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The Eye of Osiris

by R. Austin Freeman · English · Gutenberg #24201 · 558,720 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Eye of Osiris

Author: R. Austin Freeman


        
Release date: January 7, 2008 [eBook #24201]
                Most recently updated: May 29, 2011

Language: English

Original publication: , 1911

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24201

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EYE OF OSIRIS ***




Produced by Al Haines










The Eye of Osiris


A Detective Story by

R. Austin Freeman



FRONT PAGE MYSTERIES

Second Series




P. F. Collier & Son Company - New York




COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

     I. THE VANISHING MAN
    II. THE EAVESDROPPER
   III. JOHN THORNDYKE
    IV. LEGAL COMPLICATIONS AND A JACKAL
     V. THE WATER-CRESS BED
    VI. SIDELIGHTS
   VII. JOHN BELLINGHAM'S WILL
  VIII. A MUSEUM IDYLL
    IX. THE SPHINX OF LINCOLN'S INN
     X. THE NEW ALLIANCE
    XI. THE EVIDENCE REVIEWED
   XII. A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY
  XIII. THE CORONER'S QUEST
   XIV. WHICH CARRIES THE READER INTO THE PROBATE COURT
    XV. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
   XVI. O ARTEMIDORUS, FAREWELL!
  XVII. THE ACCUSING FINGER
 XVIII. JOHN BELLINGHAM
   XIX. A STRANGE SYMPOSIUM
    XX. THE END OF THE CASE




THE EYE OF OSIRIS


CHAPTER I

THE VANISHING MAN

The school of St. Margaret's Hospital was fortunate in its lecturer on
Medical Jurisprudence, or Forensic Medicine, as it is sometimes
described.  At some schools the lecturer on this subject is appointed
apparently for the reason that he lacks the qualifications to lecture
on any other.  But with us it was very different: John Thorndyke was
not only an enthusiast, a man of profound learning and great
reputation, but he was an exceptional teacher, lively and fascinating
in style and of endless resources.  Every remarkable case that had ever
been reported he appeared to have at his fingers' ends; every
fact--chemical, physical, biological, or even historical--that could in
any way be twisted into a medico-legal significance, was pressed into
his service; and his own varied and curious experiences seemed as
inexhaustible as the widow's curse.  One of his favorite devices for
giving life and interest to a rather dry subject was that of analyzing
and commenting upon contemporary cases as reported in the papers
(always, of course, with a due regard to the legal and social
proprieties); and it was in this way that I first became introduced to
the astonishing series of events that was destined to exercise so great
an influence on my own life.

The lecture which had just been concluded had dealt with the rather
unsatisfactory subject of survivorship.  Most of the students had left
the theater, and the remainder had gathered round the lecturer's table
to listen to the informal comments that Dr. Thorndyke was wont to
deliver on these occasions in an easy, conversational manner, leaning
against the edge of the table and apparently addressing his remarks to
a stick of blackboard chalk that he held in his fingers.

"The problem of survivorship," he was saying, in reply to a question
put by one of the students, "ordinarily occurs in cases where the
bodies of the parties are producible, or where, at any rate, the
occurrence of death and its approximate time are actually known.  But
an analogous difficulty may arise in a case where the body of one of
the parties is not forthcoming, and the fact of death may have to be
assumed on collateral evidence.

"Here, of course, the vital question to be settled is, what is the
latest instant at which it is certain that this person was alive?  And
the settlement of that question may turn on some circumstance of the
most trivial and insignificant kind.  There is a case in this morning's
paper which illustrates this.  A gentleman has disappeared rather
mysteriously.  He was last seen by the servant of a relative at whose
house he had called.  Now, if this gentleman should never reappear,
dead or alive, the question as to what was the latest moment at which
he was certainly alive will turn upon the further question: 'Was he or
was he not wearing a particular article of jewelry when he called at
the relative's house?'"

He paused with a reflective eye bent upon the stump of chalk he still
held; then, noting the expectant interest with which we were regarding
him, he resumed:

"The circumstances in this case are very curious; in fact, they are
highly mysterious; and if any legal issues should arise in respect of
them, they are likely to yield some very remarkable complications.  The
gentleman who has disappeared, Mr. John Bellingham, is a man well known
in archeological circles.  He recently returned from Egypt, bringing
with him a very fine collection of antiquities--some of which, by the
way, he has presented to the British Museum, where they are now on
view--and having made this presentation, he appears to have gone to
Paris on business.  I may mention that the gift consisted of a very
fine mummy and a complete set of tomb-furniture.  The latter, however,
had not arrived from Egypt at the time when the missing man left for
Paris, but the mummy was inspected on the fourteenth of October at Mr.
Bellingham's house by Dr. Norbury of the British Museum, in the
presence of the donor and his solicitor, and the latter was authorized
to hand over the complete collection to the British Museum authorities
when the tomb-furniture arrived; which he has since done.

"From Paris he seems to have returned on the twenty-third of November,
and to have gone direct to Charing Cross to the house of a relative, a
Mr. Hurst, who is a bachelor and lives at Eltham.  He appeared at the
house at twenty minutes past five, and as Mr. Hurst had not yet come
down from town and was not expected until a quarter to six, he
explained who he was and said he would wait in the study and write some
letters.  The housemaid accordingly showed him into the study,
furnished him with writing materials, and left him.

"At a quarter to six Mr. Hurst let himself in with his latchkey, and
before the housemaid had time to speak to him he had passed through
into the study and shut the door.

"At six o'clock, when the dinner bell was rung, Mr. Hurst entered the
dining-room alone, and observing that the table was laid for two, asked
the reason.

"'I thought Mr. Bellingham was staying to dinner, sir,' was the
housemaid's reply.

"'Mr. Bellingham!' exclaimed the astonished host.  'I didn't know he
was here.  Why was I not told?'

"'I thought he was in the study with you, sir,' said the housemaid.

"On this a search was made for the visitor, with the result that he was
nowhere to be found.  He had disappeared without leaving a trace, and
what made the incident more odd was that the housemaid was certain that
he had not gone out by the front door.  For since neither she nor the
cook was acquainted with Mr. John Bellingham, she had remained the
whole time either in the kitchen, which commanded a view of the front
gate, or in the dining-room, which opened into the hall opposite the
study door.  The study itself has a French window opening on a narrow
grass plot, across which is a side-gate that opens into an alley; and
it appears that Mr. Bellingham must have made his exit by this rather
eccentric route.  At any rate--and this is the important fact--he was
not in the house, and no one had seen him leave it.

"After a hasty meal Mr. Hurst returned to town and called at the office
of Mr. Bellingham's solicitor and confidential agent, a Mr. Jellicoe,
and mentioned the matter to him.  Mr. Jellicoe knew nothing of his
client's return from Paris, and the two men at once took the train down
to Woodford, where the missing man's brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham,
lives.  The servant who admitted them said that Mr. Godfrey was not at
home, but that his daughter was in the library, which is a detached
building situated in a shrubbery beyond the garden at the back of the
house.  Here the two men found, not only Miss Bellingham, but also her
father, who had come in by the back gate.

"Mr. Godfrey and his daughter listened to Mr. Hurst's story with the
greatest surprise, and assured him that they had neither seen nor heard
anything of John Bellingham.

"Presently the party left the library to walk up to the house; but only
a few feet from the library door Mr. Jellicoe noticed an object lying
in the grass and pointed it out to Mr. Godfrey.

"The latter picked it up, and they all recognized it as a scarab which
Mr. John Bellingham had been accustomed to wear suspended from his
watch-chain.  There was no mistaking it.  It was a very fine scarab of
the eighteenth dynasty fashioned of lapis lazuli and engraved with the
cartouche of Amenhotep III.  It had been suspended by a gold ring
fastened to a wire which passed through the suspension hole, and the
ring, though broken, was still in position.

"This discovery of course only added to the mystery, which was still
further increased when, on inquiry, a suit-case bearing the initials J.
B. was found to be unclaimed in the cloak-room at Charing Cross.
Reference to the counterfoil of the ticket-book showed that it had been
deposited about the time of the arrival of the Continental express on
the twenty-third of November, so that its owner must have gone straight
on to Eltham.

"That is how the affair stands at present, and, should the missing man
never reappear or should his body never be found, the question, as you
see, which will be required to be settled is, 'What is the exact time
and place, when and where, he was last known to be alive!'  As to the
place, the importance of the issues involved in that question is
obvious and we need not consider it.  But the question of time has
another kind of significance.  Cases have occurred, as I pointed out in
the lecture, in which proof of survivorship by less than a minute has
secured succession to property.  Now, the missing man was last seen
alive at Mr. Hurst's house at twenty minutes past five on the
twenty-third of November.  But he appears to have visited his brother's
house at Woodford, and, since nobody saw him at that house, it is at
present uncertain whether he went there before calling on Mr. Hurst.
If he went there first, then twenty minutes past five on the evening of
the twenty-third is the latest moment at which he is known to have been
alive; but if he went there after, there would have to be added to this
time the shortest time possible in which he could travel from the one
house to the other.

"But the question as to which house he visited first hinges on the
scarab.  If he was wearing the scarab when he arrived at Mr. Hurst's
house, it would be certain that he went there first; but if it was not
then on his watch-chain, a probability would be established that he
went first to Woodford.  Thus, you see, a question which may
conceivably become of the most vital moment in determining the
succession of property turns on the observation or non-observation by
this housemaid of an apparently trivial and insignificant fact."

"Has the servant made any statement on this subject, sir?" I ventured
to inquire.

"Apparently not," replied Dr. Thorndyke; "at any rate, there is no
reference to any such statement in the newspaper report, though
otherwise, the case is reported in great detail; indeed, the wealth of
detail, including plans of the two houses, is quite remarkable and well
worth noting as being in itself a fact of considerable interest."

"In what respect, sir, is it of interest?" one of the students asked.

"Ah," replied Dr. Thorndyke, "I think I must leave you to consider that
question yourself.  This is an untried case, and we mustn't make free
with the actions and motives of individuals."

"Does the paper give any description of the missing man, sir?" I asked.

"Yes; quite an exhaustive description.  Indeed, it is exhaustive to the
verge of impropriety, considering that the man may turn up alive and
well at any moment.  It seems that he has an old Pott's fracture of the
left ankle, a linear, longitudinal scar on each knee--origin not
stated, but easily guessed at--and that he has tattooed on his chest in
vermilion a very finely and distinctly executed representation of the
symbolical Eye of Osiris--or Horus or Ra, as the different authorities
have it.  There certainly ought to be no difficulty in identifying the
body.  But we hope that it will not come to that.

"And now I must really be running away, and so must you; but I would
advise you all to get copies of the paper and file them when you have
read the remarkably full details.  It is a most curious case, and it is
highly probable that we shall hear of it again.  Good afternoon,
gentlemen."

Dr. Thorndyke's advice appealed to all who heard it, for medical
jurisprudence was a live subject at St. Margaret's, and all of us were
keenly interested in it.  As a result, we sallied forth in a body to
the nearest news-vendor's, and, having each provided himself with a
copy of the _Daily Telegraph_, adjourned together to the Common room to
devour the report and thereafter to discuss the bearings of the case,
unhampered by those considerations of delicacy that afflicted our more
squeamish and scrupulous teacher.




CHAPTER II

THE EAVESDROPPER

It is one of the canons of correct conduct, scrupulously adhered to
(when convenient) by all well-bred persons, that an acquaintance should
be initiated by a proper introduction.  To this salutary rule, which I
have disregarded to the extent of an entire chapter, I now hasten to
conform; and the more so inasmuch as nearly two years have passed since
my first informal appearance.

Permit me then, to introduce Paul Berkeley, M.B., etc., recently--very
recently--qualified, faultlessly attired in the professional frock-coat
and tall hat, and, at the moment of introduction, navigating with
anxious care a perilous strait between a row of well-filled coal-sacks
and a colossal tray piled high with kidney potatoes.

The passage of this strait landed me on the terra firma of Fleur-de-Lys
Court, where I halted for a moment to consult my visiting list.  There
was only one more patient for me to see this morning, and he lived at
49, Nevill's Court, wherever that might be.  I turned for information
to the presiding deity of the coal shop.

"Can you direct me, Mrs. Jablett, to Nevill's Court?"

She could and she did, grasping me confidentially by the arm (the mark
remained on my sleeve for weeks) and pointing a shaking forefinger at
the dead wall ahead.  "Nevill's Court," said Mrs. Jablett, "is a alley,
and you goes into it through a archway.  It turns out on Fetter Lane on
the right 'and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings."

I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning round
was nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite and of
a desire to wash in hot water.

The practice which I was conducting was not my own.  It belonged to
poor Dick Barnard, an old St. Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits
and indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for a
trip down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the currant
trade; and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyage
of geographical discovery.

I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow arched opening,
bearing the superscription "Nevill's Court," arrested my steps, and
here I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait for
the traveler in London by-ways.  Expecting to find the gray squalor of
the ordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of the
arch past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of light
and color--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved by
sunlit foliage.  In the heart of London a tree is always a delightful
surprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers.
The narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their
wooden palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint
and sober rusticity; and even as I entered, a bevy of workgirls, with
gaily-colored blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened up
the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summer
hedgerow.

In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved with
what looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found to
be old-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I was
meditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who had
thus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps or an author, or
perchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seeking
inscribed on a shabby door in a high wall.  There was no bell or
knocker, so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door open and entered.

But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a positive
wonder, a dream.  Here, within earshot of the rumble of Fleet Street, I
was in an old-fashioned garden enclosed by high walls and, now that the
gate was shut, cut off from all sight and knowledge of the urban world
that seethed without.  I stood and gazed in delighted astonishment.
Sun-gilded trees and flower beds gay with blossom; lupins, snapdragons,
nasturtiums, spiry foxgloves, and mighty hollyhocks formed the
foreground; over which a pair of sulphur-tinted butterflies flitted,
unmindful of a buxom and miraculously clean white cat which pursued
them, dancing across the borders and clapping her snowy paws
fruitlessly in mid-air.  And the background was no less wonderful; a
grand old house, dark-eaved and venerable, that must have looked down
on this garden when ruffled dandies were borne in sedan chairs through
the court, and gentle Izaak Walton, stealing forth from his shop in
Fleet Street, strolled up Fetter Lane to "go a-angling" at Temple Mills.

So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that my hand was on the
bottom knob of a row of bell-pulls before I recollected myself; and it
was not until a most infernal jangling from within recalled me to my
business that I observed underneath it a small brass plate inscribed
"Miss Oman."

The door opened with some suddenness and a short, middle-aged woman
surveyed me hungrily.

"Have I rung the wrong bell?" I asked--foolishly enough, I must admit.

"How can I tell?" she demanded.  "I expect you have.  It's the sort of
thing a man would do--ring the wrong bell and then say he's sorry."

"I didn't go as far as that," I retorted.  "It seems to have had the
desired effect, and I've made your acquaintance into the bargain."

"Whom do you want to see?" she asked.

"Mr. Bellingham."

"Are you the doctor?"

"I'm _a_ doctor."

"Follow me upstairs," said Miss Oman, "and don't tread on the paint."

I crossed the spacious hall, and preceded by my conductress, ascended a
noble oak staircase, treading carefully on a ribbon of matting that ran
up the middle.  On the first-floor landing Miss Oman opened a door and,
pointing to the room, said, "Go in there and wait; I'll tell her you're
here."

"I said _Mr._ Bellingham--" I began; but the door slammed on me, and
Miss Oman's footsteps retreated rapidly down the stairs.

It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very awkward position.
The room into which I had been shown communicated with another, and
though the door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly aware of
a conversation that was taking place in the adjoining room.  At first,
indeed, only a vague mutter, with a few disjointed phrases, came
through the door, but suddenly an angry voice rang out clear and
painfully distinct.

"Yes, I did!  And I say it again.  Bribery!  Collusion!  That's what it
amounts to.  You want to square me!"

"Nothing of the kind, Godfrey," was the reply in a lower tone; but at
this point I coughed emphatically and moved a chair, and the voices
subsided once more into an indistinct murmur.

To distract my attention from my unseen neighbors I glanced curiously
about the room and speculated upon the personalities of its occupants.
A very curious room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayed
splendor and old-world dignity; a room full of interest and character
and of contrasts and perplexing contradictions.  For the most part it
spoke of unmistakable though decent poverty.  It was nearly bare of
furniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest--a small
kitchen table and three Windsor chairs (two of them with arms); a
threadbare string carpet on the floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on the
table; these, with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed of
grocer's boxes, formed the entire suite.  And yet, despite its poverty,
the place exhaled an air of homely if rather ascetic comfort, and the
taste was irreproachable.  The quiet russet of the table-cloth struck a
pleasant harmony with the subdued bluish green of the worn carpet; the
Windsor chairs and the legs of the table had been carefully denuded of
their glaring varnish and stained a sober brown: and the austerity of
the whole was relieved by a ginger jar filled with fresh-cut flowers
and set in the middle of the table.

But the contrasts of which I have spoken were most singular and
puzzling.  There were the bookshelves, for instance, home made and
stained at the cost of a few pence, but filled with recent and costly
new works on archeology and ancient art.  There were the objects on the
mantelpiece: a facsimile in bronze--not bronze plaster--of the
beautiful head of Hypnos and a pair of fine Ushabti figures.  There
were the decorations of the walls, a number of etchings--signed proofs,
every one of them--of Oriental subjects, and a splendid facsimile
reproduction of an Egyptian papyrus.  It was incongruous in the
extreme, this mingling of costly refinements with the barest and
shabbiest necessaries of life, of fastidious culture with manifest
poverty.  I could make nothing of it.  What manner of man, I wondered,
was this new patient of mine?  Was he a miser, hiding himself and his
wealth in this obscure court?  An eccentric savant?  A philosopher?
Or--more probably--a crank?  But at this point my meditations were
interrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, once more raised in
anger.

"But I say that you _are_ making an accusation!  You are implying that
I made away with him."

"Not at all," was the reply; "but I repeat that it is your business to
ascertain what has become of him.  The responsibility rests upon you."

"Upon me!" rejoined the first voice.  "And what about you?  Your
position is a pretty fishy one if it comes to that."

"What!" roared the other.  "Do you insinuate that I murdered my own
brother?"

During this amazing colloquy I had stood gaping with sheer
astonishment.  Suddenly I recollected myself, and dropping into a
chair, set my elbows on my knees and clapped my hands over my ears; and
thus I must have remained for a full minute when I became aware of the
closing of a door behind me.

I sprang to my feet and turned in some embarrassment (for I must have
looked unspeakably ridiculous) to confront the somber figure of a
rather tall and strikingly handsome girl, who, as she stood with her
hand on the knob of the door, saluted me with a formal bow.  In an
instantaneous glance I noted how perfectly she matched her strange
surroundings.  Black-robed, black-haired, with black-gray eyes and a
grave sad face of ivory pallor, she stood, like one of old Terborch's
portraits, a harmony in tones so low as to be but one step removed from
monochrome.  Obviously a lady in spite of the worn and rusty dress, and
something in the poise of the head and the set of the straight brows
hinted at a spirit that adversity had hardened rather than broken.

"I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting," she said; and
as she spoke a certain softening at the corners of the austere mouth
reminded me of the absurd position in which she had found me.

I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence whatever; that
I had, in fact, been rather glad of the rest; and I was beginning
somewhat vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the voice
from the adjoining room again broke forth with hideous distinctness.

"I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind!  Why, confound you, it's
nothing less than a conspiracy that your [Transcriber's note: you're?]
proposing!"

Miss Bellingham--as I assumed her to be--stepped quickly across the
floor, flushing angrily, as well she might; but, as she reached the
door, it flew open and a small, spruce, middle-aged man burst into the
room.

"Your father is mad, Ruth!" he exclaimed; "absolutely stark mad!  And I
refuse to hold any further communication with him."

"The present interview was not of his seeking," Miss Bellingham replied
coldly.

"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it was my mistaken
generosity.  But there--what is the use of talking?  I've done my best
for you and I'll do no more.  Don't trouble to let me out; I can find
my way.  Good-morning."  With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, the
speaker strode out of the room, banging the door after him.

"I must apologize for this extraordinary reception," said Miss
Bellingham; "but I believe medical men are not easily astonished.  I
will introduce you to your patient now."  She opened the door and, as I
followed her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is another
visitor for you, dear.  Doctor----"

"Berkeley," said I.  "I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard."

The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped up
in bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand,
which I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.

"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Bellingham.  "I hope Doctor Barnard is
not ill."

"Oh, no," I answered; "he has gone for a trip down the Mediterranean on
a currant ship.  The chance occurred rather suddenly, and I bustled him
off before he had time to change his mind.  Hence my rather
unceremonious appearance, which I hope you will forgive."

"Not at all," was the hearty response.  "I'm delighted to hear that you
sent him off; he wanted a holiday, poor man.  And I am delighted to
make your acquaintance, too."

