acrobat could succeed in thus escaping, and then only at the peril of his life. But a woman—oh, no! it is too absurd.”

“With help she might, I think, get up on to the roof,” quickly remarked Sir Charles. “I have looked out of the window of my compartment. It would be nothing for a man, nor much for a woman if assisted.”

“That we will see for ourselves,” said the detective, ungraciously.

“The sooner the better,” added the Judge, and the whole party rose from their chairs, intending to go straight to the car, when the policeman on guard appeared at the door, followed close by an English military officer in uniform, whom he was trying to keep back, but with no great success. It was Colonel Papillon of the Embassy.

“Halloa, Jack! you are a good chap,” cried the General, quickly going forward to shake hands. “I was sure you would come.”

“Come, sir! Of course I came. I was just going to an official function, as you see, but his Excellency insisted, my horse was at the door, and here I am.”

All this was in English, but the attaché turned now to the officials, and, with many apologies for his intrusion, suggested that they should allow his friend, the General, to return with him to the Embassy when they had done with him.

“Of course we will answer for him. He shall remain at your disposal, and will appear whenever called upon.” He returned to Sir Charles, asking, “You will promise that, sir?”

“Oh, willingly. I had always meant to stay on a bit in Paris. And really I should like to see the end of this. But my brother? He must get home for next Sunday’s duty. He has nothing to tell, but he would come back to Paris at any time if his evidence was wanted.”

The French Judge very obligingly agreed to all these proposals, and two more of the detained passengers, making four in all, now left the station.

Then the officials proceeded to the car, which still remained as the Chief Detective had left it.

Here they soon found how just were the General’s previsions.

CHAPTER XI

The three officials went straight to where the still open window showed the particular spot to be examined. The exterior of the car was a little smirched and stained with the dust of the journey, lying thick in parts, and in others there were a few great splotches of mud plastered on.

The detective paused for a moment to get a general view, looking, in the light of the General’s suggestion, for either hand or foot marks, anything like a trace of the passage of a feminine skirt, across the dusty surface.

But nothing was to be seen, nothing definite or conclusive at least. Only here and there a few lines and scratches that might be encouraging, but proved little.

Then the Commissary, drawing nearer, called attention to some suspicious spots sprinkled about the window, but above it towards the roof.

“What is it?” asked the detective, as his colleague with the point of his long fore-finger nail picked at the thin crust on the top of one of these spots, disclosing a dark, viscous core.

“I could not swear to it, but I believe it is blood.”

“Blood! Good Heavens!” cried the detective, as he dragged his powerful magnifying glass out of his pocket and applied it to the spot. “Look, M. le Juge,” he added, after a long and minute examination. “What say you?”

“It has that appearance. Only medical evidence can positively decide, but I believe it is blood.”

“Now we are on the right track, I feel convinced. Some one fetch a ladder.”

One of these curious French ladders, narrow at the top, splayed out at the base, was quickly leaned against the car, and the detective ran up, using his magnifier as he climbed.

“There is more here, much more, and something like—yes, beyond question it is—the print of two hands upon the roof. It was here she climbed.”

“No doubt. I can see it now exactly. She would sit on the window ledge, the lower limbs inside the car here and held there. Then with her hands she would draw herself up to the roof,” said the Judge.

“But what nerve! what strength of arm!”

“It was life and death. Within the car was more terrible danger. Fear will do much in such a case. We all know that. Well! what more?”

By this time the detective had stepped on to the roof of the car.

“More, more, much more! Footprints, as plain as a picture. A woman’s feet. Wait, let me follow them to the end,” said he, cautiously creeping forward to the end of the car.

A minute or two more, and he rejoined his colleagues on the ground level, and, rubbing his hands, declared joyously that it was all perfectly clear.

“Dangerous or not, difficult or not, she did it. I have traced her; have seen where she must have lain crouching ever so long, followed her all along the top of the car, to the end where she got down above the little platform exit. Beyond doubt she left the car when it stopped, and by arrangement with her confederate.”

“The Countess?”

“Who else?”

“And at a point near Paris. The English General said the halt was within twenty minutes’ run of the station.”

“Then it is from that point we must commence our search for her. The Italian has gone on the wrong scent.”

“Not necessarily. The maid, we may be sure, will try to communicate with her mistress.”

“Still, it would be well to secure her before she can do that,” said the Judge. “With all we know now, a sharp interrogation might extract some very damaging admissions from her,” went on the detective, eagerly. “Who is to go? I have sent away both my assistants. Of course I can telephone for another man, or I might go myself.”

“No, no, dear colleague, we cannot spare you just yet. Telephone by all means. I presume you would wish to be present at the rest of the interrogatories?”

“Certainly, you are right. We may elicit more about this maid. Let us call in the porter now. He is said to have had relations with her. Something more may be got out of him.”

The more did not amount to much. Groote, the porter, came in, cringing and wretched, in the abject state of a man who has lately been drugged and is now slowly recovering. Although sharply questioned, he had nothing to add to his first story.

“Speak out,” said the Judge, harshly. “Tell us everything plainly and promptly, or I shall send you straight to gaol. The order is already made out;” and as he spoke, he waved a flimsy bit of paper before him.

“I know nothing,” the porter protested, piteously.

“That is false. We are fully informed and no fools. We are certain that no such catastrophe could have occurred without your knowledge or connivance.”

“Indeed, gentlemen, indeed—”

“You were drinking with this maid at the buffet at Laroche. You had more drink with her, or from her hands, afterwards in the car.”

“No, gentlemen, that is not so. I could not—she was not in the car.”

“We know better. You cannot deceive us. You were her accomplice, and the accomplice of her mistress, also, I have no doubt.”

“I declare solemnly that I am quite innocent of all this. I hardly remember what happened at Laroche or after. I do not deny the drink at the buffet. It was very nasty, I thought, and could not tell why, nor why I could not hold my head up when I got back to the car.”

“You went off to sleep at once? Is that what you pretend?”

“It must have been so. Yes. Then I know nothing more, not till I was aroused.”

And beyond this, a tale to which he stuck with undeviating persistence, they could elicit nothing.

“He is either too clever for us or an absolute idiot and fool,” said the Judge, wearily, at last, when Groote had gone out. “We had better commit him to Mazas and hold him there in solitary confinement under our hands. After a day or two of that he may be less difficult.”

“It is quite clear he was drugged, that the maid put opium or laudanum into his drink at Laroche.”

“And enough of it apparently, for he says he went off to sleep directly he returned to the car,” the Judge remarked.

“He says so. But he must have had a second dose, or why was the vial found on the ground by his seat?” asked the Chief, thoughtfully, as much of himself as of the others.

“I cannot believe in a second dose. How was it administered—by whom? It was laudanum, and could only be given in a drink. He says he had no second drink. And by whom? The maid? He says he did not see the maid again.”

“Pardon me, M. le Juge, but do you not give too much credibility to the porter? For me, his evidence is tainted, and I hardly believe a word of it. Did he not tell me at first he had not seen this maid after Amberieux at 8 P.M.? Now he admits that he was drinking with her at the buffet at Laroche. It is all a tissue of lies, his losing the pocket-book and his papers too. There is something to conceal. Even his sleepiness, his stupidity, are likely to have been assumed.”

“I do not think he is acting; he has not the ability to deceive us like that.”

“Well, then, what if the Countess took him the second drink?”

“Oh! oh! That is the purest conjecture. There is nothing whatever to suggest or support that.”

“Then how explain the finding of the vial near the porter’s seat?”

“May it not have been dropped there on purpose?” put in the Commissary, with another flash of intelligence.

“On purpose?” queried the detective, crossly, foreseeing an answer that would not please him.

“On purpose to bring suspicion on the lady?”

“I don’t see it in that light. That would imply that she was not in the plot, and plot there certainly was; everything points to it. The drugging, the open window, the maid’s escape.”

“A plot, no doubt, but organized by whom? These two women only? Could either of them have struck the fatal blow? Hardly. Women have the wit to conceive, but neither courage nor brute force to execute. There was a man in this, rest assured.”

“Granted. But who? That fire-eating Sir Collingham?” quickly asked the detective, giving rein once more to his hatred.

“That is not a solution that commends itself to me, I must confess,” declared the Judge. “The General’s conduct has been blameworthy and injudicious, but he is not of the stuff that makes criminals.”

“Who, then? The porter? No? The clergyman? No? The French gentlemen?—well, we have not examined them yet; but from what I saw at the first cursory glance, I am not disposed to suspect them.”

“What of that Italian?” asked the Commissary.

“Are you sure of him? His looks did not please me greatly, and he was very eager to get away from here. What if he takes to his heels?”

“Block is with him,” the Chief put in hastily, with the evident desire to stifle an unpleasant misgiving. “We have touch of him if we want him, as we may.”

How much they might want him they only realized when they got further in their inquiry!

CHAPTER XII

Only the two Frenchmen remained for examination. They had been left to the last by pure accident. The exigencies of the inquiry had led to the preference of others, but these two well-broken and submissive gentlemen made no visible protest. However much they may have chafed inwardly at the delay, they knew better than to object; any outburst of discontent would, they knew, recoil on themselves. Not only were they perfectly patient now when summoned before the officers of justice, they were most eager to give every assistance to the law, to go beyond the mere letter, and, if needs be, volunteer information.

The first called in was the elder, M. Anatole Lafolay, a true Parisian bourgeois, fat and comfortable, unctuous in speech, and exceedingly deferential.

The story he told was in its main outlines that which we already know, but he was further questioned, by the light of the latest facts and ideas as now elicited.

The line adroitly taken by the Judge was to get some evidence of collusion and combination among the passengers, especially with reference to two of them, the two women of the party. On this important point M. Lafolay had something to say.

Asked if he had seen or noticed the lady’s maid on the journey, he answered “yes” very decisively and with a smack of the lips, as though the sight of this pretty and attractive person had given him considerable satisfaction.

“Did you speak to her?”

“Oh, no. I had no opportunity. Besides, she had her own friends—great friends, I fancy. I caught her more than once whispering in the corner of the car with one of them.”

“And that was—?”

“I think the Italian gentleman; I am almost sure I recognized his clothes. I did not see his face, it was turned from me—towards hers, and very close, I may be permitted to say.”

“And they were friendly?”

“More than friendly, I should say. Very intimate indeed. I should not have been surprised if—when I turned away as a matter of fact—if he did not touch, just touch, her red lips. It would have been excusable—forgive me, messieurs.”

“Aha! They were so intimate as that? Indeed! And did she reserve her favours exclusively for him? Did no one else address her, pay her court on the quiet—you understand?”

“I saw her with the porter, I believe, at Laroche, but only then. No, the Italian was her chief companion.”

“Did any one else notice the flirtation, do you think?”

“Possibly. There was no secrecy. It was very marked. We could all see.”

“And her mistress too?”

“That I will not say. The lady I saw but little during the journey.”

A few more questions, mainly personal, as to his address, business, probable presence in Paris for the next few weeks, and M. Lafolay was permitted to depart.

The examination of the younger Frenchman, a smart, alert young man, of pleasant, insinuating address, with a quick, inquisitive eye, followed the same lines, and was distinctly corroborative on all the points to which M. Lafolay spoke. But M. Jules Devaux had something startling to impart concerning the Countess.

When asked if he had seen her or spoken to her, he shook his head.

“No; she kept very much to herself,” he said. “I saw her but little, hardly at all, except at Modane. She kept her own berth.”

“Where she received her own friends?”

“Oh, beyond doubt. The Englishmen both visited her there, but not the Italian.”

“The Italian? Are we to infer that she knew the Italian?”

“That is what I wish to convey. Not on the journey, though. Between Rome and Paris she did not seem to know him. It was afterwards; this morning, in fact, that I came to the conclusion that there was some secret understanding between them.”

“Why do you say that, M. Devaux?” cried the detective, excitedly. “Let me urge you and implore you to speak out, and fully. This is of the utmost, of the very first, importance.”

“Well, gentlemen, I will tell you. As you are well aware, on arrival at this station we were all ordered to leave the car, and marched to the waiting-room, out there. As a matter of course, the lady entered first, and she was seated when I went in. There was a strong light on her face.”

“Was her veil down?”

“Not then. I saw her lower it later, and, as I think, for reasons I will presently put before you. Madame has a beautiful face, and I gazed at it with sympathy, grieving for her, in fact, in such a trying situation; when suddenly I saw a great and remarkable change come over it.”

“Of what character?”

“It was a look of horror, disgust, surprise—a little perhaps of all three; I could not quite say which, it faded so quickly and was followed by a cold, deathlike pallor. Then almost immediately she lowered her veil.”

“Could you form any explanation for what you saw in her face? What caused it?”

“Something unexpected, I believe, some shock, or the sight of something shocking. That was how it struck me, and so forcibly that I turned to look over my shoulder, expecting to find the reason there. And it was.”

“That reason—?”

“Was the entrance of the Italian, who came just behind me. I am certain of this; he almost told me so himself, not in words, but the mistakable leer he gave her in reply. It was wicked, sardonic, devilish, and proved beyond doubt that there was some secret, some guilty secret perhaps, between them.”

“And was that all?” cried both the Judge and M. Floçon in a breath, leaning forward in their eagerness to hear more.

“For the moment, yes. But I was made so interested, so suspicious by this, that I watched the Italian closely, awaiting, expecting further developments. They were long in coming; indeed, I am only at the end now.”

“Explain, pray, as quickly as possible, and in your own words.”

“It was like this, monsieur. When we were all seated, I looked round, and did not at first see our Italian. At last I discovered he had taken a back seat, through modesty perhaps, or to be out of observation—how was I to know? He sat in the shadow by a door, that, in fact, which leads into this room. He was thus in the background, rather out of the way, but I could see his eyes glittering in that far-off corner, and they were turned in our direction, always fixed upon the lady, you understand. She was next me, the whole time.

“Then, as you will remember, monsieur, you called us in one by one, and I, with M. Lafolay, was the first to appear before you. When I returned to the outer room, the Italian was still staring, but not so fixedly or continuously, at the lady. From time to time his eyes wandered towards a table near which he sat, and which was just in the gangway or passage by which people must pass into your presence.

“There was some reason for this, I felt sure, although I did not understand it immediately. “Presently I got at the hidden meaning There was a small piece of paper, rolled up or crumpled up into a ball, lying upon this table, and the Italian wished, nay, was desperately anxious, to call the lady’s attention to it. If I had had any doubt of this, it was quite removed after the man had gone into the inner room. As he left us, he turned his head over his shoulder significantly and nodded very slightly, but still perceptibly, at the ball of paper.

“Well, gentlemen, I was now satisfied in my own mind that this was some artful attempt of his to communicate with the lady, and had she fallen in with it, I should have immediately informed you, the proper authorities. But whether from stupidity, dread, disinclination, a direct, definite refusal to have any dealings with this man, the lady would not—at any rate did not—pick up the ball, as she might have done easily when she in her turn passed the table on her way to your presence.

“I have no doubt it was thrown there for her, and probably you will agree with me. But it takes two to make a game of this sort, and the lady would not join. Neither on leaving the room nor on returning would she take up the missive.”

“And what became of it, then?” asked the detective in breathless excitement. “I have it here.” M. Devaux opened the palm of his hand and displayed the scrap of paper in the hollow rolled up into a small tight ball.

“When and how did you become possessed of it?”

“I got it only just now, when I was called in here. Before that I could not move. I was tied to my chair, practically, and ordered strictly not to move.”

“Perfectly. Monsieur’s conduct has been admirable. And now tell us—what does it contain? Have you looked at it?”

“By no means. It is just as I picked it up. Will you gentlemen take it, and if you think fit, tell me what is there? Some writing—a message of some sort, or I am greatly mistaken.”

“Yes, here are words written in pencil,” said the detective, unrolling the paper, which he handed on to the Judge, who read the contents aloud—

“Be careful. Say nothing. If you betray me, you will be lost too.”

A long silence followed, broken first by the Judge, who said at last solemnly to Devaux:

“Monsieur, in the name of justice I beg to thank you most warmly. You have acted with admirable tact and judgment, and have rendered us invaluable assistance. Have you anything further to tell us?”

“No, gentlemen. That is all. And you—you have no more questions to ask? Then I presume I may withdraw?”

Beyond doubt it had been reserved for the last witness to produce facts that constituted the very essence of the inquiry.

CHAPTER XIII

The examination was now over, and, the dispositions having been drawn up and signed, the investigating officials remained for some time in conference.

“It lies with those three, of course—the two women and the Italian. They are jointly, conjointly concerned, although the exact degrees of guilt cannot quite be apportioned,” said the detective.

“And all three are at large!” added the Judge.

“If you will issue warrants for arrest, M. le Juge, we can take them—two of them at any rate—when we choose.”

“That should be at once,” remarked the Commissary, eager, as usual, for decisive action.

“Very well. Let us proceed in that way. Prepare the warrants,” said the Judge, turning to his clerk. “And you,” he went on, addressing M. Floçon, “dear colleague, will you see to their execution? Madame is at the Hôtel Madagascar; that will be easy. The Italian Ripaldi we shall hear of through your inspector Block. As for the maid, Hortense Petitpré, we must search for her. That too, sir, you will of course undertake?”

“I will charge myself with it, certainly. My man should be here by now, and I will instruct him at once. Ask for him,” said M. Floçon to the guard whom he called in.

“The inspector is there,” said the guard, pointing to the outer room. “He has just returned.”

“Returned? You mean arrived.”

“No, monsieur, returned. It is Block, who left an hour or more ago.”

“Block? Then something has happened—he has some special information, some great news! Shall we see him, M. le Juge?”

When Block appeared, it was evident that something had gone wrong with him. His face wore a look of hot, flurried excitement, and his manner was one of abject, cringing self-abasement.

“What is it?” asked the little Chief, sharply. “You are alone. Where is your man?”

“Alas, monsieur! how shall I tell you? He has gone—disappeared! I have lost him!”

“Impossible! You cannot mean it! Gone, now, just when we most want him? Never!”

“It is so, unhappily.”

“Idiot! Triple idiot! You shall be dismissed, discharged from this hour. You are a disgrace to the force.” M. Floçon raved furiously at his abashed subordinate, blaming him a little too harshly and unfairly, forgetting that until quite recently there had been no strong suspicion against the Italian. We are apt at times to expect others to be intuitively possessed of knowledge that has only come to us at a much later date.

“How was it? Explain. Of course you have been drinking. It is that, or your great gluttony. You were beguiled into some eating-house.”

“Monsieur, you shall hear the exact truth. When we started more than an hour ago, our fiacre took the usual route, by the Quais and along the riverside. My gentleman made himself most pleasant”

“No doubt,” growled the Chief.

“Offered me an excellent cigar, and talked—not about the affair, you understand—but of Paris, the theatres, the races, Longchamps, Auteuil, the grand restaurants. He knew everything, all Paris, like his pocket. I was much surprised, but he told me his business often brought him here. He had been employed to follow up several great Italian criminals, and had made a number of important arrests in Paris.”

“Get on, get on! come to the essential.”

“Well, in the middle of the journey, when we were about the Pont Henri Quatre, he said, ‘Figure to yourself, my friend, that it is now near noon, that nothing has passed my lips since before daylight at Laroche. What say you? Could you eat a mouthful, just a scrap on the thumb-nail? Could you?’”

“And you—greedy, gormandizing beast!—you agreed?”

“My faith, monsieur, I too was hungry. It was my regular hour. Well—at any rate, for my sins I accepted. We entered the first restaurant, that of the ‘Reunited Friends,’ you know it, perhaps, monsieur? A good house, especially noted for tripe à la mode de Caen.” In spite of his anguish, Block smacked his fat lips at the thought of this most succulent but very greasy dish.

“How often must I tell you to get on?”

“Forgive me, monsieur, but it is all part of my story. We had oysters, two dozen Marennes, and a glass or two of Chablis; then a good portion of tripe, and with them a bottle, only one, monsieur, of Pontet Canet; after that a beefsteak with potatoes and a little Burgundy, then a rum omelet.”

“Great Heavens! you should be the fat man in a fair, not an agent of the Detective Bureau.”

“It was all this that helped me to my destruction. He ate, this devilish Italian, like three, and I too, I was so hungry—forgive me, sir—I did my share. But by the time we reached the cheese, a fine, ripe Camembert, had our coffee, and one thimbleful of green Chartreuse, I was plein jusqu’au bec, gorged up to the beak.”

“And what of your duty, your service, pray?”

“I did think of it, monsieur, but then, he, the Italian, was just the same as myself. He was a colleague. I had no fear of him, not till the very last, when he played me this evil turn. I suspected nothing when he brought out his pocketbook—it was stuffed full, monsieur; I saw that and my confidence increased—called for the reckoning, and paid with an Italian bank-note. The waiter looked doubtful at the foreign money, and went out to consult the manager. A minute after, my man got up, saying:

“‘There may be some trouble about changing that bank-note. Excuse me one moment, pray.’ He went out, monsieur, and piff-paff, he was no more to be seen.”

“Ah, nigaud (ass), you are too foolish to live! Why did you not follow him? Why let him out of your sight?”

“But, monsieur, I was not to know, was I? I was to accompany him, not to watch him. I have done wrong, I confess. But then, who was to tell he meant to run away?”

M. Floçon could not deny the justice of this defence. It was only now, at the eleventh hour, that the Italian had become inculpated, and the question of his possible anxiety to escape had never been considered.

“He was so artful,” went on Block in further extenuation of his offence. “He left everything behind. His overcoat, stick, this book—his own private memorandum-book seemingly—”

“Book? Hand it me,” said the Chief, and when it came into his hands he began to turn over the leaves hurriedly.

It was a small brass-bound note-book or diary, and was full of close writing in pencil.

“I do not understand, not more than a word here and there. It is no doubt Italian. Do you know that language, M. le Juge?”

“Not perfectly, but I can read it. Allow me.”

He also turned over the pages, pausing to read a passage here and there, and nodding his head from time to time, evidently struck with the importance of the matter recorded.

Meanwhile, M. Floçon continued an angry conversation with his offending subordinate.

“You will have to find him, Block, and that speedily, within twenty-four hours—to-day, indeed—or I will break you like a stick, and send you into the gutter. Of course, such a consummate ass as you have proved yourself would not think of searching the restaurant or the immediate neighbourhood, or of making inquiries as to whether he had been seen, or as to which way he had gone?”

“Pardon me, monsieur is too hard on me. I have been unfortunate, a victim to circumstances, still I believe I know my duty. Yes, I made inquiries, and, what is more, I heard of him.”

“Where? how?” asked the Chief, gruffly, but obviously much interested.

“He never spoke to the manager, but walked out and let the change go. It was a note for a hundred lire, a hundred francs, and the restaurant bill was no more than seventeen francs.”

“Hah! that is greatly against him indeed.”

“He was much pressed, in a great hurry. Directly he crossed the threshold he called the first cab and was driving away, but he was stopped—”

“The devil! Why did they not keep him, then?”

“Stopped, but only for a moment, and accosted by a woman.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, monsieur. They exchanged but three words. He wished to pass on, to leave her, she would not consent, then they both got into the cab and were driven away together.”

The officials were now listening with all ears.

“Tell me,” said the Chief, “quick, this woman—what was she like? Did you get her description?”

“Tall, slight, well formed, dressed all in black. Her face—it was a policeman who saw her, and he said she was good-looking, dark, brunette, black hair.”

“It is the maid herself!” cried the little Chief, springing up and slapping his thigh in exuberant glee. “The maid! the missing maid!”

CHAPTER XIV

The joy of the Chief of Detectives at having thus come, as he supposed, upon the track of the missing maid, Hortense Petitpré, was somewhat dashed by the doubts freely expressed by the Judge as to the result of any search. Since Block’s return, M. Beaumont le Hardi had developed strong symptoms of discontent and disapproval at his colleague’s proceedings.

“But if it was this Hortense Petitpré how did she get there, by the bridge Henri Quatre, when we thought to find her somewhere down the line? It cannot be the same woman.”

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” interposed Block. “May I say one word? I believe I can supply some interesting information about Hortense Petitpré. I understand that some one like her was seen here in the station not more than an hour ago.”

“Peste! Why were we not told this sooner?” cried the Chief, impetuously.

“Who saw her? Did he speak to her? Call him in; let us see how much he knows.”

The man was summoned, one of the subordinate railway officials, who made a specific report.

Yes, he had seen a tall, slight, neat-looking woman, dressed entirely in black, who, according to her account, had arrived at 10.30 by the slow local train from Dijon.

“Fichtre!” said the Chief, angrily; “and this is the first we have heard of it.”

“Monsieur was much occupied at the time, and, indeed, then we had not heard of your inquiry.”

“I notified the station-master quite early, two or three hours since, about 9 A.M. This is most exasperating!”

“Instructions to look out for this woman have only just reached us, monsieur. There were certain formalities, I suppose.”

For once the detective cursed in his heart the red-tape, roundabout ways of French officialism.

“Well, well! Tell me about her,” he said, with a resignation he did not feel. “Who saw her?”

“I, monsieur. I spoke to her myself. She was on the outside of the station, alone, unprotected, in a state of agitation and alarm. I went up and offered my services. Then she told me she had come from Dijon, that friends who were to have met her had not appeared. I suggested that I should put her into a cab and send her to her destination. But she was afraid of losing her friends, and preferred to wait.”

“A fine story! Did she appear to know what had happened? Had she heard of the murder?”

“Something, monsieur.”

“Who could have told her? Did you?”

“No, not I. But she knew.”

“Was not that in itself suspicious? The fact has not yet been made public.”

“It was in the air, monsieur. There was a general impression that something had happened. That was to be seen on every face, in the whispered talk, the movement to and fro of the police and the guards.”

“Did she speak of it, or refer to it?”

“Only to ask if the murderer was known; whether the passengers had been detained; whether there was any inquiry in progress; and then—”

“What then?”

“This gentleman,” pointing to Block, “came out, accompanied by another. They passed pretty close to us, and I noticed that the lady slipped quickly on one side.”

“She recognized her confederate, of course, but did not wish to be seen just then. Did he, the person with Block here, see her?”

“Hardly, I think; it was all so quick, and they were gone, in a minute, to the cab-stand.”

“What did your woman do?”

“She seemed to have changed her mind all at once, and declared she would not wait for her friends. Now she was in quite a hurry to go.”

“Of course! and left you like a fool planted there. I suppose she took a cab and followed the others, Block here and his companion.”

“I believe she did. I saw her cab close behind theirs.”

“It is too late to lament this now,” said the Chief, after a short pause, looking at his colleagues. “At least it confirms our ideas, and brings us to certain definite conclusions. We must lay hands on these two. Their guilt is all but established. Their own acts condemn them. They must be arrested without a moment’s delay.”

“If you can find them!” suggested the Judge, with a very perceptible sneer.

“That we shall certainly do. Trust to Block, who is very nearly concerned. His future depends on his success. You quite understand that, my man?”

Block made a gesture half-deprecating, half-confident.

“I do not despair, gentlemen; and if I might make so bold, sir, I will ask you to assist? If you would give orders direct from the Prefecture to make the round of the cab-stands, to ask of all the agents in charge the information we need? Before night we shall have heard from the cabman who drove them what became of this couple, and so get our birds themselves, or a point of fresh departure.”

“And you, Block, where shall you go?”

“Where I left him, or rather where he left me,” replied the inspector, with an attempt at wit, which fell quite flat, being extinguished by a frigid look from the Judge.

“Go,” said M. Floçon, briefly and severely, to his subordinate; “and remember that you have now to justify your retention on the force.”

Then, turning to M. Beaumont le Hardi, the Chief went on pleasantly:

“Well, M. le Juge, it promises, I think; it is all fairly satisfactory, eh?”

“I am sorry I cannot agree with you,” replied the Judge, harshly. “On the contrary, I consider that we—or more exactly you, for neither I nor M. Garraud accept any share in it—you have so far failed, and miserably.”

“Your pardon, M. le Juge, you are too severe,” protested M. Floçon, quite humbly.

“Well! Look at it from all points of view. What have we got? What have we gained? Nothing, or, if anything, it is of the smallest, and it is already jeopardized, if not absolutely lost.”

“We have at least gained the positive assurance of the guilt of certain individuals.”

“Whom you have allowed to slip through your fingers.”

“Ah, not so, M. le Juge! We have one under surveillance. My man Galipaud is there at the hotel watching the Countess.”

“Do not talk to me of your men, M. Floçon,” angrily interposed the Judge. “One of them has given us a touch of his quality. Why should not the other be equally foolish? I quite expect to hear that the Countess also has gone, that would be the climax!”

“It shall not happen. I will take the warrant and arrest her now, at once, myself,” cried M. Floçon.

“Well, that will be something, yet not much. Yes, she is only one, and not to my mind the most criminal. We do not know as yet the exact responsibility of each, the exact measure of their guilt; but I do not myself believe that the Countess was a prime mover, or, indeed, more than an accessory. She was drawn into it, perhaps involved, how or why we cannot know, but possibly by fortuitous circumstances that put an unavoidable pressure upon her; a consenting party, but under protest. That is my view of the lady.”

M. Floçon shook his head. Prepossessions with him were tenacious, and he had made up his mind about the Countess’s guilt.

“When you again interrogate her, M. le Juge, by the light of your present knowledge, I believe you will think otherwise. She will confess—you will make her, your skill is unrivalled—and you will then admit, M. le Juge, that I was right in my suspicions.”

“Ah, well, produce her! We shall see,” said the Judge, somewhat mollified by M. Floçon’s fulsome flattery.

“I will bring her to your chamber of instruction within an hour, M. le Juge,” said the detective, very confidently.

But he was doomed to disappointment in this as he was in other respects.

CHAPTER XV

Let us go back a little in point of time, and follow the movements of Sir Charles Collingham.

It was barely 11 A.M. when he left the Lyons Station with his brother, the Reverend Silas, and the military attaché, Colonel Papillon. They paused for a moment outside the station while the baggage was being got together.

“See, Silas,” said the General, pointing to the clock, “you will have plenty of time for the 11.50 train to Calais for London, but you must hurry up and drive straight across Paris to the Nord. I suppose he can go, Jack?”

“Certainly, as he has promised to return if called upon.”

And Mr. Collingham promptly took advantage of the permission.

“But you, General, what are your plans?” went on the attaché.

“I shall go to the club first, get a room, dress, and all that. Then call at the Hôtel Madagascar. There is a lady there—one of our party, in fact—and I should like to ask after her. She may be glad of my services.”

“English? Is there anything we can do for her?”

“Yes, she is an Englishwoman, but the widow of an Italian—the Contessa di Castagneto.”

“Oh, but I know her!” said Papillon. “I remember her in Rome two or three years ago. A deuced pretty woman, very much admired, but she was in deep mourning then, and went out very little. I wished she had gone out more. There were lots of men ready to fall at her feet.”

“You were in Rome, then, some time back? Did you ever come across a man there, Quadling, the banker?”

“Of course I did. Constantly. He was a good deal about—a rather free-living, self-indulgent sort of chap. And now you mention his name, I recollect they said he was much smitten by this particular lady, the Contessa di Castagneto.”

“And did she encourage him?” “Lord! how can I tell? Who shall say how a woman’s fancy falls? It might have suited her too. They said she was not in very good circumstances, and he was thought to be a rich man. Of course we know better than that now.”

“Why now?”

“Haven’t you heard? It was in the Figaro yesterday, and in all the Paris papers. Quadling’s bank has gone to smash; he has bolted with all the ‘ready’ he could lay hands upon.”

“He didn’t get far, then!” cried Sir Charles. “You look surprised, Jack. Didn’t they tell you? This Quadling was the man murdered in the sleeping-car. It was no doubt for the money he carried with him.”

“Was it Quadling? My word! what a terrible Nemesis. Well, nil nisi bonum, but I never thought much of the chap, and your friend the Countess has had an escape. But now, sir, I must be moving. My engagement is for twelve noon. If you want me, mind you send—207 Rue Miromesnil, or to the Embassy; but let us arrange to meet this evening, eh? Dinner and a theatre—what do you say?”

Then Colonel Papillon rode off, and the General was driven to the Boulevard des Capucines, having much to occupy his thoughts by the way.

It did not greatly please him to have this story of the Countess’s relations with Quadling, as first hinted at by the police, endorsed now by his friend Papillon. Clearly she had kept up her acquaintance, her intimacy to the very last: why otherwise should she have received him, alone, been closeted with him for an hour or more on the very eve of his flight? It was a clandestine acquaintance too, or seemed so, for Sir Charles, although a frequent visitor at her house, had never met Quadling there.

What did it all mean? And yet, what, after all, did it matter to him?

A good deal really more than he chose to admit to himself, even now, when closely questioning his secret heart. The fact was, the Countess had made a very strong impression on him from the first. He had admired her greatly during the past winter at Rome, but then it was only a passing fancy, as he thought—the pleasant platonic flirtation of a middle-aged man, who never expected to inspire or feel a great love. Only now, when he had shared a serious trouble with her, had passed through common difficulties and dangers, he was finding what accident may do—how it may fan a first liking into a stronger flame. It was absurd, of course. He was fifty-one, he had weathered many trifling affairs of the heart, and here he was, bowled over at last, and by a woman he was not certain was entitled to his respect.

What was he to do?

The answer came at once and unhesitatingly, as it would to any other honest, chivalrous gentleman.

“By George, I’ll stick to her through thick and thin! I’ll trust her whatever happens or has happened, come what may. Such a woman as that is above suspicion. She must be straight. I should be a beast and a blackguard double distilled to think anything else. I am sure she can put all right with a word, can explain everything when she chooses. I will wait till she does.”

Thus fortified and decided, Sir Charles took his way to the Hôtel Madagascar about noon. At the desk he inquired for the Countess, and begged that his card might be sent up to her. The man looked at it, then at the visitor, as he stood there waiting rather impatiently, then again at the card. At last he walked out and across the inner courtyard of the hotel to the office. Presently the manager came back, bowing low, and, holding the card in his hand, began a desultory conversation.

“Yes, yes,” cried the General, angrily cutting short all references to the weather and the number of English visitors in Paris. “But be so good as to let Madame la Comtesse know that I have called.”

“Ah, to be sure! I came to tell Monsieur le Général that madame will hardly be able to see him. She is indisposed, I believe. At any rate, she does not receive to-day.”

“As to that, we shall see. I will take no answer except direct from her. Take or send up my card without further delay. I insist! Do you hear?” said the General, so fiercely that the manager turned tail and fled up-stairs.

Perhaps he yielded his ground the more readily that he saw over the General’s shoulder the figure of Galipaud the detective looming in the archway. It had been arranged that, as it was not advisable to have the inspector hanging about the courtyard of the hotel, the clerk or the manager should keep watch over the Countess and detain any visitors who might call upon her. Galipaud had taken post at a wine-shop over the way, and was to be summoned whenever his presence was thought necessary.

There he was now, standing just behind the General, and for the present unseen by him.

But then a telegraph messenger came in and up to the desk. He held the usual blue envelope in his hand, and called out the name on the address:

“Castagneto. Contessa Castagneto.”

At sound of which the General turned sharply, to find Galipaud advancing and stretching out his hand to take the message.

“Pardon me,” cried Sir Charles, promptly interposing and understanding the situation at a glance. “I am just going up to see that lady. Give me the telegram.”

Galipaud would have disputed the point, when the General, who had already recognized him, said quietly:

“No, no, Inspector, you have no earthly right to it. I guess why you are here, but you are not entitled to interfere with private correspondence. Stand back;” and seeing the detective hesitate, he added peremptorily:

“Enough of this. I order you to get out of the way. And be quick about it!”

The manager now returned, and admitted that Madame la Comtesse would receive her visitor. A few seconds more, and the General was admitted into her presence.

“How truly kind of you to call!” she said at once, coming up to him with both hands outstretched and frank gladness in her eyes.

Yes, she was very attractive in her plain, dark travelling dress draping her tall, graceful figure; her beautiful, pale face was enhanced by the rich tones of her dark brown, wavy hair, while just a narrow band of white muslin at her wrists and neck set off the dazzling clearness of her skin.

“Of course I came. I thought you might want me, or might like to know the latest news,” he answered, as he held her hands in his for a few seconds longer than was perhaps absolutely necessary.

“Oh, do tell me! Is there anything fresh?” There was a flash of crimson colour in her cheek, which faded almost instantly.

“This much. They have found out who the man was.”

“Really? Positively? Whom do they say now?”

“Perhaps I had better not tell you. It may surprise you, shock you to hear. I think you knew him—”

“Nothing can well shock me now. I have had too many shocks already. Who do they think it is?”

“A Mr. Quadling, a banker, who is supposed to have absconded from Rome.”

She received the news so impassively, with such strange self-possession, that for a moment he was disappointed in her. But then, quick to excuse, he suggested:

“You may have already heard?”

“Yes; the police people at the railway station told me they thought it was Mr. Quadling.”

“But you knew him?”

“Certainly. They were my bankers, much to my sorrow. I shall lose heavily by their failure.”

“That also has reached you, then?” interrupted the General, hastily and somewhat uneasily.

“To be sure. The man told me of it himself. Indeed, he came to me the very day I was leaving Rome, and made me an offer—a most obliging offer.”

“To share his fallen fortunes?”

“Sir Charles Collingham! How can you? That creature!” The contempt in her tone was immeasurable.

“I had heard—well, some one said that—”

“Speak out, General; I shall not be offended. I know what you mean. It is perfectly true that the man once presumed to pester me with his attentions. But I would as soon have looked at a courier or a cook. And now—”

There was a pause. The General felt on delicate ground. He could ask no questions—anything more must come from the Countess herself.

“But let me tell you what his offer was. I don’t know why I listened to it. I ought to have at once informed the police. I wish I had.”

“It might have saved him from his fate.”

“Every villain gets his deserts in the long run,” she said, with bitter sententiousness. “And this Mr. Quadling is—But wait, you shall know him better. He came to me to propose—what do you think?—that he—his bank, I mean—should secretly repay me the amount of my deposit, all the money I had in it. To join me in his fraud, in fact—”

“The scoundrel! Upon my word, he has been well served. And that was the last you saw of him?”

“I saw him on the journey, at Turin, at Modane, at—Oh, Sir Charles, do not ask me any more about him!” she cried, with a sudden outburst, half-grief, half-dread. “I cannot tell you—I am obliged to—I—I—”

“Then do not say another word,” he said, promptly.

“There are other things. But my lips are sealed—at least for the present. You do not—will not think any worse of me?”

She laid her hand gently on his arm, and his closed over it with such evident good-will that a blush crimsoned her cheek. It still hung there, and deepened when he said, warmly:

“As if anything could make me do that! Don’t you know—you may not, but let me assure you, Countess—that nothing could happen to shake me in the high opinion I have of you. Come what may, I shall trust you, believe in you, think well of you—always.”

“How sweet of you to say that! and now, of all times,” she murmured quite softly, and looking up for the first time, shyly, to meet his eyes.

Her hand was still on his arm, covered by his, and she nestled so close to him that it was easy, natural, indeed, for him to slip his other arm around her waist and draw her to him.

“And now—of all times—may I say one word more?” he whispered in her ear. “Will you give me the right to shelter and protect you, to stand by you, share your troubles, or keep them from you—?”

“No, no, no, indeed, not now!” She looked up appealingly, the tears brimming up in her bright eyes. “I cannot, will not accept this sacrifice. You are only speaking out of your true-hearted chivalry. You must not join yourself to me, you must not involve yourself—”

He stopped her protests by the oldest and most effectual method known in such cases. That first sweet kiss sealed the compact so quickly entered into between them.

And after that she surrendered at discretion. There was no more hesitation or reluctance; she accepted his love as he had offered it, freely, with whole heart and soul, crept up under his sheltering wing like a storm-beaten dove reëntering the nest, and there, cooing softly, “My knight—my own true knight and lord,” yielded herself willingly and unquestioningly to his tender caresses.

Such moments snatched from the heart of pressing anxieties are made doubly sweet by their sharp contrast with a background of trouble.

CHAPTER XVI

They sat there, these two, hand locked in hand, saying little, satisfied now to be with each other and their new-found love. The time flew by far too fast, till at last Sir Charles, with a half-laugh, suggested:

“Do you know, dearest Countess—”

She corrected him in a soft, low voice.

“My name is Sabine—Charles.”

“Sabine, darling. It is very prosaic of me, perhaps, but do you know that I am nearly starved? I came on here at once. I have had no breakfast.”

“Nor have I,” she answered, smiling. “I was thinking of it when—when you appeared like a whirlwind, and since then, events have moved so fast.”

“Are you sorry, Sabine? Would you rather go back to—to—before?” She made a pretty gesture of closing his traitor lips with her small hand.

“Not for worlds. But you soldiers—you are terrible men! Who can resist you?”

“Bah! It is you who are irresistible. But there, why not put on your jacket and let us go out to lunch somewhere—Durand’s, Voisin’s, the Café de le Paix? Which do you prefer?”

“I suppose they will not try to stop us?”

“Who should try?” he asked.

“The people of the hotel—the police—I cannot exactly say whom; but I dread something of the sort. I don’t quite understand that manager. He has been up to see me several times, and he spoke rather oddly, rather rudely.”

“Then he shall answer for it,” snorted Sir Charles, hotly. “It is the fault of that brute of a detective, I suppose. Still they would hardly dare—”

“A detective? What? Here? Are you sure?”

“Perfectly sure. It is one of those from the Lyons Station. I knew him again directly, and he was inclined to be interfering. Why, I caught him trying—but that reminds me—I rescued this telegram from his clutches.”

He took the little blue envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to her, kissing the tips of her fingers as she took it from him.

“Ah!”

A sudden ejaculation of dismay escaped her, when, after rather carelessly tearing the message open, she had glanced at it.

“What is the matter?” he asked in eager solicitude. “May I not know?”

She made no offer to give him the telegram, and said in a faltering voice, and with much hesitation of manner, “I do not know. I hardly think—of course I do not like to withhold anything, not now. And yet, this is a business which concerns me only, I am afraid. I ought not to drag you into it.”

“What concerns you is very much my business, too. I do not wish to force your confidence, still—”

She gave him the telegram quite obediently, with a little sigh of relief, glad to realize now, for the first time after many years, that there was some one to give her orders and take the burden of trouble off her shoulders.

He read it, but did not understand it in the least. It ran: “I must see you immediately, and beg you will come. You will find Hortense here. She is giving trouble. You only can deal with her. Do not delay. Come at once, or we must go to you.—Ripaldi, Hôtel Ivoire, Rue Bellechasse.”

“What does this mean? Who sends it? Who is Ripaldi?” asked Sir Charles, rather brusquely.

“He—he—oh, Charles, I shall have to go. Anything would be better than his coming here.”

“Ripaldi? Haven’t I heard the name? He was one of those in the sleeping-car, I think? The Chief of the Detective Police called it out once or twice. Am I not right? Please tell me—am I not right?”

“Yes, yes; this man was there with the rest of us. A dark man, who sat near the door—”

“Ah, to be sure. But what—what in Heaven’s name has he to do with you? How does he dare to send you such an impudent message as this? Surely, Sabine, you will tell me? You will admit that I have a right to ask?”

“Yes, of course. I will tell you, Charles, everything; but not here—not now. It must be on the way. I have been very wrong, very foolish—but oh, come, come, do let us be going. I am so afraid he might—”

“Then I may go with you? You do not object to that?”

“I much prefer it—much. Do let us make haste!”

She snatched up her sealskin jacket, and held it to him prettily, that he might help her into it, which he did neatly and cleverly, smoothing her great puffed-out sleeves under each shoulder of the coat, still talking eagerly and taking no toll for his trouble as she stood patiently, passively before him.

“And this Hortense? It is your maid, is it not—the woman who had taken herself off? How comes it that she is with that Italian fellow? Upon my soul, I don’t understand—not a little bit.”

“I cannot explain that, either. It is most strange, most incomprehensible, but we shall soon know. Please, Charles, please do not get impatient.”

They passed together down into the hotel courtyard and across it, under the archway which led past the clerk’s desk into the street.

On seeing them, he came out hastily and placed himself in front, quite plainly barring their egress.

“Oh, madame, one moment,” he said in a tone that was by no means conciliatory. “The manager wants to speak to you; he told me to tell you, and stop you if you went out.”

“The manager can speak to madame when she returns,” interposed the General angrily, answering for the Countess.

“I have had my orders, and I cannot allow her—”

“Stand aside, you scoundrel!” cried the General, blazing up; “or upon my soul I shall give you such a lesson you will be sorry you were ever born.”

At this moment the manager himself appeared in reinforcement, and the clerk turned to him for protection and support.

“I was merely giving madame your message, M. Auguste, when this gentleman interposed, threatened me, maltreated me—”

“Oh, surely not; it is some mistake;” the manager spoke most suavely. “But certainly I did wish to speak to madame. I wished to ask her whether she was satisfied with her apartment. I find that the rooms she has generally occupied have fallen vacant, in the nick of time. Perhaps madame would like to look at them, and move?”

“Thank you, M. Auguste, you are very good; but at another time. I am very much pressed just now. When I return in an hour or two, not now.”

The manager was profuse in his apologies, and made no further difficulty.

“Oh, as you please, madame. Perfectly. By and by, later, when you choose.”

The fact was, the desired result had been obtained. For now, on the far side from where he had been watching, Galipaud appeared, no doubt in reply to some secret signal, and the detective with a short nod in acknowledgment had evidently removed his embargo.

A cab was called, and Sir Charles, having put the Countess in, was turning to give the driver his instructions, when a fresh complication arose.

Some one coming round the corner had caught a glimpse of the lady disappearing into the fiacre, and cried out from afar.

“Stay! Stop! I want to speak to that lady; detain her.” It was the sharp voice of little M. Floçon, whom most of those present, certainly the Countess and Sir Charles, immediately recognized.

“No, no, no—don’t let them keep me—I cannot wait now,” she whispered in earnest, urgent appeal. It was not lost on her loyal and devoted friend.

“Go on!” he shouted to the cabman, with all the peremptory insistence of one trained to give words of command. “Forward! As fast as you can drive. I’ll pay you double fare. Tell him where to go, Sabine. I’ll follow—in less than no time.”

The fiacre rattled off at top speed, and the General turned to confront M. Floçon.

The little detective was white to the lips with rage and disappointment; but he also was a man of promptitude, and before falling foul of this pestilent Englishman, who had again marred his plans, he shouted to Galipaud—

“Quick! After them! Follow her wherever she goes. Take this,”—he thrust a paper into his subordinate’s hand. “It is a warrant for her arrest. Seize her wherever you find her, and bring her to the Quai l’Horloge,” the euphemistic title of the headquarters of the French police.

The pursuit was started at once, and then the Chief turned upon Sir Charles. “Now it is between us,” he said, fiercely. “You must account to me for what you have done.”

“Must I?” answered the General, mockingly and with a little laugh. “It is perfectly easy. Madame was in a hurry, so I helped her to get away. That was all.”

“You have traversed and opposed the action of the law. You have impeded me, the Chief of the Detective Service, in the execution of my duty. It is not the first time, but now you must answer for it.”

“Dear me!” said the General in the same flippant, irritating tone.

“You will have to accompany me now to the Prefecture.”

“And if it does not suit me to go?”

“I will have you carried there, bound, tied hand and foot, by the police, like any common rapscallion taken in the act who resists the authority of an officer.”

“Oho, you talk very big, sir. Perhaps you will be so obliging as to tell me what I have done.”

“You have connived at the escape of a criminal from justice—”

“That lady? Psha!”

“She is charged with a heinous crime—that in which you yourself were implicated—the murder of that man on the train.”

“Bah! You must be a stupid goose, to hint at such a thing! A lady of birth, breeding, the highest respectability—impossible!”

“All that has not prevented her from allying herself with base, common wretches. I do not say she struck the blow, but I believe she inspired, concerted, approved it, leaving her confederates to do the actual deed.”

“Confederates?”

“The man Ripaldi, your Italian fellow traveller; her maid, Hortense Petitpré, who was missing this morning.”

The General was fairly staggered at this unexpected blow. Half an hour ago he would have scouted the very thought, indignantly repelled the spoken words that even hinted a suspicion of Sabine Castagneto. But that telegram, signed Ripaldi, the introduction of the maid’s name, and the suggestion that she was troublesome, the threat that if the Countess did not go, they would come to her, and her marked uneasiness thereat—all this implied plainly the existence of collusion, of some secret relations, some secret understanding between her and the others.

He could not entirely conceal the trouble that now overcame him; it certainly did not escape so shrewd an observer as M. Floçon, who promptly tried to turn it to good account.

“Come, M. le Général,” he said, with much assumed bonhomie. “I can see how it is with you, and you have my sincere sympathy. We are all of us liable to be carried away, and there is much excuse for you in this. But now—believe me, I am justified in saying it—now I tell you that our case is strong against her, that it is not mere speculation, but supported by facts. Now surely you will come over to our side?”

“In what way?”

“Tell us frankly all you know—where that lady has gone, help us to lay our hands on her.”

“Your own people will do that. I heard you order that man to follow her.”

“Probably; still I would rather have the information from you. It would satisfy me of your good-will. I need not then proceed to extremities—”

“I certainly shall not give it you,” said the General, hotly. “Anything I know about or have heard from the Contessa Castagneto is sacred; besides, I still believe in her—thoroughly. Nothing you have said can shake me.”

“Then I must ask you to accompany me to the Prefecture. You will come, I trust, on my invitation.” The Chief spoke quietly, but with considerable dignity, and he laid a slight stress upon the last word.

“Meaning that if I do not, you will have resort to something stronger?”

“That will be quite unnecessary, I am sure—at least I hope so. Still—”

“I will go where you like, only I will tell you nothing more, not a single word; and before I start, I must let my friends at the Embassy know where to find me.”

“Oh, with all my heart,” said the little detective, shrugging his shoulders. “We will call there on our way, and you can tell the porter. They will know where to find us.”

CHAPTER XVII

Sir Charles Collingham and his escort, M. Floçon, entered a cab together and were driven first to the Faubourg St. Honoré. The General tried hard to maintain his nonchalance, but he was yet a little crestfallen at the turn things had taken, and M. Floçon, who, on the other hand, was elated and triumphant, saw it. But no words passed between them until they arrived at the portals of the British Embassy, and the General handed out his card to the magnificent porter who received them.

“Kindly let Colonel Papillon have that without delay.” The General had written a few words: “I have got into fresh trouble. Come on to me at the Police Prefecture if you can spare the time.”

“The Colonel is now in the Chancery: will not monsieur wait?” asked the porter, with superb civility.

But the detective would not suffer this, and interposed, answering abruptly for Sir Charles:

“No. It is impossible. We are going to the Quai l’Horloge. It is an urgent matter.”

The porter knew what the Quai l’Horloge meant, and he guessed intuitively who was speaking. Every Frenchman can recognize a police officer, and has, as a rule, no great opinion of him.

“Very well!” now said the porter, curtly, as he banged the wicket-gate on the retreating cab, and he did not hurry himself in giving the card to Colonel Papillon.

“Does this mean that I am a prisoner?” asked Sir Charles, his gorge rising, as it did easily.

“It means, monsieur, that you are in the hands of justice until your recent conduct has been fully explained,” said the detective, with the air of a despot.

“But I protest—”

“I wish to hear no further observations, monsieur. You may reserve them till you can give them to the right person.”

The General’s temper was sorely ruffled. He did not like it at all; yet what could he do? Prudence gained the day, and after a struggle he decided to submit, lest worse might befall him.

There was, in truth, worse to be encountered. It was very irksome to be in the power of this now domineering little man on his own ground, and eager to show his power. It was with a very bad grace that Sir Charles obeyed the curt orders he received, to leave the cab, to enter at a side door of the Prefecture, to follow this pompous conductor along the long vaulted passages of this rambling building, up many flights of stone stairs, to halt obediently at his command when at length they reached a closed door on an upper story.

“It is here!” said M. Floçon, as he turned the handle unceremoniously without knocking. “Enter.”