"It is very good of you," I said; whereupon he bowed as gracefully as a
man may who is propped up in bed with a heap of pillows; and having
thus exchanged broadsides of civility, so to speak, we--or, at least,
I--proceeded to business.

"How long have you been laid up?" I asked cautiously, not wishing to
make too evident the fact that my principal had given me no information
respecting his case.

"A week to-day," he replied.  "The _fons et origo mali_ was a
hansom-cab which upset me opposite the Law Courts--sent me sprawling in
the middle of the road.  My own fault, of course--at least, the cabby
said so, and I suppose he knew.  But that was no consolation to me."

"Were you hurt much?"

"No, not really; but the fall bruised my knee rather badly and gave me
a deuce of a shake up.  I'm too old for that sort of thing, you know."

"Most people are," said I.

"True; but you can take a cropper more gracefully at twenty than at
fifty-five.  However, the knee is getting on quite well--you shall see
it presently--and you observe that I am giving it complete rest.  But
that isn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it.  It's my
confounded nerves.  I'm as irritable as the devil and as nervous as a
cat.  And I can't get a decent night's rest."

I recalled the tremulous hand that he had offered me.  He did not look
like a drinker, but still----

"Do you smoke much?" I inquired diplomatically.

He looked at me slyly and chuckled.  "That's a very delicate way to
approach the subject, Doctor," he said.  "No, I don't smoke much, and I
don't crook my little finger.  I saw you look at my shaky hand just
now--oh, it's all right; I'm not offended.  It's a doctor's business to
keep his eyelids lifting.  But my hand is steady enough as a rule, when
I'm not upset, but the least excitement sets me shaking like a jelly.
And the fact is that I have just had a deucedly unpleasant
interview----"

"I think," Miss Bellingham interrupted, "Doctor Berkeley and, indeed,
the neighborhood at large, are aware of the fact."

Mr. Bellingham laughed rather shamefacedly.  "I'm afraid I did lose my
temper," he said; "but I am an impulsive old fellow, Doctor, and when
I'm put out I'm apt to speak my mind--a little too bluntly perhaps."

"And audibly," his daughter added.  "Do you know that Doctor Berkeley
was reduced to the necessity of stopping his ears?"  She glanced at me
as she spoke, with something like a twinkle in her solemn gray eyes.

"Did I shout?" Mr. Bellingham asked, not very contritely, I thought,
though he added: "I'm very sorry, my dear; but it won't happen again.
I think we've seen the last of that good gentleman."

"I am sure I hope so," she rejoined, adding: "And now I will leave you
to your talk; I shall be in the next room if you should want me."

I opened the door for her, and when she had passed out with a stiff
little bow I seated myself by the bedside and resumed the consultation.
It was evidently a case of nervous breakdown, to which the cab accident
had, no doubt, contributed.  As to the other antecedents, they were of
no concern of mine, though Mr. Bellingham seemed to think otherwise,
for he resumed: "That cab business was the last straw, you know, and it
finished me off, but I have been going down the hill for a long time.
I've had a lot of trouble during the last two years.  But I suppose I
oughtn't to pester you with the details of my personal affairs."

"Anything that bears on your present state of health is of interest to
me if you don't mind telling it," I said.

"Mind!" he exclaimed.  "Did you ever meet an invalid who didn't enjoy
talking about his own health?  It's the listener who minds, as a rule."

"Well, the present listener doesn't," I said.

"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "I'll treat myself to the luxury of
telling you all my troubles; I don't often get the chance of a
confidential grumble to a responsible man of my own class.  And I
really have some excuses for railing at Fortune, as you will agree when
I tell you that, a couple of years ago, I went to bed one night a
gentleman of independent means and excellent prospects and woke up in
the morning to find myself practically a beggar.  Not a cheerful
experience that, you know, at my time of life, eh?"

"No," I agreed, "nor at any other."

"And that was not all," he continued; "for at the same moment I lost my
brother, my dearest, kindest friend.  He disappeared--vanished off the
face of the earth; but perhaps you have heard of the affair.  The
confounded papers were full of it at the time."

He paused abruptly, noticing, no doubt, a sudden change in my face.  Of
course I recollected the case now.  Indeed, ever since I had entered
the house some chord of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now his
last words had struck out the full note.

"Yes," I said, "I remember the incident, though I don't suppose I
should but for the fact that our lecturer on medical jurisprudence drew
my attention to it."

"Indeed," said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as I fancied.  "What
did he say about it?"

"He referred to it as a case that was calculated to give rise to some
very pretty legal complications."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Bellingham, "that man was a prophet!  Legal
complications, indeed!  But I'll be bound he never guessed at the sort
of infernal tangle that has actually gathered round the affair.  By the
way, what was his name?"

"Thorndyke," I replied.  "Doctor John Thorndyke."

"Thorndyke," Mr. Bellingham repeated in a musing, retrospective tone.
"I seem to remember the name.  Yes, of course.  I have heard a legal
friend of mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the case
of a man whom I knew slightly years ago--a certain Jeffrey Blackmore,
who also disappeared very mysteriously.  I remember now that Dr.
Thorndyke unraveled that case with most remarkable ingenuity."

"I daresay he would be very much interested to hear about your case," I
suggested.

"I daresay he would," was the reply; "but one can't take up a
professional man's time for nothing, and I couldn't afford to pay him.
And that reminds me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping about
purely personal affairs."

"My morning round is finished," said I, "and, moreover, your personal
affairs are highly interesting.  I suppose I mustn't ask what is the
nature of the legal entanglement?"

"Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day and
go home a raving lunatic.  But I'll tell you this much: the trouble is
about my poor brother's will.  In the first place it can't be
administered because there is not sufficient evidence that my brother
is dead; and in the second place, if it could, all the property would
go to people who were never intended to benefit.  The will itself is
the most diabolically exasperating document that was ever produced by
the perverted ingenuity of a wrongheaded man.  That's all.  Will you
have a look at my knee?"

As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a rapid _crescendo_ and
ending almost in a shout) had left him purple-faced and trembling, I
thought it best to bring our talk to an end.  Accordingly I proceeded
to inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and to overhaul
my patient generally; and having given him detailed instructions as to
his general conduct, I rose and took my leave.

"And remember," I said as I shook his hand, "No tobacco, no coffee, no
excitement of any kind.  Lead a quiet, bovine life."

"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but supposing people come here
and excite me?"

"Disregard them," said I, "and read _Whitaker's Almanack_."  And with
this parting advice I passed out into the other room.

Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile of blue-covered
notebooks before her, two of which were open, displaying pages closely
written in a small, neat handwriting.  She rose as I entered and looked
at me inquiringly.

"I heard you advising my father to read _Whitaker's Almanack_," she
said.  "Was that a curative measure?"

"Entirely," I replied.  "I recommended it for its medicinal virtues, as
an antidote to mental excitement."

She smiled faintly.  "It certainly is not a highly emotional book," she
said, and then asked: "Have you any other instructions to give?"

"Well, I might give the conventional advice--to maintain a cheerful
outlook and avoid worry; but I don't suppose you would find it very
helpful."

"No," she answered bitterly; "it is a counsel of perfection.  People in
our position are not a very cheerful class, I'm afraid; but still they
don't seek out worries from sheer perverseness.  The worries come
unsought.  But, of course, you can't enter into that."

"I can't give any practical help, I fear, though I do sincerely hope
that you father's affairs will straighten themselves out soon."

She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied me down to the street
door, where, with a bow and a rather stiff handshake, she gave me my
_conge_.

Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on my ears as I came
out through the archway, and very squalid and unrestful the little
street looked when contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet of
the old garden.  As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and walls
made hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards in sham gilt frames, its
aspect was so revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction,
and was still busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy,
Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.




CHAPTER III

JOHN THORNDYKE

That the character of an individual tends to be reflected in his dress is
a fact familiar to the least observant.  That the observation is equally
applicable to aggregates of men is less familiar, but equally true.  Do
not the members of fighting professions, even to this day, deck
themselves in feathers, in gaudy colors and gilded ornaments, after the
manner of the African war-chief or the Redskin "brave," and thereby
indicate the place of war in modern civilization?  Does not the Church of
Rome send her priests to the altar in habiliments that were fashionable
before the fall of the Roman Empire, in token of her immovable
conservatism?  And, lastly, does not the Law, lumbering on in the wake of
progress, symbolize its subjection to precedent by head-gear reminiscent
of the good days of Queen Anne?

I should apologize for intruding upon the reader these somewhat trite
reflections; which were set going by the quaint stock-in-trade of the
wig-maker's shop in the cloisters of the Inner Temple, whither I strayed
on a sultry afternoon in quest of shade and quiet.  I had halted opposite
the little shop window, and, with my eyes bent dreamily on the row of
wigs, was pursuing the above train of thought when I was startled by a
deep voice saying softly in my ear: "I'd have the full-bottomed one if I
were you."

I turned swiftly and rather fiercely, and looked into the face of my old
friend and fellow student, Jervis; behind whom, regarding us with a
sedate smile, stood my former teacher, Dr. John Thorndyke.  Both men
greeted me with a warmth that I felt to be very flattering, for Thorndyke
was quite a great personage, and even Jervis was several years my
academic senior.

"You are coming in to have a cup of tea with us, I hope," said Thorndyke;
and as I assented gladly, he took my arm and led me across the court in
the direction of the Treasury.

"But why that hungry gaze at those forensic vanities, Berkeley?" he
asked.  "Are you thinking of following my example and Jervis's--deserting
the bedside for the Bar?"

"What!  Has Jervis gone in for the law?" I exclaimed.

"Bless you, yes!" replied Jervis.  "I have become parasitical on
Thorndyke!  'The big fleas have little fleas,' you know.  I am the
additional fraction trailing after the whole number in the rear of a
decimal point."

"Don't you believe him, Berkeley," interposed Thorndyke.  "He is the
brains of the firm.  I supply the respectability and moral worth.  But
you haven't answered my question.  What are you doing here on a summer
afternoon staring into a wig-maker's window?"

"I am Barnard's locum; he is in practise in Fetter Lane."

"I know," said Thorndyke; "we meet him occasionally, and very pale and
peaky he has been looking of late.  Is he taking a holiday?"

"Yes.  He has gone for a trip to the Isles of Greece in a currant ship."

"Then," said Jervis, "you are actually a local G.P.  I thought you were
looking beastly respectable."

"And judging from your leisured manner when we encountered you," added
Thorndyke, "the practise is not a strenuous one.  I suppose it is
entirely local?"

"Yes," I replied.  "The patients mostly live in the small streets and
courts within a half-mile radius of the surgery, and the abodes of some
of them are pretty squalid.  Oh! and that reminds me of a very strange
coincidence.  It will interest you, I think."

"Life is made up of strange coincidences," said Thorndyke.  "Nobody but a
reviewer of novels is ever really surprised at a coincidence.  But what
is yours?"

"It is connected with a case that you mentioned to us at the hospital
about two years ago, the case of a man who disappeared under rather
mysterious circumstances.  Do you remember it?  The man's name was
Bellingham."

"The Egyptologist?  Yes, I remember the case quite well.  What about it?"

"The brother is a patient of mine.  He is living in Nevill's Court with
his daughter, and they seem to be as poor as church mice."

"Really," said Thorndyke, "this is quite interesting.  They must have
come down in the world rather suddenly.  If I remember rightly, the
brother was living in a house of some pretentions standing in its own
grounds."

"Yes, that is so.  I see you recollect all about the case."

"My dear fellow," said Jervis, "Thorndyke never forgets a likely case.
He is a sort of medico-legal camel.  He gulps down the raw facts from the
newspapers or elsewhere, and then, in his leisure moments, he calmly
regurgitates them and has a quiet chew at them.  It is a quaint habit.  A
case crops up in the papers or in one of the courts, and Thorndyke
swallows it whole.  Then it lapses and every one forgets it.  A year or
two later it crops up in a new form, and, to your astonishment, you find
that Thorndyke has got it all cut and dried.  He has been ruminating on
it periodically in the interval.

"You notice," said Thorndyke, "that my learned friend is pleased to
indulge in mixed metaphors.  But his statement is substantially true,
though obscurely worded.  You must tell us more about the Bellinghams
when we have fortified you with a cup of tea."

Our talk had brought us to Thorndyke's chambers, which were on the first
floor of No. 5A, King's Bench Walk, and as we entered the fine, spacious,
paneled room we found a small, elderly man, neatly dressed in black,
setting out the tea-service on the table.  I glanced at him with some
curiosity.  He hardly looked like a servant, in spite of his neat, black
clothes; in fact, his appearance was rather puzzling, for while his quiet
dignity and his serious intelligent face suggested some kind of
professional man, his neat, capable hands were those of a skilled
mechanic.

Thorndyke surveyed the tea-tray thoughtfully and then looked at his
retainer.  "I see you have put three teacups, Polton," he said.  "Now,
how did you know I was bringing some one in to tea?"

The little man smiled a quaint, crinkly smile of gratification as he
explained:

"I happened to look out of the laboratory window as you turned the
corner, sir."

"How disappointingly simple," said Jervis.  "We were hoping for something
abstruse and telepathic."

"Simplicity is the soul of efficiency, sir," replied Polton as he checked
the tea-service to make sure that nothing was forgotten, and with this
remarkable aphorism he silently evaporated.

"To return to the Bellingham case," said Thorndyke, when he had poured
out the tea.  "Have you picked up any facts relating to the parties--and
facts, I mean, of course, that it would be proper for you to mention?"

"I have learned one or two things that there is no harm in repeating.
For instance, I gather that Godfrey Bellingham--my patient--lost all his
property quite suddenly about the time of the disappearance."

"That is really odd," said Thorndyke.  "The opposite condition would be
quite understandable, but one doesn't see exactly how this can have
happened, unless there was an allowance of some sort."

"No, that was what struck me.  But there seem to be some queer features
in the case, and the legal position is evidently getting complicated.
There is a will, for example, which is giving trouble."

"They will hardly be able to administer the will without either proof or
presumption of death," Thorndyke remarked.

"Exactly.  That's one of the difficulties.  Another is that there seems
to be some fatal defect in the drafting of the will itself.  I don't know
what it is, but I expect I shall hear sooner or later.  By the way, I
mentioned the interest that you have taken in the case, and I think
Bellingham would have liked to consult you, but, of course, the poor devil
has no money."

"That is awkward for him if the other interested parties have.  There
will probably be legal proceedings of some kind, and as the law takes no
account of poverty, he is likely to go to the wall.  He ought to have
advice of some sort."

"I don't see how he is to get it," said I.

"Neither do I," Thorndyke admitted.  "There are no hospitals for
impecunious litigants; it is assumed that only persons of means have a
right to go to law.  Of course, if we knew the man and the circumstances
we might be able to help him; but for all we know to the contrary, he may
be an arrant scoundrel."

I had recalled the strange conversation that I had overheard, and
wondered what Thorndyke would have thought of it if it had been allowable
for me to repeat it.  Obviously it was not, however, and I could only
give my own impressions.

"He doesn't strike me as that," I said; "but of course, one never knows.
Personally, he impressed me rather favorably, which is more than the
other man did."

"What other man?" asked Thorndyke.

"There was another man in the case, wasn't there?  I forget his name.  I
saw him at the house and didn't much like the look of him.  I suspect
he's putting some sort of pressure on Bellingham."

"Berkeley knows more about this than he's telling us," said Jervis.  "Let
us look up the report and see who this stranger is."  He took down from a
shelf a large volume of newspaper cuttings and laid it on the table.

"You see," said he, as he ran his finger down the index.  "Thorndyke
files all the cases that are likely to come to something, and I know he
had expectations regarding this one.  I fancy he had some ghoulish hope
that the missing gentleman's head might turn up in somebody's dust-bin.
Here we are; the other man's name is Hurst.  He is apparently a cousin,
and it was at his house the missing man was last seen alive."

"So you think Mr. Hurst is moving in the matter?" said Thorndyke, when he
had glanced over the report.

"That is my impression," I replied, "though I really know nothing about
it."

"Well," said Thorndyke, "if you should learn what is being done and
should have permission to speak of it, I shall be very interested to hear
how the case progresses and if an unofficial opinion on any point would
be of service, I think there would be no harm in giving it."

"It would certainly be of great value if the other parties are taking
professional advice," I said; and then, after a pause, I asked: "Have you
given this case much consideration?"

Thorndyke reflected.  "No," he said, "I can't say that I have.  I turned
it over rather carefully when the report first appeared, and I have
speculated on it occasionally since.  It is my habit, as Jervis was
telling you, to utilize odd moments of leisure (such as a railway
journey, for instance) by constructing theories to account for the facts
of such obscure cases as have come to my notice.  It is a useful habit, I
think, for, apart from the mental exercise and experience that one gains
from it, an appreciable portion of these cases ultimately comes into my
hands, and then the previous consideration of them is so much time
gained."

"Have you formed any theory to account for the facts in this case?" I
asked.

"Yes, I have several theories, one of which I especially favor, and I am
awaiting with great interest such new facts as may indicate to me which
of these theories is probably the correct one."

"It's no use your trying to pump him, Berkeley," said Jervis.  "He is
fitted with an information valve that opens inward.  You can pour in as
much as you like, but you can't get any out."

Thorndyke chuckled.  "My learned friend is, in the main, correct," he
said.  "You see, I may be called upon any day to advise on this case, in
which event I should feel remarkably foolish if I had already expounded
my views in detail.  But I should like to hear what you and Jervis make
of the case as reported in the newspapers."

"There now," exclaimed Jervis, "what did I tell you?  He wants to suck
our brains."

"As far as my brain is concerned," I said, "the process of suction isn't
likely to yield much except a vacuum, so I will resign in favor of you.
You are a full-blown lawyer, whereas I am only a simple G.P."

Jervis filled his pipe with deliberate care and lighted it.  Then,
blowing a slender stream of smoke into the air, he said:

"If you want to know what I make of the case from that report, I can tell
you in one word--nothing.  Every road seems to end in a cul-de-sac."

"Oh, come!" said Thorndyke, "this is mere laziness.  Berkeley wants to
witness a display of your forensic wisdom.  A learned counsel may be in a
fog--he very often is--but he doesn't state the fact baldly; he wraps it
up in a decent verbal disguise.  Tell us how you arrive at your
conclusion.  Show us that you have really weighed the facts."

"Very well," said Jervis, "I will give you a masterly analysis of the
case--leading to nothing."  He continued to puff at his pipe for a time
with slight embarrassment, as I thought--and I fully sympathized with
him.  Finally he blew a little cloud and commenced:

"The position appears to be this: Here is a man seen to enter a certain
house, who is shown into a certain room, and shut in.  He is not seen to
come out, and yet, when the room is next entered, it is found to be
empty; and that man is never seen again, alive or dead.  That is a pretty
tough beginning.

"Now, it is evident that one of three things must have happened.  Either
he must have remained in that room, or at least in that house, alive; or
he must have died, naturally or otherwise, and his body have been
concealed; or he must have left the house unobserved.  Let us take the
first case.  This affair happened nearly two years ago.  Now, he couldn't
have remained alive in the house for two years.  He would have been
noticed.  The servants, for instance, when cleaning out the rooms, would
have observed him."

Here Thorndyke interposed with an indulgent smile at his junior: "My
learned friend is treating the inquiry with unbecoming levity.  We accept
the conclusion that the man did not remain in the house alive."

"Very well.  Then did he remain in it dead?  Apparently not.  The report
says that as soon as the man was missed, Hurst and the servants together
searched the house thoroughly.  But there had been no time or opportunity
to dispose of the body, whence the only possible conclusion is that the
body was not there.  Moreover, if we admit the possibility of his having
been murdered--for that is what concealment of the body would
imply--there is the question: 'Who could have murdered him?'  Not the
servants, obviously, and as to Hurst--well, of course, we don't know what
his relations with the missing man may have been--at least, I don't."

"Neither do I," said Thorndyke.  "I know nothing beyond what is in the
newspaper report and what Berkeley has told us."

"Then we know nothing.  He may have had a motive for murdering the man or
he may not.  The point is that he doesn't seem to have had the
opportunity.  Even if we suppose that he managed to conceal the body
temporarily, still there was the final disposal of it.  He couldn't have
buried it in the garden with the servants about; neither could he have
burned it.  The only conceivable method by which he could have got rid of
it would have been that of cutting it up into fragments and burying the
dismembered parts in some secluded spots or dropping them into ponds or
rivers.  But no remains of the kind have been found, as some of them
probably would have been by now, so that there is nothing to support this
suggestion; indeed, the idea of murder, in this house at least, seems to
be excluded by the search that was made the instant the man was missed.