A man was seated at a small desk in the centre of a big bare room, who rose at once at the sight of M. Floçon, and bowed deferentially without speaking.

“Baume,” said the Chief, shortly, “I wish to leave this gentleman with you. Make him at home,”—the words were spoken in manifest irony—“and when I call you, bring him at once to my cabinet. You, monsieur, you will oblige me by staying here.”

Sir Charles nodded carelessly, took the first chair that offered, and sat down by the fire.

He was to all intents and purposes in custody, and he examined his gaoler at first wrathfully, then curiously, struck with his rather strange figure and appearance. Baume, as the Chief had called him, was a short, thick-set man with a great shock head sunk in low between a pair of enormous shoulders, betokening great physical strength; he stood on very thin but greatly twisted bow legs, and the quaintness of his figure was emphasized by the short black blouse or smock-frock he wore over his other clothes like a French artisan.

He was a man of few words, and those not the most polite in tone, for when the General began with a banal remark about the weather, M. Baume replied, shortly:

“I wish to have no talk;” and when Sir Charles pulled out his cigarette-case, as he did almost automatically from time to time when in any situation of annoyance or perplexity, Baume raised his hand warningly and grunted:

“Not allowed.”

“Then I’ll be hanged if I don’t smoke in spite of every man jack of you!” cried the General, hotly, rising from his seat and speaking unconsciously in English.

“What’s that?” asked Baume, gruffly. He was one of the detective staff, and was only doing his duty according to his lights, and he said so with such an injured air that the General was pacified, laughed, and relapsed into silence without lighting his cigarette.

The time ran on, from minutes into nearly an hour, a very trying wait for Sir Charles. There is always something irritating in doing antechamber work, in kicking one’s heels in the waiting-room of any functionary or official, high or low, and the General found it hard to possess himself in patience, when he thought he was being thus ignominiously treated by a man like M. Floçon. All the time, too, he was worrying himself about the Countess, wondering first how she had fared; next, where she was just then; last of all, and longest, whether it was possible for her to be mixed up in anything compromising or criminal.

Suddenly an electric bell struck in the room. There was a table telephone at Baume’s elbow; he took up the handle, put the tube to his mouth and ear, got his message answered, and then, rising, said abruptly to Sir Charles:

“Come.”

When the General was at last ushered into the presence of the Chief of the Detective Police, he found to his satisfaction that Colonel Papillon was also there, and at M. Floçon’s side sat the instructing judge, M. Beaumont le Hardi, who, after waiting politely until the two Englishmen had exchanged greetings, was the first to speak, and in apology.

“You will, I trust, pardon us, M. le Général, for having detained you here and so long. But there were, as we thought, good and sufficient reasons. If those have now lost some of their cogency, we still stand by our action as having been justifiable in the execution of our duty. We are now willing to let you go free, because—because—”

“We have caught the person, the lady you helped to escape,” blurted out the detective, unable to resist making the point.

“The Countess? Is she here, in custody? Never!”

“Undoubtedly she is in custody, and in very close custody too,” went on M. Floçon, gleefully. “Au secret, if you know what that means—in a cell separate and apart, where no one is permitted to see or speak to her.”

“Surely not that? Jack—Papillon—this must not be. I beg of you, implore, insist, that you will get his lordship to interpose.”

“But, sir, how can I? You must not ask impossibilities. The Contessa Castagneto is really an Italian subject now.”

“She is English by birth, and whether or no, she is a woman, a high-bred lady; and it is abominable, unheard-of, to subject her to such monstrous treatment,” said the General.

“But these gentlemen declare that they are fully warranted, that she has put herself in the wrong—greatly, culpably in the wrong.”

“I don’t believe it!” cried the General, indignantly. “Not from these chaps, a pack of idiots, always on the wrong tack! I don’t believe a word, not if they swear.”

“But they have documentary evidence—papers of the most damaging kind against her.”

“Where? How?”

“He—M. le Juge—has been showing me a note-book;” and the General’s eyes, following Jack Papillon’s, were directed to a small carnet, or memorandum-book, which the Judge, interpreting the glance, was tapping significantly with his finger.

Then the Judge said blandly, “It is easy to perceive that you protest, M. le Général, against that lady’s arrest. Is it so? Well, we are not called upon to justify it to you, not in the very least. But we are dealing with a brave man, a gentleman, an officer of high rank and consideration, and you shall know things that we are not bound to tell, to you or to any one.”

“First,” he continued, holding up the note-book, “do you know what this is? Have you ever seen it before?”

“I am dimly conscious of the fact, and yet I cannot say when or where.”

“It is the property of one of your fellow travellers—an Italian called Ripaldi.”

“Ripaldi?” said the General, remembering with some uneasiness that he had seen the name at the bottom of the Countess’s telegram. “Ah! now I understand.”

“You had heard of it, then? In what connection?” asked the Judge, a little carelessly, but it was a suddenly planned pitfall.

“I now understand,” replied the General, perfectly on his guard, “why the note-book was familiar to me. I had seen it in that man’s hands in the waiting-room. He was writing in it.”

“Indeed? A favourite occupation evidently. He was fond of confiding in that note-book, and committed to it much that he never expected would see the light—his movements, intentions, ideas, even his inmost thoughts. The book—which he no doubt lost inadvertently is very incriminating to himself and his friends.”

“What do you imply?” hastily inquired Sir Charles.

“Simply that it is on that which is written here that we base one part, perhaps the strongest, of our case against the Countess. It is strangely but convincingly corroborative of our suspicions against her.”

“May I look at it for myself?” went on the General in a tone of contemptuous disbelief.

“It is in Italian. Perhaps you can read that language? If not, I have translated the most important passages,” said the Judge, offering some other papers.

“Thank you; if you will permit me, I should prefer to look at the original;” and the General, without more ado, stretched out his hand and took the note-book.

What he read there, as he quickly scanned its pages, shall be told in the next chapter. It will be seen that there were things written that looked very damaging to his dear friend, Sabine Castagneto.

CHAPTER XVIII

Ripaldi’s diary—its ownership plainly shown by the record of his name in full, Natale Ripaldi, inside the cover—was a commonplace note-book bound in shabby drab cloth, its edges and corners strengthened with some sort of white metal. The pages were of coarse paper, lined blue and red, and they were dog-eared and smirched as though they had been constantly turned over and used.

The earlier entries were little more than a record of work to do or done.

“Jan. 11. To call at Café di Roma, 12.30. Beppo will meet me.

“Jan. 13. Traced M. L. Last employed as a model at S.’s studio, Palazzo B.

“Jan. 15. There is trouble brewing at the Circulo Bonafede; Louvaih, Malatesta, and the Englishman Sprot, have joined it. All are noted Anarchists.

“Jan. 20. Mem., pay Trattore. The Bestia will not wait. X. is also pressing, and Mariuccia. Situation tightens.

“Jan. 23. Ordered to watch Q. Could I work him? No. Strong doubts of his solvency.

“Feb. 10, 11, 12. After Q. No grounds yet.

“Feb. 27. Q. keeps up good appearance. Any mistake? Shall I try him? Sorely pressed. X. threatens me with Prefettura.

“March 1. Q. in difficulties. Out late every night. Is playing high; poor luck.

“March 3. Q. means mischief. Preparing for a start?

“March 10. Saw Q. about, here, there, everywhere.”

Then followed a brief account of Quadling’s movements on the day before his departure from Rome, very much as they have been described in a previous chapter. These were made mostly in the form of reflections, conjectures, hopes, and fears; hurry-scurry of pursuit had no doubt broken the immediate record of events, and these had been entered next day in the train.

“March 17 (the day previous). He has not shown up. I thought to see him at the buffet at Genoa. The conductor took him his coffee to the car. I hoped to have begun an acquaintance.

“12.30. Breakfasted at Turin. Q. did not come to table. Found him hanging about outside restaurant. Spoke; got short reply. Wishes to avoid observation, I suppose.

“But he speaks to others. He has claimed acquaintance with madame’s lady’s maid, and he wants to speak to the mistress. ‘Tell her I must speak to her,’ I heard him say, as I passed close to them. Then they separated hurriedly.

“At Modane he came to the Douane, and afterwards into the restaurant. He bowed across the table to the lady. She hardly recognized him, which is odd. Of course she must know him; then why—? There is something between them, and the maid is in it.

“What shall I do? I could spoil any game of theirs if I stepped in. What are they after? His money, no doubt.

“So am I; I have the best right to it, for I can do most for him. He is absolutely in my power, and he’ll see that—he’s no fool—directly he knows who I am, and why I’m here. It will be worth his while to buy me off, if I’m ready to sell myself, and my duty, and the Prefettura—and why shouldn’t I? What better can I do? Shall I ever have such a chance again? Twenty, thirty, forty thousand lire, more, even, at one stroke; why, it’s a fortune! I could go to the Republic, to America, North or South, send for Mariuccia—no, cos petto! I will continue free! I will spend the money on myself, as I alone will have earned it, and at such risk.

“I have worked it out thus:

“I will go to him at the very last, just before we are reaching Paris. Tell him, threaten him with arrest, then give him his chance of escape. No fear that he won’t accept it; he must, whatever he may have settled with the others. Altro! I snap my fingers at them. He has most to fear from me.”

The next entries were made after some interval, a long interval—no doubt, after the terrible deed had been done—and the words were traced with trembling fingers, so that the writing was most irregular and scarcely legible.

“Ugh! I am still trembling with horror and fear. I cannot get it out of my mind; I never shall. Why, what tempted me? How could I bring myself to do it?

“But for these two women—they are fiends, furies—it would never have been necessary. Now one of them has escaped, and the other—she is here, so cold-blooded, so self-possessed and quiet—who would have thought it of her? That she, a lady of rank and high breeding, gentle, delicate, tender-hearted. Tender? the fiend! Oh, shall I ever forget her?

“And now she has me in her power! But have I not her also? We are in the same boat—we must sink or swim, together. We are equally bound, I to her, she to me. What are we to do? How shall we meet inquiry? Santissima Donna! why did I not risk it, and climb out like the maid? It was terrible for the moment, but the worst would have been over, and now—”

There was yet more, scribbled in the same faltering, agitated handwriting, and from the context the entries had been made in the waiting-room of the railroad station.

“I must attract her attention. She will not look my way. I want her to understand that I have something special to say to her, and that, as we are forbidden to speak, I am writing it herein—that she must contrive to take the book from me and read unobserved.

“Cos petto! she is stupid! Has fear dazed her entirely? No matter, I will set it all down.”

Now followed what the police deemed such damaging evidence.

“Countess. Remember. Silence—absolute silence. Not a word as to who I am, or what is common knowledge to us both. It is done. That cannot be undone. Be brave, resolute; admit nothing. Stick to it that you know nothing, heard nothing. Deny that you knew him, or me. Swear you slept soundly the night through, make some excuse, say you were drugged, anything, only be on your guard, and say nothing about me. I warn you. Leave me alone. Or—but your interests are my interests; we must stand or fall together. Afterwards I will meet you—I must meet you somewhere. If we miss at the station front, write to me Poste Restante, Grand Hôtel, and give me an address. This is imperative. Once more, silence and discretion.”

This ended the writing in the note-book, and the whole perusal occupied Sir Charles from fifteen to twenty minutes, during which the French officials watched his face closely, and his friend Colonel Papillon anxiously.

But the General’s mask was impenetrable, and at the end of his reading he turned back to read and re-read many pages, holding the book to the light, and seeming to examine the contents very curiously.

“Well?” said the Judge at last, when he met the General’s eye.

“Do you lay great store by this evidence?” asked the General in a calm, dispassionate voice.

“Is it not natural that we should? Is it not strongly, conclusively incriminating?”

“It would be so, of course, if it were to be depended upon. But as to that I have my doubts, and grave doubts.”

“Bah!” interposed the detective; “that is mere conjecture, mere assertion. Why should not the book be believed? It is perfectly genuine—”

“Wait, sir,” said the General, raising his hand. “Have you not noticed—surely it cannot have escaped so astute a police functionary—that the entries are not all in the same handwriting?”

“What! Oh, that is too absurd!” cried both the officials in a breath.

They saw at once that if this discovery were admitted to be an absolute fact, the whole drift of their conclusions must be changed.

“Examine the book for yourselves. To my mind it is perfectly clear and beyond all question,” insisted Sir Charles. “I am quite positive that the last pages were written by a different hand from the first.”

CHAPTER XIX

For several minutes both the Judge and the detective pored over the note-book, examining page after page, shaking their heads, and declining to accept the evidence of their eyes.

“I cannot see it,” said the Judge at last; adding reluctantly, “No doubt there is a difference, but it is to be explained.”

“Quite so,” put in M. Floçon. “When he wrote the early part, he was calm and collected; the last entries, so straggling, so ragged, and so badly written, were made when he was fresh from the crime, excited, upset, little master of himself. Naturally he would use a different hand.”

“Or he would wish to disguise it. It was likely he would so wish,” further remarked the Judge.

“You admit, then, that there is a difference?” argued the General, shrewdly. “But there is more than a disguise. The best disguise leaves certain unchangeable features. Some letters, capital G’s, H’s, and others, will betray themselves through the best disguise. I know what I am saying. I have studied the subject of handwriting; it interests me. These are the work of two different hands. Call in an expert; you will find I am right.”

“Well, well,” said the Judge, after a pause, “let us grant your position for the moment. What do you deduce? What do you infer therefrom?”

“Surely you can see what follows—what this leads us to?” said Sir Charles, rather disdainfully.

“I have formed an opinion—yes, but I should like to see if it coincides with yours. You think—”

“I know,” corrected the General. “I know that, as two persons wrote in that book, either it is not Ripaldi’s book, or the last of them was not Ripaldi. I saw the last writer at his work, saw him with my own eyes. Yet he did not write with Ripaldi’s hand—this is incontestable, I am sure of it, I will swear it—ergo, he is not Ripaldi.”

“But you should have known this at the time,” interjected M. Floçon, fiercely. “Why did you not discover the change of identity? You should have seen that this was not Ripaldi.”

“Pardon me. I did not know the man. I had not noticed him particularly on the journey. There was no reason why I should. I had no communication, no dealings, with any of my fellow passengers except my brother and the Countess.”

“But some of the others would surely have remarked the change?” went on the Judge, greatly puzzled. “That alone seems enough to condemn your theory, M. le General.”

“I take my stand on fact, not theory,” stoutly maintained Sir Charles, “and I am satisfied I am right.”

“But if that was not Ripaldi, who was it? Who would wish to masquerade in his dress and character, to make entries of that sort, as if under his hand?”

“Some one determined to divert suspicion from himself to others—”

“But stay—does he not plainly confess his own guilt?”

“What matter if he is not Ripaldi? Directly the inquiry was over, he could steal away and resume his own personality—that of a man supposed to be dead, and therefore safe from all interference and future pursuit.”

“You mean—Upon my word, I compliment you, M. le Général. It is really ingenious! remarkable, indeed! superb!” cried the Judge, and only professional jealousy prevented M. Floçon from conceding the same praise.

“But how—what—I do not understand,” asked Colonel Papillon in amazement. His wits did not travel quite so fast as those of his companions.

“Simply this, my dear Jack,” explained the General: “Ripaldi must have tried to blackmail Quadling, as he proposed, and Quadling turned the tables on him. They fought, no doubt, and Quadling killed him, possibly in self-defence. He would have said so, but in his peculiar position as an absconding defaulter he did not dare. That is how I read it, and I believe that now these gentlemen are disposed to agree with me.”

“In theory, certainly,” said the Judge, heartily. “But oh! for some more positive proof of this change of character! If we could only identify the corpse, prove clearly that it is not Quadling. And still more, if we had not let this so-called Ripaldi slip through our fingers! You will never find him, M. Floçon, never.”

The detective hung his head in guilty admission of this reproach.

“We may help you in both these difficulties, gentlemen,” said Sir Charles, pleasantly. “My friend here, Colonel Papillon, can speak as to the man Quadling. He knew him well in Rome, a year or two ago.”

“Please wait one moment only;” the detective touched a bell, and briefly ordered two fiacres to the door at once.

“That is right, M. Floçon,” said the Judge. “We will all go to the Morgue. The body is there by now. You will not refuse your assistance, monsieur?”

“One moment. As to the other matter, M. le General?” went on M. Floçon. “Can you help us to find this miscreant, whoever he may be?”

“Yes. The man who calls himself Ripaldi is to be found—or, at least, you would have found him an hour or so ago—at the Hotel Ivoire, Rue Bellechasse. But time has been lost, I fear.”

“Nevertheless, we will send there.”

“The woman Hortense was also with him when last I heard of them.”

“How do you know?” began the detective, suspiciously.

“Psha!” interrupted the Judge; “that will keep. This is the time for action, and we owe too much to the General to distrust him now.”

“Thank you; I am pleased to hear you say that,” went on Sir Charles. “But if I have been of some service to you, perhaps you owe me a little in return. That poor lady! Think what she is suffering. Surely, to oblige me, you will now set her free?”

“Indeed, monsieur, I fear—I do not see how, consistently with my duty”—protested the Judge.

“At least allow her to return to her hotel. She can remain there at your disposal. I will promise you that.”

“How can you answer for her?”

“She will do what I ask, I think, if I may send her just two or three lines.”

The Judge yielded, smiling at the General’s urgency, and shrewdly guessing what it implied.

Then the three departures from the Prefecture took place within a short time of each other.

A posse of police went to arrest Ripaldi; the Countess returned to the Hotel Madagascar; and the Judge’s party started for the Morgue—only a short journey—where they were presently received with every mark of respect and consideration.

The keeper, or officer in charge, was summoned, and came out bareheaded to the fiacre, bowing low before his distinguished visitors.

“Good morning, La Pêche,” said M. Floçon in a sharp voice. “We have come for an identification. The body from the Lyons Station—he of the murder in the sleeping-car—is it yet arrived?”

“But surely, at your service, Chief,” replied the old man, obsequiously. “If the gentlemen will give themselves the trouble to enter the office, I will lead them behind, direct into the mortuary chamber. There are many people in yonder.”

It was the usual crowd of sightseers passing slowly before the plate glass of this, the most terrible shop-front in the world, where the goods exposed, the merchandise, are hideous corpses laid out in rows upon the marble slabs, the battered, tattered remnants of outraged humanity, insulted by the most terrible indignities in death.

Who make up this curious throng, and what strange morbid motives drag them there? Those fat, comfortable-looking women, with their baskets on their arms; the decent workmen in dusty blouses, idling between the hours of work; the riffraff of the streets, male or female, in various stages of wretchedness and degradation? A few, no doubt, are impelled by motives we cannot challenge—they are torn and tortured by suspense, trembling lest they may recognize missing dear ones among the exposed; others stare carelessly at the day’s “take,” wondering, perhaps, if they may come to the same fate; one or two are idle sightseers, not always French, for the Morgue is a favourite haunt with the irrepressible tourist doing Paris. Strangest of all, the murderer himself, the doer of the fell deed, comes here, to the very spot where his victim lies stark and reproachful, and stares at it spellbound, fascinated, filled more with remorse, perchance, than fear at the risk he runs. So common is this trait, that in mysterious murder cases the police of Paris keep a disguised officer among the crowd at the Morgue, and have thereby made many memorable arrests.

“This way, gentlemen, this way;” and the keeper of the Morgue led the party through one or two rooms into the inner and back recesses of the buildings. It was behind the scenes of the Morgue, and they were made free of its most gruesome secrets as they passed along.

The temperature had suddenly fallen far below freezing-point, and the icy cold chilled to the very marrow. Still worse was an all-pervading, acrid odour of artificially suspended animal decay. The cold-air process, that latest of scientific contrivances to arrest the waste of tissue, has now been applied at the Morgue to preserve and keep the bodies fresh, and allow them to be for a longer time exposed than when running water was the only aid. There are, moreover, many specially contrived refrigerating chests, in which those still unrecognized corpses are laid by for months, to be dragged out, if needs be, like carcasses of meat.

“What a loathsome place!” cried Sir Charles. “Hurry up, Jack! let us get out of this, in Heaven’s name!”

“Where’s my man?” quickly asked Colonel Papillon in response to this appeal.

“There, the third from the left,” whispered M. Floçon. “We hoped you would recognize the corpse at once.”

“That? Impossible! You do not expect it, surely? Why, the face is too much mangled for any one to say who it is.”

“Are there no indications, no marks or signs, to say whether it is Quadling or not?” asked the Judge in a greatly disappointed tone.

“Absolutely nothing. And yet I am quite satisfied it is not him. For the simple reason that—”

“Yes, yes, go on.”

“That Quadling in person is standing out there among the crowd.”

CHAPTER XX

M. Floçon was the first to realize the full meaning of Colonel Papillon’s surprising statement.

“Run, run, La Pêche! Have the outer doors closed; let no one leave the place.”

“Draw back, gentlemen!” he went on, and he hustled his companions with frantic haste out at the back of the mortuary chamber. “Pray Heaven he has not seen us! He would know us, even if we do not him.”

Then with no less haste he seized Colonel Papillon by the arm and hurried him by the back passages through the office into the outer, public chamber, where the astonished crowd stood, silent and perturbed, awaiting explanation of their detention.

“Quick, monsieur!” whispered the Chief; “point him out to me.”

The request was not unnecessary, for when Colonel Papillon went forward, and, putting his hand on a man’s shoulder, saying, “Mr. Quadling, I think,” the police officer was scarcely able to restrain his surprise.

The person thus challenged was very unlike any one he had seen before that day, Ripaldi most of all. The moustache was gone, the clothes were entirely changed; a pair of dark green spectacles helped the disguise. It was strange indeed that Papillon had known him; but at the moment of recognition Quadling had removed his glasses, no doubt that he might the better examine the object of his visit to the Morgue, that gruesome record of his own fell handiwork.

Naturally he drew back with well-feigned indignation, muttering half-unintelligible words in French, denying stoutly both in voice and gesture all acquaintance with the person who thus abruptly addressed him.

“This is not to be borne,” he cried. “Who are you that dares—”

“Ta! ta!” quietly put in M. Floçon; “we will discuss that fully, but not here. Come into the office; come, I say, or must we use force?”

There was no escaping now, and with a poor attempt at bravado the stranger was led away.

“Now, Colonel Papillon, look at him well. Do you know him? Are you satisfied it is—”

“Mr. Quadling, late banker, of Rome. I have not the slightest doubt of it. I recognize him beyond all question.”

“That will do. Silence, sir!” This to Quadling. “No observations. I too can recognize you now as the person who called himself Ripaldi an hour or two ago. Denial is useless. Let him be searched; thoroughly, you understand, La Pêche? Call in your other men; he may resist.”

They gave the wretched man but scant consideration, and in less than three minutes had visited every pocket, examined every secret receptacle, and practically turned him inside out.

After this there could no longer be any doubt of his identity, still less of his complicity in the crime.

First among the many damning evidences of his guilt was the missing pocketbook of the porter of the sleeping-car. Within was the train card and the passengers’ tickets, all the papers which the man Groote had lost so unaccountably. They had, of course, been stolen from his person with the obvious intention of impeding the inquiry into the murder. Next, in another inner pocket was Quadling’s own wallet, with his own visiting-cards, several letters addressed to him by name; above all, a thick sheaf of bank-notes of all nationalities—English, French, Italian, and amounting in total value to several thousands of pounds.

“Well, do you still deny? Bah! it is childish, useless, mere waste of breath. At last we have penetrated the mystery. You may as well confess. Whether or no, we have enough to convict you by independent testimony,” said the Judge, severely. “Come, what have you to say?”

But Quadling, with pale, averted face, stood obstinately mute. He was in the toils, the net had closed round him, they should have no assistance from him.

“Come, speak out; it will be best. Remember, we have means to make you—”

“Will you interrogate him further, M. Beaumont le Hardi? Here, at once?”

“No, let him be removed to the Prefecture; it will be more convenient; to my private office.”

Without more ado a fiacre was called, and the prisoner was taken off under escort, M. Floçon seated by his side, one policeman in front, another on the box, and lodged in a secret cell at the Quai l’Horloge.

“And you, gentlemen?” said the Judge to Sir Charles and Colonel Papillon. “I do not wish to detain you further, although there may be points you might help us to elucidate if I might venture to still trespass on your time?”

Sir Charles was eager to return to the Hôtel Madagascar, and yet he felt that he should best serve his dear Countess by seeing this to the end. So he readily assented to accompany the Judge, and Colonel Papillon, who was no less curious, agreed to go too.

“I sincerely trust,” said the Judge on the way, “that our people have laid hands on that woman Petitpré. I believe that she holds the key to the situation, that when we hear her story we shall have a clear case against Quadling; and—who knows?—she may completely exonerate Madame la Comtesse.”

During the events just recorded, which occupied a good hour, the police agents had time to go and come from the Rue Bellechasse. They did not return empty-handed, although at first it seemed as if they had made a fruitless journey. The Hôtel Ivoire was a very second-class place, a lodging-house, or hotel with furnished rooms let out by the week to lodgers with whom the proprietor had no very close acquaintance. His clerk did all the business, and this functionary produced the register, as he is bound by law, for the inspection of the police officers, but afforded little information as to the day’s arrivals.

“Yes, a man calling himself Dufour had taken rooms about midday, one for himself, one for madame who was with him, also named Dufour—his sister, he said;” and he went on at the request of the police officers to describe them.

“Our birds,” said the senior agent, briefly. “They are wanted. We belong to the detective police.”

“All right.” Such visits were not new to the clerk.

“But you will not find monsieur; he is out; there hangs his key. Madame? No, she is within. Yes, that is certain, for not long since she rang her bell. There, it goes again.”

He looked up at the furiously oscillating bell, but made no move.

“Bah! they do not pay for service; let her come and say what she needs.”

“Exactly; and we will bring her,” said the officer, making for the stairs and the room indicated.

But on reaching the door, they found it locked. From within? Hardly, for as they stood there in doubt, a voice inside cried vehemently:

“Let me out! Help! Help! Send for the police. I have much to tell them. Quick! Let me out.”

“We are here, my dear, just as you require us. But wait; step down, Gaston, and see if the clerk has a second key. If not, call in a locksmith—the nearest. A little patience only, my beauty. Do not fear.”

The key was quickly produced, and an entrance effected.

A woman stood there in a defiant attitude, with arms akimbo; she, no doubt, of whom they were in search. A tall, rather masculine-looking creature, with a dark, handsome face, bold black eyes just now flashing fiercely, rage in every feature.

“Madame Dufour?” began the police officer.

“Dufour! Rot! My name is Hortense Petitpré; who are you? La Rousse?” (Police.)

“At your service. Have you anything to say to us? We have come on purpose to take you to the Prefecture quietly, if you will let us; or—”

“I will go quietly. I ask nothing better. I have to lay information against a miscreant—a murderer—the vile assassin who would have made me his accomplice—the banker, Quadling, of Rome!”

In the fiacre Hortense Petitpré talked on with such incessant abuse, virulent and violent, of Quadling, that her charges were neither precise nor intelligible.

It was not until she appeared before M. Beaumont le Hardi, and was handled with great dexterity by that practised examiner, that her story took definite form.

What she had to say will be best told in the clear, formal language of the official disposition.

The witness inculpated stated:

“She was named Aglaé Hortense Petitpré, thirty-four years of age, a Frenchwoman, born in Paris, Rue de Vincennes No. 374. Was engaged by the Contessa Castagneto, November 19, 189—, in Rome, as lady’s maid, and there, at her mistress’s domicile, became acquainted with the Sieur Francis Quadling, a banker of the Via Condotti, Rome.

“Quadling had pretensions to the hand of the Countess, and sought, by bribes and entreaties, to interest witness in his suit. Witness often spoke of him in complimentary terms to her mistress, who was not very favourably disposed towards him.

“One afternoon (two days before the murder) Quadling paid a lengthened visit to the Countess. Witness did not hear what occurred, but Quadling came out much distressed, and again urged her to speak to the Countess. He had heard of the approaching departure of the lady from Rome, but said nothing of his own intentions.

“Witness was much surprised to find him in the sleeping-car, but had no talk to him till the following morning, when he asked her to obtain an interview for him with the Countess, and promised a large reward. In making this offer he produced a wallet and exhibited a very large number of notes.

“Witness was unable to persuade the Countess, although she returned to the subject frequently. Witness so informed Quadling, who then spoke to the lady, but was coldly received.

“During the journey witness thought much over the situation. Admitted that the sight of Quadling’s money had greatly disturbed her, but, although pressed, would not say when the first idea of robbing him took possession of her. (Note by Judge—That she had resolved to do so is, however, perfectly clear, and the conclusion is borne out by her acts. It was she who secured the Countess’s medicine bottle; she, beyond doubt, who drugged the porter at Laroche. In no other way can her presence in the sleeping-car between Laroche and Paris be accounted for-presence which she does not deny.)

“Witness at last reluctantly confessed that she entered the compartment where the murder was committed, and at a critical moment. An affray was actually in progress between the Italian Ripaldi and the incriminated man Quadling, but the witness arrived as the last fatal blow was struck by the latter.

“She saw it struck, and saw the victim fall lifeless on the floor.

“Witness declared she was so terrified she could at first utter no cry, nor call for help, and before she could recover herself the murderer threatened her with the ensanguined knife. She threw herself on her knees, imploring pity, but the man Quadling told her that she was an eye-witness, and could take him to the guillotine—she also must die.

“Witness at last prevailed on him to spare her life, but only on condition that she would leave the car. He indicated the window as the only way of escape; but on this for a long time she refused to venture, declaring that it was only to exchange one form of death for another. Then, as Quadling again threatened to stab her, she was compelled to accept this last chance, never hoping to win out alive.

“With Quadling’s assistance, however, she succeeded in climbing out through the window and in gaining the roof. He had told her to wait for the first occasion when the train slackened speed to leave it and shift for herself. With this intention he gave her a thousand francs, and bade her never show herself again.

“Witness descended from the train not far from the small station of Villeneuve on the line, and there took the local train for Paris. Landed at the Lyons Station, she heard of the inquiry in progress, and then, waiting outside, saw Quadling disguised as the Italian leave in company with another man. She followed and marked Quadling down, meaning to denounce him on the first opportunity. Quadling, however, on issuing from the restaurant, had accosted her, and at once offered her a further sum of five thousand francs as the price of silence, and she had gone with him to the Hôtel Ivoire, where she was to receive the sum. Quadling had paid it, but on one condition, that she would remain at the Hotel Ivoire until the following day. Apparently he had distrusted her, for he had contrived to lock her into her compartment. As she did not choose to be so imprisoned, she summoned assistance, and was at length released by the police.”

This was the substance of Hortense Petitpré’s deposition, and it was corroborated in many small details.

When she appeared before the Judge, with whom Sir Charles Collingham and Colonel Papillon were seated, the former at once pointed out that she was wearing a dark mantle trimmed with the same sort of passementerie as that picked up in the sleeping-car.

L’Envoi

Quadling was in due course brought before the Court of Assize and tried for his life. There was no sort of doubt of his guilt, and the jury so found, but, having regard to certain extenuating circumstances, they recommended him to mercy. The chief of these was Quadling’s positive assurance that he had been first attacked by Ripaldi; he declared that the Italian detective had in the first instance tried to come to terms with him, demanding 50,000 francs as his price for allowing him to go at large; that when Quadling distinctly refused to be black-mailed, Ripaldi struck at him with a knife, but that the blow failed to take effect.

Then Quadling closed with him and took the knife from him. It was a fierce encounter, and might have ended either way, but the unexpected entrance of the woman Petitpré took off Ripaldi’s attention, and then he, Quadling, maddened and reckless, stabbed him to the heart.

It was not until after the deed was done that Quadling realized the full measure of his crime and its inevitable consequences. Then, in a daring effort to extricate himself, he intimidated the woman Petitpré, and forced her to escape through the sleeping-car window.

It was he who had rung the signal-bell to stop the train and give her a chance of leaving it. It was after the murder, too, that he conceived the idea of personating Ripaldi, and, having disfigured him beyond recognition, as he hoped, he had changed clothes and compartments.

On the strength of this confession Quadling escaped the guillotine, but he was transported to New Caledonia for life.

The money taken on him was forwarded to Rome, and was usefully employed in reducing his liabilities to the depositors in the bank.

The other word.

Some time in June the following announcement appeared in all the Paris papers:

“Yesterday, at the British Embassy, General Sir Charles Collingham, K. C. B., was married to Sabine, Contessa di Castagneto, widow of the Italian Count of that name.”

IN THE FOG, by Richard Harding Davis

CHAPTER I

The Grill is the club most difficult of access in the world. To be placed on its rolls distinguishes the new member as greatly as though he had received a vacant Garter or had been caricatured in “Vanity Fair.”

Men who belong to the Grill Club never mention that fact. If you were to ask one of them which clubs he frequents, he will name all save that particular one. He is afraid if he told you he belonged to the Grill, that it would sound like boasting.

The Grill Club dates back to the days when Shakespeare’s Theatre stood on the present site of the “Times” office. It has a golden Grill which Charles the Second presented to the Club, and the original manuscript of “Tom and Jerry in London,” which was bequeathed to it by Pierce Egan himself. The members, when they write letters at the Club, still use sand to blot the ink.

The Grill enjoys the distinction of having blackballed, without political prejudice, a Prime Minister of each party. At the same sitting at which one of these fell, it elected, on account of his brogue and his bulls, Quiller, Q. C., who was then a penniless barrister.

When Paul Preval, the French artist who came to London by royal command to paint a portrait of the Prince of Wales, was made an honorary member—only foreigners may be honorary members—he said, as he signed his first wine card, “I would rather see my name on that, than on a picture in the Louvre.”

At which. Quiller remarked, “That is a devil of a compliment, because the only men who can read their names in the Louvre to-day have been dead fifty years.”

On the night after the great fog of 1897 there were five members in the Club, four of them busy with supper and one reading in front of the fireplace. There is only one room to the Club, and one long table. At the far end of the room the fire of the grill glows red, and, when the fat falls, blazes into flame, and at the other there is a broad bow window of diamond panes, which looks down upon the street. The four men at the table were strangers to each other, but as they picked at the grilled bones, and sipped their Scotch and soda, they conversed with such charming animation that a visitor to the Club, which does not tolerate visitors, would have counted them as friends of long acquaintance, certainly not as Englishmen who had met for the first time, and without the form of an introduction. But it is the etiquette and tradition of the Grill, that whoever enters it must speak with whomever he finds there. It is to enforce this rule that there is but one long table, and whether there are twenty men at it or two, the waiters, supporting the rule, will place them side by side.

For this reason the four strangers at supper were seated together, with the candles grouped about them, and the long length of the table cutting a white path through the outer gloom.

“I repeat,” said the gentleman with the black pearl stud, “that the days for romantic adventure and deeds of foolish daring have passed, and that the fault lies with ourselves. Voyages to the pole I do not catalogue as adventures. That African explorer, young Chetney, who turned up yesterday after he was supposed to have died in Uganda, did nothing adventurous. He made maps and explored the sources of rivers. He was in constant danger, but the presence of danger does not constitute adventure. Were that so, the chemist who studies high explosives, or who investigates deadly poisons, passes through adventures daily. No, ‘adventures are for the adventurous.’ But one no longer ventures. The spirit of it has died of inertia. We are grown too practical, too just, above all, too sensible. In this room, for instance, members of this Club have, at the sword’s point, disputed the proper scanning of one of Pope’s couplets. Over so weighty a matter as spilled Burgundy on a gentleman’s cuff, ten men fought across this table, each with his rapier in one hand and a candle in the other. All ten were wounded. The question of the spilled Burgundy concerned but two of them. The eight others engaged because they were men of ‘spirit.’ They were, indeed, the first gentlemen of the day. To-night, were you to spill Burgundy on my cuff, were you even to insult me grossly, these gentlemen would not consider it incumbent upon them to kill each other. They would separate us, and to-morrow morning appear as witnesses against us at Bow Street. We have here to-night, in the persons of Sir Andrew and myself, an illustration of how the ways have changed.”

The men around the table turned and glanced toward the gentleman in front of the fireplace. He was an elderly and somewhat portly person, with a kindly, wrinkled countenance, which wore continually a smile of almost childish confidence and good-nature. It was a face which the illustrated prints had made intimately familiar. He held a book from him at arm’s-length, as if to adjust his eyesight, and his brows were knit with interest.

“Now, were this the eighteenth century,” continued the gentleman with the black pearl, “when Sir Andrew left the Club to-night I would have him bound and gagged and thrown into a sedan chair. The watch would not interfere, the passers-by would take to their heels, my hired bullies and ruffians would convey him to some lonely spot where we would guard him until morning. Nothing would come of it, except added reputation to myself as a gentleman of adventurous spirit, and possibly an essay in the Tattler, with stars for names, entitled, let us say, ‘The Budget and the Baronet.’”

“But to what end, sir?” inquired the youngest of the members. “And why Sir Andrew, of all persons—why should you select him for this adventure?”

The gentleman with the black pearl shrugged his shoulders.

“It would prevent him speaking in the House to-night. The Navy Increase Bill,” he added gloomily. “It is a Government measure, and Sir Andrew speaks for it. And so great is his influence and so large his following that if he does”—the gentleman laughed ruefully—“if he does, it will go through. Now, had I the spirit of our ancestors,” he exclaimed, “I would bring chloroform from the nearest chemist’s and drug him in that chair. I would tumble his unconscious form into a hansom cab, and hold him prisoner until daylight. If I did, I would save the British taxpayer the cost of five more battleships, many millions of pounds.”

The gentlemen again turned, and surveyed the baronet with freshened interest. The honorary member of the Grill, whose accent already had betrayed him as an American, laughed softly.

“To look at him now,” he said, “one would not guess he was deeply concerned with the affairs of state.”

The others nodded silently.

“He has not lifted his eyes from that book since we first entered,” added the youngest member. “He surely cannot mean to speak to-night.”

“Oh, yes, he will speak,” muttered the one with the black pearl moodily. “During these last hours of the session the House sits late, but when the Navy bill comes up on its third reading he will be in his place—and he will pass it.”

The fourth member, a stout and florid gentleman of a somewhat sporting appearance, in a short smoking-jacket and black tie, sighed enviously.

“Fancy one of us being as cool as that, if he knew he had to stand up within an hour and rattle off a speech in Parliament. Id be in a devil of a funk myself. And yet he is as keen over that book he’s reading as though he had nothing before him until bedtime.”

“Yes, see how eager he is,” whispered the youngest member. “He does not lift his eyes even now when he cuts the pages. It is probably an Admiralty Report, or some other weighty work of statistics which bears upon his speech.”

The gentleman with the black pearl laughed morosely.

“The weighty work in which the eminent statesman is so deeply engrossed,” he said, “is called ‘The Great Rand Robbery.’ It is a detective novel, for sale at all bookstalls.”

The American raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“‘The Great Rand Robbery’?” he repeated incredulously. “What an odd taste!”

“It is not a taste, it is his vice,” returned the gentleman with the pearl stud. “It is his one dissipation. He is noted for it. You, as a stranger, could hardly be expected to know of this idiosyncrasy. Mr. Gladstone sought relaxation in the Greek poets, Sir Andrew finds his in Gaboriau. Since I have been a member of Parliament I have never seen him in the library without a shilling shocker in his hands. He brings them even into the sacred precincts of the House, and from the Government benches reads them concealed inside his hat. Once started on a tale of murder, robbery, and sudden death, nothing can tear him from it, not even the call of the division bell, nor of hunger, nor the prayers of the party Whip. He gave up his country house because when he journeyed to it in the train he would become so absorbed in his detective stories that he was invariably carried past his station.” The member of Parliament twisted his pearl stud nervously, and bit at the edge of his mustache. “If it only were the first pages of ‘The Rand Robbery’ that he were reading,” he murmured bitterly, “instead of the last! With such another book as that, I swear I could hold him here until morning. There would be no need of chloroform to keep him from the House.”

The eyes of all were fastened upon Sir Andrew, and each saw with fascination that with his forefinger he was now separating the last two pages of the book. The member of Parliament struck the table softly with his open palm.

“I would give a hundred pounds,” he whispered, “if I could place in his hands at this moment a new story of Sherlock Holmes—a thousand pounds,” he added wildly—“five thousand pounds!”

The American observed the speaker sharply, as though the words bore to him some special application, and then at an idea which apparently had but just come to him, smiled in great embarrassment.

Sir Andrew ceased reading, but, as though still under the influence of the book, sat looking blankly into the open fire. For a brief space no one moved until the baronet withdrew his eyes and, with a sudden start of recollection, felt anxiously for his watch. He scanned its face eagerly, and scrambled to his feet.

The voice of the American instantly broke the silence in a high, nervous accent.

“And yet Sherlock Holmes himself,” he cried, “could not decipher the mystery which to-night baffles the police of London.”

At these unexpected words, which carried in them something of the tone of a challenge, the gentlemen about the table started as suddenly as though the American had fired a pistol in the air, and Sir Andrew halted abruptly and stood observing him with grave surprise.

The gentleman with the black pearl was the first to recover.

“Yes, yes,” he said eagerly, throwing himself across the table. “A mystery that baffles the police of London.

“I have heard nothing of it. Tell us at once, pray do—tell us at once.”

The American flushed uncomfortably, and picked uneasily at the tablecloth.

“No one but the police has heard of it,” he murmured, “and they only through me. It is a remarkable crime, to, which, unfortunately, I am the only person who can bear witness. Because I am the only witness, I am, in spite of my immunity as a diplomat, detained in London by the authorities of Scotland Yard. My name,” he said, inclining his head politely, “is Sears, Lieutenant Ripley Sears of the United States Navy, at present Naval Attache to the Court of Russia. Had I not been detained to-day by the police I would have started this morning for Petersburg.”

The gentleman with the black pearl interrupted with so pronounced an exclamation of excitement and delight that the American stammered and ceased speaking.

“Do you hear, Sir Andrew!” cried the member of Parliament jubilantly. “An American diplomat halted by our police because he is the only witness of a most remarkable crime—the most remarkable crime, I believe you said, sir,” he added, bending eagerly toward the naval officer, “which has occurred in London in many years.”

The American moved his head in assent and glanced at the two other members. They were looking doubtfully at him, and the face of each showed that he was greatly perplexed.

Sir Andrew advanced to within the light of the candles and drew a chair toward him.

“The crime must be exceptional indeed,” he said, “to justify the police in interfering with a representative of a friendly power. If I were not forced to leave at once, I should take the liberty of asking you to tell us the details.”

The gentleman with the pearl pushed the chair toward Sir Andrew, and motioned him to be seated.

“You cannot leave us now,” he exclaimed. “Mr. Sears is just about to tell us of this remarkable crime.”

He nodded vigorously at the naval officer and the American, after first glancing doubtfully toward the servants at the far end of the room, leaned forward across the table. The others drew their chairs nearer and bent toward him. The baronet glanced irresolutely at his watch, and with an exclamation of annoyance snapped down the lid. “They can wait,” he muttered. He seated himself quickly and nodded at Lieutenant Sears.

“If you will be so kind as to begin, sir,” he said impatiently.

“Of course,” said the American, “you understand that I understand that I am speaking to gentlemen. The confidences of this Club are inviolate. Until the police give the facts to the public press, I must consider you my confederates. You have heard nothing, you know no one connected with this mystery. Even I must remain anonymous.”

The gentlemen seated around him nodded gravely.

“Of course,” the baronet assented with eagerness, “of course.”

“We will refer to it,” said the gentleman with the black pearl, “as ‘The Story of the Naval Attache.’”

“I arrived in London two days ago,” said the American, “and I engaged a room at the Bath Hotel. I know very few people in London, and even the members of our embassy were strangers to me. But in Hong Kong I had become great pals with an officer in your navy, who has since retired, and who is now living in a small house in Rutland Gardens opposite the Knights-bridge barracks. I telegraphed him that I was in London, and yesterday morning I received a most hearty invitation to dine with him the same evening at his house. He is a bachelor, so we dined alone and talked over all our old days on the Asiatic Station, and of the changes which had come to us since we had last met there. As I was leaving the next morning for my post at Petersburg, and had many letters to write, I told him, about ten o’clock, that I must get back to the hotel, and he sent out his servant to call a hansom.

“For the next quarter of an hour, as we sat talking, we could hear the cab whistle sounding violently from the doorstep, but apparently with no result.

“‘It cannot be that the cabmen are on strike,’ my friend said, as he rose and walked to the window.

“He pulled back the curtains and at once called to me.

“‘You have never seen a London fog, have you?’ he asked. ‘Well, come here. This is one of the best, or, rather, one of the worst, of them.’ I joined him at the window, but I could see nothing. Had I not known that the house looked out upon the street I would have believed that I was facing a dead wall. I raised the sash and stretched out my head, but still I could see nothing. Even the light of the street lamps opposite, and in the upper windows of the barracks, had been smothered in the yellow mist. The lights of the room in which I stood penetrated the fog only to the distance of a few inches from my eyes.

“Below me the servant was still sounding his whistle, but I could afford to wait no longer, and told my friend that I would try and find the way to my hotel on foot. He objected, but the letters I had to write were for the Navy Department, and, besides, I had always heard that to be out in a London fog was the most wonderful experience, and I was curious to investigate one for myself.

“My friend went with me to his front door, and laid down a course for me to follow. I was first to walk straight across the street to the brick wall of the Knightsbridge Barracks. I was then to feel my way along the wall until I came to a row of houses set back from the sidewalk. They would bring me to a cross street. On the other side of this street was a row of shops which I was to follow until they joined the iron railings of Hyde Park. I was to keep to the railings until I reached the gates at Hyde Park Corner, where I was to lay a diagonal course across Piccadilly, and tack in toward the railings of Green Park. At the end of these railings, going east, I would find the Walsingham, and my own hotel.

“To a sailor the course did not seem difficult, so I bade my friend goodnight and walked forward until my feet touched the paving. I continued upon it until I reached the curbing of the sidewalk. A few steps further, and my hands struck the wall of the barracks. I turned in the direction from which I had just come, and saw a square of faint light cut in the yellow fog. I shouted ‘All right,’ and the voice of my friend answered, ‘Good luck to you.’ The light from his open door disappeared with a bang, and I was left alone in a dripping, yellow darkness. I have been in the Navy for ten years, but I have never known such a fog as that of last night, not even among the icebergs of Behring Sea. There one at least could see the light of the binnacle, but last night I could not even distinguish the hand by which I guided myself along the barrack wall. At sea a fog is a natural phenomenon. It is as familiar as the rainbow which follows a storm, it is as proper that a fog should spread upon the waters as that steam shall rise from a kettle. But a fog which springs from the paved streets, that rolls between solid house-fronts, that forces cabs to move at half speed, that drowns policemen and extinguishes the electric lights of the music hall, that to me is incomprehensible. It is as out of place as a tidal wave on Broadway.

“As I felt my way along the wall, I encountered other men who were coming from the opposite direction, and each time when we hailed each other I stepped away from the wall to make room for them to pass. But the third time I did this, when I reached out my hand, the wall had disappeared, and the further I moved to find it the further I seemed to be sinking into space. I had the unpleasant conviction that at any moment I might step over a precipice. Since I had set out I had heard no traffic in the street, and now, although I listened some minutes, I could only distinguish the occasional footfalls of pedestrians. Several times I called aloud, and once a jocular gentleman answered me, but only to ask me where I thought he was, and then even he was swallowed up in the silence. Just above me I could make out a jet of gas which I guessed came from a street lamp, and I moved over to that, and, while I tried to recover my bearings, kept my hand on the iron post. Except for this flicker of gas, no larger than the tip of my finger, I could distinguish nothing about me. For the rest, the mist hung between me and the world like a damp and heavy blanket.

“I could hear voices, but I could not tell from whence they came, and the scrape of a foot moving cautiously, or a muffled cry as some one stumbled, were the only sounds that reached me.

“I decided that until some one took me in tow I had best remain where I was, and it must have been for ten minutes that I waited by the lamp, straining my ears and hailing distant footfalls. In a house near me some people were dancing to the music of a Hungarian band. I even fancied I could hear the windows shake to the rhythm of their feet, but I could not make out from which part of the compass the sounds came. And sometimes, as the music rose, it seemed close at my hand, and again, to be floating high in the air above my head. Although I was surrounded by thousands of householders—13—I was as completely lost as though I had been set down by night in the Sahara Desert. There seemed to be no reason in waiting longer for an escort, so I again set out, and at once bumped against a low iron fence. At first I believed this to be an area railing, but on following it I found that it stretched for a long distance, and that it was pierced at regular intervals with gates. I was standing uncertainly with my hand on one of these when a square of light suddenly opened in the night, and in it I saw, as you see a picture thrown by a biograph in a darkened theatre, a young gentleman in evening dress, and back of him the lights of a hall. I guessed from its elevation and distance from the side-walk that this light must come from the door of a house set back from the street, and I determined to approach it and ask the young man to tell me where I was. But in fumbling with the lock of the gate I instinctively bent my head, and when I raised it again the door had partly closed, leaving only a narrow shaft of light. Whether the young man had re-entered the house, or had left it I could not tell, but I hastened to open the gate, and as I stepped forward I found myself upon an asphalt walk. At the same instant there was the sound of quick steps upon the path, and some one rushed past me. I called to him, but he made no reply, and I heard the gate click and the footsteps hurrying away upon the sidewalk.

“Under other circumstances the young man’s rudeness, and his recklessness in dashing so hurriedly through the mist, would have struck me as peculiar, but everything was so distorted by the fog that at the moment I did not consider it. The door was still as he had left it, partly open. I went up the path, and, after much fumbling, found the knob of the door-bell and gave it a sharp pull. The bell answered me from a great depth and distance, but no movement followed from inside the house, and although I pulled the bell again and again I could hear nothing save the dripping of the mist about me. I was anxious to be on my way, but unless I knew where I was going there was little chance of my making any speed, and I was determined that until I learned my bearings I would not venture back into the fog. So I pushed the door open and stepped into the house.

“I found myself in a long and narrow hall, upon which doors opened from either side. At the end of the hall was a staircase with a balustrade which ended in a sweeping curve. The balustrade was covered with heavy Persian rugs, and the walls of the hall were also hung with them. The door on my left was closed, but the one nearer me on the right was open, and as I stepped opposite to it I saw that it was a sort of reception or waiting-room, and that it was empty. The door below it was also open, and with the idea that I would surely find some one there, I walked on up the hall. I was in evening dress, and I felt I did not look like a burglar, so I had no great fear that, should I encounter one of the inmates of the house, he would shoot me on sight. The second door in the hall opened into a dining-room. This was also empty. One person had been dining at the table, but the cloth had not been cleared away, and a nickering candle showed half-filled wineglasses and the ashes of cigarettes. The greater part of the room was in complete darkness.

“By this time I had grown conscious of the fact that I was wandering about in a strange house, and that, apparently, I was alone in it. The silence of the place began to try my nerves, and in a sudden, unexplainable panic I started for the open street. But as I turned, I saw a man sitting on a bench, which the curve of the balustrade had hidden from me. His eyes were shut, and he was sleeping soundly.

“The moment before I had been bewildered because I could see no one, but at sight of this man I was much more bewildered.

“He was a very large man, a giant in height, with long yellow hair which hung below his shoulders. He was dressed in a red silk shirt that was belted at the waist and hung outside black velvet trousers which, in turn, were stuffed into high black boots. I recognized the costume at once as that of a Russian servant, but what a Russian servant in his native livery could be doing in a private house in Knightsbridge was incomprehensible.

“I advanced and touched the man on the shoulder, and after an effort he awoke, and, on seeing me, sprang to his feet and began bowing rapidly and making deprecatory gestures. I had picked up enough Russian in Petersburg to make out that the man was apologizing for having fallen asleep, and I also was able to explain to him that I desired to see his master.

“He nodded vigorously, and said, ‘Will the Excellency come this way? The Princess is here.’