"Then to take the third alternative: Did he leave the house unobserved?
Well, it is not impossible, but it would be a queer thing to do.  He may
have been an impulsive or eccentric man.  We can't say.  We know nothing
about him.  But two years have elapsed and he has never turned up, so
that if he left the house secretly he must have gone into hiding and be
hiding still.  Of course, he may have been the sort of lunatic who would
behave in that manner or he may not.  We have no information as to his
personal character.

"Then there is the complication of the scarab that was picked up in the
grounds of his brother's house at Woodford.  That seems to show that he
visited that house at some time.  But no one admits having seen him
there; and it is uncertain, therefore, whether he went first to his
brother's house or to Hurst's.  If he was wearing the scarab when he
arrived at the Eltham house, he must have left that house unobserved and
gone to Woodford; but if he was not wearing it he probably went from
Woodford to Eltham, and there finally disappeared.  As to whether he was
or was not wearing the scarab when he was last seen alive by Hurst's
housemaid, there is at present no evidence.

"If he went to his brother's house after his visit to Hurst, the
disappearance is more understandable if we don't mind flinging
accusations of murder about rather casually; for the disposal of the body
would be much less difficult in that case.  Apparently no one saw him
enter the house, and, if he did enter, it was by a back gate which
communicated with the library--a separate building some distance from the
house.  In that case it would have been physically possible for the
Bellinghams to have made away with him.  There was plenty of time to
dispose of the body unobserved--temporarily, at any rate.  Nobody had
seen him come to the house, and nobody knew that he was there--if he was
there; and apparently no search was made either at the time or afterward.
In fact, if it could be shown that the missing man left Hurst's house
alive, or that he was wearing the scarab when he arrived there, things
would look rather fishy for the Bellinghams--for, of course, the girl
must have been in it if the father was.  But there's the crux: there is
no proof that the man ever did leave Hurst's house alive.  And if he
didn't--but there! as I said at first, whichever turning you take, you
find that it ends in a blind alley."

"A lame ending to a masterly exposition," was Thorndyke's comment.

"I know," said Jervis.  "But what would you have?  There are quite a
number of possible solutions, and one of them must be the true one.  But
how are we to judge which it is?  I maintain that until we know something
of the parties and the financial and other interests involved we have no
data."

"There," said Thorndyke, "I disagree with you entirely.  I maintain that
we have ample data.  You say that we have no means of judging which of
the various possible solutions is the true one; but I think that if you
read the report carefully and thoughtfully you will find that the facts
now known point to one explanation, and one only.  It may not be the true
explanation, and I don't suppose it is.  But we are now dealing with the
matter speculatively, academically, and I contend that our data yield a
definite conclusion.  What do you say, Berkeley?"

"I say that it is time for me to be off; the evening consultations begin
at half-past six."

"Well," said Thorndyke, "don't let us keep you from your duties, with
poor Barnard currant picking in the Grecian Isles.  But come in and see
us again.  Drop in when you like after your work is done.  You won't be
in our way even if we are busy, which we very seldom are after eight
o'clock."

I thanked Dr. Thorndyke most heartily for making me free of his chambers
in this hospitable fashion and took my leave, setting forth homeward by
way of Middle Temple Lane and the Embankment; not a very direct route for
Fetter Lane, it must be confessed; but our talk had revived my interest
in the Bellingham household and put me in a reflective vein.

From the remarkable conversation that I had overheard it was evident that
the plot was thickening.  Not that I supposed that these two respectable
gentlemen really suspected one another of having made away with the
missing man; but still, their unguarded words, spoken in anger, made it
clear that each had allowed the thought of sinister possibilities to
enter his mind--a dangerous condition that might easily grow into actual
suspicion.  And then the circumstances really were highly mysterious, as
I realized with especial vividness now after listening to my friend's
analysis of the evidence.

From the problem itself my mind traveled, not for the first time during
the last few days, to the handsome girl, who had seemed in my eyes the
high-priestess of this temple of mystery in the quaint little court.
What a strange figure she had made against this strange background, with
her quiet, chilly, self-contained manner, her pale face, so sad and worn,
her black, straight brows and solemn gray eyes, so inscrutable,
mysterious, Sibylline.  A striking, even impressive, personality this, I
reflected, with something in it somber and enigmatic that attracted and
yet repelled.

And here I recalled Jervis's words: "The girl must have been in it if the
father was."  It was a dreadful thought, even though only speculatively
uttered, and my heart rejected it; rejected it with indignation that
rather surprised me.  And this notwithstanding that the somber
black-robed figure that my memory conjured up was one that associated
itself with the idea of mystery and tragedy.




CHAPTER IV

LEGAL COMPLICATIONS AND A JACKAL

My meditations brought me by a circuitous route, and ten minutes late,
to the end of Fetter Lane, where, exchanging my rather abstracted air
for the alert manner of a busy practitioner, I strode briskly forward
and darted into the surgery with knitted brows, as though just released
from an anxious case.  But there was only one patient waiting, and she
saluted me as I entered with a snort of defiance.

"Here you are, then?" said she.

"You are perfectly correct, Miss Oman," I replied; "in fact, you have
put the case in a nutshell.  What can I have the pleasure of doing for
you?"

"Nothing," was the answer.  "My medical adviser is a lady; but I've
brought a note from Mr. Bellingham.  Here it is," and she thrust the
envelope into my hand.

I glanced through the note and learned that my patient had had a couple
of bad nights and a very harassing day.  "Could I have something to
give me a night's rest?" it concluded.

I reflected for a few moments.  One is not very ready to prescribe
sleeping draughts for unknown patients, but still, insomnia is a very
distressing condition.  In the end I temporized with a moderate dose of
bromide, deciding to call and see if more energetic measures were
necessary.

"He had better take a dose of this at once, Miss Oman," said I, as I
handed her the bottle, "and I will look in later and see how he is."

"I expect he will be glad to see you," she answered, "for he is all
alone to-night and very dumpy.  Miss Bellingham is out.  But I must
remind you that he's a poor man and pays his way.  You must excuse my
mentioning it."

"I am much obliged to you for the hint, Miss Oman," I rejoined.  "It
isn't necessary for me to see him, but I should like just to look in
and have a chat."

"Yes, it will do him good.  You have your points, though punctuality
doesn't seem to be one of them," and with this parting shot Miss Oman
bustled away.

Half-past eight found me ascending the great, dim staircase of the
house in Nevill's Court preceded by Miss Oman, by whom I was ushered
into the room.  Mr. Bellingham, who had just finished some sort of
meal, was sitting hunched up in his chair gazing gloomily into the
empty grate.  He brightened up as I entered, but was evidently in very
low spirits.

"I didn't mean to drag you out after your day's work was finished," he
said, "though I am very glad to see you."

"You haven't dragged me out.  I heard you were alone, so I just dropped
in for a few minutes' gossip."

"That is really kind of you," he said heartily.  "But I'm afraid you'll
find me rather poor company.  A man who is full of his own highly
disagreeable affairs is not a desirable companion."

"You mustn't let me disturb you if you'd rather be alone," said I, with
a sudden fear that I was intruding.

"Oh, you won't disturb me," he replied; adding, with a laugh: "It's
more likely to be the other way about.  In fact, if I were not afraid
of boring you to death I would ask you to let me talk my difficulties
over with you."

"You won't bore me," I said.  "It is generally interesting to share
another man's experiences without their inconveniences.  'The proper
study of mankind is--man,' you know, especially to a doctor."

Mr. Bellingham chuckled grimly.  "You make me feel like a microbe," he
said.  "However, if you would care to take a peep at me through your
microscope, I will crawl on to the stage for your inspection, though it
is not _my_ actions that furnish the materials for your psychological
studies.  It is my poor brother who is the _Deus ex machina_, who, from
his unknown grave, as I fear, pulls the strings of this infernal
puppet-show."

He paused and for a space gazed thoughtfully into the grate as if he
had forgotten my presence.  At length he looked up and resumed:

"It is a curious story, Doctor--a very curious story.  Part of it you
know--the middle part.  I will tell you it from the beginning, and then
you will know as much as I do; for, as to the end, that is known to no
one.  It is written, no doubt, in the book of destiny, but the page has
yet to be turned.

"The mischief began with my father's death.  He was a country clergyman
of very moderate means, a widower with two children, my brother John
and me.  He managed to send us both to Oxford, after which John went
into the Foreign Office and I was to have gone into the Church.  But I
suddenly discovered that my views on religion had undergone a change
that made this impossible, and just about this time my father came into
a quite considerable property.  Now, as it was his expressed intention
to leave the estate equally divided between my brother and me, there
was no need for me to take up any profession for a livelihood.
Archeology was already the passion of my life, and I determined to
devote myself henceforth to my favorite study, in which, by the way, I
was following a family tendency; for my father was an enthusiastic
student of ancient Oriental history, and John was, as you know, an
ardent Egyptologist.

"Then my father died quite suddenly, and left no will.  He had intended
to have one drawn up, but had put it off until it was too late.  And
since nearly all the property was in the form of real estate, my
brother inherited practically the whole of it.  However, in deference
to the known wishes of my father, he made me an allowance of five
hundred a year, which was about a quarter of the annual income.  I
urged him to assign me a lump sum, but he refused to do this.  Instead,
he instructed his solicitor to pay me an allowance in quarterly
instalments during the rest of his life; and it was understood that, on
his death, the entire estate should devolve on me, or if I died first,
on my daughter, Ruth.  Then, as you know, he disappeared suddenly, and
as the circumstances suggested that he was dead, and there was no
evidence that he was alive, his solicitor--a Mr. Jellicoe--found
himself unable to continue the payment of the allowance.  On the other
hand, as there was no positive evidence that my brother was dead, it
was impossible to administer the will."

"You say the circumstances suggested that your brother was dead.  What
circumstances were they?"

"Principally the suddenness and completeness of the disappearance.  His
luggage, as you may remember, was found lying unclaimed at the railway
station; and there was another circumstance even more suggestive.  My
brother drew a pension from the Foreign Office, for which he had to
apply in person, or, if abroad, produce proof that he was alive on the
date when the payment became due.  Now, he was exceedingly regular in
this respect; in fact, he had never been known to fail, either to
appear in person or to transmit the necessary documents to his agent,
Mr. Jellicoe.  But from the moment when he vanished so mysteriously to
the present day, nothing whatever has been heard of him."

"It's a very awkward position for you," I said, "but I should think
there will not be much difficulty in obtaining the permission of the
Court to presume death and to proceed to prove the will."

Mr. Bellingham made a wry face.  "I expect you are right," he said,
"but that doesn't help me much.  You see, Mr. Jellicoe, having waited a
reasonable time for my brother to reappear, took a very unusual but, I
think, in the special circumstances, a very proper step; he summoned me
and the other interested party to his office and communicated to us the
provisions of the will.  And very extraordinary provisions they turned
out to be.  I was thunderstruck when I heard them.  And the
exasperating thing is that I feel sure my poor brother imagined that he
had made everything perfectly safe and simple."

"They generally do," I said, rather vaguely.

"I suppose they do," said Mr. Bellingham; "but poor John has made the
most infernal hash of his will, and I am certain that he has utterly
defeated his own intentions.  You see, we are an old London family.
The house in Queen Square where my brother nominally lived, but
actually kept his collection, has been occupied by us for generations,
and most of the Bellinghams are buried in St. George's burial-ground
close by, though some members of the family are buried in other
churchyards in the neighborhood.  Now, my brother--who, by the way, was
a bachelor--had a strong feeling for the family traditions, and he
stipulated, not unnaturally, in his will that he should be buried in
St. George's burial-ground among his ancestors, or, at least, in one of
the places of burial appertaining to his native parish.  But instead of
simply expressing the wish and directing his executors to carry it out,
he made it a condition affecting the operation of the will."

"Affecting it in what respect?" I asked.

"In a very vital respect," answered Mr. Bellingham.  "The bulk of the
property he bequeathed to me, or if I predeceased him, to my daughter
Ruth.  But the bequest was subject to the condition I have
mentioned--that he should be buried in a certain place--and if that
condition was not fulfilled, the bulk of the property was to go to my
cousin, George Hurst."

"But in that case," said I, "as you can't produce the body, neither of
you can get the property."

"I am not so sure of that," he replied.  "If my brother is dead, it is
pretty certain that he is not buried in St. George's or any of the
other places mentioned, and the fact can easily be proved by production
of the registers.  So that a permission to presume death would result
in the handing over to Hurst of almost the entire estate."

"Who is the executor?" I asked.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "there is another muddle.  There are two executors;
Jellicoe is one, and the other is the principal beneficiary--Hurst or
myself, as the case may be.  But, you see, neither of us can become an
executor until the Court has decided which of us is the principal
beneficiary."

"But who is to apply to the Court?  I thought that was the business of
the executors."

"Exactly, that is Hurst's difficulty.  We were discussing it when you
called the other day, and a very animated discussion it was," he added,
with a grim smile.  "You see, Jellicoe naturally refuses to move in the
matter alone.  He says he must have the support of the other executor.
But Hurst is not at present the other executor; neither am I.  But the
two of us together are the co-executor, since the duty devolves upon
one or other of us, in any case."

"It's a complicated position," I said.

"It is; and the complication has elicited a very curious proposal from
Hurst.  He points out--quite correctly, I am afraid--that as the
conditions as to burial have not been complied with, the property must
come to him, and he proposes a very neat little arrangement, which is
this: That I shall support him and Jellicoe in their application for
permission to presume death and to administer the will, and that he
shall pay me four hundred a year for life; the arrangement to hold good
_in all eventualities_."

"What does he mean by that?"

"He means," said Bellingham, fixing me with a ferocious scowl, "that if
the body should turn up at any future time, so that the conditions as
to burial should be able to be carried out, he should still retain the
property and pay me the four hundred a year."

"The deuce!" said I.  "He seems to know how to drive a bargain."

"His position is that he stands to lose four hundred a year for the
term of my life if the body is never found, and he ought to stand to
win if it is."

"And I gather that you have refused this offer?"

"Yes; very emphatically, and my daughter agrees with me; but I am not
sure that I have done the right thing.  A man should think twice, I
suppose, before he burns his boats."

"Have you spoken to Mr. Jellicoe about the matter?"

"Yes, I have been to see him to-day.  He is a cautious man, and he
doesn't advise me one way or the other.  But I think he disapproves of
my refusal; in fact, he remarked that a bird in the hand is worth two
in the bush, especially when the whereabouts of the bush is unknown."

"Do you think he will apply to the Court without your sanction?"

"He doesn't want to; but I suppose, if Hurst puts pressure on him, he
will have to.  Besides, Hurst, as an interested party, could apply on
his own account, and after my refusal he probably will; at least, that
is Jellicoe's opinion."

"The whole thing is a most astonishing muddle," I said, "especially
when one remembers that your brother had a lawyer to advise him.
Didn't Mr. Jellicoe point out to him how absurd the provisions were?"

"Yes, he did.  He tells me that he implored my brother to let him draw
up a will embodying the matter in a reasonable form.  But John wouldn't
listen to him.  Poor old fellow! he could be very pig-headed when he
chose."

"And is Hurst's proposal still open?"

"No, thanks to my peppery temper.  I refused it very definitely, and
sent him off with a flea in his ear.  I hope I have not made a false
step; I was quite taken by surprise when Hurst made the proposal and
got rather angry.  You remember, my brother was last seen alive at
Hurst's house--but there, I oughtn't to talk like that, and I oughtn't
to pester you with my confounded affairs when you come in for a
friendly chat, though I gave you fair warning, you remember."

"Oh, but you have been highly entertaining.  You don't realize what an
interest I take in your case."

Mr. Bellingham laughed somewhat grimly.  "My case!" he repeated.  "You
speak as if I were some rare and curious sort of criminal lunatic.
However, I'm glad you find me amusing.  It's more than I find myself."

"I didn't say amusing; I said interesting.  I view you with deep
respect as the central figure of a stirring drama.  And I am not the
only person who regards you in that light.  Do you remember my speaking
to you of Doctor Thorndyke?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"Well, oddly enough, I met him this afternoon and we had a long talk at
his chambers.  I took the liberty of mentioning that I had made your
acquaintance.  Did I do wrong?"

"No.  Certainly not.  Why shouldn't you tell him?  Did he remember my
infernal case, as you call it?"

"Perfectly, in all its details.  He is quite an enthusiast, you know,
and uncommonly keen to hear how the case develops."

"So am I, for that matter," said Mr. Bellingham.

"I wonder," said I, "if you would mind my telling him what you have
told me to-night?  It would interest him enormously."

Mr. Bellingham reflected for a while with his eyes fixed on the empty
grate.  Presently he looked up, and said slowly:

"I don't know why I should.  It's no secret; and if it were, I hold no
monopoly in it.  No; tell him, if you think he'd care to hear about it."

"You needn't be afraid of his talking," I said.  "He's as close as an
oyster; and the facts may mean more to him than they do to us.  He may
be able to give a useful hint or two."

"Oh, I'm not going to pick his brains," Mr. Bellingham said quickly and
with some wrath.  "I'm not the sort of man who goes round cadging for
free professional advice.  Understand that, Doctor."

"I do," I answered hastily.  "That wasn't what I meant at all.  Is that
Miss Bellingham coming in?  I heard the front door shut."

"Yes, that will be my girl, I expect; but don't run away.  You're not
afraid of her, are you?" he added as I hurriedly picked up my hat.

"I'm not sure that I'm not," I answered.  "She is rather a majestic
young lady."

Mr. Bellingham chuckled and smothered a yawn, and at that moment his
daughter entered the room; and, in spite of her shabby black dress and
a shabbier handbag that she carried, I thought her appearance and
manner fully justified my description.

"You come in, Miss Bellingham," I said as she shook my hand with cool
civility, "to find your father yawning and me taking my departure.  So
I have my uses, you see.  My conversation is the infallible cure for
insomnia."

Miss Bellingham smiled.  "I believe I am driving you away," she said.

"Not at all," I replied hastily.  "My mission was accomplished, that
was all."

"Sit down for a few moments, Doctor," urged Mr. Bellingham, "and let
Ruth sample the remedy.  She will be affronted if you run away as soon
as she comes in."

"Well, you mustn't let me keep you up," I said.

"Oh, I'll let you know when I fall asleep," he replied, with a chuckle;
and with this understanding I sat down again--not at all unwillingly.

At this moment Miss Oman entered with a small tray and a smile of which
I should not have supposed her capable.

"You'll take your toast and cocoa while they're hot, dear, won't you?"
she said coaxingly.

"Yes, I will, Phyllis, thank you," Miss Bellingham answered.  "I am
only just going to take off my hat," and she left the room, followed by
the astonishingly transfigured spinster.

She returned almost immediately as Mr. Bellingham was in the midst of a
profound yawn, and sat down to her frugal meal, when her father
mystified me considerably by remarking:

"You're late to-night, chick.  Have the Shepherd Kings been giving
trouble?"

"No," she replied; "but I thought I might as well get them done.  So I
dropped in at the Ormond Street library on my way home and finished
them."

"Then they are ready for stuffing now?"

"Yes."  As she answered she caught my astonished eye (for a stuffed
Shepherd King is undoubtedly a somewhat surprising phenomenon) and
laughed softly.

"We mustn't talk in riddles like this," she said, "before Doctor
Berkeley, or he will turn us both into pillars of salt.  My father is
referring to my work," she explained to me.

"Are you a taxidermist, then?" I asked.

She hastily set down the cup that she was raising to her lips and broke
into a ripple of quiet laughter.

"I am afraid my father has misled you with his irreverent expressions.
He will have to atone by explaining."

"You see, Doctor," said Mr. Bellingham, "Ruth is a literary
searcher----"

"Oh, don't call me a searcher!" Miss Bellingham protested.  "It
suggests the female searcher at a police station.  Say investigator."

"Very well, investigator or investigatrix, if you like.  She hunts up
references and bibliographies at the Museum for people who are writing
books.  She looks up everything that has been written on a given
subject, and then, when she has crammed herself to a bursting-point
with facts, she goes to her client and disgorges and crams him or her,
and he or she finally disgorges into the Press."

"What a disgusting way to put it!" said his daughter.  "However, that
is what it amounts to.  I am a literary jackal, a collector of
provender for the literary lions.  Is that quite clear?"

"Perfectly.  But I don't think that, even now, I quite understand about
the stuffed Shepherd Kings."

"Oh, it was not the Shepherd Kings who were to be stuffed.  It was the
author!  That was mere obscurity of speech on the part of my father.
The position is this: A venerable Archdeacon wrote an article on the
patriarch Joseph----"

"And didn't know anything about him," interrupted Mr. Bellingham, "and
got tripped up by a specialist who did, and then got shirty----"

"Nothing of the kind," said Miss Bellingham.  "He knew as much as
venerable archdeacons ought to know; but the expert knew more.  So the
archdeacon commissioned me to collect the literature on the state of
Egypt at the end of the seventeenth dynasty, which I have done; and
to-morrow I shall go and stuff him, as my father expresses it, and
then----"

"And then," Mr. Bellingham interrupted, "the archdeacon will rush forth
and pelt that expert with Shepherd Kings and Sequenen-Ra and the whole
tag-rag and bobtail of the seventeenth dynasty.  Oh, there'll be wigs
on the green, I can tell you."