“I distinctly made out the word ‘princess,’ and I was a good deal embarrassed. I had thought it would be easy enough to explain my intrusion to a man, but how a woman would look at it was another matter, and as I followed him down the hall I was somewhat puzzled.

“As we advanced, he noticed that the front door was standing open, and with an exclamation of surprise, hastened toward it and closed it. Then he rapped twice on the door of what was apparently the drawing-room. There was no reply to his knock, and he tapped again, and then timidly, and cringing subserviently, opened the door and stepped inside. He withdrew himself at once and stared stupidly at me, shaking his head.

“‘She is not there,’ he said. He stood for a moment gazing blankly through the open door, and then hastened toward the dining-room. The solitary candle which still burned there seemed to assure him that the room also was empty. He came back and bowed me toward the drawing-room. ‘She is above,’ he said; ‘I will inform the Princess of the Excellency’s presence.’

“Before I could stop him he had turned and was running up the staircase, leaving me alone at the open door of the drawing-room. I decided that the adventure had gone quite far enough, and if I had been able to explain to the Russian that I had lost my way in the fog, and only wanted to get back into the street again, I would have left the house on the instant.

“Of course, when I first rang the bell of the house I had no other expectation than that it would be answered by a parlor-maid who would direct me on my way. I certainly could not then foresee that I would disturb a Russian princess in her boudoir, or that I might be thrown out by her athletic bodyguard. Still, I thought I ought not now to leave the house without making some apology, and, if the worst should come, I could show my card. They could hardly believe that a member of an Embassy had any designs upon the hat-rack.

“The room in which I stood was dimly lighted, but I could see that, like the hall, it was hung with heavy Persian rugs. The corners were filled with palms, and there was the unmistakable odor in the air of Russian cigarettes, and strange, dry scents that carried me back to the bazaars of Vladivostock. Near the front windows was a grand piano, and at the other end of the room a heavily carved screen of some black wood, picked out with ivory. The screen was overhung with a canopy of silken draperies, and formed a sort of alcove. In front of the alcove was spread the white skin of a polar bear, and set on that was one of those low Turkish coffee tables. It held a lighted spirit-lamp and two gold coffee cups. I had heard no movement from above stairs, and it must have been fully three minutes that I stood waiting, noting these details of the room and wondering at the delay, and at the strange silence.

“And then, suddenly, as my eye grew more used to the half-light, I saw, projecting from behind the screen as though it were stretched along the back of a divan, the hand of a man and the lower part of his arm. I was as startled as though I had come across a footprint on a deserted island. Evidently the man had been sitting there since I had come into the room, even since I had entered the house, and he had heard the servant knocking upon the door. Why he had not declared himself I could not understand, but I supposed that possibly he was a guest, with no reason to interest himself in the Princess’s other visitors, or perhaps, for some reason, he did not wish to be observed. I could see nothing of him except his hand, but I had an unpleasant feeling that he had been peering at me through the carving in the screen, and that he still was doing so. I moved my feet noisily on the floor and said tentatively, ‘I beg your pardon.’

“There was no reply, and the hand did not stir. Apparently the man was bent upon ignoring me, but as all I wished was to apologize for my intrusion and to leave the house, I walked up to the alcove and peered around it. Inside the screen was a divan piled with cushions, and on the end of it nearer me the man was sitting. He was a young Englishman with light yellow hair and a deeply bronzed face.

“He was seated with his arms stretched out along the back of the divan, and with his head resting against a cushion. His attitude was one of complete ease. But his mouth had fallen open, and his eyes were set with an expression of utter horror. At the first glance I saw that he was quite dead.

“For a flash of time I was too startled to act, but in the same flash I was convinced that the man had met his death from no accident, that he had not died through any ordinary failure of the laws of nature. The expression on his face was much too terrible to be misinterpreted. It spoke as eloquently as words. It told me that before the end had come he had watched his death approach and threaten him.

“I was so sure he had been murdered that I instinctively looked on the floor for the weapon, and, at the same moment, out of concern for my own safety, quickly behind me; but the silence of the house continued unbroken.

“I have seen a great number of dead men; I was on the Asiatic Station during the Japanese-Chinese war. I was in Port Arthur after the massacre. So a dead man, for the single reason that he is dead, does not repel me, and, though I knew that there was no hope that this man was alive, still for decency’s sake, I felt his pulse, and while I kept my ears alert for any sound from the floors above me, I pulled open his shirt and placed my hand upon his heart. My fingers instantly touched upon the opening of a wound, and as I withdrew them I found them wet with blood. He was in evening dress, and in the wide bosom of his shirt I found a narrow slit, so narrow that in the dim light it was scarcely discernable. The wound was no wider than the smallest blade of a pocket-knife, but when I stripped the shirt away from the chest and left it bare, I found that the weapon, narrow as it was, had been long enough to reach his heart. There is no need to tell you how I felt as I stood by the body of this boy, for he was hardly older than a boy, or of the thoughts that came into my head. I was bitterly sorry for this stranger, bitterly indignant at his murderer, and, at the same time, selfishly concerned for my own safety and for the notoriety which I saw was sure to follow. My instinct was to leave the body where it lay, and to hide myself in the fog, but I also felt that since a succession of accidents had made me the only witness to a crime, my duty was to make myself a good witness and to assist to establish the facts of this murder.

“That it might possibly be a suicide, and not a murder, did not disturb me for a moment. The fact that the weapon had disappeared, and the expression on the boy’s face were enough to convince, at least me, that he had had no hand in his own death. I judged it, therefore, of the first importance to discover who was in the house, or, if they had escaped from it, who had been in the house before I entered it. I had seen one man leave it; but all I could tell of him was that he was a young man, that he was in evening dress, and that he had fled in such haste that he had not stopped to close the door behind him.

“The Russian servant I had found apparently asleep, and, unless he acted a part with supreme skill, he was a stupid and ignorant boor, and as innocent of the murder as myself. There was still the Russian princess whom he had expected to find, or had pretended to expect to find, in the same room with the murdered man. I judged that she must now be either upstairs with the servant, or that she had, without his knowledge, already fled from the house. When I recalled his apparently genuine surprise at not finding her in the drawing-room, this latter supposition seemed the more probable. Nevertheless, I decided that it was my duty to make a search, and after a second hurried look for the weapon among the cushions of the divan, and upon the floor, I cautiously crossed the hall and entered the dining-room.

“The single candle was still flickering in the draught, and showed only the white cloth. The rest of the room was draped in shadows. I picked up the candle, and, lifting it high above my head, moved around the corner of the table. Either my nerves were on such a stretch that no shock could strain them further, or my mind was inoculated to horrors, for I did not cry out at what I saw nor retreat from it. Immediately at my feet was the body of a beautiful woman, lying at full length upon the floor, her arms flung out on either side of her, and her white face and shoulders gleaming dully in the unsteady light of the candle. Around her throat was a great chain of diamonds, and the light played upon these and made them flash and blaze in tiny flames. But the woman who wore them was dead, and I was so certain as to how she had died that without an instant’s hesitation I dropped on my knees beside her and placed my hands above her heart. My fingers again touched the thin slit of a wound. I had no doubt in my mind but that this was the Russian princess, and when I lowered the candle to her face I was assured that this was so. Her features showed the finest lines of both the Slav and the Jewess; the eyes were black, the hair blue-black and wonderfully heavy, and her skin, even in death, was rich in color. She was a surpassingly beautiful woman.

“I rose and tried to light another candle with the one I held, but I found that my hand was so unsteady that I could not keep the wicks together. It was my intention to again search for this strange dagger which had been used to kill both the English boy and the beautiful princess, but before I could light the second candle I heard footsteps descending the stairs, and the Russian servant appeared in the doorway.

“My face was in darkness, or I am sure that at the sight of it he would have taken alarm, for at that moment I was not sure but that this man himself was the murderer. His own face was plainly visible to me in the light from the hall, and I could see that it wore an expression of dull bewilderment. I stepped quickly toward him and took a firm hold upon his wrist.

“‘She is not there,’ he said. ‘The Princess has gone. They have all gone.’

“‘Who have gone?’ I demanded. ‘Who else has been here?’

“‘The two Englishmen,’ he said.

“‘What two Englishmen?’ I demanded. ‘What are their names?’

“The man now saw by my manner that some question of great moment hung upon his answer, and he began to protest that he did not know the names of the visitors and that until that evening he had never seen them.

“I guessed that it was my tone which frightened him, so I took my hand off his wrist and spoke less eagerly.

“‘How long have they been here?’ I asked, ‘and when did they go?’

“He pointed behind him toward the drawing-room.

“‘One sat there with the Princess,’ he said; ‘the other came after I had placed the coffee in the drawing-room. The two Englishmen talked together and the Princess returned here to the table. She sat there in that chair, and I brought her cognac and cigarettes. Then I sat outside upon the bench. It was a feast day, and I had been drinking. Pardon, Excellency, but I fell asleep. When I woke, your Excellency was standing by me, but the Princess and the two Englishmen had gone. That is all I know.’

“I believed that the man was telling me the truth. His fright had passed, and he was now apparently puzzled, but not alarmed.

“‘You must remember the names of the Englishmen,’ I urged. ‘Try to think. When you announced them to the Princess what name did you give?’

“At this question he exclaimed with pleasure, and, beckoning to me, ran hurriedly down the hall and into the drawing-room. In the corner furthest from the screen was the piano, and on it was a silver tray. He picked this up and, smiling with pride at his own intelligence, pointed at two cards that lay upon it. I took them up and read the names engraved upon them.”

The American paused abruptly, and glanced at the faces about him. “I read the names,” he repeated. He spoke with great reluctance.

“Continue!” cried the Baronet, sharply.

“I read the names,” said the American with evident distaste, “and the family name of each was the same. They were the names of two brothers. One is well known to you. It is that of the African explorer of whom this gentleman was just speaking. I mean the Earl of Chetney. The other was the name of his brother, Lord Arthur Chetney.”

The men at the table fell back as though a trapdoor had fallen open at their feet.

“Lord Chetney!” they exclaimed in chorus. They glanced at each other and back to the American with every expression of concern and disbelief.

“It is impossible!” cried the Baronet. “Why, my dear sir, young Chetney only arrived from Africa yesterday. It was so stated in the evening papers.”

The jaw of the American set in a resolute square, and he pressed his lips together.

“You are perfectly right, sir,” he said, “Lord Chetney did arrive in London yesterday morning, and yesterday night I found his dead body.”

The youngest member present was the first to recover. He seemed much less concerned over the identity of the murdered man than at the interruption of the narrative.

“Oh, please let him go on!” he cried. “What happened then? You say you found two visiting cards. How do you know which card was that of the murdered man?”

The American, before he answered, waited until the chorus of exclamations had ceased. Then he continued as though he had not been interrupted.

“The instant I read the names upon the cards,” he said, “I ran to the screen and, kneeling beside the dead man, began a search through his pockets. My hand at once fell upon a card-case, and I found on all the cards it contained the title of the Earl of Chetney. His watch and cigarette-case also bore his name. These evidences, and the fact of his bronzed skin, and that his cheekbones were worn with fever, convinced me that the dead man was the African explorer, and the boy who had fled past me in the night was Arthur, his younger brother.

“I was so intent upon my search that I had forgotten the servant, and I was still on my knees when I heard a cry behind me. I turned, and saw the man gazing down at the body in abject horror.

“Before I could rise, he gave another cry of terror, and, flinging himself into the hall, raced toward the door to the street. I leaped after him, shouting to him to halt, but before I could reach the hall he had torn open the door, and I saw him spring out into the yellow fog. I cleared the steps in a jump and ran down the garden walk but just as the gate clicked in front of me. I had it open on the instant, and, following the sound of the man’s footsteps, I raced after him across the open street. He, also, could hear me, and he instantly stopped running, and there was absolute silence. He was so near that I almost fancied I could hear him panting, and I held my own breath to listen. But I could distinguish nothing but the dripping of the mist about us, and from far off the music of the Hungarian band, which I had heard when I first lost myself.

“All I could see was the square of light from the door I had left open behind me, and a lamp in the hall beyond it flickering in the draught. But even as I watched it, the flame of the lamp was blown violently to and fro, and the door, caught in the same current of air, closed slowly. I knew if it shut I could not again enter the house, and I rushed madly toward it. I believe I even shouted out, as though it were something human which I could compel to obey me, and then I caught my foot against the curb and smashed into the sidewalk. When I rose to my feet I was dizzy and half stunned, and though I thought then that I was moving toward the door, I know now that I probably turned directly from it; for, as I groped about in the night, calling frantically for the police, my fingers touched nothing but the dripping fog, and the iron railings for which I sought seemed to have melted away. For many minutes I beat the mist with my arms like one at blind man’s buff, turning sharply in circles, cursing aloud at my stupidity and crying continually for help. At last a voice answered me from the fog, and I found myself held in the circle of a policeman’s lantern.

“That is the end of my adventure. What I have to tell you now is what I learned from the police.

“At the station-house to which the man guided me I related what you have just heard. I told them that the house they must at once find was one set back from the street within a radius of two hundred yards from the Knightsbridge Barracks, that within fifty yards of it some one was giving a dance to the music of a Hungarian band, and that the railings before it were as high as a man’s waist and filed to a point. With that to work upon, twenty men were at once ordered out into the fog to search for the house, and Inspector Lyle himself was despatched to the home of Lord Edam, Chetney’s father, with a warrant for Lord Arthur’s arrest. I was thanked and dismissed on my own recognizance.

“This morning, Inspector Lyle called on me, and from him I learned the police theory of the scene I have just described.

“Apparently I had wandered very far in the fog, for up to noon to-day the house had not been found, nor had they been able to arrest Lord Arthur. He did not return to his father’s house last night, and there is no trace of him; but from what the police knew of the past lives of the people I found in that lost house, they have evolved a theory, and their theory is that the murders were committed by Lord Arthur.

“The infatuation of his elder brother, Lord Chetney, for a Russian princess, so Inspector Lyle tells me, is well known to every one. About two years ago the Princess Zichy, as she calls herself, and he were constantly together, and Chetney informed his friends that they were about to be married. The woman was notorious in two continents, and when Lord Edam heard of his son’s infatuation he appealed to the police for her record.

“It is through his having applied to them that they know so much concerning her and her relations with the Chetneys. From the police Lord Edam learned that Madame Zichy had once been a spy in the employ of the Russian Third Section, but that lately she had been repudiated by her own government and was living by her wits, by blackmail, and by her beauty. Lord Edam laid this record before his son, but Chetney either knew it already or the woman persuaded him not to believe in it, and the father and son parted in great anger. Two days later the marquis altered his will, leaving all of his money to the younger brother, Arthur.

“The title and some of the landed property he could not keep from Chetney, but he swore if his son saw the woman again that the will should stand as it was, and he would be left without a penny.

“This was about eighteen months ago, when apparently Chetney tired of the Princess, and suddenly went off to shoot and explore in Central Africa. No word came from him, except that twice he was reported as having died of fever in the jungle, and finally two traders reached the coast who said they had seen his body. This was accepted by all as conclusive, and young Arthur was recognized as the heir to the Edam millions. On the strength of this supposition he at once began to borrow enormous sums from the money lenders. This is of great importance, as the police believe it was these debts which drove him to the murder of his brother. Yesterday, as you know, Lord Chetney suddenly returned from the grave, and it was the fact that for two years he had been considered as dead which lent such importance to his return and which gave rise to those columns of detail concerning him which appeared in all the afternoon papers. But, obviously, during his absence he had not tired of the Princess Zichy, for we know that a few hours after he reached London he sought her out. His brother, who had also learned of his reappearance through the papers, probably suspected which would be the house he would first visit, and followed him there, arriving, so the Russian servant tells us, while the two were at coffee in the drawing-room. The Princess, then, we also learn from the servant, withdrew to the dining-room, leaving the brothers together. What happened one can only guess.

“Lord Arthur knew now that when it was discovered he was no longer the heir, the money-lenders would come down upon him. The police believe that he at once sought out his brother to beg for money to cover the post-obits, but that, considering the sum he needed was several hundreds of thousands of pounds, Chetney refused to give it him. No one knew that Arthur had gone to seek out his brother. They were alone. It is possible, then, that in a passion of disappointment, and crazed with the disgrace which he saw before him, young Arthur made himself the heir beyond further question. The death of his brother would have availed nothing if the woman remained alive. It is then possible that he crossed the hall, and with the same weapon which made him Lord Edam’s heir destroyed the solitary witness to the murder. The only other person who could have seen it was sleeping in a drunken stupor, to which fact undoubtedly he owed his life. And yet,” concluded the Naval Attache, leaning forward and marking each word with his finger, “Lord Arthur blundered fatally. In his haste he left the door of the house open, so giving access to the first passer-by, and he forgot that when he entered it he had handed his card to the servant. That piece of paper may yet send him to the gallows. In the mean time he has disappeared completely, and somewhere, in one of the millions of streets of this great capital, in a locked and empty house, lies the body of his brother, and of the woman his brother loved, undiscovered, unburied, and with their murder unavenged.”

In the discussion which followed the conclusion of the story of the Naval Attache the gentleman with the pearl took no part. Instead, he arose, and, beckoning a servant to a far corner of the room, whispered earnestly to him until a sudden movement on the part of Sir Andrew caused him to return hurriedly to the table.

“There are several points in Mr. Sears’s story I want explained,” he cried. “Be seated, Sir Andrew,” he begged. “Let us have the opinion of an expert. I do not care what the police think, I want to know what you think.”

But Sir Henry rose reluctantly from his chair.

“I should like nothing better than to discuss this,” he said. “But it is most important that I proceed to the House. I should have been there some time ago.” He turned toward the servant and directed him to call a hansom.

The gentleman with the pearl stud looked appealingly at the Naval Attache. “There are surely many details that you have not told us,” he urged. “Some you have forgotten.”

The Baronet interrupted quickly.

“I trust not,” he said, “for I could not possibly stop to hear them.”

“The story is finished,” declared the Naval Attache; “until Lord Arthur is arrested or the bodies are found there is nothing more to tell of either Chetney or the Princess Zichy.”

“Of Lord Chetney perhaps not,” interrupted the sporting-looking gentleman with the black tie, “but there’ll always be something to tell of the Princess Zichy. I know enough stories about her to fill a book. She was a most remarkable woman.” The speaker dropped the end of his cigar into his coffee cup and, taking his case from his pocket, selected a fresh one. As he did so he laughed and held up the case that the others might see it. It was an ordinary cigar-case of well-worn pig-skin, with a silver clasp.

“The only time I ever met her,” he said, “she tried to rob me of this.”

The Baronet regarded him closely.

“She tried to rob you?” he repeated.

“Tried to rob me of this,” continued the gentleman in the black tie, “and of the Czarina’s diamonds.” His tone was one of mingled admiration and injury.

“The Czarina’s diamonds!” exclaimed the Baronet. He glanced quickly and suspiciously at the speaker, and then at the others about the table. But their faces gave evidence of no other emotion than that of ordinary interest.

“Yes, the Czarina’s diamonds,” repeated the man with the black tie. “It was a necklace of diamonds. I was told to take them to the Russian Ambassador in Paris who was to deliver them at Moscow. I am a Queen’s Messenger,” he added.

“Oh, I see,” exclaimed Sir Andrew in a tone of relief. “And you say that this same Princess Zichy, one of the victims of this double murder, endeavored to rob you of—of—that cigar-case.”

“And the Czarina’s diamonds,” answered the Queen’s Messenger imperturbably. “It’s not much of a story, but it gives you an idea of the woman’s character. The robbery took place between Paris and Marseilles.”

The Baronet interrupted him with an abrupt movement. “No, no,” he cried, shaking his head in protest. “Do not tempt me. I really cannot listen. I must be at the House in ten minutes.”

“I am sorry,” said the Queen’s Messenger. He turned to those seated about him. “I wonder if the other gentlemen—” he inquired tentatively. There was a chorus of polite murmurs, and the Queen’s Messenger, bowing his head in acknowledgment, took a preparatory sip from his glass. At the same moment the servant to whom the man with the black pearl had spoken, slipped a piece of paper into his hand. He glanced at it, frowned, and threw it under the table.

The servant bowed to the Baronet.

“Your hansom is waiting, Sir Andrew,” he said.

“The necklace was worth twenty thousand pounds,” began the Queen’s Messenger. “It was a present from the Queen of England to celebrate—” The Baronet gave an exclamation of angry annoyance.

“Upon my word, this is most provoking,” he interrupted. “I really ought not to stay. But I certainly mean to hear this.” He turned irritably to the servant. “Tell the hansom to wait,” he commanded, and, with an air of a boy who is playing truant, slipped guiltily into his chair.

The gentleman with the black pearl smiled blandly, and rapped upon the table.

“Order, gentlemen,” he said. “Order for the story of the Queen’s Messenger and the Czarina’s diamonds.”

CHAPTER II

“The necklace was a present from the Queen of England to the Czarina of Russia,” began the Queen’s Messenger. “It was to celebrate the occasion of the Czar’s coronation. Our Foreign Office knew that the Russian Ambassador in Paris was to proceed to Moscow for that ceremony, and I was directed to go to Paris and turn over the necklace to him. But when I reached Paris I found he had not expected me for a week later and was taking a few days’ vacation at Nice. His people asked me to leave the necklace with them at the Embassy, but I had been charged to get a receipt for it from the Ambassador himself, so I started at once for Nice The fact that Monte Carlo is not two thousand miles from Nice may have had something to do with making me carry out my instructions so carefully. Now, how the Princess Zichy came to find out about the necklace I don’t know, but I can guess. As you have just heard, she was at one time a spy in the service of the Russian government. And after they dismissed her she kept up her acquaintance with many of the Russian agents in London. It is probable that through one of them she learned that the necklace was to be sent to Moscow, and which one of the Queen’s Messengers had been detailed to take it there. Still, I doubt if even that knowledge would have helped her if she had not also known something which I supposed no one else in the world knew but myself and one other man. And, curiously enough, the other man was a Queen’s Messenger too, and a friend of mine. You must know that up to the time of this robbery I had always concealed my despatches in a manner peculiarly my own. I got the idea from that play called ‘A Scrap of Paper.’ In it a man wants to hide a certain compromising document. He knows that all his rooms will be secretly searched for it, so he puts it in a torn envelope and sticks it up where any one can see it on his mantel shelf. The result is that the woman who is ransacking the house to find it looks in all the unlikely places, but passes over the scrap of paper that is just under her nose. Sometimes the papers and packages they give us to carry about Europe are of very great value, and sometimes they are special makes of cigarettes, and orders to court dressmakers. Sometimes we know what we are carrying and sometimes we do not. If it is a large sum of money or a treaty, they generally tell us. But, as a rule, we have no knowledge of what the package contains; so, to be on the safe side, we naturally take just as great care of it as though we knew it held the terms of an ultimatum or the crown jewels. As a rule, my confreres carry the official packages in a despatch-box, which is just as obvious as a lady’s jewel bag in the hands of her maid. Every one knows they are carrying something of value. They put a premium on dishonesty. Well, after I saw the ‘Scrap of Paper’ play, I determined to put the government valuables in the most unlikely place that any one would look for them. So I used to hide the documents they gave me inside my riding-boots, and small articles, such as money or jewels, I carried in an old cigar-case. After I took to using my case for that purpose I bought a new one, exactly like it, for my cigars. But to avoid mistakes, I had my initials placed on both sides of the new one, and the moment I touched the case, even in the dark, I could tell which it was by the raised initials.

“No one knew of this except the Queen’s Messenger of whom I spoke. We once left Paris together on the Orient Express. I was going to Constantinople and he was to stop off at Vienna. On the journey I told him of my peculiar way of hiding things and showed him my cigar-case. If I recollect rightly, on that trip it held the grand cross of St. Michael and St. George, which the Queen was sending to our Ambassador. The Messenger was very much entertained at my scheme, and some months later when he met the Princess he told her about it as an amusing story. Of course, he had no idea she was a Russian spy. He didn’t know anything at all about her, except that she was a very attractive woman.

“It was indiscreet, but he could not possibly have guessed that she could ever make any use of what he told her.

“Later, after the robbery, I remembered that I had informed this young chap of my secret hiding-place, and when I saw him again I questioned him about it. He was greatly distressed, and said he had never seen the importance of the secret. He remembered he had told several people of it, and among others the Princess Zichy. In that way I found out that it was she who had robbed me, and I know that from the moment I left London she was following me and that she knew then that the diamonds were concealed in my cigar-case.

“My train for Nice left Paris at ten in the morning. When I travel at night I generally tell the chef de gare that I am a Queen’s Messenger, and he gives me a compartment to myself, but in the daytime I take whatever offers. On this morning I had found an empty compartment, and I had tipped the guard to keep every one else out, not from any fear of losing the diamonds, but because I wanted to smoke. He had locked the door, and as the last bell had rung I supposed I was to travel alone, so I began to arrange my traps and make myself comfortable. The diamonds in the cigar-case were in the inside pocket of my waistcoat, and as they made a bulky package, I took them out, intending to put them in my hand bag. It is a small satchel like a bookmaker’s, or those hand bags that couriers carry. I wear it slung from a strap across my shoulder, and, no matter whether I am sitting or walking, it never leaves me.

“I took the cigar-case which held the necklace from my inside pocket and the case which held the cigars out of the satchel, and while I was searching through it for a box of matches I laid the two cases beside me on the seat.

“At that moment the train started, but at the same instant there was a rattle at the lock of the compartment, and a couple of porters lifted and shoved a woman through the door, and hurled her rugs and umbrellas in after her.

“Instinctively I reached for the diamonds. I shoved them quickly into the satchel and, pushing them far down to the bottom of the bag, snapped the spring lock. Then I put the cigars in the pocket of my coat, but with the thought that now that I had a woman as a travelling companion I would probably not be allowed to enjoy them.

“One of her pieces of luggage had fallen at my feet, and a roll of rugs had landed at my side. I thought if I hid the fact that the lady was not welcome, and at once endeavored to be civil, she might permit me to smoke. So I picked her hand bag off the floor and asked her where I might place it.

“As I spoke I looked at her for the first time, and saw that she was a most remarkably handsome woman.