"Yes, I expect there will be quite a skirmish," said Miss Bellingham.
And thus dismissing the subject she made an energetic attack on the
toast while her father refreshed himself with a colossal yawn.

I watched her with furtive admiration and deep and growing interest.
In spite of her pallor, her weary eyes, and her drawn and almost
haggard face, she was an exceedingly handsome girl; and there was in
her aspect a suggestion of purpose, of strength and character that
marked her off from the rank and file of womanhood.  I noted this as I
stole an occasional glance at her or turned to answer some remark
addressed to me; and I noted, too, that her speech, despite a general
undertone of depression, was yet not without a certain caustic,
ironical humor.  She was certainly a rather enigmatical young person,
but very decidedly interesting.

When she had finished her repast she put aside the tray and, opening
the shabby handbag, asked:

"Do you take any interest in Egyptian history?  We are as mad as
hatters on the subject.  It seems to be a family complaint."

"I don't know much about it," I answered.  "Medical studies are rather
engrossing and don't leave much time for general reading."

"Naturally," she said.  "You can't specialize in everything.  But if
you would care to see how the business of a literary jackal is
conducted, I will show you my notes."

I accepted the offer eagerly (not, I fear, from pure enthusiasm for the
subject), and she brought forth from the bag four blue-covered, quarto
notebooks, each dealing with one of the four dynasties from the
fourteenth to the seventeenth.  As I glanced through the neat and
orderly extracts with which they were filled we discussed the
intricacies of the peculiarly difficult and confused period that they
covered, gradually lowering our voices as Mr. Bellingham's eyes closed
and his head fell against the back of his chair.  We had just reached
the critical reign of Apepa II when a resounding snore broke in upon
the studious quiet of the room and sent us both into a fit of silent
laughter.

"Your conversation has done its work," she whispered as I stealthily
picked up my hat, and together we stole on tiptoe to the door, which
she opened without a sound.  Once outside, she suddenly dropped her
bantering manner and said quite earnestly:

"How kind it was of you to come and see him tonight.  You have done him
a world of good, and I am most grateful.  Good-night!"

She shook hands with me really cordially, and I took my way down the
creaking stairs in a whirl of happiness that I was quite at a loss to
account for.




CHAPTER V

THE WATERCRESS-BED

Barnard's practise, like most others, was subject to those fluctuations
that fill the struggling practitioner alternately with hope and
despair.  The work came in paroxysms with intervals of almost complete
stagnation.  One of these intermissions occurred on the day after my
visit to Nevill's Court, with the result that by half-past eleven I
found myself wondering what I should do with the remainder of the day.
The better to consider this weighty problem, I strolled down to the
Embankment, and, leaning on the parapet, contemplated the view across
the river; the gray stone bridge with its perspective of arches, the
picturesque pile of the shot-towers, and beyond, the shadowy shapes of
the Abbey and St. Stephen's.

It was a pleasant scene, restful and quiet, with a touch of life and a
hint of sober romance, when a barge swept down through the middle arch
of the bridge with a lugsail hoisted to a jury mast and a white-aproned
woman at the tiller.  Dreamily I watched the craft creep by upon the
moving tide, noted the low freeboard, almost awash, the careful
helmswoman, and the dog on the forecastle yapping at the distant
shore--and thought of Ruth Bellingham.

What was there about this strange girl that had made so deep an
impression on me?  That was the question that I propounded to myself,
and not for the first time.  Of the fact itself there was no doubt.
But what was the explanation?  Was it her unusual surroundings?  Her
occupation and rather recondite learning?  Her striking personality and
exceptional good looks?  Or her connection with the dramatic mystery of
her lost uncle?

I concluded that it was all of these.  Everything connected with her
was unusual and arresting; but over and above these circumstances there
was a certain sympathy and personal affinity of which I was strongly
conscious and of which I dimly hoped that she, perhaps, was a little
conscious too.  At any rate, I was deeply interested in her; of that
there was no doubt whatever.  Short as our acquaintance had been, she
held a place in my thoughts that had never been held by any other woman.

From Ruth Bellingham my reflections passed by a natural transition to
the curious story that her father had told me.  It was a queer affair,
that ill-drawn will, with the baffled lawyer protesting in the
background.  It almost seemed as if there must be something behind it
all, especially when I remembered Mr. Hurst's very singular proposal.
But it was out of my depth; it was a case for a lawyer, and to a lawyer
it should go.  This very night, I resolved, I would go to Thorndyke and
give him the whole story as it had been told to me.

And then there happened one of those coincidences at which we all
wonder when they occur, but which are so frequent as to have become
enshrined in a proverb.  For even as I formed the resolution, I
observed two men approaching from the direction of Blackfriars, and
recognized in them my quondam teacher and his junior.

"I was just thinking about you," I said as they came up.

"Very flattering," replied Jervis; "but I thought you had to talk of
the devil."

"Perhaps," suggested Thorndyke, "he was talking to himself.  But why
were you thinking of us, and what was the nature of your thoughts?"

"My thoughts had reference to the Bellingham case.  I spent the whole
of last evening at Nevill's Court."

"Ha!  And are there any fresh developments?"

"Yes, by Jove! there are.  Bellingham gave me a full detailed
description of the will; and a pretty document it seems to be."

"Did he give you permission to repeat the details to me?"

"Yes.  I asked specifically if I might, and he had no objection
whatever."

"Good.  We are lunching at Soho to-day as Polton has his hands full.
Come with us and share our table and tell us your story as we go.  Will
that suit you?"

It suited me admirably in the present state of the practise, and I
accepted the invitation with undissembled glee.

"Very well," said Thorndyke; "then let us walk slowly and finish with
matters confidential before we plunge into the maddening crowd."

We set forth at a leisurely pace along the broad pavement and I
commenced my narration.  As well as I could remember, I related the
circumstances that had led up to the present disposition of the
property and then proceeded to the actual provisions of the will; to
all of which my two friends listened with rapt interest, Thorndyke
occasionally stopping me to jot down a memorandum in his pocket-book.

"Why, the fellow must have been a stark lunatic!" Jervis exclaimed,
when I had finished.  "He seems to have laid himself out with the most
devilish ingenuity to defeat his own ends."

"That is not an uncommon peculiarity with testators," Thorndyke
remarked.  "A direct and perfectly intelligible will is rather the
exception.  But we can hardly judge until we have seen the actual
document.  I suppose Bellingham hasn't a copy?"

"I don't know," said I; "but I will ask him."

"If he has one, I should like to look through it," said Thorndyke.
"The provisions are very peculiar, and, as Jervis says, admirably
calculated to defeat the testator's wishes if they have been correctly
reported.  And, apart from that, they have a remarkable bearing on the
circumstances of the disappearance.  I daresay you noticed that."

"I noticed that it is very much to Hurst's advantage that the body has
not been found."

"Yes, of course.  But there are some other points that are very
significant.  However, it would be premature to discuss the terms of
the will until we have seen the actual document or a certified copy."

"If there is a copy extant," I said, "I will try to get hold of it.
But Bellingham is terribly afraid of being suspected of a desire to get
professional advice gratis."

"That," said Thorndyke, "is natural enough, and not discreditable.  But
you must overcome his scruples somehow.  I expect you will be able to.
You are a plausible young gentleman, as I remember of old, and you seem
to have established yourself as quite the friend of the family."

"They are rather interesting people," I explained; "very cultivated and
with a strong leaning toward archeology.  It seems to be in the blood."

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "a family tendency, probably due to contact and
common surroundings rather than heredity.  So you like Godfrey
Bellingham?"

"Yes.  He is a trifle peppery and impulsive but quite an agreeable,
genial old buffer."

"And the daughter," said Jervis, "what is she like?"

"Oh, she is a learned lady; works up bibliographies and references at
the Museum."

"Ah!" Jervis exclaimed, with disfavor, "I know the breed.  Inky
fingers; no chest to speak of; all side and spectacles."

I rose artlessly at the gross and palpable bait.

"You're quite wrong," I exclaimed indignantly, contrasting Jervis's
hideous presentment with the comely original.  "She is an exceedingly
good-looking girl, and her manners all that a lady's should be.  A
little stiff, perhaps, but then I am only an acquaintance--almost a
stranger."

"But," Jervis persisted, "what is she like, in appearance I mean.
Short? fat? sandy?  Give us intelligible details."

I made a rapid mental inventory, assisted by my recent cogitations.

"She is about five feet seven, slim but rather plump, very erect in
carriage and graceful in movements; black hair, loosely parted in the
middle and falling very prettily away from the forehead; pale, clear
complexion, dark gray eyes, straight eyebrows, straight, well-shaped
nose, short mouth, rather full; round chin--what the deuce are you
grinning at, Jervis?"  For my friend had suddenly unmasked his
batteries and now threatened, like the Cheshire cat, to dissolve into a
mere abstraction of amusement.

"If there is a copy of that will, Thorndyke," he said, "we shall get
it.  I think you agree with me, reverend senior?"

"I have already said," was the reply, "that I put my trust in Berkeley.
And now let us dismiss professional topics.  This is our hostelry."

He pushed open an unpretentious glazed door, and we followed him into
the restaurant, whereof the atmosphere was pervaded by an appetizing
meatiness mingled with less agreeable suggestions of the destructive
distillation of fat.

It was some two hours later when I wished my friends adieu under the
golden-leaved plane trees of King's Bench Walk.

"I won't ask you to come in now," said Thorndyke, "as we have some
consultations this afternoon.  But come in and see us soon; don't wait
for that copy of the will."

"No," said Jervis.  "Drop in in the evening when your work is done;
unless, of course, there is more attractive society elsewhere.  Oh, you
needn't turn that color, my dear child; we have all been young once;
there is even a tradition that Thorndyke was young some time back in
the pre-dynastic period."

"Don't take any notice of him, Berkeley," said Thorndyke.  "The
egg-shell is sticking to his head still.  He'll know better when he is
my age."

"Methuselah!" exclaimed Jervis.  "I hope I shan't have to wait as long
as that!"

Thorndyke smiled benevolently at his irrepressible junior, and, shaking
my hand cordially, turned into the entry.

From the Temple I wended northward, to the adjacent College of
Surgeons, where I spent a couple of profitable hours examining the
"pickles" and refreshing my memory on the subjects of pathology and
anatomy; marveling afresh (as every practical anatomist must marvel) at
the incredibly perfect technique of the dissections, and inwardly
paying tribute to the founder of the collection.  At length the warning
of the clock, combined with an increasing craving for tea, drove me
forth and bore me toward the scene of my not very strenuous labors.  My
mind was still occupied with the contents of the cases and the great
glass jars, so that I found myself at the corner of Fetter Lane without
a very clear idea of how I had got there.  But at that point I was
aroused from my reflections rather abruptly by a raucous voice in my
ear.

"'Orrible discovery at Sidcup!"

I turned wrathfully--for a London street-boy's yell, let off at
point-blank range, is, in effect, like the smack of an open hand--but
the inscription on the staring yellow poster that was held up for my
inspection changed my anger to curiosity.

"Horrible discovery in a watercress-bed!"

Now, let prigs deny it if they will, but there is something very
attractive in a "horrible discovery."  It hints at tragedy, at mystery,
at romance.  It promises to bring into our gray and commonplace life
that element of the dramatic which is the salt that our existence is
savored withal.  "In a watercress-bed," too!  The rusticity of the
background seemed to emphasize the horror of the discovery, whatever it
might be.

I bought a copy of the paper, and, tucking it under my arm, hurried on
to the surgery, promising myself a mental feast of watercress; but as I
opened the door I found myself confronted by a corpulent woman of
piebald and pimply aspect who saluted me with a deep groan.  It was the
lady from the coal shop in Fleur-de-Lys Court.

"Good evening, Mrs. Jablett," I said briskly; "not come about yourself,
I hope."

"Yes, I have," she answered, rising and following me gloomily into the
consulting-room; and then, when I had seated her in the patient's chair
and myself at the writing table, she continued: "It's my inside, you
know, doctor."

The statement lacked anatomical precision and merely excluded the
domain of the skin specialist.  I accordingly waited for enlightenment
and speculated on the watercress-beds, while Mrs. Jablett regarded me
expectantly with a dim and watery eye.

"Ah!" I said at length; "it's your--your inside, is it, Mrs. Jablett?"

"Yus.  _And_ my 'ead," she added, with a voluminous sigh that filled
the apartment with odorous reminiscences of "unsweetened."

"Your head aches, does it?"

"Somethink chronic!" said Mrs. Jablett.  "Feels as if it was a-opening
and a-shutting, a-opening and a-shutting, and when I sit down I feel as
if I should _bust_."

This picturesque description of her sensations--not wholly inconsistent
with her figure--gave the clue to Mrs. Jablett's sufferings.  Resisting
a frivolous impulse to reassure her as to the elasticity of the human
integument, I considered her case in exhaustive detail, coasting
delicately round the subject of "unsweetened" and finally sent her
away, revived in spirits and grasping a bottle of Mist. Sodae cum
Bismutho from Barnard's big stock-jar.  Then I went back to investigate
the Horrible Discovery; but before I could open the paper, another
patient arrived (_Impetigo contagiosa_, this time, affecting the "wide
and arched-front sublime" of a juvenile Fetter Laner), and then yet
another, and so on through the evening until at last I forgot the
watercress-beds altogether.  It was only when I had purified myself
from the evening consultations with hot water and a nail-brush and was
about to sit down to a frugal supper, that I remembered the newspaper
and fetched it from the drawer of the consulting-room table, where it
had been hastily thrust out of sight.  I folded it into a convenient
form, and, standing it upright against the water-jug, read the report
at my ease as I supped.

There was plenty of it.  Evidently the reporter had regarded it as a
"scoop," and the editor had backed him up with ample space and
hair-raising head-lines.


  "HORRIBLE DISCOVERY
  IN A WATERCRESS-BED
  AT SIDCUP!"

"A startling discovery was made yesterday afternoon in the course of
clearing out a watercress-bed near the erstwhile rural village of
Sidcup in Kent; a discovery that will occasion many a disagreeable
qualm to those persons who have been in the habit of regaling
themselves with this refreshing esculent.  But before proceeding to a
description of the circumstances of the actual discovery or of the
objects found--which, however, it may be stated at once, are nothing
more or less than the fragments of a dismembered human body--it will be
interesting to trace the remarkable chain of coincidences by virtue of
which the discovery was made.

"The beds in question have been laid out in a small artificial lake fed
by a tiny streamlet which forms one of the numerous tributaries of the
River Cray.  Its depth is greater than usual in the watercress-beds,
otherwise the gruesome relics could never have been concealed beneath
its surface, and the flow of water through it, though continuous is
slow.  The tributary streamlet meanders through a succession of pasture
meadows, in one of which the beds themselves are situated, and here
throughout most of the year the fleecy victims of the human carnivore
carry on the industry of converting grass into mutton.  Now it happened
some years ago that the sheep frequenting these pastures became
affected with the disease known as 'liver-rot'; and here we must make a
short digression into the domain of pathology.

"'Liver-rot' is a disease of quite romantic antecedents.  Its cause is
a small, flat worm--the liver-fluke--which infests the liver and
bile-ducts of the affected sheep.

"Now how does the worm get into the sheep's liver?  That is where the
romance comes in.  Let us see.

"The cycle of transformation begins with the deposit of the eggs of the
fluke in some shallow stream or ditch running through pasture lands.
Now each egg has a sort of lid, which presently opens and lets out a
minute, hairy creature who swims away in search of a particular kind of
water-snail--the kind called by naturalists _Limnoea truncatula_.  If
he finds a snail, he bores his way into its flesh and soon begins to
grow and wax fat.  Then he brings forth a family--of tiny worms quite
unlike himself, little creatures called _rediae_, which soon give birth
to families of young _rediae_.  So they go on for several generations,
but at last there comes a generation of _rediae_ which, instead of
giving birth to fresh _rediae_, produce families of totally different
offspring; big-headed, long-tailed creatures like miniature tadpoles,
called by the learned _cercariae_.  The _cercariae_ soon wriggle their
way out of the body of the snail, and then complications arise: for it
is the habit of this particular snail to leave the water occasionally
and take a stroll in the fields.  Thus the _cercariae_, escaping from
the snail find themselves on the grass whereupon they promptly drop
their tails and stick themselves to the grass-blades.  Then comes the
unsuspecting sheep to take his frugal meal, and, cropping the grass
swallows it, _cercariae_ and all.  But the latter, when they find
themselves in the sheep's stomach, make their way straight to the
bile-ducts, up which they travel to the liver.  Here, in a few weeks,
they grow up into full-blown flukes and begin the important business of
producing eggs.

"Such is the pathological romance of the 'liver-rot'; and now what is
its connection with this mysterious discovery?  It is this.  After the
outbreak of 'liver-rot' above referred to, the ground landlord, a Mr.
John Bellingham, instructed his solicitor to insert a clause in the
lease of the beds directing that the latter should be periodically
cleared and examined by an expert to make sure that they were free from
the noxious water-snails.  The last lease expired about two years ago,
and since then the beds have been out of cultivation; but, for the
safety of the adjacent pastures, it was considered necessary to make
the customary periodical inspection, and it was in the course of
cleaning the beds for this purpose that the present discovery was made.

"The operation began two days ago.  A gang of three men proceeded
systematically to grub up the plants and collect the multitudes of
water-snails that they might be examined by the expert to see if any
obnoxious species were present.  They had cleared nearly half of the
beds when, yesterday afternoon, one of the men working in the deepest
part came upon some bones, the appearance of which excited his
suspicion.  Thereupon he called his mates, and they carefully picked
away the plants piece-meal, a process that soon laid bare an
unmistakable human hand lying on the mud amongst the roots.
Fortunately they had the wisdom not to disturb the remains, but at once
sent off a message to the police.  Very soon, an inspector and a
sergeant, accompanied by the divisional surgeon, arrived on the scene,
and were able to view the remains lying as they had been found.  And
now another very strange fact came to light; for it was seen that the
hand--a left one--lying on the mud was minus its third finger.  This is
regarded by the police as a very important fact as bearing on the
question of identification, seeing that the number of persons having
the third finger of the left hand missing must be quite small.  After a
thorough examination on the spot, the bones were carefully collected
and conveyed to the mortuary, where they now lie awaiting further
inquiries.

"The divisional surgeon, Dr. Brandon, in an interview with our
representative, made the following statements:

"'The bones are those of the left arm of a middle-aged or elderly man
about five feet eight inches in height.  All the bones of the arm are
present, including the scapula, or shoulder-blade, and the clavicle, or
collar-bone, but the three bones of the third finger are missing.'

"'Is this a deformity or has the finger been cut off?' our
correspondent asked.

"'The finger has been amputated,' was the reply.  'If it had been
absent from birth, the corresponding hand bone, or metacarpal, would
have been wanting or deformed, whereas it is present and quite normal.'

"'How long have the bones been in the water?' was the next question.

"'More than a year, I should say.  They are quite clean; there is not a
vestige of the soft structures left.'

"Have you any theory as to how the arm came to be deposited where it
was found?'

"'I should rather not answer that question,' was the guarded response.

"'One more question,' our correspondent urged.  'The ground landlord,
Mr. John Bellingham; is he not the gentleman who disappeared so
mysteriously some time ago?'

"'So I understand,' Dr. Brandon replied.

"'Can you tell me if Mr. Bellingham had lost the third finger of his
left hand?'

"'I cannot say,' said Dr. Brandon; and he added with a smile, 'you had
better ask the police.'

"That is how the matter stands at present.  But we understand that the
police are making active inquiries for any missing man who has lost the
third finger of his left hand, and if any of our readers know of such a
person, they are earnestly requested to communicate at once, either
with us or the authorities.

"Also we believe that a systematic search is to be made for further
remains."


I laid the newspaper down and fell into a train of reflection.  It was
certainly a most mysterious affair.  The thought that had evidently
come to the reporter's mind stole naturally into mine.  Could these
remains be those of John Bellingham?  It was obviously possible, though
I could not but see that the fact of the bones having been found on his
land, while it undoubtedly furnished the suggestion, did not in any way
add to its probability.  The connection was accidental and in nowise
relevant.

Then, too, there was the missing finger.  No reference to any such
deformity had been made in the original report of the disappearance,
though it could hardly have been overlooked.  But it was useless to
speculate without facts.  I should be seeing Thorndyke in the course of
the next few days, and, undoubtedly, if the discovery had any bearing
upon the disappearance of John Bellingham, I should hear of it.  With
such a reflection I rose from the table, and, adopting the advice
contained in the spurious Johnsonian quotation, proceeded to "take a
walk in Fleet Street" before settling down for the evening.




CHAPTER VI

SIDELIGHTS

The association of coal with potatoes is one upon which I have
frequently speculated, without arriving at any more satisfactory
explanation than that both products are of the earth, earthy.  Of the
connection itself Barnard's practise furnished several instances
besides Mrs. Jablett's establishment in Fleur-de-Lys Court, one of
which was a dark and mysterious cavern a foot below the level of the
street, that burrowed under an ancient house on the west side of Fetter
Lane--a crinkly, timber house of the three-decker type that leaned back
drunkenly from the road as if about to sit down in its own back yard.

Passing this repository of the associated products about ten o'clock in
the morning, I perceived in the shadows of the cavern no less a person
than Miss Oman.  She saw me at the same moment, and beckoned
peremptorily with a hand that held a large Spanish onion.  I approached
with a deferential smile.

"What a magnificent onion, Miss Oman! and how generous of you to offer
it to me----"

"I wasn't offering it to you.  But there!  Isn't it just like a
man-----"

"Isn't what just like a man?" I interrupted.  "If you mean the
onion----"

"I don't!" she snapped; "and I wish you wouldn't talk such a parcel of
nonsense.  A grown man and a member of a serious profession, too!  You
ought to know better."

"I suppose I ought," I said reflectively.  And she continued:

"I called in at the surgery just now."

"To see me?"

"What else should I come for?  Do you suppose that I called to consult
the bottle-boy?"

"Certainly not, Miss Oman.  So you find the lady doctor no use, after
all?"

Miss Oman gnashed her teeth at me (and very fine teeth they were too).

"I called," she said majestically, "on behalf of Miss Bellingham."

My facetiousness evaporated instantly.  "I hope Miss Bellingham is not
ill," I said with a sudden anxiety that elicited a sardonic smile from
Miss Oman.

"No," was the reply, "she is not ill, but she has cut her hand rather
badly.  It's her right hand too, and she can't afford to lose the use
of it, not being a great, bulky, lazy, lolloping man.  So you had
better go and put some stuff on it."

With this advice, Miss Oman whisked to the right-about and vanished
into the depths of the cavern like the witch of Wokey, while I hurried
on to the surgery to provide myself with the necessary instruments and
materials, and thence proceeded to Nevill's Court.

Miss Oman's juvenile maidservant, who opened the door to me, stated the
existing conditions with epigrammatic conciseness.

"Mr. Bellingham is hout, sir; but Miss Bellingham is hin."

Having thus delivered herself she retreated toward the kitchen and I
ascended the stairs, at the head of which I found Miss Bellingham
awaiting me with her right hand encased in what looked like a white
boxing-glove.

"I'm glad you have come," she said.  "Phyllis--Miss Oman, you know--has
kindly bound up my hand, but I should like you to see that it is all
right."

We went into the sitting-room, where I laid out my paraphernalia on the
table while I inquired into the particulars of the accident.

"It is most unfortunate that it should have happened just now," she
said, as I wrestled with one of those remarkable feminine knots that,
while they seem to defy the utmost efforts of human ingenuity to untie,
yet have a singular habit of untying themselves at inopportune moments.

"Why just now in particular?" I asked.

"Because I have some specially important work to do.  A very learned
lady who is writing an historical book has commissioned me to collect
all the literature relating to the Tell-el-Amarna letters--the
cuneiform tablets, you know, of Amenhotep the Fourth."

"Well," I said soothingly, "I expect your hand will soon be well."

"Yes, but that won't do.  The work has to be done immediately.  I have
to send in completed notes not later than this day week, and it will be
quite impossible.  I am dreadfully disappointed."

By this time I had unwound the voluminous wrappings and exposed the
injury--a deep gash in the palm that must have narrowly missed a
good-sized artery.  Obviously the hand would be useless for fully a
week.

"I suppose," she said, "you couldn't patch it up so that I could write
with it?"

I shook my head.

"No, Miss Bellingham.  I shall have to put it on a splint.  We can't
run any risks with a deep wound like this."

"Then I shall have to give up the commission, and I don't know how my
client will get the work done in time.  You see, I am pretty well up in
the literature of Ancient Egypt; in fact, I was to receive special
payment on that account.  And it would have been such an interesting
task, too.  However, it can't be helped."

I proceeded methodically with the application of the dressings, and
meanwhile reflected.  It was evident that she was deeply disappointed.
Loss of work meant loss of money, and it needed but a glance at her
rusty black dress to see that there was little margin for that.
Possibly, too, there was some special need to be met.  Her manner
seemed almost to imply that there was.  And at this point I had a
brilliant idea.

"I'm not sure that it can't be helped," said I.

She looked at me inquiringly, and I continued: "I am going to make a
proposition, and I shall ask you to consider it with an open mind."

"That sounds rather portentous," said she; "but I promise.  What is it?"

"It is this: When I was a student I acquired the useful art of writing
shorthand.  I am not a lightning reporter, you understand, but I can
take matter down from dictation at quite respectable speed."

"Yes."

"Well, I have several hours free every day--usually the whole afternoon
up to six or half-past--and it occurs to me that if you were to go to
the Museum in the mornings you could get out your books, look up
passages (you could do that without using your right hand), and put in
bookmarks.  Then I could come along in the afternoon and you could read
out the selected passages to me, and I could take them down in
shorthand.  We should get through as much in a couple of hours as you
could in a day using long-hand."

"Oh, but how kind of you, Dr. Berkeley!" she exclaimed.  "How very
kind!  Of course, I couldn't think of taking up all your leisure in
that way; but I do appreciate your kindness very much."

I was rather chapfallen at this very definite refusal, but persisted
feebly:

"I wish you would.  It may seem rather a cheek for a comparative
stranger like me to make such a proposal to a lady; but if you'd been a
man--in those special circumstances--I should have made it all the
same, and you would have accepted as a matter of course."

"I doubt that.  At any rate, I am not a man.  I sometimes wish I were."

"Oh, I am sure you are much better as you are!" I exclaimed, with such
earnestness that we both laughed.  And at this moment Mr. Bellingham
entered the room carrying several large brand-new books in a strap.

"Well, I'm sure!" he exclaimed genially; "here are pretty goings on.
Doctor and patient giggling like a pair of schoolgirls!  What's the
joke?"

He thumped his parcel of books down on the table and listened smilingly
while my unconscious witticism was expounded.

"The doctor's quite right," he said.  "You'll do as you are, chick; but
the Lord knows what sort of man you would make.  You take his advice
and let well alone."

Finding him in this genial frame of mind, I ventured to explain my
proposition to him and to enlist his support.  He considered it with
attentive approval, and when I had finished turned to his daughter.

"What is your objection, chick?" he asked.

"It would give Doctor Berkeley such a fearful lot of work," she
answered.

"It would give him a fearful lot of pleasure," I said.  "It would
really."

"Then why not?" said Mr. Bellingham.  "We don't mind being under an
obligation to the Doctor, do we?"

"Oh, it isn't that!" she exclaimed hastily.

"Then take him at his word.  He means it.  It is a kind action and
he'll like doing it, I'm sure.  That's all right, Doctor; she accepts,
don't you, chick?"

"Yes, if you say so, I do; and most thankfully."

She accompanied the acceptance with a gracious smile that was in itself
a large repayment on account, and when we had made the necessary
arrangements, I hurried away in a state of the most perfect
satisfaction to finish my morning's work and order an early lunch.

When I called for her a couple of hours later I found her waiting in
the garden with the shabby handbag, of which I relieved her, and we set
forth together, watched jealously by Miss Oman, who had accompanied her
to the gate.

As I walked up the court with this wonderful maid by my side I could
hardly believe in my good fortune.  By her presence and my own
resulting happiness the mean surroundings became glorified and the
commonest objects transfigured into things of beauty.  What a
delightful thoroughfare, for instance, was Fetter Lane, with its quaint
charm and medieval grace!  I snuffed the cabbage-laden atmosphere and
seemed to breathe the scent of the asphodel.  Holborn was even as the
Elysian Fields; the omnibus that bore us westward was a chariot of
glory; and the people who swarmed verminously on the pavements bore the
semblance of the children of light.

Love is a foolish thing judged by workaday standards, and the thoughts
and actions of lovers foolish beyond measure.  But the workaday
standard is the wrong one, after all; for the utilitarian mind does but
busy itself with the trivial and transitory interests of life, behind
which looms the great and everlasting reality of the love of man and
woman.  There is more significance in a nightingale's song in the hush
of a summer night than in all the wisdom of Solomon (who, by the way,
was not without his little experiences of the tender passion).

The janitor in the little glass box by the entrance to the library
inspected us and passed us on, with a silent benediction, to the lobby,
whence (when I had handed my stick to a bald-headed demigod and
received a talismanic disc in exchange) we entered the enormous rotunda
of the reading-room.

I have often thought that, if some lethal vapor of highly preservative
properties--such as formaldehyde, for instance--could be shed into the
atmosphere of this apartment, the entire and complete collection of
books and book-worms would be well worth preserving, for the
enlightenment of posterity, as a sort of anthropological appendix to
the main collection of the Museum.  For, surely, nowhere else in the
world are so many strange and abnormal human beings gathered together
in one place.  And a curious question that must have occurred to many
observers is: Whence do these singular creatures come, and whither do
they go when the very distinct-faced clock (adjusted to literary
eyesight) proclaims closing time?  The tragic-faced gentleman, for
instance, with the corkscrew ringlets that bob up and down like spiral
springs as he walks?  Or the short, elderly gentleman in the black
cassock and bowler hat, who shatters your nerves by turning suddenly
and revealing himself as a middle-aged woman?  Whither do they go?  One
never sees them elsewhere.  Do they steal away at closing time into the
depths of the Museum and hide themselves until morning in sarcophagi or
mummy cases?  Or do they creep through spaces in the book-shelves and
spend the night behind the volumes in a congenial atmosphere of leather
and antique paper?  Who can say?  What I do know is that when Ruth
Bellingham entered the reading-room she appeared in comparison with
these like a creature of another order; even as the head of Antinous,
which formerly stood (it has since been moved) amidst the
portrait-busts of the Roman Emperors, seemed like the head of a god set
in a portrait gallery of illustrious baboons.

"What have we got to do?" I asked when we had found a vacant seat.  "Do
you want to look up the catalogue?"

"No, I have the tickets in my bag.  The books are waiting in the 'kept
books' department."

I placed my hat on the leather-covered shelf, dropped her gloves into
it--how delightfully intimate and companionable it seemed!--altered the
numbers on the tickets, and then we proceeded together to the "kept
books" desk to collect the volumes that contained the material for our
day's work.

It was a blissful afternoon.  Two and a half hours of happiness
unalloyed did I spend at that shiny, leather-clad desk, guiding my
nimble pen across the pages of the notebook.  It introduced me to a new
world--a world in which love and learning, sweet intimacy and crusted
archeology, were mingled into the oddest, most whimsical and most
delicious confection that the mind of man can conceive.  Hitherto,
these recondite histories had been far beyond my ken.  Of the wonderful
heretic, Amenhotep the Fourth, I had already heard--at the most he had
been a mere name; the Hittites a mythical race of undetermined habitat;
while cuneiform tablets had presented themselves to my mind merely as
an uncouth kind of fossil biscuit suited to the digestion of a
prehistoric ostrich.

Now all this was changed.  As we sat with our chairs creaking together
and she whispered the story of those stirring times into my receptive
ear--talking is strictly forbidden in the reading-room--the disjointed
fragments arranged themselves into a romance of supreme fascination.
Egyptian, Babylonian, Aramean, Hittite, Memphis, Babylon, Hamath,
Megiddo--I swallowed them all thankfully, wrote them down, and asked
for more.  Only once did I disgrace myself.  An elderly clergyman of
ascetic and acidulous aspect had passed us with a glance of evident
disapproval, clearly setting us down as intruding philanderers; and
when I contrasted the parson's probable conception of the whispered
communications that were being poured into my ear so tenderly and
confidentially with the dry reality, I chuckled aloud.  But my fair
taskmistress only paused, with her finger on the page, smilingly to
rebuke me, and then went on with the dictation.  She was certainly a
Tartar for work.

It was a proud moment for me when, in response to my interrogative
"Yes?" my companion said "That is all" and closed the book.  We had
extracted the pith and marrow of six considerable volumes in two and a
half hours.

"You have been better than your word," she said.  "It would have taken
me two full days of really hard work to make the notes that you have
written down since we commenced.  I don't know how to thank you."

"There's no need to.  I've enjoyed myself and polished up my shorthand.
What is the next thing?  We shall want some books for to-morrow, shan't
we?"

"Yes.  I have made out a list, so if you will come with me to the
catalogue desk I will look up the numbers and ask you to write the
tickets."

The selection of a fresh batch of authorities occupied us for another
quarter of an hour, and then, having handed in the volumes that we had
squeezed dry, we took our way out of the reading-room.

"Which way shall we go?" she asked as we passed out of the gate, where
stood a massive policeman, like the guardian angel at the gate of
Paradise (only, thank Heaven! he bore no flaming sword forbidding
re-entry).

"We are going," I replied, "to Museum Street, where is a milkshop in
which one can get an excellent cup of tea."

She looked as if she would have demurred, but eventually followed
obediently, and we were soon settled side by side at the little
marble-topped table, retracing the ground we had covered in the
afternoon's work and discussing various points of interest over a joint
teapot.

"Have you been doing this sort of work long?" I asked, as she handed me
my second cup of tea.

"Professionally," she answered, "only about two years; since we broke
up our home, in fact.  But long before that I used to come to the
Museum with my Uncle John--the one who disappeared, you know, in that
dreadfully mysterious way--and help him to look up references.  We were
good friends, he and I."

"I suppose he was a very learned man?" I suggested.

"Yes, in a certain way; in the way of the better-class collector he was
very learned indeed.  He knew the contents of every museum in the
world, in so far as they were connected with Egyptian antiquities, and
had studied them specimen by specimen.  Consequently, as Egyptology is
largely a museum science, he was a learned Egyptologist.  But his real
interest was in things rather than events.  Of course, he knew a great
deal--a very great deal--about Egyptian history, but still he was,
before all, a collector."

"And what will happen to his collection if he is really dead?"

"The greater part of it goes to the British Museum by his will, and the
remainder he has left to his solicitor, Mr. Jellicoe."

"To Mr. Jellicoe!  Why, what will Mr. Jellicoe do with Egyptian
antiquities?"

"Oh, he is an Egyptologist too, and quite an enthusiast.  He has really
a fine collection of scarabs and other small objects such as it is
possible to keep in a private house.  I have always thought that it was
his enthusiasm for everything Egyptian that brought him and my uncle
together on terms of such intimacy; though I believe he is an excellent
lawyer, and he is certainly a very discreet, cautious man."

"Is he?  I shouldn't have thought so, judging by your uncle's will."

"Oh, but that is not Mr. Jellicoe's fault.  He assures us that he
entreated my uncle to let him draw up a fresh document with more
reasonable provisions.  But he says Uncle John was immovable; and he
really was a rather obstinate man.  Mr. Jellicoe repudiates any
responsibility in the matter.  He washes his hands of the whole affair,
and says that it is the will of a lunatic.  And so it is, I was
glancing through it only a night or two ago, and really I cannot
conceive how a sane man could have written such nonsense."

"You have a copy then?" I asked eagerly, remembering Thorndyke's
parting instructions.

"Yes.  Would you like to see it?  I know my father has told you about
it, and it is worth reading as a curiosity of perverseness."

"I should very much like to show it to my friend, Doctor Thorndyke," I
replied.  "He said he would be interested to read it and learn the
exact provisions; and it might be well to let him, and hear what he has
to say about it."

"I see no objection," she rejoined; "but you know what my father is:
his horror, I mean, of what he calls 'cadging for advice gratis.'"

"Oh, but he need have no scruples on that score.  Doctor Thorndyke
wants to see the will because the case interests him.  He is an
enthusiast, you know, and he put the request as a personal favor to
himself."

"That is very nice and delicate of him, and I will explain the position
to my father.  If he is willing for Doctor Thorndyke to see the copy, I
will send or bring it over this evening.  Have we finished?"

I regretfully admitted that we had, and, when I had paid the modest
reckoning, we sallied forth, turning back with one accord into Great
Russell Street to avoid the noise and bustle of the larger
thoroughfares.

"What sort of man was your uncle?" I asked presently, as we walked
along the quiet, dignified street.  And then I added hastily: "I hope
you don't think me inquisitive, but, to my mind, he presents himself as
a kind of mysterious abstraction; the unknown quantity of a legal
problem."

"My Uncle John," she answered reflectively, "was a very peculiar man,
rather obstinate, very self-willed, what people call 'masterful,' and
decidedly wrong-headed and unreasonable."

"That is certainly the impression that the terms of his will convey," I
said.

"Yes, and not the will only.  There was the absurd allowance that he
made to my father.  That was a ridiculous arrangement, and very unfair
too.  He ought to have divided the property up as my grandfather
intended.  And yet he was by no means ungenerous, only he would have
his own way, and his own way was very commonly the wrong way."

"I remember," she continued, after a short pause, "a very odd instance
of his wrong-headedness and obstinacy.  It was a small matter, but very
typical of him.  He had in his collection a beautiful little ring of
the eighteenth dynasty.  It was said to have belonged to Queen Ti, the
mother of our friend Amenhotep the Fourth; but I don't think that could
have been so, because the device on it was the Eye of Osiris, and Ti,
as you know, was an Aten-worshiper.  However, it was a very charming
ring, and Uncle John, who had a queer sort of devotion to the mystical
eye of Osiris, commissioned a very clever goldsmith to make two exact
copies of it, one for himself and one for me.  The goldsmith naturally
wanted to take the measurements of our fingers, but this Uncle John
would not hear of; the rings were to be exact copies, and an exact copy
must be the same size as the original.  You can imagine the result; my
ring was so loose that I couldn't keep it in my finger, and Uncle
John's was so tight that though he did manage to get it on, he was
never able to get it off.  And it was only the circumstance that his
left hand was decidedly smaller than his right that made it possible
for him to wear it all."

"So you never wore your copy?"

"No.  I wanted to have it altered to make it fit, but he objected
strongly; so I put it away, and have it in a box still."

"He must have been an extraordinarily pig-headed old fellow," I
remarked.

"Yes; he was very tenacious.  He annoyed my father a good deal, too, by
making unnecessary alterations in the house in Queen Square when he
fitted up his museum.  We have a certain sentiment with regard to that
house.  Our people have lived in it ever since it was built, when the
square was first laid out in the reign of Queen Anne, after whom it was
named.  It is a dear old house.  Would you like to see it?  We are
quite near it now."

I assented eagerly.  If it had been a coal-shed or a fried-fish shop I
would still have visited it with pleasure, for the sake of prolonging
our walk; but I was also really interested in this old house as a part
of the background of the mystery of the vanished John Bellingham.

We crossed into Cosmo Place, with its quaint row of the now rare,
cannon-shaped iron posts, and passing through stood for a few moments
looking into the peaceful, stately old square.  A party of boys
disported themselves noisily on the range of stone posts that form a
bodyguard round the ancient lamp-surmounted pump, but otherwise the
place was wrapped in dignified repose suited to its age and station.
And very pleasant it looked on this summer afternoon with the sunlight
gilding the foliage of its widespreading plane trees and lighting up
the warm-toned brick of the house-fronts.  We walked slowly down the
shady west side, near the middle of which my companion halted.

"This is the house," she said.  "It looks gloomy and forsaken now; but
it must have been a delightful house in the days when my ancestors
could look out of the windows through the open end of the square across
the fields of meadows to the heights of Hampstead and Highgate."

She stood at the edge of the pavement looking up with a curious
wistfulness at the old house; a very pathetic figure I thought, with
her handsome face and proud carriage, her threadbare dress and shabby
gloves, standing at the threshold of the home that had been her
family's for generations, that should now have been hers, and that was
shortly to pass away into the hands of strangers.

I, too, looked up at it with a strange interest, impressed by something
gloomy and forbidding in its aspect.  The windows were shuttered from
basement to attic, and no sign of life was visible.  Silent, neglected,
desolate, it breathed an air of tragedy.  It seemed to mourn in
sackcloth and ashes for its lost master.  The massive door within the
splendid carven portico was crusted with grime, and seemed to have
passed out of use as completely as the ancient lamp-irons or the rusted
extinguishers wherein the footmen were wont to quench their torches
when some Bellingham dame was borne up the steps in her gilded chair,
in the days of good Queen Anne.

It was in a somewhat sobered frame of mind that we presently turned
away and started homeward by way of Great Ormond Street.  My companion
was deeply thoughtful, relapsing for a while into that somberness of
manner that had so impressed me when I first met her.  Nor was I
without a certain sympathetic pensiveness; as if, from the great,
silent house, the spirit of the vanished man had issued forth to bear
us company.

But still it was a delightful walk, and I was sorry when at last we
arrived at the entrance to Nevill's Court, and Miss Bellingham halted
and held out her hand.