“She smiled charmingly and begged me not to disturb myself. Then she arranged her own things about her, and, opening her dressing-bag, took out a gold cigarette case.

“‘Do you object to smoke?’ she asked.

“I laughed and assured her I had been in great terror lest she might object to it herself.

“‘If you like cigarettes,’ she said, ‘will you try some of these? They are rolled especially for my husband in Russia, and they are supposed to be very good.’

“I thanked her, and took one from her case, and I found it so much better than my own that I continued to smoke her cigarettes throughout the rest of the journey. I must say that we got on very well. I judged from the coronet on her cigarette-case, and from her manner, which was quite as well bred as that of any woman I ever met, that she was some one of importance, and though she seemed almost too good looking to be respectable, I determined that she was some grande dame who was so assured of her position that she could afford to be unconventional. At first she read her novel, and then she made some comment on the scenery, and finally we began to discuss the current politics of the Continent. She talked of all the cities in Europe, and seemed to know every one worth knowing. But she volunteered nothing about herself except that she frequently made use of the expression, ‘When my husband was stationed at Vienna,’ or ‘When my husband was promoted to Rome.’ Once she said to me, ‘I have often seen you at Monte Carlo. I saw you when you won the pigeon championship.’ I told her that I was not a pigeon shot, and she gave a little start of surprise. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she said; ‘I thought you were Morton Hamilton, the English champion.’ As a matter of fact, I do look like Hamilton, but I know now that her object was to make me think that she had no idea as to who I really was. She needn’t have acted at all, for I certainly had no suspicions of her, and was only too pleased to have so charming a companion.

“The one thing that should have made me suspicious was the fact that at every station she made some trivial excuse to get me out of the compartment. She pretended that her maid was travelling back of us in one of the second-class carriages, and kept saying she could not imagine why the woman did not come to look after her, and if the maid did not turn up at the next stop, would I be so very kind as to get out and bring her whatever it was she pretended she wanted.

“I had taken my dressing-case from the rack to get out a novel, and had left it on the seat opposite to mine, and at the end of the compartment farthest from her. And once when I came back from buying her a cup of chocolate, or from some other fool errand, I found her standing at my end of the compartment with both hands on the dressing-bag. She looked at me without so much as winking an eye, and shoved the case carefully into a corner. ‘Your bag slipped off on the floor,’ she said. ‘If you’ve got any bottles in it, you had better look and see that they’re not broken.’

“And I give you my word, I was such an ass that I did open the case and looked all through it. She must have thought I was a Juggins. I get hot all over whenever I remember it. But in spite of my dulness, and her cleverness, she couldn’t gain anything by sending me away, because what she wanted was in the hand bag and every time she sent me away the hand bag went with me.

“After the incident of the dressing-case her manner changed. Either in my absence she had had time to look through it, or, when I was examining it for broken bottles, she had seen everything it held.

“From that moment she must have been certain that the cigar-case, in which she knew I carried the diamonds, was in the bag that was fastened to my body, and from that time on she probably was plotting how to get it from me. Her anxiety became most apparent. She dropped the great lady manner, and her charming condescension went with it. She ceased talking, and, when I spoke, answered me irritably, or at random. No doubt her mind was entirely occupied with her plan. The end of our journey was drawing rapidly nearer, and her time for action was being cut down with the speed of the express train. Even I, unsuspicious as I was, noticed that something was very wrong with her. I really believe that before we reached Marseilles if I had not, through my own stupidity, given her the chance she wanted, she might have stuck a knife in me and rolled me out on the rails. But as it was, I only thought that the long journey had tired her. I suggested that it was a very trying trip, and asked her if she would allow me to offer her some of my cognac.

“She thanked me and said, ‘No,’ and then suddenly her eyes lighted, and she exclaimed, ‘Yes, thank you, if you will be so kind.’

“My flask was in the hand bag, and I placed it on my lap and with my thumb slipped back the catch. As I keep my tickets and railroad guide in the bag, I am so constantly opening it that I never bother to lock it, and the fact that it is strapped to me has always been sufficient protection. But I can appreciate now what a satisfaction, and what a torment too, it must have been to that woman when she saw that the bag opened without a key.

“While we were crossing the mountains I had felt rather chilly and had been wearing a light racing coat. But after the lamps were lighted the compartment became very hot and stuffy, and I found the coat uncomfortable. So I stood up, and, after first slipping the strap of the bag over my head, I placed the bag in the seat next me and pulled off the racing coat. I don’t blame myself for being careless; the bag was still within reach of my hand, and nothing would have happened if at that exact moment the train had not stopped at Arles. It was the combination of my removing the bag and our entering the station at the same instant which gave the Princess Zichy the chance she wanted to rob me.

“I needn’t say that she was clever enough to take it. The train ran into the station at full speed and came to a sudden stop. I had just thrown my coat into the rack, and had reached out my hand for the bag. In another instant I would have had the strap around my shoulder. But at that moment the Princess threw open the door of the compartment and beckoned wildly at the people on the platform. ‘Natalie!’ she called, ‘Natalie! here I am. Come here! This way!’ She turned upon me in the greatest excitement. ‘My maid!’ she cried. ‘She is looking for me. She passed the window without seeing me. Go, please, and bring her back.’ She continued pointing out of the door and beckoning me with her other hand. There certainly was something about that woman’s tone which made one jump. When she was giving orders you had no chance to think of anything else. So I rushed out on my errand of mercy, and then rushed back again to ask what the maid looked like.

“‘In black,’ she answered, rising and blocking the door of the compartment. ‘All in black, with a bonnet!’

“The train waited three minutes at Aries, and in that time I suppose I must have rushed up to over twenty women and asked, ‘Are you Natalie?’ The only reason I wasn’t punched with an umbrella or handed over to the police was that they probably thought I was crazy.

“When I jumped back into the compartment the Princess was seated where I had left her, but her eyes were burning with happiness. She placed her hand on my arm almost affectionately, and said in a hysterical way, ‘You are very kind to me. I am so sorry to have troubled you.’

“I protested that every woman on the platform was dressed in black.

“‘Indeed I am so sorry,’ she said, laughing; and she continued to laugh until she began to breathe so quickly that I thought she was going to faint.

“I can see now that the last part of that journey must have been a terrible half hour for her. She had the cigar-case safe enough, but she knew that she herself was not safe. She understood if I were to open my bag, even at the last minute, and miss the case, I would know positively that she had taken it. I had placed the diamonds in the bag at the very moment she entered the compartment, and no one but our two selves had occupied it since. She knew that when we reached Marseilles she would either be twenty thousand pounds richer than when she left Paris, or that she would go to jail. That was the situation as she must have read it, and I don’t envy her her state of mind during that last half hour. It must have been hell.

“I saw that something was wrong, and in my innocence I even wondered if possibly my cognac had not been a little too strong. For she suddenly developed into a most brilliant conversationalist, and applauded and laughed at everything I said, and fired off questions at me like a machine gun, so that I had no time to think of anything but of what she was saying. Whenever I stirred she stopped her chattering and leaned toward me, and watched me like a cat over a mouse-hole. I wondered how I could have considered her an agreeable travelling companion. I thought I would have preferred to be locked in with a lunatic. I don’t like to think how she would have acted if I had made a move to examine the bag, but as I had it safely strapped around me again, I did not open it, and I reached Marseilles alive. As we drew into the station she shook hands with me and grinned at me like a Cheshire cat.

“‘I cannot tell you,’ she said, ‘how much I have to thank you for.’ What do you think of that for impudence!

“I offered to put her in a carriage, but she said she must find Natalie, and that she hoped we would meet again at the hotel. So I drove off by myself, wondering who she was, and whether Natalie was not her keeper.

“I had to wait several hours for the train to Nice, and as I wanted to stroll around the city I thought I had better put the diamonds in the safe of the hotel. As soon as I reached my room I locked the door, placed the hand bag on the table and opened it. I felt among the things at the top of it, but failed to touch the cigar-case. I shoved my hand in deeper, and stirred the things about, but still I did not reach it. A cold wave swept down my spine, and a sort of emptiness came to the pit of my stomach. Then I turned red-hot, and the sweat sprung out all over me. I wet my lips with my tongue, and said to myself, ‘Don’t be an ass. Pull yourself together, pull yourself together. Take the things out, one at a time. It’s there, of course it’s there. Don’t be an ass.’

“So I put a brake on my nerves and began very carefully to pick out the things one by one, but after another second I could not stand it, and I rushed across the room and threw out everything on the bed. But the diamonds were not among them. I pulled the things about and tore them open and shuffled and rearranged and sorted them, but it was no use. The cigar-case was gone. I threw everything in the dressing-case out on the floor, although I knew it was useless to look for it there. I knew that I had put it in the bag. I sat down and tried to think. I remembered I had put it in the satchel at Paris just as that woman had entered the compartment, and I had been alone with her ever since, so it was she who had robbed me. But how? It had never left my shoulder. And then I remembered that it had—that I had taken it off when I had changed my coat and for the few moments that I was searching for Natalie. I remembered that the woman had sent me on that goose chase, and that at every other station she had tried to get rid of me on some fool errand.

“I gave a roar like a mad bull, and I jumped down the stairs six steps at a time.

“I demanded at the office if a distinguished lady of title, possibly a Russian, had just entered the hotel.

“As I expected, she had not. I sprang into a cab and inquired at two other hotels, and then I saw the folly of trying to catch her without outside help, and I ordered the fellow to gallop to the office of the Chief of Police. I told my story, and the ass in charge asked me to calm myself, and wanted to take notes. I told him this was no time for taking notes, but for doing something. He got wrathy at that, and I demanded to be taken at once to his Chief. The Chief, he said, was very busy, and could not see me. So I showed him my silver greyhound. In eleven years I had never used it but once before. I stated in pretty vigorous language that I was a Queen’s Messenger, and that if the Chief of Police did not see me instantly he would lose his official head. At that the fellow jumped off his high horse and ran with me to his Chief—a smart young chap, a colonel in the army, and a very intelligent man.

“I explained that I had been robbed in a French railway carriage of a diamond necklace belonging to the Queen of England, which her Majesty was sending as a present to the Czarina of Russia. I pointed out to him that if he succeeded in capturing the thief he would be made for life, and would receive the gratitude of three great powers.

“He wasn’t the sort that thinks second thoughts are best. He saw Russian and French decorations sprouting all over his chest, and he hit a bell, and pressed buttons, and yelled out orders like the captain of a penny steamer in a fog. He sent her description to all the city gates, and ordered all cabmen and railway porters to search all trains leaving Marseilles. He ordered all passengers on outgoing vessels to be examined, and telegraphed the proprietors of every hotel and pension to send him a complete list of their guests within the hour. While I was standing there he must have given at least a hundred orders, and sent out enough commissaires, sergeants de ville, gendarmes, bicycle police, and plain-clothes Johnnies to have captured the entire German army. When they had gone he assured me that the woman was as good as arrested already. Indeed, officially, she was arrested; for she had no more chance of escape from Marseilles than from the Chateau D’If.

“He told me to return to my hotel and possess my soul in peace. Within an hour he assured me he would acquaint me with her arrest.

“I thanked him, and complimented him on his energy, and left him. But I didn’t share in his confidence. I felt that she was a very clever woman, and a match for any and all of us. It was all very well for him to be jubilant. He had not lost the diamonds, and had everything to gain if he found them; while I, even if he did recover the necklace, would only be where I was before I lost them, and if he did not recover it I was a ruined man. It was an awful facer for me. I had always prided myself on my record. In eleven years I had never mislaid an envelope, nor missed taking the first train. And now I had failed in the most important mission that had ever been intrusted to me. And it wasn’t a thing that could be hushed up, either. It was too conspicuous, too spectacular. It was sure to invite the widest notoriety. I saw myself ridiculed all over the Continent, and perhaps dismissed, even suspected of having taken the thing myself.

“I was walking in front of a lighted cafe, and I felt so sick and miserable that I stopped for a pick-me-up. Then I considered that if I took one drink I would probably, in my present state of mind, not want to stop under twenty, and I decided I had better leave it alone. But my nerves were jumping like a frightened rabbit, and I felt I must have something to quiet them, or I would go crazy. I reached for my cigarette-case, but a cigarette seemed hardly adequate, so I put it back again and took out this cigar-case, in which I keep only the strongest and blackest cigars. I opened it and stuck in my fingers, but instead of a cigar they touched on a thin leather envelope. My heart stood perfectly still. I did not dare to look, but I dug my finger nails into the leather and I felt layers of thin paper, then a layer of cotton, and then they scratched on the facets of the Czarina’s diamonds!

“I stumbled as though I had been hit in the face, and fell back into one of the chairs on the sidewalk. I tore off the wrappings and spread out the diamonds on the cafe table; I could not believe they were real. I twisted the necklace between my fingers and crushed it between my palms and tossed it up in the air. I believe I almost kissed it. The women in the cafe stood tip on the chairs to see better, and laughed and screamed, and the people crowded so close around me that the waiters had to form a bodyguard. The proprietor thought there was a fight, and called for the police. I was so happy I didn’t care. I laughed, too, and gave the proprietor a five-pound note, and told him to stand every one a drink. Then I tumbled into a fiacre and galloped off to my friend the Chief of Police. I felt very sorry for him. He had been so happy at the chance I gave him, and he was sure to be disappointed when he learned I had sent him off on a false alarm.

“But now that I had found the necklace, I did not want him to find the woman. Indeed, I was most anxious that she should get clear away, for if she were caught the truth would come out, and I was likely to get a sharp reprimand, and sure to be laughed at.

“I could see now how it had happened. In my haste to hide the diamonds when the woman was hustled into the carriage, I had shoved the cigars into the satchel, and the diamonds into the pocket of my coat. Now that I had the diamonds safe again, it seemed a very natural mistake. But I doubted if the Foreign Office would think so. I was afraid it might not appreciate the beautiful simplicity of my secret hiding-place. So, when I reached the police station, and found that the woman was still at large, I was more than relieved.

“As I expected, the Chief was extremely chagrined when he learned of my mistake, and that there was nothing for him to do. But I was feeling so happy myself that I hated to have any one else miserable, so I suggested that this attempt to steal the Czarina’s necklace might be only the first of a series of such attempts by an unscrupulous gang, and that I might still be in danger.

“I winked at the Chief and the Chief smiled at me, and we went to Nice together in a saloon car with a guard of twelve carabineers and twelve plain-clothes men, and the Chief and I drank champagne all the way. We marched together up to the hotel where the Russian Ambassador was stopping, closely surrounded by our escort of carabineers, and delivered the necklace with the most profound ceremony. The old Ambassador was immensely impressed, and when we hinted that already I had been made the object of an attack by robbers, he assured us that his Imperial Majesty would not prove ungrateful.

“I wrote a swinging personal letter about the invaluable services of the Chief to the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, and they gave him enough Russian and French medals to satisfy even a French soldier. So, though he never caught the woman, he received his just reward.”

The Queen’s Messenger paused and surveyed the faces of those about him in some embarrassment.

“But the worst of it is,” he added, “that the story must have got about; for, while the Princess obtained nothing from me but a cigar-case and five excellent cigars, a few weeks after the coronation the Czar sent me a gold cigar-case with his monogram in diamonds. And I don’t know yet whether that was a coincidence, or whether the Czar wanted me to know that he knew that I had been carrying the Czarina’s diamonds in my pigskin cigar-case. What do you fellows think?”

CHAPTER III

Sir Andrew rose with disapproval written in every lineament.

“I thought your story would bear upon the murder,” he said. “Had I imagined it would have nothing whatsoever to do with it I would not have remained.” He pushed back his chair and bowed stiffly. “I wish you good night,” he said.

There was a chorus of remonstrance, and under cover of this and the Baronet’s answering protests a servant for the second time slipped a piece of paper into the hand of the gentleman with the pearl stud. He read the lines written upon it and tore it into tiny fragments.

The youngest member, who had remained an interested but silent listener to the tale of the Queen’s Messenger, raised his hand commandingly.

“Sir Andrew,” he cried, “in justice to Lord Arthur Chetney I must ask you to be seated. He has been accused in our hearing of a most serious crime, and I insist that you remain until you have heard me clear his character.”

“You!” cried the Baronet.

“Yes,” answered the young man briskly. “I would have spoken sooner,” he explained, “but that I thought this gentleman”—he inclined his head toward the Queen’s Messenger—“was about to contribute some facts of which I was ignorant. He, however, has told us nothing, and so I will take up the tale at the point where Lieutenant Sears laid it down and give you those details of which Lieutenant Sears is ignorant. It seems strange to you that I should be able to add the sequel to this story. But the coincidence is easily explained. I am the junior member of the law firm of Chudleigh & Chudleigh. We have been solicitors for the Chetneys for the last two hundred years. Nothing, no matter how unimportant, which concerns Lord Edam and his two sons is unknown to us, and naturally we are acquainted with every detail of the terrible catastrophe of last night.”

The Baronet, bewildered but eager, sank back into his chair.

“Will you be long, sir!” he demanded.

“I shall endeavor to be brief,” said the young solicitor; “and,” he added, in a tone which gave his words almost the weight of a threat, “I promise to be interesting.”

“There is no need to promise that,” said Sir Andrew, “I find it much too interesting as it is.” He glanced ruefully at the clock and turned his eyes quickly from it.

“Tell the driver of that hansom,” he called to the servant, “that I take him by the hour.”

“For the last three days,” began young Mr. Chudleigh, “as you have probably read in the daily papers, the Marquis of Edam has been at the point of death, and his physicians have never left his house. Every hour he seemed to grow weaker; but although his bodily strength is apparently leaving him forever, his mind has remained clear and active. Late yesterday evening word was received at our office that he wished my father to come at once to Chetney House and to bring with him certain papers. What these papers were is not essential; I mention them only to explain how it was that last night I happened to be at Lord Edam’s bed-side. I accompanied my father to Chetney House, but at the time we reached there Lord Edam was sleeping, and his physicians refused to have him awakened. My father urged that he should be allowed to receive Lord Edam’s instructions concerning the documents, but the physicians would not disturb him, and we all gathered in the library to wait until he should awake of his own accord. It was about one o’clock in the morning, while we were still there, that Inspector Lyle and the officers from Scotland Yard came to arrest Lord Arthur on the charge of murdering his brother. You can imagine our dismay and distress. Like every one else, I had learned from the afternoon papers that Lord Chetney was not dead, but that he had returned to England, and on arriving at Chetney House I had been told that Lord Arthur had gone to the Bath Hotel to look for his brother and to inform him that if he wished to see their father alive he must come to him at once. Although it was now past one o’clock, Arthur had not returned. None of us knew where Madame Zichy lived, so we could not go to recover Lord Chetney’s body. We spent a most miserable night, hastening to the window whenever a cab came into the square, in the hope that it was Arthur returning, and endeavoring to explain away the facts that pointed to him as the murderer. I am a friend of Arthur’s, I was with him at Harrow and at Oxford, and I refused to believe for an instant that he was capable of such a crime; but as a lawyer I could not help but see that the circumstantial evidence was strongly against him.

“Toward early morning Lord Edam awoke, and in so much better a state of health that he refused to make the changes in the papers which he had intended, declaring that he was no nearer death than ourselves. Under other circumstances, this happy change in him would have relieved us greatly, but none of us could think of anything save the death of his elder son and of the charge which hung over Arthur.

“As long as Inspector Lyle remained in the house my father decided that I, as one of the legal advisers of the family, should also remain there. But there was little for either of us to do. Arthur did not return, and nothing occurred until late this morning, when Lyle received word that the Russian servant had been arrested. He at once drove to Scotland Yard to question him. He came back to us in an hour, and informed me that the servant had refused to tell anything of what had happened the night before, or of himself, or of the Princess Zichy. He would not even give them the address of her house.

“‘He is in abject terror,’ Lyle said. ‘I assured him that he was not suspected of the crime, but he would tell me nothing.’

“There were no other developments until two o’clock this afternoon, when word was brought to us that Arthur had been found, and that he was lying in the accident ward of St. George’s Hospital. Lyle and I drove there together, and found him propped up in bed with his head bound in a bandage. He had been brought to the hospital the night before by the driver of a hansom that had run over him in the fog. The cab-horse had kicked him on the head, and he had been carried in unconscious. There was nothing on him to tell who he was, and it was not until he came to his senses this afternoon that the hospital authorities had been able to send word to his people. Lyle at once informed him that he was under arrest, and with what he was charged, and though the inspector warned him to say nothing which might be used against him, I, as his solicitor, instructed him to speak freely and to tell us all he knew of the occurrences of last night. It was evident to any one that the fact of his brother’s death was of much greater concern to him, than that he was accused of his murder.

“‘That,’ Arthur said contemptuously, ‘that is damned nonsense. It is monstrous and cruel. We parted better friends than we have been in years. I will tell you all that happened—not to clear myself, but to help you to find out the truth.’ His story is as follows: Yesterday afternoon, owing to his constant attendance on his father, he did not look at the evening papers, and it was not until after dinner, when the butler brought him one and told him of its contents, that he learned that his brother was alive and at the Bath Hotel. He drove there at once, but was told that about eight o’clock his brother had gone out, but without giving any clew to his destination. As Chetney had not at once come to see his father, Arthur decided that he was still angry with him, and his mind, turning naturally to the cause of their quarrel, determined him to look for Chetney at the home of the Princess Zichy.

“Her house had been pointed out to him, and though he had never visited it, he had passed it many times and knew its exact location. He accordingly drove in that direction, as far as the fog would permit the hansom to go, and walked the rest of the way, reaching the house about nine o’clock. He rang, and was admitted by the Russian servant. The man took his card into the drawing-room, and at once his brother ran out and welcomed him. He was followed by the Princess Zichy, who also received Arthur most cordially.

“‘You brothers will have much to talk about,’ she said. ‘I am going to the dining-room. When you have finished, let me know.’

“As soon as she had left them, Arthur told his brother that their father was not expected to outlive the night, and that he must come to him at once.

“‘This is not the moment to remember your quarrel,’ Arthur said to him; ‘you have come back from the dead only in time to make your peace with him before he dies.’

“Arthur says that at this Chetney was greatly moved.

“‘You entirely misunderstand me, Arthur,’ he returned. ‘I did not know the governor was ill, or I would have gone to him the instant I arrived. My only reason for not doing so was because I thought he was still angry with me. I shall return with you immediately, as soon as I have said good-by to the Princess. It is a final good-by. After tonight, I shall never see her again.’

“‘Do you mean that?’ Arthur cried.

“‘Yes,’ Chetney answered. ‘When I returned to London I had no intention of seeking her again, and I am here only through a mistake.’ He then told Arthur that he had separated from the Princess even before he went to Central Africa, and that, moreover, while at Cairo on his way south, he had learned certain facts concerning her life there during the previous season, which made it impossible for him to ever wish to see her again. Their separation was final and complete.

“‘She deceived me cruelly,’ he said; ‘I cannot tell you how cruelly. During the two years when I was trying to obtain my father’s consent to our marriage she was in love with a Russian diplomat. During all that time he was secretly visiting her here in London, and her trip to Cairo was only an excuse to meet him there.’

“‘Yet you are here with her tonight,’ Arthur protested, ‘only a few hours after your return.’

“‘That is easily explained,’ Chetney answered. ‘As I finished dinner tonight at the hotel, I received a note from her from this address. In it she said she had but just learned of my arrival, and begged me to come to her at once. She wrote that she was in great and present trouble, dying of an incurable illness, and without friends or money. She begged me, for the sake of old times, to come to her assistance. During the last two years in the jungle all my former feeling for Ziehy has utterly passed away, but no one could have dismissed the appeal she made in that letter. So I came here, and found her, as you have seen her, quite as beautiful as she ever was, in very good health, and, from the look of the house, in no need of money.

“‘I asked her what she meant by writing me that she was dying in a garret, and she laughed, and said she had done so because she was afraid, unless I thought she needed help, I would not try to see her. That was where we were when you arrived. And now,’ Chetney added, ‘I will say good-by to her, and you had better return home. No, you can trust me, I shall follow you at once. She has no influence over me now, but I believe, in spite of the way she has used me, that she is, after her queer fashion, still fond of me, and when she learns that this good-by is final there may be a scene, and it is not fair to her that you should be here. So, go home at once, and tell the governor that I am following you in ten minutes.’ “‘That,’ said Arthur, ‘is the way we parted. I never left him on more friendly terms. I was happy to see him alive again, I was happy to think he had returned in time to make up his quarrel with my father, and I was happy that at last he was shut of that woman. I was never better pleased with him in my life.’ He turned to Inspector Lyle, who was sitting at the foot of the bed taking notes of all he told us.

“‘Why in the name of common sense,’ he cried, ‘should I have chosen that moment of all others to send my brother back to the grave!’ For a moment the Inspector did not answer him. I do not know if any of you gentlemen are acquainted with Inspector Lyle, but if you are not, I can assure you that he is a very remarkable man. Our firm often applies to him for aid, and he has never failed us; my father has the greatest possible respect for him. Where he has the advantage over the ordinary police official is in the fact that he possesses imagination. He imagines himself to be the criminal, imagines how he would act under the same circumstances, and he imagines to such purpose that he generally finds the man he wants. I have often told Lyle that if he had not been a detective he would have made a great success as a poet, or a playwright.

“When Arthur turned on him Lyle hesitated for a moment, and then told him exactly what was the case against him.

“‘Ever since your brother was reported as having died in Africa,’ he said, ‘your Lordship has been collecting money on post obits. Lord Chetney’s arrival last night turned them into waste paper. You were suddenly in debt for thousands of pounds—for much more than you could ever possibly pay. No one knew that you and your brother had met at Madame Zichy’s. But you knew that your father was not expected to outlive the night, and that if your brother were dead also, you would be saved from complete ruin, and that you would become the Marquis of Edam.’

“‘Oh, that is how you have worked it out, is it?’ Arthur cried. ‘And for me to become Lord Edam was it necessary that the woman should die, too!’

“‘They will say,’ Lyle answered, ‘that she was a witness to the murder—that she would have told.’

“‘Then why did I not kill the servant as well!’ Arthur said.