"Good-by," she said; "and many, many thanks for your invaluable help.
Shall I take the bag?"

"If you want it.  But I must take out the notebooks."

"Why must you take them?" she asked.

"Why, haven't I got to copy the notes out into long-hand?"

An expression of utter consternation spread over her face; in fact, she
was so completely taken aback that she forgot to release my hand.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed.  "How idiotic of me!  But it is impossible,
Doctor Berkeley!  It will take you hours!"

"It is perfectly possible, and it is going to be done; otherwise the
notes would be useless.  Do you want the bag?"

"No, of course not.  But I am positively appalled.  Hadn't you better
give up the idea?"

"And this is the end of our collaboration?" I exclaimed tragically,
giving her hand a final squeeze (whereby she became suddenly aware of
its position, and withdrew it rather hastily).  "Would you throw away a
whole afternoon's work?  I won't certainly; so, good-by until
to-morrow.  I shall turn up in the reading-room as early as I can.  You
had better take the tickets.  Oh, and you won't forget about the copy
of the will for Doctor Thorndyke, will you?"

"No; if my father agrees, you shall have it this evening."

She took the tickets from me, and, thanking me yet again, retired into
the court.




CHAPTER VII

JOHN BELLINGHAM'S WILL

The task upon which I had embarked so light-heartedly, when considered
in cold blood, did certainly appear, as Miss Bellingham had said,
rather appalling.  The result of two and a half hours' pretty steady
work at an average speed of nearly a hundred words a minute, would take
some time to transcribe into longhand; and if the notes were to be
delivered punctually on the morrow, the sooner I got to work the better.

Recognizing this truth, I lost no time, but, within five minutes of my
arrival at the surgery, was seated at the writing-table with my copy
before me busily converting the sprawling, inexpressive characters into
good, legible round-hand.

The occupation was by no means unpleasant, apart from the fact that it
was a labor of love; for the sentences, as I picked them up, were
fragrant with the reminiscences of the gracious whisper in which they
had first come to me.  And then the matter itself was full of interest.
I was gaining a fresh outlook on life, was crossing the threshold of a
new world (which was her world); and so the occasional interruptions
from the patients, while they gave me intervals of enforced rest, were
far from welcome.

The evening wore on without any sign from Nevill's Court, and I began
to fear that Mr. Bellingham's scruples had proved insurmountable.  Not,
I am afraid, that I was so much concerned for the copy of the will as
for the possibility of a visit, no matter howsoever brief, from my fair
employer; and when, on the stroke of half-past seven, the surgery door
flew open with startling abruptness, my fears were allayed and my hopes
shattered simultaneously.  For it was Miss Oman who stalked in, holding
out a blue foolscap envelope with a warlike air as if it were an
ultimatum.

"I've brought you this from Mr. Bellingham," she said.  "There's a note
inside."

"May I read the note, Miss Oman?" I asked.

"Bless the man!" she exclaimed.  "What else would you do with it?
Isn't that what it's brought for?"

I supposed it was; and, thanking her for her gracious permission, I
glanced through the note--a few lines authorizing me to show the copy
of the will to Dr. Thorndyke.  When I looked up from the paper I found
her eyes fixed on me with an expression critical and rather
disapproving.

"You seem to be making yourself mighty agreeable in a certain quarter,"
she remarked.

"I make myself universally agreeable.  It is my nature to."

"Ha!" she snorted.

"Don't you find me rather agreeable?" I asked.

"Oily," said Miss Oman.  And then with a sour smile at the open
notebooks, she remarked:

"You've got some work to do now; quite a change for you."

"A delightful change, Miss Oman.  'For Satan findeth'--but no doubt you
are acquainted with the philosophical works of Dr. Watts?"

"If you are referring to 'idle hands,'" she replied, "I'll give you a
bit of advice.  Don't you keep that hand idle any longer than is really
necessary.  I have my suspicions about that splint--oh, you know what I
mean," and before I had time to reply, she had taken advantage of the
entrance of a couple of patients to whisk out of the surgery with the
abruptness that had distinguished her arrival.

The evening consultations were considered to be over by half-past
eight; at which time Adolphus was wont with exemplary punctuality to
close the outer door of the surgery.  To-night he was not less prompt
than usual; and having performed this, his last daily office, and
turned down the surgery gas, he reported the fact and took his
departure.

As his retreating footsteps died away and the slamming of the outer
door announced his final disappearance, I sat up and stretched myself.
The envelope containing the copy of the will lay on the table, and I
considered it thoughtfully.  It ought to be conveyed to Thorndyke with
as little delay as possible, and, as it certainly could not be trusted
out of my hands, it ought to be conveyed by me.

I looked at the notebooks.  Nearly two hours' work had made a
considerable impression on the matter that I had to transcribe, but
still, a great deal of the task yet remained to be done.  However, I
reflected, I could put in a couple of hours or more before going to bed
and there would be an hour or two to spare in the morning.  Finally I
locked the notebooks, open as they were, in the writing-table drawer,
and slipping the envelope into my pocket, set out for the Temple.

The soft chime of the Treasury clock was telling out, in confidential
tones, the third quarter as I rapped with my stick on the forbidding
"oak" of my friends' chambers.  There was no response, nor had I
perceived any gleam of light from the windows as I approached, and I
was considering the advisability of trying the laboratory on the next
floor, when footsteps on the stone stairs and familiar voices gladdened
my ear.

"Hallo, Berkeley!" said Thorndyke, "do we find you waiting like a Peri
at the gates of Paradise?  Polton is upstairs, you know, tinkering at
one of his inventions.  If you ever find the nest empty, you had better
go up and bang at the laboratory door.  He's always there in the
evenings."

"I haven't been waiting long," said I, "and I was just thinking of
rousing him up when you came."

"That was right," said Thorndyke, turning up the gas.  "And what news
do you bring?  Do I see a blue envelope sticking out of your pocket?"

"You do."

"Is it a copy of the will?" he asked.

I answered "yes," and added that I had full permission to show it to
him.

"What did I tell you?" exclaimed Jervis.  "Didn't I say that he would
get the copy for us if it existed?"

"We admit the excellence of your prognosis," said Thorndyke, "but there
is no need to be boastful.  Have you read through the document,
Berkeley?"

"No, I haven't taken it out of the envelope."

"Then it will be equally new to us all, and we shall see if it tallies
with your description."

He placed three easy-chairs at a convenient distance from the light,
and Jervis, watching him with a smile, remarked:

"Now Thorndyke is going to enjoy himself.  To him, a perfectly
unintelligible will is a thing of beauty and a joy for ever; especially
if associated with some kind of recondite knavery."

"I don't know," said I, "that this will is particularly unintelligible.
The mischief seems to be that it is rather too intelligible.  However,
here it is," and I handed it over to Thorndyke.

"I suppose that we can depend on this copy," said the latter, as he
drew out the document and glanced at it.  "Oh, yes," he added, "I see
it is copied by Godfrey Bellingham, compared with the original and
certified correct.  In that case I will get you to read it out slowly,
Jervis, and I will make a rough copy for reference.  Let us make
ourselves comfortable and light our pipes before we begin."

He provided himself with a writing-pad, and, when we had seated
ourselves and got our pipes well alight, Jervis opened the document,
and with a premonitory "hem!" commenced the reading.


"In the name of God Amen.  This is the last will and testament of me
John Bellingham of number 141 Queen Square in the parish of St. George
Bloomsbury London in the county of Middlesex Gentleman made this
twenty-first day of September in the year of our Lord one thousand
eight hundred and ninety-two.

"1. I give and bequeath unto Arthur Jellicoe of number 184 New Square
Lincoln's Inn London in the county of Middlesex Attorney-at-law the
whole of my collection of seals and scarabs and those in my cabinets
marked A, B, and D together with the contents thereof and the sum of
two thousand pounds sterling free of legacy duty.

"Unto the trustees of the British Museum the residue of my collection
of antiquities.

"Unto my cousin George Hurst of the Poplars Eltham in the county of
Kent the sum of five thousand pounds free of legacy duty and unto my
brother Godfrey Bellingham or if he should die before the occurrence of
my death unto his daughter Ruth Bellingham the residue of my estate and
effects real and personal subject to the conditions set forth
hereinafter namely:

"2. That my body shall be deposited with those of my ancestors in the
churchyard appertaining to the church and parish of St. George the
Martyr or if that shall not be possible in some other churchyard
cemetery burial ground church or chapel or other authorized place for
the reception of the bodies of the dead situate within or appertaining
to the parishes of St. Andrew above the Bars and St. George the Martyr
or St. George Bloomsbury and St. Giles in the Fields.  But if the
conditions in this clause be not carried out then

"3. I give and devise the said residue of my estate and effects unto my
cousin George Hurst aforesaid and I hereby revoke all wills and
codicils made by me at any time heretofore and I appoint Arthur
Jellicoe aforesaid to be the executor of this my will jointly with the
principal beneficiary and residuary legatee that is to say with the
aforesaid Godfrey Bellingham if the conditions set forth hereinbefore
in clause 2 shall be duly carried out but with the aforesaid George
Hurst if the said conditions in the said clause 2 be not carried out.

"JOHN BELLINGHAM.

"Signed by the said testator John Bellingham in the presence of us
present at the same time who at his request and in his presence and in
the presence of each other have subscribed our names as witnesses.

"Frederick Wilton, 16 Medford Road, London, N., clerk.

"James Barber, 32 Wadbury Crescent, London, S.W., clerk."


"Well," said Jervis, laying down the document as Thorndyke detached the
last sheet from his writing-pad, "I have met with a good many idiotic
wills, but this one can give them all points.  I don't see how it is
ever going to be administered.  One of the two executors is a mere
abstraction--a sort of algebraical problem with no answer."

"I think that difficulty could be overcome," said Thorndyke.

"I don't see how," retorted Jervis.  "If the body is deposited in a
certain place, A is executor; if it is somewhere else, B is the
executor.  But as you cannot produce the body, and no one has the least
idea where it is, it is impossible to prove either that it is or that
it is not in any specified place."

"You are magnifying the difficulty, Jervis," said Thorndyke.  "The body
may, of course, be anywhere in the entire world, but the place where it
is lying is either inside or outside the general boundary of those two
parishes.  If it has been deposited within the boundary of those two
parishes, the fact must be ascertainable by examining the burial
certificakes issued since the date when the missing man was last seen
alive and by consulting the registers of those specified places of
burial.  I think that if no record can be found of any such interment
within the boundary of those two parishes, that fact will be taken by
the Court as proof that no such interment has taken place, and that
therefore the body must have been deposited somewhere else.  Such a
decision would constitute George Hurst the co-executor and residuary
legatee."

"That is cheerful for your friends, Berkeley," Jervis remarked, "for we
may take it as pretty certain that the body has not been deposited in
any of the places named."

"Yes," I agreed gloomily, "I'm afraid there is very little doubt of
that.  But what an ass that fellow must have been to make such a to-do
about his beastly carcass!  What the deuce could it have mattered to
him where it was dumped, when he had done with it?"

Thorndyke chuckled softly.  "Thus the irreverent youth of to-day," said
he.  "But yours is hardly a fair comment, Berkeley.  Our training makes
us materialists, and puts us a little out of sympathy with those in
whom primitive beliefs and emotions survive.  A worthy priest who came
to look at our dissecting-room expressed surprise to me that the
students, thus constantly in the presence of relics of mortality,
should be able to think of anything but the resurrection and the life
hereafter.  He was a bad psychologist.  There is nothing so dead as a
dissecting-room 'subject'; and the contemplation of the human body in
the process of being quietly taken to pieces--being resolved into its
structural units like a worn-out clock or an old engine in the
scrapper's yard--is certainly not conducive to a vivid realization of
the doctrine of the resurrection."

"No; but this absurd anxiety to be buried in some particular place has
nothing to do with religious belief; it is merely silly sentiment."

"It is sentiment, I admit," said Thorndyke, "but I wouldn't call it
silly.  The feeling is so widespread in time and space that we must
look on it with respect as something inherent in human nature.
Think--as doubtless John Bellingham did--of the ancient Egyptians,
whose chief aspiration was that of everlasting repose for the dead.
See the trouble they took to achieve it.  Think of the great Pyramid,
or that of Amenhotep the Fourth with its labyrinth of false passages
and its sealed and hidden sepulchral chambers.  Think of Jacob, borne
after death all those hundreds of weary miles in order that he might
sleep with his fathers and then remember Shakespeare and his solemn
adjuration to posterity to let him rest undisturbed in his grave.  No,
Berkeley, it is not a silly sentiment.  I am as indifferent as you as
to what becomes of my body 'when I have done with it,' to use your
irreverent phrase; but I recognize the solicitude that some other men
display on the subject as a natural feeling that has to be taken
seriously."

"But even so," I said, "if this man had a hankering for a freehold
residence in some particular bone-yard, he might have gone about the
business in a more reasonable way."

"There I am entirely with you," Thorndyke replied.  "It is the absurd
way in which this provision is worded that not only creates all the
trouble but also makes the whole document so curiously significant in
view of the testator's disappearance."

"How significant?" Jervis demanded eagerly.

"Let us consider the provisions of the will point by point," said
Thorndyke; "and first note that the testator commanded the services of
a very capable lawyer."

"But Mr. Jellicoe disapproved of the will," said I; "in fact, he
protested strongly against the form of it."

"We will bear that in mind too," Thorndyke replied.  "And now with
reference to what we may call the contentious clauses: the first thing
that strikes us is their preposterous injustice.  Godfrey's inheritance
is made conditional on a particular disposal of the testator's body.
But this is a matter not necessarily under Godfrey's control.  The
testator might have been lost at sea, or killed in a fire or explosion,
or have died abroad and been buried where his grave could not have been
identified.  There are numerous probable contingencies besides the
improbable one that has happened that might prevent the body from being
recovered.

"But even if the body had been recovered, there is another difficulty.
The places of burial in the parishes have all been closed for many
years.  It would be impossible to reopen any of them without a special
faculty, and I doubt whether such a faculty would be granted.  Possibly
cremation might meet the difficulty, but even that is doubtful; and, in
any case, the matter would not be in the control of Godfrey Bellingham.
Yet, if the required interment should prove impossible, he is to be
deprived of his legacy."

"It is a monstrous and absurd injustice," I exclaimed.

"It is," Thorndyke agreed; "but this is nothing to the absurdity that
comes to light when we consider clauses two and three in detail.
Observe that the testator presumably wished to be buried in a certain
place; also he wished his brother should benefit under the will.  Let
us take the first point and see how he has set about securing the
accomplishment of what he desired.  Now if we read clauses two and
three carefully, we shall see that he has rendered it virtually
impossible that his wishes can be carried out.  He desires to be buried
in a certain place and makes Godfrey responsible for his being so
buried.  But he gives Godfrey no power or authority to carry out the
provision, and places insuperable obstacles in his way.  For until
Godfrey is an executor, he has no power or authority to carry out the
provision; and until the provisions are carried out, he does not become
an executor."

"It is a preposterous muddle," exclaimed Jervis.

"Yes, but that is not the worst of it," Thorndyke continued.  "The
moment John Bellingham dies, his dead body has come into existence; and
it is 'deposited,' for the time being, wherever he happens to have
died.  But unless he should happen to have died in one of the places of
burial mentioned--which is in the highest degree unlikely--his body
will be, for the time being, 'deposited' in some place other than those
specified.  In that case clause two is--for the time being--not
complied with, and consequently George Hurst becomes, automatically,
the co-executor.

"But will George Hurst carry out the provisions of clause two?
Probably not.  Why should he?  The will contains no instructions to
that effect.  It throws the whole duty on Godfrey.  On the other hand,
if he should carry out clause two, what happens?  He ceases to be an
executor and he loses some seventy thousand pounds.  We may be pretty
certain that he will do nothing of the kind.  So that, on considering
the two clauses, we see that the wishes of the testator could only be
carried out in the unlikely event of his dying in one of the
burial-places mentioned, or his body being conveyed immediately after
death to a public mortuary in one of the said parishes.  In any other
event, it is virtually certain that he will be buried in some place
other than that which he desired, and that his brother will be left
absolutely without provision or recognition."

"John Bellingham could never have intended that," I said.

"Clearly not," agreed Thorndyke; "the provisions of the will furnish
internal evidence that he did not.  You note that he bequeathed five
thousand pounds to George Hurst, in the event of clause two being
carried out; but he has made no bequest to his brother in the event of
its not being carried out.  Obviously, he had not entertained the
possibility of this contingency at all.  He assumed, as a matter of
course, that the conditions of clause two would be fulfilled, and
regarded the conditions themselves as a mere formality."

"But," Jervis objected, "Jellicoe must have seen the danger of a
miscarriage and pointed it out to his client."

"Exactly," said Thorndyke.  "There is the mystery.  We understand that
he objected strenuously, and that John Bellingham was obdurate.  Now it
is perfectly understandable that a man should adhere obstinately to the
most stupid and perverse disposition of his property; but that a man
should persist in retaining a particular form of words after it has
been proved to him that the use of such form will almost certainly
result in the defeat of his own wishes; that, I say, is a mystery that
calls for very careful consideration."

"If Jellicoe had been an interested party," said Jervis, "one would
have suspected him of lying low.  But the form of clause two doesn't
affect him at all."

"No," said Thorndyke; "the person who stands to profit by the muddle is
George Hurst.  But we understand that he was unacquainted with the
terms of the will, and there is certainly nothing to suggest that he is
in any way responsible for it."

"The practical question is," said I, "what is going to happen? and what
can be done for the Bellinghams?"

"The probability is," Thorndyke replied, "that the next move will be
made by Hurst.  He is the party immediately interested.  He will
probably apply to the Court for permission to presume death and
administer the will."

"And what will the Court do?"

Thorndyke smiled dryly.  "Now you are asking a very pretty conundrum.
The decisions of Courts depend on idiosyncrasies of temperament that no
one can foresee.  But one may say that a Court does not lightly grant
permission to presume death.  There will be a rigorous inquiry--and a
decidedly unpleasant one, I suspect--and the evidence will be reviewed
by the judge with a strong predisposition to regard the testator as
being still alive.  On the other hand, the known facts point very
distinctly to the probability that he is dead; and, if the will were
less complicated and all the parties interested were unanimous in
supporting the application, I don't see why it might not be granted.
But it will clearly be to the interest of Godfrey to oppose the
application, unless he can show that the conditions of clause two have
been complied with--which it is virtually certain he cannot; and he may
be able to bring forward reasons for believing John to be still alive.
But even if he is unable to do this, inasmuch as it is pretty clear
that he was intended to be the chief beneficiary, his opposition is
likely to have considerable weight with the Court."

"Oh, is it?" I exclaimed eagerly.  "Then that accounts for a very
peculiar proceeding on the part of Hurst.  I have stupidly forgotten to
tell you about it.  He has been trying to come to a private agreement
with Godfrey Bellingham."

"Indeed!" said Thorndyke.  "What sort of agreement?"

"His proposal was this: that Godfrey should support him and Jellicoe in
an application to the Court for permission to presume death and to
administer the will, that if it was successful, Hurst should pay him
four hundred pounds a year for life: the arrangement to hold good in
all eventualities."

"By which he means?"

"That if the body should be discovered at any future time, so that the
conditions of clause two could be carried out, Hurst should still
retain the property and continue to pay Godfrey the four hundred a year
for life."

"Hey, ho!" exclaimed Thorndyke; "that is a queer proposal; a very queer
proposal indeed."

"Not to say fishy," added Jervis.  "I don't fancy the Court would look
with approval on that little arrangement."

"The law does not look with much favor on any little arrangements that
aim at getting behind the provisions of a will," Thorndyke replied;
"though there would be nothing to complain of in this proposal if it
were not for the reference to 'all eventualities.'  If a will is
hopelessly impracticable, it is not unreasonable or improper for the
various beneficiaries to make such private arrangements among
themselves as may seem necessary to avoid useless litigation and delay
in administering the will.  If, for instance, Hurst had proposed to pay
four hundred a year to Godfrey so long as the body remained
undiscovered on condition that, in the event of its discovery, Godfrey
should pay him a like sum for life, there would have been nothing to
comment upon.  It would have been an ordinary sporting chance.  But the
reference to 'all eventualities' is an entirely different matter.  Of
course, it may be mere greediness, but all the same it suggests some
very curious reflections."

"Yes, it does," said Jervis.  "I wonder if he has any reason to expect
that the body will be found?  Of course it doesn't follow that he has.
He may be merely taking the opportunity offered by the other man's
poverty to make sure of the bulk of the property whatever happens.  But
it is uncommonly sharp practice, to say the least."

"Do I understand that Godfrey declined the proposal?" Thorndyke asked.

"Yes, he did, very emphatically; and I fancy the two gentlemen
proceeded to exchange opinions on the circumstances of the
disappearance with more frankness than delicacy."

"Ah," said Thorndyke, "that is a pity.  If the case comes into Court,
there is bound to be a good deal of unpleasant discussion and still
more unpleasant comment in the newspapers.  But if the parties
themselves begin to express suspicions of one another there is no
telling where the matter will end."

"No, by Jove!" said Jervis.  "If they begin flinging accusations of
murder about, the fat will be in the fire with a vengeance.  That way
lies the Old Bailey."

"We must try to prevent them from making an unnecessary scandal," said
Thorndyke.  "It may be that an exposure will be unavoidable, and that
must be ascertained in advance.  But to return to your question,
Berkeley, as to what is to be done.  Hurst will probably make some move
pretty soon.  Do you know if Jellicoe will act with him?"

"No, he won't.  He declines to take any steps without Godfrey's
assent--at least, that is what he says at present.  His attitude is one
of correct neutrality."

"That is satisfactory so far," said Thorndyke, "though he may alter his
tone when the case comes into Court.  From what you said just now I
gathered that Jellicoe would prefer to have the will administered and
be quit of the whole business; which is natural enough, especially as
he benefits under the will to the extent of two thousand pounds and a
valuable collection.  Consequently, we may fairly assume that, even if
he maintains an apparent neutrality, his influence will be exerted in
favor of Hurst rather than of Bellingham; from which it follows that
Bellingham ought certainly to be properly advised, and, when the case
goes into Court, properly represented."

"He can't afford either the one or the other," said I.  "He's as poor
as an insolvent church mouse and as proud as the devil.  He wouldn't
accept professional aid that he couldn't pay for."

"H'm," grunted Thorndyke, "that's awkward.  But we can't allow the case
to go 'by default,' so to speak--to fail for the mere lack of technical
assistance.  Besides, it is one of the most interesting cases that I
have ever met with, and I am not going to see it bungled.  He couldn't
object to a little general advice in a friendly, informal way--_amicus
curiae_, as old Brodribb is so fond of saying; and there is nothing to
prevent us from pushing forward the preliminary inquiries."

"Of what nature would they be?"

"Well, to begin with, we have to satisfy ourselves that the conditions
of clause two have not been complied with: that John Bellingham has not
been buried within the parish boundaries mentioned.  Of course he has
not, but we must not take anything for granted.  Then we have to
satisfy ourselves that he is not still alive and accessible.  It is
perfectly possible that he is, after all, and it is our business to
trace him, if he is still in the land of the living.  Jervis and I can
carry out these investigations without saying anything to Bellingham;
my learned brother will look through the register of burials--not
forgetting the cremations--in the metropolitan area, and I will take
the other matter in hand."

"You really think that John Bellingham may still be alive?" said I.

"Since his body has not been found, it is obviously a possibility.  I
think it in the highest degree improbable, but the improbable has to be
investigated before it can be excluded."

"It sounds a rather hopeless quest," I remarked.  "How do you propose
to begin?"

"I think of beginning at the British Museum.  The people there may be
able to throw some light on his movements.  I know that there are some
important excavations in progress at Heliopolis--in fact, the Director
of the Egyptian Department is out there at the present moment; and
Doctor Norbury, who is taking his place temporarily, is an old friend
of Bellingham's.  I shall call on him and try to discover if there is
anything that might have induced Bellingham suddenly to go abroad to
Heliopolis, for instance.  Also he may be able to tell me what it was
that took the missing man to Paris on that last, rather mysterious
journey.  That might turn out to be an important clue.  And meanwhile,
Berkeley, you must endeavor tactfully to reconcile your friend to the
idea of letting us give an eye to the case.  Make it clear to him that
I am doing this entirely for the enlargement of my own knowledge."

"But won't you have to be instructed by a solicitor?" I asked.

"Yes, nominally; but only as a matter of etiquette.  We shall do all
the actual work.  Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking of the solicitor's costs, and I was going to mention
that I have a little money of my own----"

"Then you keep it, my dear fellow.  You'll want it when you go into
practice.  There will be no difficulty about the solicitor; I shall ask
one of my friends to act nominally as a personal favor to me--Marchmont
would take the case for us, Jervis, I am sure."

"Yes," said Jervis.  "Or old Brodribb, if we put it to him _amicus
curia_."

"It is excessively kind of both of you to take this benevolent interest
in the case of my friends," I said; "and it is to be hoped that they
won't be foolishly proud and stiff-necked about it.  It's rather the
way with poor gentlefolk."

"I'll tell you what!" exclaimed Jervis.  "I have a most brilliant idea.
You shall give us a little supper at your rooms and invite the
Bellinghams to meet us.  Then you and I will attack the old gentleman,
and Thorndyke shall exercise his persuasive powers on the lady.  These
chronic incurable old bachelors, you know, are quite irresistible."

"You observe that my respected junior condemns me to lifelong
celibacy," Thorndyke remarked.  "But," he added, "his suggestion is
quite a good one.  Of course, we mustn't put any sort of pressure on
Bellingham to employ us--for that is what it amounts to, even if we
accept no payment--but a friendly talk over the supper-table would
enable us to put the matter delicately and yet convincingly."

"Yes," said I, "I see that, and I like the idea immensely.  But it
won't be possible for several days, because I've got a job that takes
up all my spare time--and that I ought to be at work on now," I added,
with a sudden qualm at the way in which I had forgotten the passage of
time in the interest of Thorndyke's analysis.

My two friends looked at me inquiringly, and I felt it necessary to
explain about the injured hand and the Tell-el-Amarna tablets; which I
accordingly did rather shyly and with a nervous eye upon Jervis.  The
slow grin, however, for which I was watching, never came; on the
contrary, he not only heard me through quite gravely, but when I had
finished said with some warmth, and using my old hospital pet name:

"I'll say one thing for you, Polly; you're a good chum, and you always
were.  I hope your Nevill's Court friends appreciate the fact."

"They are far more appreciative than the occasion warrants," I
answered.  "But to return to this question: how will this day week suit
you?"

"It will suit me," Thorndyke answered, with a glance at his junior.

"And me too," said the latter; "so, if it will do for the Bellinghams,
we will consider it settled; but if they can't come, you must fix
another night."

"Very well," I said, rising and knocking out my pipe.  "I will issue
the invitation to-morrow.  And now I must be off to have another slog
at those notes."

As I walked homeward I speculated cheerfully on the prospect of
entertaining my friends under my own (or rather Barnard's) roof, if
they could be lured out of their eremitical retirement.  The idea had,
in fact, occurred to me already, but I had been deterred by the
peculiarities of Barnard's housekeeper.  For Mrs. Gummer was one of
those housewives who make up for an archaic simplicity of production by
preparations on the most portentous and alarming scale.  But this time
I would not be deterred.  If only the guests could be enticed into my
humble lair it would be easy to furnish the raw materials of the feast
from outside; and the consideration of ways and means occupied me
pleasantly until I found myself once more at my writing-table,
confronted by my voluminous notes on the incidents of the North Syrian
War.




CHAPTER VIII

A MUSEUM IDYLL

Whether it was that practise revived a forgotten skill on my part, or
that Miss Bellingham had over-estimated the amount of work to be done,
I am unable to say.  But whichever may have been the explanation, the
fact is that the fourth afternoon saw our task so nearly completed that
I was fain to plead that a small remainder might be left over to form
an excuse for yet one more visit to the reading-room.

Short, however, as had been the period of our collaboration, it had
been long enough to produce a great change in our relations to one
another.  For there is no friendship so intimate and satisfying as that
engendered by community of work, and none--between man and woman, at
any rate--so frank and wholesome.

Every day had arrived to find a pile of books with the places duly
marked and the blue-covered quarto notebooks in readiness.  Every day
we had worked steadily at the allotted task, had then handed in the
books and gone forth together to enjoy a most companionable tea in the
milkshop; thereafter to walk home by way of Queen Square, talking over
the day's work and discussing the state of the world in the far-off
days when Ahkhenaten was kind [Transcriber's note: king?] and the
Tell-el-Amarna tablets were a-writing.

It had been a pleasant time, so pleasant, that as I handed in the books
for the last time, I sighed to think that it was over; that not only
was the task finished, but that the recovery of my fair patient's hand,
from which I had that morning removed the splint, had put an end to the
need of my help.

"What shall we do?" I asked, as we came out into the central hall.  "It
is too early for tea.  Shall we go and look at some of the galleries?"

"Why not?" she answered.  "We might look over some of the things
connected with what we have been doing.  For instance, there is a
relief of Ahkhenaten upstairs in the Third Egyptian Room; we might go
and look at it."

I fell in eagerly with the suggestion, placing myself under her
experienced guidance, and we started by way of the Roman Gallery, past
the long row of extremely commonplace and modern-looking Roman Emperors.

"I don't know," she said, pausing for a moment opposite a bust labelled
"Trajan" (but obviously a portrait of Phil May), "how I am ever even to
thank you for all that you have done, to say nothing of repayment."

"There is no need to do either," I replied.  "I have enjoyed working
with you so I have had my reward.  But still," I added, "if you want to
do me a great kindness, you have it in your power."

"How?"

"In connection with my friend, Doctor Thorndyke.  I told you he was an
enthusiast.  Now he is, for some reason, most keenly interested in
everything relating to your uncle, and I happen to know that, if any
legal proceedings should take place, he would very much like to keep a
friendly eye on the case."

"And what do you want me to do?"

"I want you, if an opportunity should occur for him to give your father
advice or help of any kind, to use your influence with your father in
favor of, rather than in opposition to, his accepting it--always
assuming that you have no real feeling against his doing so."

Miss Bellingham looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments, and then
laughed softly.

"So the great kindness that I am to do you is to let you do me a
further kindness through your friend?"

"No," I protested; "that is where you are mistaken.  It isn't
benevolence on Doctor Thorndyke's part; it's professional enthusiasm."

She smiled sceptically.

"You don't believe in it," I said; "but consider other cases.  Why does
a surgeon get out of bed on a winter's night to do an emergency
operation at a hospital?  He doesn't get paid for it.  Do you think it
is altruism?"

"Yes, of course.  Isn't it?"

"Certainly not.  He does it because it is his job, because it is his
business to fight with disease--and win."

"I don't see much difference," she said.  "It's work done for love
instead of for payment.  However, I will do as you ask if the
opportunity arises; but I shan't suppose that I am repaying your
kindness to me."

"I don't mind so long as you do it," I said, and we walked on for some
time in silence.

"Isn't it odd," she said presently, "how our talk always seems to come
back to my uncle?  Oh, and that reminds me that the things he gave to
the Museum are in the same room as the Ahkhenaten relief.  Would you
like to see them?"

"Of course I should."

"Then we will go and look at them first."  She paused, and then, rather
shyly and with a rising color, she continued: "And I think I should
like to introduce you to a very dear friend of mine--with your
permission, of course."

This last addition she made hastily, seeing, I suppose, that I looked
rather glum at the suggestion.  Inwardly I consigned her friend to the
devil, especially if of the masculine gender; outwardly I expressed my
felicity at making the acquaintance of any person whom she should honor
with her friendship.  Whereat, to my discomfiture, she laughed
enigmatically; a very soft laugh, low-pitched and musical, like the
cooing of a glorified pigeon.

I strolled on by her side, speculating a little anxiously on the coming
introduction.  Was I being conducted to the lair of one of the savants
attached to the establishment? and would he add a superfluous third to
our little party of two, so complete and companionable, _solus cum
sola_, in this populated wilderness?  Above all, would he turn out to
be a young man, and bring my aerial castles tumbling about my ears?
The shy look and the blush with which she had suggested the
introduction were ominous indications, upon which I mused gloomily as
we ascended the stairs and passed through the wide doorway.  I glanced
apprehensively at my companion, and met a quiet, inscrutable smile; and
at that moment she halted opposite a wall-case and faced me.

"This is my friend," she said.  "Let me present you to Artemidorus,
late of the Fayyum.  Oh, don't smile!" she pleaded.  "I am quite
serious.  Have you never heard of pious Catholics who cherish a
devotion to some long-departed saint?  That is my feeling toward
Artemidorus, and if you only knew what comfort he has shed into the
heart of a lonely woman; what a quiet, unobtrusive friend he has been
to me in my solitary, friendless days, always ready with a kindly
greeting on his gentle, thoughtful face, you would like him for that
alone.  And I want you to like him and to share our silent friendship.
Am I very silly, very sentimental?"

A wave of relief swept over me, and the mercury of my emotional
thermometer, which had shrunk almost into the bulb, leaped up to summer
heat.  How charming it was of her and how sweetly intimate, to wish to
share this mystical friendship with me!  And what a pretty conceit it
was, too, and how like this strange, inscrutable maiden, to come here
and hold silent converse with this long-departed Greek.  And the pathos
of it all touched me deeply amidst the joy of this new-born intimacy.

"Are you scornful?" she asked, with a shade of disappointment, as I
made no reply.

"No, indeed I am not," I answered earnestly.  "I want to make you aware
of my sympathy and my appreciation without offending you by seeming to
exaggerate, and I don't know how to express it."

"Oh, never mind about the expression, so long as you feel it.  I
thought you would understand," and she gave me a smile that made me
tingle to my fingertips.

We stood awhile gazing in silence at the mummy--for such, indeed, was
her friend Artemidorus.  But not an ordinary mummy.  Egyptian in form,
it was entirely Greek in feeling; and brightly colored as it was, in
accordance with the racial love of color, the tasteful refinement with
which the decoration of the case was treated made those around look
garish and barbaric.  But the most striking feature was a charming
panel picture which occupied the place of the usual mask.  This
painting was a revelation to me.  Except that it was executed in
tempera instead of oil, it differed in no respect from modern work.
There was nothing archaic or ancient about it.  With its freedom of
handling and its correct rendering of light and shade, it might have
been painted yesterday; indeed, enclosed in an ordinary gilt frame, it
might have passed without remark in an exhibition of modern portraits.

Miss Bellingham observed my admiration and smiled approvingly.

"It is a charming little portrait, isn't it?" she said; "and such a
sweet face too; so thoughtful and human, with just a shade of
melancholy.  But the whole thing is full of charm.  I fell in love with
it the first time I saw it.  And it is so Greek!"

"Yes, it is, in spite of the Egyptian gods and symbols."

"Rather because of them, I think," said she.  "There we have the
typical Greek attitude, the genial, cultivated eclecticism that
appreciated the fitness of even the most alien forms of art.  There is
Anubis standing beside the bier; there are Isis and Nephthys, and there
below Horus and Tahuti.  But we can't suppose Artemidorus worshiped or
believed in those gods.  They are there because they are splendid
decoration and perfectly appropriate in character.  The real feeling of
those who loved the dead man breaks out in the inscription."  She
pointed to a band below the pectoral, where, in gilt capital letters,
was written the two words, "_ARTEMIDORE EYPSYCHI_."

"Yes," I said, "it is very dignified and very human."

"And so sincere and full of real emotion," she added.  "I find it
unspeakably touching.  'O Artemidorus, farewell!'  There is the real
note of human grief, the sorrow of eternal parting.  How much finer it
is than the vulgar boastfulness of the Semitic epitaphs, or our own
miserable, insincere make-believe of the 'Not lost but gone before'
type.  He was gone from them for ever; they would look on his face and
hear his voice no more; they realized that this was their last
farewell.  Oh, there is a world of love and sorrow in those two simple
words!"

For some time neither of us spoke.  The glamour of this touching
memorial of a long-buried grief had stolen over me, and I was content
to stand silent by my beloved companion and revive, with a certain
pensive pleasure, the ghosts of human emotions over which so many
centuries had rolled.  Presently she turned to me with a frank smile.
"You have been weighed in the balance of friendship," she said, "and
not found wanting.  You have the gift of sympathy, even with a woman's
sentimental fancies."

I suspected that a good many men would have developed this precious
quality under the circumstances, but I refrained from saying so.  There
is no use in crying down one's own wares.  I was glad enough to have
earned her good opinion so easily, and when she at length turned away
from the case and passed through into the adjoining room, it was a very
complacent young man who bore her company.

"Here is Ahkhenaten--or Khu-en-aten, as the authorities here render the
hieroglyphics.  She indicated a fragment of a colored relief labeled:
'Portion of a painted stone tablet with a portrait figure of Amen-hotep
IV," and we stopped to look at the frail, effeminate figure of the
great king, with his large cranium, his queer, pointed chin, and the
Aten rays stretching out their weird hands as if caressing him.

"We mustn't stay here if you want to see my uncle's gift, because this
room closes at four to-day."  With this admonition she moved on to the
other end of the room, where she halted before a large floor-case
containing a mummy and a large number of other objects.  A black label
with white lettering set forth the various contents with a brief
explanation as follows:


"Mummy of Sebek-hotep, a scribe of the twenty-second dynasty, together
with the objects found in the tomb.  These include the four Canopic
jars, in which the internal organs were deposited, the Ushabti figures,
tomb provisions and various articles that had belonged to the deceased;
his favorite chair, his head-rest, his ink-palette, inscribed with his
name and the name of the king, Osorkon I, in whose reign he lived, and
other smaller articles.  Presented by John Bellingham, Esq."


"They have put all the objects together in one case," Miss Bellingham
explained, "to show the contents of an ordinary tomb of the better
class.  You see that the dead man was provided with all his ordinary
comforts; provisions, furniture, the ink-palette that he had been
accustomed to use in writing on papyri, and a staff of servants to wait
on him."

"Where are the servants?" I asked.

"The little Ushabti figures," she answered; "they were the attendants
of the dead, you know, his servants in the under-world.  It was a
quaint idea, wasn't it?  But it was all very complete and consistent,
and quite reasonable, too, if one once accepts the belief in the
persistence of the individual apart from the body."

"Yes," I agreed, "and that is the only fair way to judge a religious
system, by taking the main beliefs for granted.  But what a business it
must have been, bringing all these things from Egypt to London."

"It is worth the trouble, though, for it is a fine and instructive
collection.  And the work is all very good of its kind.  You notice
that the Ushabti figures and the heads that form the stoppers of the
Canopic jars are quite finely modeled.  The mummy itself, too, is
rather handsome, though that coat of bitumen on the back doesn't
improve it.  But Sebek-hotep must have been a fine-looking man."

"The mask on the face is a portrait, I suppose?"

"Yes; in fact, it's rather more.  To some extent it is the actual face
of the man himself.  This mummy is enclosed in what is called a
cartonnage, that is a case molded on the figure.  The cartonnage was
formed of a number of layers of linen or papyrus united by glue or
cement, and when the case had been fitted to a mummy it was molded to
the body, so that the general form of the features and limbs was often
apparent.  After the cement was dry the case was covered with a thin
layer of stucco and the face modeled more completely, and then
decorations and inscriptions were painted on.  So that, you see, in a
cartonnage, the body was sealed up like a nut in its shell, unlike the
more ancient forms in which the mummy was merely rolled up and enclosed
in a wooden coffin."

At this moment there smote upon our ears a politely protesting voice
announcing in sing-song tones that it was closing time; and
simultaneously a desire for tea suggested the hospitable milk-shop.
With leisurely dignity that ignored the official who shepherded us
along the galleries, we made our way to the entrance, still immersed in
conversation on matters sepulchral.

It was rather earlier than our usual hour for leaving the Museum and,
moreover, it was our last day--for the present.  Wherefore we lingered
over our tea to an extent that caused the milk-shop lady to view us
with some disfavor, and when at length we started homeward, we took so
many short cuts that six o'clock found us no nearer our destination
than Lincoln's Inn Fields; whither we had journeyed by a slightly
indirect route that traversed (among other places) Russell Square, Red
Lion Square, with the quaint passage of the same name, Bedford Row,
Jockey's Fields, Hand Court, and Great Turnstile.

It was in the last thoroughfare that our attention was attracted by a
flaring poster outside a newsvendor's bearing the startling inscription:

  "MORE MEMENTOES
  OF MURDERED MAN."


Miss Bellingham glanced at the poster and shuddered.

"Horrible, isn't it?" she said.  "Have you read about them?"

"I haven't been noticing the papers the last few days," I replied.

"No, of course you haven't.  You've been slaving at those wretched
notes.  We don't very often see the papers, at least we don't take them
in, but Miss Oman has kept us supplied during the last day or two.  She
is a perfect little ghoul; she delights in horrors of every kind, and
the more horrible the better."

"But," I asked, "what is it they have found?"

"Oh, they are the remains of some poor creature who seems to have been
murdered and cut into pieces.  It is dreadful.  It made me shudder to
read of it, for I couldn't help thinking of poor Uncle John, and, as
for my father, he was really quite upset."

"Are these the bones that were found in a watercress-bed at Sidcup?"

"Yes, but they have found several more.  The police have been most
energetic.  They seem to have been making a systematic search, and the
result has been that they have discovered several portions of the body,
scattered about in very widely separated places--Sidcup, Lee, St. Mary
Cray; and yesterday it was reported that an arm had been found in one
of the ponds called 'the Cuckoo Pits,' close to our old home."