“‘He was asleep, and saw nothing.’

“‘And you believe that?’ Arthur demanded.

“‘It is not a question of what I believe,’ Lyle said gravely. ‘It is a question for your peers.’

“‘The man is insolent!’ Arthur cried. ‘The thing is monstrous! Horrible!’

“Before we could stop him he sprang out of his cot and began pulling on his clothes. When the nurses tried to hold him down, he fought with them.

“‘Do you think you can keep me here,’ he shouted, ‘when they are plotting to hang me? I am going with you to that house!’ he cried at Lyle. ‘When you find those bodies I shall be beside you. It is my right. He is my brother. He has been murdered, and I can tell you who murdered him. That woman murdered him. She first ruined his life, and now she has killed him. For the last five years she has been plotting to make herself his wife, and last night, when he told her he had discovered the truth about the Russian, and that she would never see him again, she flew into a passion and stabbed him, and then, in terror of the gallows, killed herself. She murdered him, I tell you, and I promise you that we will find the knife she used near her—perhaps still in her hand. What will you say to that?’

“Lyle turned his head away and stared down at the floor. ‘I might say,’ he answered, ‘that you placed it there.’

“Arthur gave a cry of anger and sprang at him, and then pitched forward into his arms. The blood was running from the cut under the bandage, and he had fainted. Lyle carried him back to the bed again, and we left him with the police and the doctors, and drove at once to the address he had given us. We found the house not three minutes’ walk from St. George’s Hospital. It stands in Trevor Terrace, that little row of houses set back from Knightsbridge, with one end in Hill Street.

“As we left the hospital Lyle had said to me, ‘You must not blame me for treating him as I did. All is fair in this work, and if by angering that boy I could have made him commit himself I was right in trying to do so; though, I assure you, no one would be better pleased than myself if I could prove his theory to be correct. But we cannot tell. Everything depends upon what we see for ourselves within the next few minutes.’

“When we reached the house, Lyle broke open the fastenings of one of the windows on the ground floor, and, hidden by the trees in the garden, we scrambled in. We found ourselves in the reception-room, which was the first room on the right of the hall. The gas was still burning behind the colored glass and red silk shades, and when the daylight streamed in after us it gave the hall a hideously dissipated look, like the foyer of a theatre at a matinee, or the entrance to an all-day gambling hell. The house was oppressively silent, and because we knew why it was so silent we spoke in whispers. When Lyle turned the handle of the drawing-room door, I felt as though some one had put his hand upon my throat. But I followed close at his shoulder, and saw, in the subdued light of many-tinted lamps, the body of Chetney at the foot of the divan, just as Lieutenant Sears had described it. In the drawing-room we found the body of the Princess Zichy, her arms thrown out, and the blood from her heart frozen in a tiny line across her bare shoulder. But neither of us, although we searched the floor on our hands and knees, could find the weapon which had killed her.

“‘For Arthur’s sake,’ I said, ‘I would have given a thousand pounds if we had found the knife in her hand, as he said we would.’

“‘That we have not found it there,’ Lyle answered, ‘is to my mind the strongest proof that he is telling the truth, that he left the house before the murder took place. He is not a fool, and had he stabbed his brother and this woman, he would have seen that by placing the knife near her he could help to make it appear as if she had killed Chetney and then committed suicide. Besides, Lord Arthur insisted that the evidence in his behalf would be our finding the knife here. He would not have urged that if he knew we would not find it, if he knew he himself had carried it away. This is no suicide. A suicide does not rise and hide the weapon with which he kills himself, and then lie down again. No, this has been a double murder, and we must look outside of the house for the murderer.’

“While he was speaking Lyle and I had been searching every corner, studying the details of each room. I was so afraid that, without telling me, he would make some deductions prejudicial to Arthur, that I never left his side. I was determined to see everything that he saw, and, if possible, to prevent his interpreting it in the wrong way. He finally finished his examination, and we sat down together in the drawing-room, and he took out his notebook and read aloud all that Mr. Sears had told him of the murder and what we had just learned from Arthur. We compared the two accounts word for word, and weighed statement with statement, but I could not determine from anything Lyle said which of the two versions he had decided to believe.

“‘We are trying to build a house of blocks,’ he exclaimed, ‘with half of the blocks missing. We have been considering two theories,’ he went on: ‘one that Lord Arthur is responsible for both murders, and the other that the dead woman in there is responsible for one of them, and has committed suicide; but, until the Russian servant is ready to talk, I shall refuse to believe in the guilt of either.’

“‘What can you prove by him!’ I asked. ‘He was drunk and asleep. He saw nothing.’

“Lyle hesitated, and then, as though he had made up his mind to be quite frank with me, spoke freely.

“‘I do not know that he was either drunk or asleep,’ he answered. ‘Lieutenant Sears describes him as a stupid boor. I am not satisfied that he is not a clever actor. What was his position in this house! What was his real duty here? Suppose it was not to guard this woman, but to watch her. Let us imagine that it was not the woman he served, but a master, and see where that leads us. For this house has a master, a mysterious, absentee landlord, who lives in St. Petersburg, the unknown Russian who came between Chetney and Zichy, and because of whom Chetney left her. He is the man who bought this house for Madame Zichy, who sent these rugs and curtains from St. Petersburg to furnish it for her after his own tastes, and, I believe, it was he also who placed the Russian servant here, ostensibly to serve the Princess, but in reality to spy upon her. At Scotland Yard we do not know who this gentleman is; the Russian police confess to equal ignorance concerning him. When Lord Chetney went to Africa, Madame Zichy lived in St. Petersburg; but there her receptions and dinners were so crowded with members of the nobility and of the army and diplomats, that among so many visitors the police could not learn which was the one for whom she most greatly cared.’

“Lyle pointed at the modern French paintings and the heavy silk rugs which hung upon the walls.

“‘The unknown is a man of taste and of some fortune,’ he said, ‘not the sort of man to send a stupid peasant to guard the woman he loves. So I am not content to believe, with Mr. Sears, that the servant is a boor. I believe him instead to be a very clever ruffian. I believe him to be the protector of his master’s honor, or, let us say, of his master’s property, whether that property be silver plate or the woman his master loves. Last night, after Lord Arthur had gone away, the servant was left alone in this house with Lord Chetney and Madame Zichy. From where he sat in the hall he could hear Lord Chetney bidding her farewell; for, if my idea of him is correct, he understands English quite as well as you or I. Let us imagine that he heard her entreating Chetney not to leave her, reminding him of his former wish to marry her, and let us suppose that he hears Chetney denounce her, and tell her that at Cairo he has learned of this Russian admirer—the servant’s master. He hears the woman declare that she has had no admirer but himself, that this unknown Russian was, and is, nothing to her, that there is no man she loves but him, and that she cannot live, knowing that he is alive, without his love. Suppose Chetney believed her, suppose his former infatuation for her returned, and that in a moment of weakness he forgave her and took her in his arms. That is the moment the Russian master has feared. It is to guard against it that he has placed his watchdog over the Princess, and how do we know but that, when the moment came, the watchdog served his master, as he saw his duty, and killed them both? What do you think?’ Lyle demanded. ‘Would not that explain both murders?’

“I was only too willing to hear any theory which pointed to any one else as the criminal than Arthur, but Lyle’s explanation was too utterly fantastic. I told him that he certainly showed imagination, but that he could not hang a man for what he imagined he had done.

“‘No,’ Lyle answered, ‘but I can frighten him by telling him what I think he has done, and now when I again question the Russian servant I will make it quite clear to him that I believe he is the murderer. I think that will open his mouth. A man will at least talk to defend himself. Come,’ he said, ‘we must return at once to Scotland Yard and see him. There is nothing more to do here.’

“He arose, and I followed him into the hall, and in another minute we would have been on our way to Scotland Yard. But just as he opened the street door a postman halted at the gate of the garden, and began fumbling with the latch.

“Lyle stopped, with an exclamation of chagrin.

“‘How stupid of me!’ he exclaimed. He turned quickly and pointed to a narrow slit cut in the brass plate of the front door. ‘The house has a private letter-box,’ he said, ‘and I had not thought to look in it! If we had gone out as we came in, by the window, I would never have seen it. The moment I entered the house I should have thought of securing the letters which came this morning. I have been grossly careless.’ He stepped back into the hall and pulled at the lid of the letterbox, which hung on the inside of the door, but it was tightly locked. At the same moment the postman came up the steps holding a letter. Without a word Lyle took it from his hand and began to examine it. It was addressed to the Princess Zichy, and on the back of the envelope was the name of a West End dressmaker.

“‘That is of no use to me,’ Lyle said. He took out his card and showed it to the postman. ‘I am Inspector Lyle from Scotland Yard,’ he said. ‘The people in this house are under arrest. Everything it contains is now in my keeping. Did you deliver any other letters here this morning!’

“The man looked frightened, but answered promptly that he was now upon his third round. He had made one postal delivery at seven that morning and another at eleven.

“‘How many letters did you leave here!’ Lyle asked.

“‘About six altogether,’ the man answered.

“‘Did you put them through the door into the letter-box!’

“The postman said, ‘Yes, I always slip them into the box, and ring and go away. The servants collect them from the inside.’

“‘Have you noticed if any of the letters you leave here bear a Russian postage stamp!’ Lyle asked.

“The man answered, ‘Oh, yes, sir, a great many.’

“‘From the same person, would you say!’

“‘The writing seems to be the same,’ the man answered. ‘They come regularly about once a week—one of those I delivered this morning had a Russian postmark.’

“‘That will do,’ said Lyle eagerly. ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’

“He ran back into the hall, and, pulling out his penknife, began to pick at the lock of the letter-box.

“‘I have been supremely careless,’ he said in great excitement. ‘Twice before when people I wanted had flown from a house I have been able to follow them by putting a guard over their mail-box. These letters, which arrive regularly every week from Russia in the same handwriting, they can come but from one person. At least, we shall now know the name of the master of this house. Undoubtedly it is one of his letters that the man placed here this morning. We may make a most important discovery.’

“As he was talking he was picking at the lock with his knife, but he was so impatient to reach the letters that he pressed too heavily on the blade and it broke in his hand. I took a step backward and drove my heel into the lock, and burst it open. The lid flew back, and we pressed forward, and each ran his hand down into the letterbox. For a moment we were both too startled to move. The box was empty.

“I do not know how long we stood staring stupidly at each other, but it was Lyle who was the first to recover. He seized me by the arm and pointed excitedly into the empty box.

“‘Do you appreciate what that means?’ he cried. ‘It means that some one has been here ahead of us. Some one has entered this house not three hours before we came, since eleven o’clock this morning.’

“‘It was the Russian servant!’ I exclaimed.

“‘The Russian servant has been under arrest at Scotland Yard,’ Lyle cried. ‘He could not have taken the letters. Lord Arthur has been in his cot at the hospital. That is his alibi. There is some one else, some one we do not suspect, and that some one is the murderer. He came back here either to obtain those letters because he knew they would convict him, or to remove something he had left here at the time of the murder, something incriminating—the weapon, perhaps, or some personal article; a cigarette-case, a handkerchief with his name upon it, or a pair of gloves. Whatever it was it must have been damning evidence against him to have made him take so desperate a chance.’

“‘How do we know,’ I whispered, ‘that he is not hidden here now?’

“‘No, I’ll swear he is not,’ Lyle answered. ‘I may have bungled in some things, but I have searched this house thoroughly. Nevertheless,’ he added, ‘we must go over it again, from the cellar to the roof. We have the real clew now, and we must forget the others and work only it.’ As he spoke he began again to search the drawing-room, turning over even the books on the tables and the music on the piano. “‘Whoever the man is,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘we know that he has a key to the front door and a key to the letter-box. That shows us he is either an inmate of the house or that he comes here when he wishes. The Russian says that he was the only servant in the house. Certainly we have found no evidence to show that any other servant slept here. There could be but one other person who would possess a key to the house and the letter-box—and he lives in St. Petersburg. At the time of the murder he was two thousand miles away.’ Lyle interrupted himself suddenly with a sharp cry and turned upon me with his eyes flashing. ‘But was he?’ he cried. ‘Was he? How do we know that last night he was not in London, in this very house when Zichy and Chetney met?’

“He stood staring at me without seeing me, muttering, and arguing with himself.

“‘Don’t speak to me,’ he cried, as I ventured to interrupt him. ‘I can see it now. It is all plain. It was not the servant, but his master, the Russian himself, and it was he who came back for the letters! He came back for them because he knew they would convict him. We must find them. We must have those letters. If we find the one with the Russian postmark, we shall have found the murderer.’ He spoke like a madman, and as he spoke he ran around the room with one hand held out in front of him as you have seen a mind-reader at a theatre seeking for something hidden in the stalls. He pulled the old letters from the writing-desk, and ran them over as swiftly as a gambler deals out cards; he dropped on his knees before the fireplace and dragged out the dead coals with his bare fingers, and then with a low, worried cry, like a hound on a scent, he ran back to the waste-paper basket and, lifting the papers from it, shook them out upon the floor. Instantly he gave a shout of triumph, and, separating a number of torn pieces from the others, held them up before me.

“‘Look!’ he cried. ‘Do you see? Here are five letters, torn across in two places. The Russian did not stop to read them, for, as you see, he has left them still sealed. I have been wrong. He did not return for the letters. He could not have known their value. He must have returned for some other reason, and, as he was leaving, saw the letter-box, and taking out the letters, held them together—so—and tore them twice across, and then, as the fire had gone out, tossed them into this basket. Look!’ he cried, ‘here in the upper corner of this piece is a Russian stamp. This is his own letter—unopened!’

“We examined the Russian stamp and found it had been cancelled in St. Petersburg four days ago. The back of the envelope bore the postmark of the branch station in upper Sloane Street, and was dated this morning. The envelope was of official blue paper and we had no difficulty in finding the two other parts of it. We drew the torn pieces of the letter from them and joined them together side by side. There were but two lines of writing, and this was the message: ‘I leave Petersburg on the night train, and I shall see you at Trevor Terrace after dinner Monday evening.’

“‘That was last night!’ Lyle cried. ‘He arrived twelve hours ahead of his letter—but it came in time—it came in time to hang him!’”

The Baronet struck the table with his hand.

“The name!” he demanded. “How was it signed? What was the man’s name!”

The young Solicitor rose to his feet and, leaning forward, stretched out his arm. “There was no name,” he cried. “The letter was signed with only two initials. But engraved at the top of the sheet was the man’s address. That address was ‘THE AMERICAN EMBASSY, ST. PETERSBURG, BUREAU or THE NAVAL ATTACHE,’ and the initials,” he shouted, his voice rising into an exultant and bitter cry, “were those of the gentleman who sits opposite who told us that he was the first to find the murdered bodies, the Naval Attache to Russia, Lieutenant Sears!”

A strained and awful hush followed the Solicitor’s words, which seemed to vibrate like a twanging bowstring that had just hurled its bolt. Sir Andrew, pale and staring, drew away with an exclamation of repulsion. His eyes were fastened upon the Naval Attache with fascinated horror. But the American emitted a sigh of great content, and sank comfortably into the arms of his chair. He clapped his hands softly together.

“Capital!” he murmured. “I give you my word I never guessed what you were driving at. You fooled me, I’ll be hanged if you didn’t—you certainly fooled me.”

The man with the pearl stud leaned forward with a nervous gesture. “Hush! be careful!” he whispered. But at that instant, for the third time, a servant, hastening through the room, handed him a piece of paper which he scanned eagerly. The message on the paper read, “The light over the Commons is out. The House has risen.”

The man with the black pearl gave a mighty shout, and tossed the paper from him upon the table.

“Hurrah!” he cried. “The House is up! We’ve won!” He caught up his glass, and slapped the Naval Attache violently upon the shoulder. He nodded joyously at him, at the Solicitor, and at the Queen’s Messenger. “Gentlemen, to you!” he cried; “my thanks and my congratulations!” He drank deep from the glass, and breathed forth a long sigh of satisfaction and relief.

“But I say,” protested the Queen’s Messenger, shaking his finger violently at the Solicitor, “that story won’t do. You didn’t play fair—and—and you talked so fast I couldn’t make out what it was all about. I’ll bet you that evidence wouldn’t hold in a court of law—you couldn’t hang a cat on such evidence. Your story is condemned tommy-rot. Now my story might have happened, my story bore the mark—”

In the joy of creation the story-tellers had forgotten their audience, until a sudden exclamation from Sir Andrew caused them to turn guiltily toward him. His face was knit with lines of anger, doubt, and amazement.

“What does this mean!” he cried. “Is this a jest, or are you mad? If you know this man is a murderer, why is he at large? Is this a game you have been playing? Explain yourselves at once. What does it mean?”

The American, with first a glance at the others, rose and bowed courteously.

“I am not a murderer, Sir Andrew, believe me,” he said; “you need not be alarmed. As a matter of fact, at this moment I am much more afraid of you than you could possibly be of me. I beg you please to be indulgent. I assure you, we meant no disrespect. We have been matching stories, that is all, pretending that we are people we are not, endeavoring to entertain you with better detective tales than, for instance, the last one you read, ‘The Great Rand Robbery.’”

The Baronet brushed his hand nervously across his forehead.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he exclaimed, “that none of this has happened? That Lord Chetney is not dead, that his Solicitor did not find a letter of yours written from your post in Petersburg, and that just now, when he charged you with murder, he was in jest?”

“I am really very sorry,” said the American, “but you see, sir, he could not have found a letter written by me in St. Petersburg because I have never been in Petersburg. Until this week, I have never been outside of my own country. I am not a naval officer. I am a writer of short stories. And tonight, when this gentleman told me that you were fond of detective stories, I thought it would be amusing to tell you one of my own—one I had just mapped out this afternoon.”

“But Lord Chetney is a real person,” interrupted the Baronet, “and he did go to Africa two years ago, and he was supposed to have died there, and his brother, Lord Arthur, has been the heir. And yesterday Chetney did return. I read it in the papers.” “So did I,” assented the American soothingly; “and it struck me as being a very good plot for a story. I mean his unexpected return from the dead, and the probable disappointment of the younger brother. So I decided that the younger brother had better murder the older one. The Princess Zichy I invented out of a clear sky. The fog I did not have to invent. Since last night I know all that there is to know about a London fog. I was lost in one for three hours.”

The Baronet turned grimly upon the Queen’s Messenger.

“But this gentleman,” he protested, “he is not a writer of short stories; he is a member of the Foreign Office. I have often seen him in Whitehall, and, according to him, the Princess Zichy is not an invention. He says she is very well known, that she tried to rob him.”

The servant of the Foreign Office looked unhappily at the Cabinet Minister, and puffed nervously on his cigar.

“It’s true, Sir Andrew, that I am a Queen’s Messenger,” he said appealingly, “and a Russian woman once did try to rob a Queen’s Messenger in a railway carriage—only it did not happen to me, but to a pal of mine. The only Russian princess I ever knew called herself Zabrisky. You may have seen her. She used to do a dive from the roof of the Aquarium.”

Sir Andrew, with a snort of indignation, fronted the young Solicitor.

“And I suppose yours was a cock-and-bull story, too,” he said. “Of course, it must have been, since Lord Chetney is not dead. But don’t tell me,” he protested, “that you are not Chudleigh’s son either.”

“I’m sorry,” said the youngest member, smiling in some embarrassment, “but my name is not Chudleigh. I assure you, though, that I know the family very well, and that I am on very good terms with them.”

“You should be!” exclaimed the Baronet; “and, judging from the liberties you take with the Chetneys, you had better be on very good terms with them, too.”

The young man leaned back and glanced toward the servants at the far end of the room.

“It has been so long since I have been in the Club,” he said, “that I doubt if even the waiters remember me. Perhaps Joseph may,” he added. “Joseph!” he called, and at the word a servant stepped briskly forward.

The young man pointed to the stuffed head of a great lion which was suspended above the fireplace.

“Joseph,” he said, “I want you to tell these gentlemen who shot that lion. Who presented it to the Grill?”

Joseph, unused to acting as master of ceremonies to members of the Club, shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

“Why, you—you did,” he stammered.

“Of course I did!” exclaimed the young man. “I mean, what is the name of the man who shot it! Tell the gentlemen who I am. They wouldn’t believe me.”

“Who you are, my lord?” said Joseph. “You are Lord Edam’s son, the Earl of Chetney.”

“You must admit,” said Lord Chetney, when the noise had died away, “that I couldn’t remain dead while my little brother was accused of murder. I had to do something. Family pride demanded it. Now, Arthur, as the younger brother, can’t afford to be squeamish, but personally I should hate to have a brother of mine hanged for murder.”

“You certainly showed no scruples against hanging me,” said the American, “but in the face of your evidence I admit my guilt, and I sentence myself to pay the full penalty of the law as we are made to pay it in my own country. The order of this court is,” he announced, “that Joseph shall bring me a wine-card, and that I sign it for five bottles of the Club’s best champagne.” “Oh, no!” protested the man with the pearl stud, “it is not for you to sign it. In my opinion it is Sir Andrew who should pay the costs. It is time you knew,” he said, turning to that gentleman, “that unconsciously you have been the victim of what I may call a patriotic conspiracy. These stories have had a more serious purpose than merely to amuse. They have been told with the worthy object of detaining you from the House of Commons. I must explain to you, that all through this evening I have had a servant waiting in Trafalgar Square with instructions to bring me word as soon as the light over the House of Commons had ceased to burn. The light is now out, and the object for which we plotted is attained.”

The Baronet glanced keenly at the man with the black pearl, and then quickly at his watch. The smile disappeared from his lips, and his face was set in stern and forbidding lines.

“And may I know,” he asked icily, “what was the object of your plot!”

“A most worthy one,” the other retorted. “Our object was to keep you from advocating the expenditure of many millions of the people’s money upon more battleships. In a word, we have been working together to prevent you from passing the Navy Increase Bill.”

Sir Andrew’s face bloomed with brilliant color. His body shook with suppressed emotion.

“My dear sir!” he cried, “you should spend more time at the House and less at your Club. The Navy Bill was brought up on its third reading at eight o’clock this evening. I spoke for three hours in its favor. My only reason for wishing to return again to the House to-night was to sup on the terrace with my old friend, Admiral Simons; for my work at the House was completed five hours ago, when the Navy Increase Bill was passed by an overwhelming majority.”

The Baronet rose and bowed. “I have to thank you, sir,” he said, “for a most interesting evening.”

The American shoved the wine-card which Joseph had given him toward the gentleman with the black pearl.

“You sign it,” he said.

OFFICER DOWN, by Robert J. Mendenhall

I shift my position and nearly pass out as my bullet-shattered shoulder scrapes against the cold concrete. The stairwell is dark and rancid with the stench of old urine and rotten food. The icy chill intensifies the reek, taunting my boiling stomach. Daring it not to purge.

Each frantic breath slams into the vapor cloud of the one before it. My fingers are hot pokers and so numb I can’t feel the trigger. I look down at the Glock to reassure myself I’m still holding it.

And I don’t know what’s more excruciating—the fire in my shoulder or the thought of my partner, up there in the alley, sprawled flat on his back in a steaming pool of his own blood.

“You out there, Wade? You still alive?”

The deep, sand-paper voice echoes in the cramped alleyway. Where is he? Crouched behind a rusty dumpster? Down another stairwell? Somewhere above me on a fire escape? Or behind one of those grimy windows draped on the inside with sun-bleached newspaper?

“What the hell are you doing, Antoine?” I shout back with a voice so high and tight it can’t be my own. But it is. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why?”

Antoine DeLee is a short, black man in his thirties, but to look at him you would think he’s a decade or more beyond that. He’s a coarse man with pitted skin and Brillo hair. DeLee is a product of the streets, but he isn’t a banger. He’s his own man and runs his own things his own way. And the gangs stay out of his way.

“You got the fuckin’ balls to ask me that? You set me up, motha fucka.”

He punctuates the accusation with three rounds fired so close together they could have come from a full auto. The slugs ricochet off the iron fire escape above me, clanging like church bells. I curl into a tight ball as dirty chips of black paint sprinkle over me.

I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I shriek back, the pain in my shoulder making me light-headed and cotton-mouthed.

“I trusted you, Wade. I fuckin’ trusted you.”

My eyes are watering now as the molten iron in my shoulder seeps down the sinews of my left arm. There’s not a lot of blood. I don’t think there’s an exit would, so the bullet is still inside me. He must be using a forty cal or a nine. If he would have hit me with a forty-five slug, my shoulder would be a stump right now.

My stomach starts to churn. My head swims. I can’t seem to…stay awake…I can’t…

* * * *

“Wake up, Jace,” Mary whispered, shaking me until I rolled over.

“Leave me alone, Mare.”

“Ssssh. Dad’s home and he’s got his new rookie with him. C’mon.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after two. C’mon, let’s go take a look.”

“Forget it, Mare. You take a look. I’m goin’ back ta sleep.”

Mary ripped the blanket off me and padded from my room, her soft giggles the only sound she made. Why she liked to spy on the old man when he brought his trainees home, I never understood. It was a game for her. But she had my blanket so I could either freeze or go after her. I grumbled and slid out of bed.

Mary was in the dark hallway kneeling behind the banister, peering down between the rails. I dropped down next to her, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted up to us. I could see the old man downstairs sitting at the dining room table. His collar was open and the clip of his tie hung through the top button hole. The three silver sergeant stripes on his arms almost glowed against the navy blue uniform shirt. And each time he moved, the dining room light glinted off the badge on his chest. I never got tired of seeing him in his uniform.

Mom walked around him and laid a plate on the table in front of him. She wore that pink robe that felt like a towel. It was tied tight and hung all the way down to her matching slippers. I always said it made her look like a grandma. Her hair was messed up from sleep.

“Thanks, Hon,” the old man said and lifted a sandwich-half to his mouth. Mom patted his shoulders from behind his chair and forced a smile.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something, Roy?” she asked to a part of the table that was out of sight. I could feel Mary tense.

“No, thanks, ma’am,” a voice said. It was a young voice. Older than mine, but way younger than the old man’s. And not very deep. An average voice. I wasn’t impressed. But Mary was. I could tell by the way she pressed her face against the rails.