"What! in Essex?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, in Epping Forest, quite near Woodford.  Isn't it dreadful to
think of it?  They were probably hidden when we were living there.  I
think it was that that horrified my father so much.  When he read it he
was so upset that he gathered up the whole bundle of newspapers and
tossed them out of the window; and they blew over the wall, and poor
Miss Oman had to rush and pursue them up the court."

"Do you think he suspects that these remains may be those of your
uncle?"

"I think so, though he has said nothing to that effect and, of course,
I have not made any suggestion to him.  We always preserve the fiction
between ourselves of believing that Uncle John is still alive."

"But you don't think he is, do you?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't; and I feel pretty sure that my father doesn't
think so either, but he doesn't like to admit it to me."

"Do you happen to remember what bones have been found?"

"No, I don't.  I know that an arm was found in the Cuckoo Pits, and I
think a thigh-bone was dredged up out of a pond near St. Mary Cray.
But Miss Oman will be able to tell you all about it, if you are
interested.  She will be delighted to meet a kindred spirit," Miss
Bellingham added, with a smile.

"I don't know that I claim spiritual kinship with a ghoul," said I;
"especially such a very sharp-tempered ghoul."

"Oh, don't disparage her, Doctor Berkeley!" Miss Bellingham pleaded.
"She isn't really bad-tempered; only a little prickly on the surface.
I oughtn't to have called her a ghoul; she is just the sweetest, most
affectionate, most unselfish little angelic human hedgehog that you
could find if you traveled the wide world through.  Do you know that
she has been working her fingers to the bone making an old dress of
mine presentable because she is so anxious that I shall look nice at
your little supper party."

"You are sure to do that, in any case," I said; "but I withdraw my
remark as to her temper unreservedly.  And I really didn't mean it, you
know; I have always liked the little lady."

"That's right; and now won't you come in and have a few minutes' chat
with my father?  We are quite early in spite of the short cuts."

I accepted readily, and the more so inasmuch as I wanted a few words
with Miss Oman on the subject of catering and did not want to discuss
it before my friends.  Accordingly I went in and gossiped with Mr.
Bellingham, chiefly about the work we had done at the Museum, until it
was time for me to return to the surgery.

Having taken my leave, I walked down the stairs with reflective
slowness and as much creaking of my boots as I could manage; with the
result, hopefully anticipated, that as I approached the door of Miss
Oman's room it opened and the lady's head protruded.

"I'd change my cobbler if I were you," she said.

I thought of the "angelic human hedgehog," and nearly sniggered in her
face.

"I am sure you would, Miss Oman, instantly; though, mind you, the poor
fellow can't help his looks."

"You are a very flippant young man," she said severely.  Whereat I
grinned, and she regarded me silently with a baleful glare.  Suddenly I
remembered my mission and became serious and sober.

"Miss Oman," I said.  "I very much want to take your advice on a matter
of some importance--to me, at least."  (That ought to fetch her, I
thought.  The "advice fly"--strangely neglected by Izaak Walton--is
guaranteed to kill in any weather.)  And it did fetch her.  She rose in
a flash and gorged it, cock's feathers, worsted body and all.

"What is it about?" she asked eagerly.  "But don't stand out there
where everybody can hear but me.  Come in and sit down."

Now I didn't want to discuss the matter here, and, besides, there was
not time.  I therefore assumed an air of mystery.

"I can't, Miss Oman.  I'm due at the surgery now.  But if you should be
passing and should have a few minutes to spare, I should be greatly
obliged if you would look in.  I really don't quite know how to act."

"No, I expect not.  Men very seldom do.  But you're better than most,
for you know when you are in difficulties and have the sense to consult
a woman.  But what is it about?  Perhaps I might be thinking it over."

"Well, you know," I began evasively, "it's a simple matter, but I can't
very well--no, by Jove!" I added, looking at my watch, "I must run, or
I shall keep the multitude waiting."  And with this I bustled away,
leaving her literally dancing with curiosity.




CHAPTER IX

THE SPHINX OF LINCOLN'S INN

At the age of twenty-six one cannot claim to have attained to the
position of a person of experience.  Nevertheless, the knowledge of
human nature accumulated in that brief period sufficed to make me feel
confident that, at some time during the evening, I should receive a
visit from Miss Oman.  And circumstances justified my confidence; for
the clock yet stood at two minutes to seven when a premonitory tap at
the surgery door heralded her arrival.

"I happened to be passing," she explained, and I forbore to smile at
the coincidence, "so I thought I might as well drop in and hear what
you wanted to ask me about."

She seated herself in the patients' chair and laying a bundle of
newspapers on the table, glared at me expectantly.

"Thank you, Miss Oman," said I.  "It is very good of you to look in on
me.  I am ashamed to give you all this trouble about such a trifling
matter."

She rapped her knuckles impatiently on the table.

"Never mind about the trouble," she exclaimed tartly.
"What--is--it--that--you--want--to--_ask_--me about?"

I stated my difficulties in respect of the supper-party, and, as I
proceeded, an expression of disgust and disappointment spread over her
countenance.

"I don't see why you need have been so mysterious about it," she said
glumly.

"I didn't mean to be mysterious; I was only anxious not to make a mess
of the affair.  It's all very fine to assume a lofty scorn of the
pleasures of the table, but there is great virtue in a really good
feed, especially when low-living and high-thinking have been the order
of the day."

"Coarsely put," said Miss Oman, "but perfectly true."

"Very well.  Now, if I leave the management to Mrs. Gummer, she will
probably provide a tepid Irish stew with flakes of congealed fat on it,
and a plastic suet-pudding or something of that kind, and turn the
house upside down in getting it ready.  So I thought of having a cold
spread and getting the things from outside.  But I don't want it to
look as if I had been making enormous preparations."

"They won't think the things came down from heaven," said Miss Oman.

"No, I suppose they won't.  But you know what I mean.  Now, where do
you advise me to go for the raw materials of conviviality?"

Miss Oman reflected.  "You had better let me do your shopping and
manage the whole business," was her final verdict.

This was precisely what I wanted, and I accepted thankfully, regardless
of the feelings of Mrs. Gummer.  I handed her two pounds, and, after
some protests at my extravagance, she bestowed them in her purse; a
process that occupied time, since that receptacle, besides being a sort
of miniature Record Office of frayed and time-stained bills, already
bulged with a lading of draper's samples, ends of tape, a card of linen
buttons, another of hooks and eyes, a lump of beeswax, a rat-eaten
stump of leadpencil, and other trifles that I have forgotten.  As she
closed the purse at the imminent risk of wrenching off its fastenings
she looked at me severely and pursed her lips.

"You're a very plausible young man," she remarked.

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

"Philandering about museums," she continued, "with handsome young
ladies on the pretense of work.  Work, indeed!  Oh, I heard her telling
her father about it.  She thinks you were perfectly enthralled by the
mummies and dried cats and chunks of stone and all the other trash.
She doesn't know what humbugs men are."

"Really, Miss Oman," I began.

"Oh, don't talk to me!" she snapped.  "I can see it all.  You can't
impose upon me.  I can see you staring into those glass cases, egging
her on to talk and listening open-mouthed and bulging-eyed and sitting
at her feet--now, didn't you?"

"I don't know about sitting at her feet," I said, "though it might
easily have come to that with those infernal slippery floors; but I had
a very jolly time, and I mean to go again if I can.  Miss Bellingham is
the cleverest and most accomplished woman I have ever spoken to."

This was a poser for Miss Oman, whose admiration and loyalty, I knew,
were only equaled by my own.  She would have liked to contradict me,
but the thing was impossible.  To cover her defeat she snatched up the
bundle of newspapers and began to open them out.

"What sort of stuff is 'hibernation'?" she demanded suddenly.

"Hibernation!" I exclaimed.

"Yes.  They found a patch of it on a bone that was discovered in a pond
at St. Mary Cray, and a similar patch on one that was found at some
other place in Essex.  Now, I want to know what 'hibernation' is."

"You must mean 'eburnation,'" I said, after a moment's reflection.

"The newspapers say 'hibernation,' and I suppose they know what they
are talking about.  If you don't know what it is, don't be ashamed to
say so."

"Well, then, I don't."

"In that case you had better read the papers and find out," she said, a
little illogically.  And then: "Are you fond of murders?  I am,
awfully."

"What a shocking little ghoul you must be!" I exclaimed.

She stuck out her chin at me.  "I'll trouble you," she said, "to be a
little more respectful in your language.  Do you realize that I am old
enough to be your mother?"

"Impossible!" I ejaculated.

"Fact," said Miss Oman.

"Well, anyhow," said I, "age is not the only qualification.  And
besides, you are too late for the billet.  The vacancy's filled."

Miss Oman slapped the papers down on the table and rose abruptly.

"You had better read the papers and see if you can learn a little
sense," she said severely as she turned to go.  "Oh, and don't forget
the finger!" she added eagerly.  "That is really thrilling."

"The finger?" I repeated.

"Yes.  They found a hand with one missing.  The police think it is an
important clue.  I don't know what they mean; but you read the account
and tell me what you think."

With this parting injunction she bustled out through the surgery, and I
followed to bid her a ceremonious adieu on the doorstep.  I watched her
little figure tripping with quick, bird-like steps down Fetter Lane,
and was about to turn back into the surgery when my attention was
attracted by the evolutions of an elderly gentleman on the opposite
side of the street.  He was a somewhat peculiar-looking man, tall,
gaunt, and bony, and the way in which he carried his head suggested to
the medical mind a pronounced degree of near sight and a pair of "deep"
spectacle glasses.  Suddenly he espied me and crossed the road with his
chin thrust forward and a pair of keen blue eyes directed at me through
the centers of his spectacles.

"I wonder if you can and will help me," said he, with a courteous
salute.  "I wish to call on an acquaintance, and I have forgotten his
address.  It is in some court, but the name of that court has escaped
me for the moment.  My friend's name is Bellingham.  I suppose you
don't chance to know it?  Doctors know a great many people, as a rule."

"Do you mean Mr. Godfrey Bellingham?"

"Ah!  Then you do know him.  I have not consulted the oracle in vain.
He is a patient of yours, no doubt?"

"A patient and a personal friend.  His address is Forty-nine Nevill's
Court."

"Thank you, thank you.  Oh, and as you are a friend, perhaps you can
inform me as to the customs of the household.  I am not expected, and I
do not wish to make an untimely visit.  What are Mr. Bellingham's
habits as to his evening meal?  Would this be a convenient time to
call?"

"I generally make my evening visits a little later than this--say about
half-past eight; they have finished their meal by then."

"Ah!  Half-past eight, then?  Then I suppose I had better take a walk
until that time.  I don't want to disturb them."

"Would you care to come in and smoke a cigar until it is time to make
your call?  If you would, I could walk over with you and show you the
house."

"That is very kind of you," said my new acquaintance, with an
inquisitive glance at me through his spectacles.  "I think I should
like to sit down.  It's a dull affair, mooning about the streets, and
there isn't time to go back to my chambers--in Lincoln's Inn."

"I wonder," said I, as I ushered him into the room lately vacated by
Miss Oman, "if you happen to be Mr. Jellicoe."

He turned his spectacles full on me with a keen, suspicious glance.
"What makes you think I am Mr. Jellicoe?" he asked.

"Oh, only that you live in Lincoln's Inn."

"Ha!  I see.  I live in Lincoln's Inn; Mr. Jellicoe lives in Lincoln's
Inn; therefore I am Mr. Jellicoe.  Ha! ha!  Bad logic, but a correct
conclusion.  Yes, I am Mr. Jellicoe.  What do you know about me?"

"Mighty little, excepting that you were the late John Bellingham's man
of business."

"The '_late_ John Bellingham,' hey!  How do you know he is the late
John Bellingham?"

"As a matter of fact, I don't; only I rather understood that that was
your own belief."

"You understood!  Now from whom did you 'understand' that?  From
Godfrey Bellingham?  H'm!  And how did he know what I believe?  I never
told him.  It is a very unsafe thing, my dear sir, to expound another
man's beliefs."

"Then you think that John Bellingham is alive?"

"Do I?  Who said so?  I did not, you know."

"But he must be either dead or alive."

"There," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I am entirely with you.  You have stated
an undeniable truth."

"It is not a very illuminating one, however," I replied, laughing.

"Undeniable truths often are not," he retorted.  "They are apt to be
extremely general.  In fact, I would affirm that the certainty of the
truth of a given proposition is directly proportional to its
generality."

"I suppose that is so," said I.

"Undoubtedly.  Take an instance from your own profession.  Given a
million normal human beings under twenty, and you can say with
certainty that a majority of them will die before reaching a certain
age, that they will die in certain circumstances and of certain
diseases.  Then take a single unit from that million, and what can you
predict concerning him?  Nothing.  He may die to-morrow; he may live to
be a couple of hundred.  He may die of a cold in the head or a cut
finger, or from falling off the cross of St. Paul's.  In a particular
case you can predict nothing."

"That is perfectly true," said I.  And then realizing that I had been
led away from the topic of John Bellingham, I ventured to return to it.

"That was a very mysterious affair--the disappearance of John
Bellingham, I mean."

"Why mysterious?" asked Mr. Jellicoe.  "Men disappear from time to
time, and when they reappear, the explanations that they give (when
they give any) seem more or less adequate."

"But the circumstances were surely rather mysterious."

"What circumstances?" asked Mr. Jellicoe.

"I mean the way in which he vanished from Mr. Hurst's house."

"In what way did he vanish from it?"

"Well, of course, I don't know."

"Precisely.  Neither do I.  Therefore I can't say whether that way was
a mysterious one or not."

"It is not even certain that he did leave it," I remarked, rather
recklessly.

"Exactly," said Mr. Jellicoe.  "And if he did not, he is there still.
And if he is there still, he has not disappeared--in the sense
understood.  And if he has not disappeared, there is no mystery."

I laughed heartily, but Mr. Jellicoe preserved a wooden solemnity and
continued to examine me through his spectacles (which I, in my turn,
inspected and estimated at about minus five dioptres).  There was
something highly diverting about this grim lawyer, with his dry
contentiousness and almost farcical caution.  His ostentatious reserve
encouraged me to ply him with fresh questions, the more indiscreet the
better.

"I suppose," said I, "that, under these circumstances, you would hardly
favor Mr. Hurst's proposal to apply for permission to presume death?"

"Under what circumstances?" he inquired.

"I was referring to the doubt you have expressed as to whether John
Bellingham is, after all, really dead."

"My dear sir," said he, "I fail to see your point.  If it were certain
that the man was alive, it would be impossible to presume that he was
dead; and if it were certain that he was dead, presumption of death
would still be impossible.  You do not presume a certainty.  The
uncertainty is of the essence of the transaction."

"But," I persisted, "if you really believe that he may be alive, I
should hardly have thought that you would take the responsibility of
presuming his death and dispersing his property."

"I don't," said Mr. Jellicoe.  "I take no responsibility.  I act in
accordance with the decision of the Court and have no choice in the
matter."

"But the Court may decide that he is dead and he may nevertheless be
alive."

"Not at all.  If the Court decides that he is presumably dead, then he
is presumably dead.  As a mere irrelevant, physical circumstance he
may, it is true, be alive.  But legally speaking, and for testamentary
purposes, he is dead.  You fail to perceive the distinction, no doubt?"

"I am afraid I do," I admitted.

"Yes; the members of your profession usually do.  That is what makes
them such bad witnesses in a court of law.  The scientific outlook is
radically different from the legal.  The man of science relies on his
own knowledge and observation and judgment, and disregards testimony.
A man comes to you and tells you he is blind in one eye.  Do you accept
his statement?  Not in the least.  You proceed to test his eyesight
with some infernal apparatus of colored glasses, and you find that he
can see perfectly well with both eyes.  Then you decide that he is not
blind in one eye; that is to say, you reject his testimony in favor of
facts of your own ascertaining."

"But surely that is the rational method of coming to a conclusion?"

"In science, no doubt.  Not in law.  A court of law must decide
according to the evidence which is before it; and that evidence is of
the nature of sworn testimony.  If a witness is prepared to swear that
black is white and no evidence to the contrary is offered, the evidence
before the Court is that black is white, and the Court must decide
accordingly.  The judge and the jury may think otherwise--they may even
have private knowledge to the contrary--but they have to decide
according to the evidence."

"Do you mean to say that a judge would be justified in giving a
decision which he knew to be contrary to the facts?  Or that he might
sentence a man whom he knew to be innocent?"

"Certainly.  It has been done.  There is a case of a judge who
sentenced a man to death and allowed the execution to take place,
notwithstanding that he--the judge--had actually seen the murder
committed by another man.  But that was carrying correctness of
procedure to the verge of pedantry."

"It was, with a vengeance," I agreed.  "But to return to the case of
John Bellingham.  Supposing that after the Court has decided that he is
dead he should return alive?  What then?"

"Ah!  It would then be his turn to make an application, and the Court,
having fresh evidence laid before it, would probably decide that he was
alive."

"And meantime his property would have been dispersed?"

"Probably.  But you will observe that the presumption of death would
have arisen out of his own proceedings.  If a man acts in such a way as
to create a belief that he is dead, he must put up with the
consequences."

"Yes, that is reasonable enough," said I.  And then, after a pause, I
asked: "Is there any immediate likelihood of proceedings of the kind
being commenced?"

"I understood from what you said just now that Mr. Hurst was
contemplating some action of the kind.  No doubt you had your
information from a reliable quarter."  This answer Mr. Jellicoe
delivered without moving a muscle, regarding me with the fixity of a
spectacled figurehead.

I smiled feebly.  The operation of pumping Mr. Jellicoe was rather like
the sport of boxing with a porcupine, being chiefly remarkable as a
demonstration of the power of passive resistance.  I determined,
however, to make one more effort, rather, I think, for the pleasure of
witnessing his defensive maneuvers than with the expectation of getting
anything out of him.  I accordingly "opened out" on the subject of the
"remains."

"Have you been following these remarkable discoveries of human bones
that have been appearing in the papers?" I asked.

He looked at me stonily for some moments, and then replied:

"Human bones are rather more within your province than mine, but, now
that you mention it, I think I recall having read of some such
discoveries.  They were disconnected bones, I believe."

"Yes; evidently parts of a dismembered body."

"So I should suppose.  No, I have not followed the accounts.  As we get
on in life our interests tend to settle into grooves, and my groove is
chiefly connected with conveyancing.  These discoveries would be of
more interest to a criminal lawyer."

"I thought you might, perhaps, have connected them with the
disappearance of your client?"

"Why should I?  What could be the nature of the connection?"

"Well," I said, "these are the bones of a man----"

"Yes; and my client was a man with bones.  That is a connection,
certainly, though not a very specific or distinctive one.  But perhaps
you had something more particular in your mind?"

"I had," I replied.  "The fact that some of the bones were actually
found on land belonging to your client seemed to me rather significant."

"Did it, indeed?" said Mr. Jellicoe.  He reflected for a few moments,
gazing steadily at me the while, and then continued: "In that I am
unable to follow you.  It would have seemed to me that the finding of
human remains upon a certain piece of land might conceivably throw a
_prima facie_ suspicion upon the owner or occupant of the land as being
the person who deposited them.  But the case that you suggest is the
one case in which this would be impossible.  A man cannot deposit his
own dismembered remains."

"No, of course not.  I was not suggesting that he deposited them
himself, but merely that the fact of their being deposited on his land,
in a way, connected these remains with him."

"Again," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I fail to follow you, unless you are
suggesting that it is customary for murderers who mutilate bodies to be
punctilious in depositing the dismembered remains upon land belonging
to their victims.  In which case I am skeptical as to your facts.  I am
not aware of the existence of any such custom.  Moreover, it appears
that only a portion of the body was deposited on Mr. Bellingham's land,
the remaining portions having been scattered broadcast over a wide
area.  How does that agree with your suggestion?"

"It doesn't, of course," I admitted.  "But there is another fact that I
think you will admit to be more significant.  The first remains that
were discovered were found at Sidcup.  Now, Sidcup is close to Eltham;
and Eltham is the place where Mr. Bellingham was last seen alive."

"And what is the significance of this?  Why do you connect the remains
with one locality rather than the various other localities in which
other portions of the body were found?"

"Well," I replied, rather graveled by this very pertinent question,
"the appearances seem to suggest that the person who deposited these
remains started from the neighborhood of Eltham, where the missing man
was last seen."

Mr. Jellicoe shook his head.  "You appear," said he, "to be confusing
the order of deposition with the order of discovery.  What evidence is
there that the remains found at Sidcup were deposited before those
found elsewhere?"

"I don't know that there is any," I admitted.

"Then," said he, "I don't see how you support your suggestion that the
person started from the neighborhood of Eltham."

On consideration, I had to admit that I had nothing to offer in support
of my theory; and having thus shot my last arrow in this very unequal
contest, I thought it time to change the subje

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