“Okay. Well, then. You both be safe out there.” She bent over the old man’s shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. She said something into his ear that I couldn’t hear. But I could guess. Mom hated the old man’s job. She hated it the most when he worked overnight. He nodded.

“Night, Tom,” she said.

“Night, Abby,” he said between bites.

I pulled my blanket from Mary and we scrambled back to our rooms as Mom climbed the stairs. I eased the door closed and slipped back into my bed, rolled over, and tried to fall back asleep. But I couldn’t. I stared at the ceiling and strained to hear the muffled conversation from downstairs.

Most of the kids at school thought cops were creeps. Most of the kids at school thought I was a creep because my dad was a cop. But I didn’t care what they thought. I had seen my old man pull a woman out of a burning car. And he wasn’t even on duty. He was a hero. And I wanted to be a hero too. I wanted to be just like him.

I heard a chair slide back on the hardwood floor, then another. I threw the covers back and dropped out of my bed. I was out the door and back at the railing in a second and, no surprise, found Mary already there.

The dining room light went out and we watched them make their way through the hallway. The rookie’s footsteps were heavy, unpracticed. The old man’s were light and sure. The rookie came into the light of the hallway and I heard Mary take in a breath. But I didn’t see him—my focus was on the old man.

The rookie opened the front door and lumbered out. The old man grasped the knob and pulled it behind him as he reached for the hallway light switch. But before he doused the light, he turned. He looked up at us—at me. It was just a nod and a slight smile, but it lit me up even as the hallway light went out.

We knelt there for long, silent minutes, Mary and me. Each of us lost in our own personal thoughts. How long Mom had been behind us, I didn’t know.

“Go to bed now, kids,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She stared at the door for a moment, then turned and disappeared into her empty bedroom.

Mary and I said nothing to each other; we just went back to our own rooms. I climbed underneath my covers and quickly drifted off to sleep, wondering what the old man would be doing all night. And dreaming what it would be like to be there with him.

* * * *

My eyes open slowly, allowing the blackness to dissipate and the fog to dissolve and the bitter wind of consciousness to arouse me.

“…Wade? I said are you fuckin’ dead?”

I don’t answer him. If he thinks I’m dead, he might just…just go away. It’s a ludicrous thought, I know. Maybe he’ll just get the hell out of here and forget about me and Roy. DeLee certainly isn’t worried about someone calling 911. Not in this neighborhood. Not even in broad daylight. They don’t even cry for help when it happens to themselves. They know no one will help. No one will even call for help.

We’re on our own, me and Roy. If he’s still alive.

My legs are numb, deep down into the marrow. And yet, my shoulder is a ball of molten iron, burning and throbbing. Bile teases its way up my throat, but I choke it back down. I smell its acid in my sinuses.

What the hell was DeLee doing here anyway? Dispatch had told us the caller had some information on a drug buy—

Dispatch. Shit—my portable radio. I can call for help.

I shift my weight slowly, not wanting to pop my head over the top of the stairwell. Trying not to make any noise. I set the Glock down on the pavement and reach my good hand under my parka. My Motorola should be on my left hip, clipped to my belt. But—nothing. I feel the belt as far around my waist as I can but only find the back of the clip, broken off and stuck between my belt and pants.

Shit. The portable must have broken loose when I tumbled down the stairs. Shit!

I snatch up the pistol and hold it close to my chest. I screw my eyes shut. I try to get control of my breathing. But I can’t slow it down, and I can’t stop myself from hyperventilating and I feel the apprehension grow and I feel the panic swell and I feel the frenzy and it makes me dizzy and…

and…

* * * *

“…Officer Jason Wade.”

I marched straight across the stage, proud and sharp in my navy-blues. My black, low-quarter shoes were like mirrors and you could cut paper with the creases in my uniform trousers. The silver name plate glistened over my right pocket; the embossed shield—my badge—sparkled over my left. My department tie bar was perfectly centered between the third and fourth buttons of my navy blue uniform shirt, holding the navy tie precisely in place. The polished, silver “PD” pins were angled exactly on my collar points. I was a police academy poster boy.

I stopped three steps in front of the academy commandant and executed a crisp right-face. He held out my diploma. I took it with my left hand and gave him a firm handshake with my right. He said nothing. There wasn’t time. Not with a hundred other cadets behind me waiting for their sheepskins.

I released his grip, snapped a salute so sharp you could hear the rush of air behind it, dropped it clean, pivoted left, and marched Patton-like off stage.

The old man was there in the front row in his class “A” dress uniform, the golden lieutenant bars on his shoulders catching the light and scattering it. I glanced down at him as I passed, heading toward the cadet seating area in the academy auditorium. He said nothing but his eyes told me everything. He was proud of me for following the family tradition. Proud of me for graduating top of my class. Proud of me.

Roy sat next to him in civilian clothes with Mary and their daughter Zoë. He gave me a curt nod. Roy was like a big brother to me. Had been since the old man had been his Field Training Officer. He was a good decade older than me, but for whatever reasons, we had connected.

I winked at Zoë, who giggled and wiggled her pretty little fingers. Mary’s face was blank, her eyes down-cast and disappointed. She didn’t look at me.

Mom, of course, wasn’t there. I hadn’t expected her to come, not with how she felt about the department and law enforcement in general. She remarried last year. No, she wouldn’t come anywhere near here; not even for me. I broke her heart when I declared my major in Criminal Justice. I broke her spirit when I passed all the police applicant tests.

I took my seat as other names were called and looked over at Mary, hoping to catch her glance. She sat in stone silence, her eyes fixed on the foot of the stage, but not really seeing it. She ignored me. Ignored Roy, Even ignored Zoë. Like Mom, Mary had come to despise the job. Mary’s fascination waned as she grew older and saw how the long hours and nights the old man spent away affected Mom. She hated how Mom stayed awake at night, her anxiety barely concealed. Mary hated the old man’s battle with booze. And she hated their arguments. Toward the end, Mary hated the apathy and the coldness and finally, the destruction of our family. The job did that, she was convinced.

And yet, despite all that, Mary had fallen in love with Officer Roy Bauer and had married herself right into the job. Was she angry with me for following our father into the family business? Or herself for being unable to escape from it?

She didn’t look at me.

But Roy did.

And the look on his face puzzled me. His smile was forced, his eyes guarded. He looked…wounded.

And then he looked away.

* * * *

Mary’s face forms in my thoughts and it captures my breath, taming it with its apathy. Controlling it with its disillusionment. Slowing it with its utter sadness.

I feel the sweat on my brow and shiver as it chills in the icy air. The ammonia stench of urine is stronger now and I know from the warmth spreading over my thighs that it’s mine.

My throat is so tight the ache snakes down to my sternum and coils up my brain stem. I can’t think. Why can’t I think? Why am I here sitting in a puddle of my own piss while Roy is up there in a pool of his own bl—

I hear footsteps echoing down the alley. They’re slow and deliberate and heavy. My eyes throb from behind. He’s coming.

He’s coming to kill me…

But why?

DeLee stops. Christ, can he hear my heartbeat? Can he see my breath? Is he above me?

My finger tightens on the trigger and I brace myself.

And then I hear a voice. It’s weak, but it’s Roy. Suddenly my throat is open, my eyes are clear. I see Mary’s face in my thoughts again, still sad, still lost. He’s alive, Mare. And I’m going to bring him home to you.

“L-l-look, Antoine,” Roy says. I’ve never heard him sound so weak. So afraid. Just keep him talking buddy. Keep him distracted. I grit my teeth and shift to a kneeling position, careful to keep my head below the top of the stairwell. “I-i-it’s not what you think…”

“And what the fuck do I think, Bauer? Do I think it was someone else who told the Disciples I was gunnin’ for ’em?”

“Antoine, I don’t know—”

The shot catches me by surprise and I flinch even as Roy cries out.

* * * *

The cork shot from the bottle and spiraled to the floor, a frothy tail of champagne snaking behind it. We laughed and they pushed their flutes into the foam. I poured into as many as I could, but I splashed more out of the glasses than in.

Roy stepped in when the last glass had been topped off and draped his arm over my shoulder. I could smell the hard stuff on his breath.

“A toast,” he said a bit thickly, jerking his glass in the air. “Officer Jason “Kid” Wade…” I winced at the nickname. Only Roy had ever called me Kid. At first it was annoying. Then endearing. Then annoying again. Now—

“No, make that Detective Third Grade Jason Wade. Five years on the job, and already in the Bureau. Took me over ten.” The laughter waned. “But what the hell, he’s proven himself, right?”

No one was laughing now. The silence that followed was long and caked with uneasiness. I had lived under the shadow of my father and his influence since I first hit the street. I was Thomas Wade’s son. The Captain’s boy and I had it dicked. It seemed like I got all the sweet deals. The best beats. The newest squads. The most experienced partners.

Oh, I got all those things, all right. But the truth was that beats were assigned by rotation and the newest squads replaced the oldest ones and I just happened to get lucky with partners. But it certainly seemed like my old man was greasing it for me.

But getting into the Bureau was me, all me. I maxed the detective exam. I aced the orals. My arrest record was right up there and my court conviction rate was in the top percentile. My disciplinary record was spotless. I qualified as Expert on both handguns and assault rifles.

Yes, it was true that I barely had the minimum time-in-service. But for graduating at the top of my academy class I had drawn a Letter of Commendation from One Police Plaza. That, and one Honorable Mention and two Department Commendations in my personnel jacket, had offset my lack of time on the job.

I made the Bureau on my own merits, not because I had a China-man. I made the Bureau on professionalism, not nepotism.

Why couldn’t Roy see that?

I tensed, not knowing what he was going to say next, waiting for the drunken tirade about how he was the better cop but I was the golden boy. Instead, he said nothing. He just stared over my shoulder and I turned to see what he was looking at.

Mary stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, a familiar look on her face. It was the same expression I had seen at my graduation and countless times since. Disappointment and loss. And perhaps a bit of shame? She turned her back on us and angled into the kitchen, out of sight.

Roy took his arm from my shoulder and smiled meekly at the small gathering of friends. “Here’s to you, Kid,” he said. “I hope I make Detective-One before you do.” He chuckled and downed the last of his glass, and we all chuckled back, relieved at the lighter tone.

Roy said nothing to me the rest of the night.

* * * *

“Jesus! Jesus!” Roy screams.

“I’m tellin’ you, Bauer, I’ll shoot you in the other fuckin’ leg. Then I’ll shoot you in each knee. Then each elbow. And I’m gonna keep on shootin’ you until you come clean with me. Why the fuck did you set me up?”

“O-okay. L-l-look, Ant-Antoine. I tried to talk him out of it, but he’s on this trip, man. He wants to get promoted real bad. He wants to make sergeant before me so he can show everyone that his old man wasn’t making him.”

What? What is he saying?

“You tellin’ me that three of my girls are dead and the other six have run off like scared pussies so your partner can get a fuckin’ promotion? You expect me to believe that lame shit?”

“It’s true, man. Wade figured if he set you up with the Disciples, you’d go after them. He figured on a few dead Disciples here and there. He was going to let you do that. Then he figured he could get close to you ’cause you trusted him and…and then he’d take you out. Case closed. Gang war over and he’d be the hero. That’s it, Antoine. I tried to tell him it was a bonehead plan, but he wants those stripes real bad, and he doesn’t want to get them from his old man.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Roy, what are you doing?

“That son of a bitch,” DeLee spits. “I thought he was fuckin’ all right.”

I slide back down to the pavement, my entire body colder from what I had just heard than the winter air. Why would Roy say those things? To save his own skin?

Okay.

Okay. He’s in a desperate situation. He’s got a gun pointed at him, and he’s already been shot. He’s lost a lot of blood and he’s probably thinking he’s about to die.

Okay, so he’s buying time.

Time for me to get my shit together and do my job. He’s blowing smoke up DeLee’s ass to buy me time to take him down. That’s it. I tense and breathe deep.

“Look, Antoine,” Roy says.

That’s it, partner. Keep him focused on you.

“We can make this right. Wade’s dead. We can just make sure they know he set this all up. The Disciples and the department both.”

“We don’t know he’s dead, Bauer.”

“So, go make sure Antoine. If he’s not, then make him dead. Then it’s you and me.”

…Roy?

“The Disciples will leave you alone. I’ll make sure of that. You’ll get your girls back. I’ll get my stripes. They’ll ship me back to uniform for a while and, shit man; we might even be able to work together. You know what I mean?”

There was a little man in my head with a pick-axe, methodically chopping away at everything that was right.

“Why the fuck should I believe you, Bauer? You ain’t never taken any money from me before.”

“I don’t want your money, Antoine. I’m not a dirty cop.”

“You and Wade turned a blind eye on me more than once. That’s why I thought I could trust you.”

“You weren’t running guns and you weren’t dealing drugs, Antoine. As long as you kept it to gambling and girls, we were willing to look the other way. Shit, you kept the gangs out of our beat and we were okay with that.”

I can’t feel the cold anymore. Or the inferno in my shoulder. My chest is an anchor.

“So what changed?”

“Ambition, Antoine. Like I said. Wade wanted that promotion.”

Every word out of his mouth is a razor slashing at my flesh.

“You and me, huh, Bauer?”

“You and me, Antoine.”

And what about Mary, you asshole? And your kids? And my father? And me? And anyone else who ever trusted you?

It was all gone. All sensation. All fear.

“Fuck you, Bauer,” DeLee said.

“No, Antoine, no!”

I bolt up the three cement stairs in two steps and twist toward them, the Glock just a 10 mil extension of my right arm. DeLee is standing over Roy, his own arm extended and a pistol aimed squarely at Roy’s head. Roy’s face is buried beneath his sleeves, as if they could stop the bullets.

I fire once. Twice. A third time. Each round strikes DeLee hard. He staggers and twitches with each impact and finally falls dead to the pavement.

I angle toward them, cautiously and by the numbers, my gun trained on DeLee. My useless left arm is limp at my side. I hear Roy’s gasping beneath his arms. He doesn’t know what’s happened yet. He doesn’t know DeLee is dead. Or that I’m alive.

DeLee’s gun is lying beside his lifeless fingers, but I nudge it away with my boot anyway. The gun grinds along the cement. Roy pulls his arm back and looks up into my face.

“K-kid?”

“Tell me you were just buying me time, Roy. That all that shit you were telling DeLee was just a bunch of crap.”

“Come on, Kid. You know that’s all it was. I knew you were just waiting for the right time to—”

“Why, Roy? You were like a brother to me. And Dad? He was your FTO. He was your mentor.”

Roy’s face hardens. “Yeah, he was. But you were his son. I married his daughter, but do you think he cut me any breaks? Do you think he took care of me like he took care of you? Why the hell did you have to come on the job, anyway?”

“This is all because you’re jealous of me?”

If Roy could have, I’m sure he would have hit me just then. He leans up toward me, his cheeks ablaze with anger. “You prick! I’m so fucking tired of being right behind you. I couldn’t even get away from you in the Bureau. Not only do you make the Dicks, but you get assigned to my fucking squad! How the hell am I ever going to make rank with you around?”

“So you set this up just to get promoted?”

“No. Not this. DeLee set us up with that phony tip. I just wanted to look better than you for a change. I…I hadn’t planned on DeLee catching on. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“The Disciples killed three of his girls, Roy. You’re an accessory to that.”

“I…” Roy turns his head away.

“What am I going to tell Mary?” I ask.

“Wait, Kid. Jason. It can still work out. We can work this out.”

“Work it out.”

“Sure. DeLee is dead so this gang-war thing is over. We can say he set us up. Which he did. We can say he shot us both. Which he did. We can say you killed him saving my ass, which you did. We’re done. We’re both heroes and you can have the promotion. It’s yours, Ki—Jason. I don’t want it. Not now.”

I look at him, at his wounds, and remember my own. I spot my portable radio a few feet away and head toward it. I pick up Roy’s gun from where he must have dropped it when he was first shot, and slide it into the pocket of my parka.

“I’m calling it in. You need the paramedics.” My head starts to feel light again. “We both do.”

“Jason, don’t do this to Mary. Think about how this will affect her. If I go to jail, I’ll lose my pension and she’ll get nothing. Nothing but grief and humiliation. She doesn’t deserve that, Jason. And neither do my kids. Your nieces, man. Your nieces. Think of the girls. Come on. You and me, Kid. You and me.”

I turn back to him. “You and me? You said the same fucking thing to DeLee when you thought I was dead. You think that not taking money means you’re not a dirty cop? You’re worse, Roy. You’re worse.”

I bend down for the portable.

“I’m sorry, Kid.”

I stop, my hand inches from the radio. It’s something in his tone that shoots an electric spark up my spine. I look at him.

It’s ridiculous, but I actually see the bullet leave the chamber. I don’t hear the shot; it’s lost in a long, deep rumble somewhere in the back of my brain. My vision is sharp as a scalpel, and focused on Roy and DeLee’s gun in his hand. I see Roy’s hard, angry eyes over the sights. I see the round gyrate toward my head. And I see Mary’s sad, disappointed face.

He’ll get that promotion after all. He’ll—

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

PEDRO DE ALARÇON (10 March 1833 – 19 July 1891) was a nineteenth century Spanish novelist, noted for the novel El Sombrero de Tres Picos (The Three-Cornered Hat, 1874). The story is an adaptation of a popular tradition and provides a lively picture of village life in Alarcón’s native region of Andalusia. It was the basis for Hugo Wolf’s opera Der Corregidor (1897) and Manuel de Falla’s ballet The Three-Cornered Hat (1919).

ARTHUR J. BURKS began writing in 1920, after being stationed in the Caribbean. Inspired by native voodoo rituals, he penned stories of the supernatural that he sold to the magazine Weird Tales. In 1928 he resigned from the Marine Corps and began writing full-time. He became one of the “million-word-a-year” men in the pulps by virtue of his tremendous output. He wrote in the neighborhood of 800 stories for the pulps, primarily in the genres of aviation, detective, adventure, and weird menace. He wrote several series for the pulps, including the Kid Friel boxing stories in Gangster Stories, and the Dorus Noel undercover-detective stories for All Detective Magazine, set in Manhattan’s Chinatown.

EUSTACE COCKRELL was a pioneer television writer who worked on many early programs, including Have Gun Will Travel, Maverick, and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Before that, he published over 100 short stories in pulp magazines such as Blue Book and Argosy, as well as in “slick” publications like Collier’s, Saturday Evening Post and The American Magazine.

MERIAH L. CRAWFORD is a writer, an assistant professor at Virginia Commonwealth University, and a private investigator. Meriah’s published writing includes short stories about crime, vampires, demons, magic, vengeance, and 1920s conspiracies, as well as a variety of non-fiction work, and a poem about semi-colons. For more information, visit www.mlcrawford.com.

RICHARD HARDING DAVIS (1864 – 1916) was a journalist and writer of fiction and drama, known foremost as the first American war correspondent to cover the Spanish-American War, the Second Boer War, and the First World War. His writing greatly assisted the political career of Theodore Roosevelt and he also played a major role in the evolution of the American magazine. His influence extended to the world of fashion and he is credited with making the clean-shaven look popular among men at the turn of the 20th century.

DAVID DEAN’s short stories have appeared regularly in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, as well as a number of anthologies, since 1990. His stories have been nominated for the Shamus, Barry, and Derringer Awards and “Ibrahim’s Eyes” won the EQMM Readers Award for 2007. His story, “Tomorrow’s Dead”, was a finalist for the Edgar for best short story of 2011. He is a retired Chief of Police in New Jersey and once served as a paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne Division. His groundbreaking horror novel, The Thirteenth Child, is now available through Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo Books.

SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE remains most famous for his Sherlock Holmes detective stories.

R. AUSTIN FREEMAN Richard Austin Freeman (1862 – 1943) was a British writer of detective stories, mostly featuring the medico-legal forensic investigator Dr. Thorndyke. He claimed to have invented the inverted detective story (a crime fiction in which the commission of the crime is described at the beginning, usually including the identity of the perpetrator, with the story then describing the detective’s attempt to solve the mystery). Freeman used some of his early experiences as a colonial surgeon in his novels. Many of his classic novels are in print from Wildside Press.

JACQUES FUTRELLE (1875 – 1912) was an American journalist and mystery writer. He is best known for writing short detective stories featuring Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, also known as “The Thinking Machine” for his application of logic to any and all situations. Futrelle died in the sinking of the RMS Titanic. Many of his best cases are collected in The Classic Tales of Jacques Futrelle, Volume One: The Thinking Machine.

EMILE GABORIAU (1832 – 1873), was a French writer, novelist, and journalist, and a pioneer of modern detective fiction.

ARTHUR GRIFFITHS (1872 – 1922) was an Irish politician and writer, who founded and later led the political party Sinn Féin. He served as President of Dáil Éireann from January to August 1922, and was head of the Irish delegation at the negotiations in London that produced the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921, attending with Michael Collins.

JACK HALLIDAY is a modern author who follows in the hardboiled/noir tradition of crime writing. Wildside Press released his novel Kawanga and his short story collection Swan Song and Other Mystery Stories in 2012. Check them out for more great reads.

DASHIELL HAMMETT (1894 – 1961) was an American author of hard-boiled detective novels and short stories, a screenplay writer, and political activist. Among the enduring characters he created are Sam Spade (The Maltese Falcon), Nick and Nora Charles (The Thin Man), and the Continental Op (Red Harvest and The Dain Curse).

THOMAS W. HANSHEW (1857 – 1914) was an American actor and writer. He went on the stage when only 16 years old, playing minor parts. Later he was associated with a publishing house in London, where he resided at the close of his life. He used, among others, the pen name “Charlotte May Kingsley,” and wrote more than 150 novels, some of which were co-authored with his wife, Mary E. Hanshew.

CJ HENDERSON is the creator of the Jack Hagee hardboiled detective series, both the Teddy London and Piers Knight supernatural investigator series and many more. With 75 books and hundreds upon hundreds of short stories and comics on the shelf, it’s no wonder he’s so well-known. But, what prompted New Mystery Magazine to say “If, as some argue, the hardboiled private eye mystery story is a literary form on a par with the Japanese haiku or the Irish ballad, then Mr. Henderson deserves the mantle of literary master” can only be tied to his remarkable talent. For more of his relentless self-aggrandizement, please feel free to visit him at www.cjhenderson.com.

Milwaukee attorney TED HERTEL. JR., received the Robert L. Fish Edgar Award for “My Bonnie Lies…” He is serving his second term on Mystery Writers of America’s National Board, is a past president of MWA Midwest, reviews for Deadly Pleasures, and has published numerous essays and short stories.

H. BEDFORD-JONES (1887–1949)—born Henry James O’Brien Bedford-Jones—was a Canadian historical, adventure fantasy, science fiction, crime and Western writer who became a naturalized United States citizen in 1908. After being encouraged to try writing by his friend, writer William Wallace Cook, Bedford-Jones began writing dime novels and pulp magazine stories. Bedford-Jones was an enormously prolific writer; the pulp editor Harold Hersey once recalled meeting Bedford-Jones in Paris, where he was working on two novels simultaneously, each story on its own separate typewriter. Bedford-Jones cited Alexandre Dumas as his main influence, and wrote a sequel to Dumas’ The Three Musketeers, D’Artagnan (1928, in print from Wildside Press). He wrote over 100 novels, earning the nickname “King of the Pulps.”

WILLIAM J. MAKIN is best known for his short story “The Doctor’s Secret,” filmed in 1939 as The Return of Doctor X and starring a young Humphrey Bogart. (It was Bogart’s only science fiction film.)

JOHNSTON McCULLEY (1883 – 1958) was the author of hundreds of stories, fifty novels, numerous screenplays for film and television, and the creator of the character Zorro. Many of his novels and stories were written under the pseudonyms Harrington Strong, Raley Brien, George Drayne, Monica Morton, Rowena Raley, Frederic Phelps, alter Pierson, and John Mack Stone, among others.

ROBERT J. MENDENHALL is a retired police officer and currently serves in the Air National Guard. An active member of Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, his fiction has appeared in numerous print and online anthologies. He lives near Chicago with his wife and fellow writer Claire. And many animals.

ARTHUR MORRISON (1863 – 1945) was an English writer and journalist known for his realistic novels and stories about working-class life in London’s East End, and for his detective stories, featuring the detective Martin Hewitt.

VINCENT H. O’NEIL is the Malice Award-winning author of the Frank Cole mystery series released by St. Martin’s Press. He is also the author of the theater-themed mystery Death Troupe and the military science fiction novel Glory Main, published under the name Henry V. O’Neil. Sample chapters, reviews, and links to all his works are available at his website, www.vincenthoneil.com.

CATHERINE LOUISA PIRKIS (1841 – 1910) was a British author. She wrote numerous short stories and 14 novels between 1877 and 1894, and is perhaps best known today for her detective stories featuring Loveday Brooke, appearing in the Ludgate Magazine in 1894. A collection of her short stories, The Experiences of Loveday Brooke, Lady Detective, was released by Wildside Press in 2012.

EDGAR ALLAN POE was an American author, poet, editor and literary critic, considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story and is generally considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre.

VINCENT STARRETT was an American writer and newspaperman. Starrett turned to writing mystery and supernatural fiction for the pulp magazines during the 1920s and 1930s. In 1920, he wrote a Sherlock Holmes pastiche entitled The Adventure of the Unique Hamlet (in print from Wildside Press). This story involved the detective with a missing 1604 edition of Shakespeare’s play, which included an inscription by the playwright. Starrett’s most famous work, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, was published in 1933. He retired from The Chicago Tribune in 1967, where he had written a book column, “Books Alive,” for 25 years. He was one of the founders of The Hounds of the Baskerville (sic), a Chicago chapter of the Baker Street Irregulars.

VICTOR L. WHITECHURCH (1868 – 1933) was a Church of England clergyman and author. He wrote many novels on different themes, but is probably best known for his detective stories featuring Thorpe Hazell. Whitechurch’s stories were admired by Ellery Queen and Dorothy L. Sayers for their “immaculate plotting and factual accuracy: he was one of the first writers to submit his manuscripts to Scotland Yard for vetting as to police procedure.”