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The Master Detective: Being Some Further Investigations of Christopher Quarles

by Percy James Brebner · English · Gutenberg #9796 · 516,200 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Master Detective: Being Some Further Investigations of Christopher Quarles

Author: Percy James Brebner


        
Release date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9796]
                Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MASTER DETECTIVE: BEING SOME FURTHER INVESTIGATIONS OF CHRISTOPHER QUARLES ***




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                         THE MASTER DETECTIVE

       _Being Some Further Investigations of Christopher Quarles_



                        BY PERCY JAMES BREBNER

                   AUTHOR OF "CHRISTOPHER QUARLES."

                                 1916




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

     I. THE STRANGE CASE OF SIR GRENVILLE RUSHOLM
    II. THE KIDNAPING OF EVA WILKINSON
   III. THE DELVERTON AFFAIR
    IV. THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE IN MANLEIGH ROAD
     V. THE DIFFICULTY OF BROTHER PYTHAGORAS
    VI. THE TRAGEDY IN DUKE'S MANSIONS
   VII. THE STOLEN AEROPLANE MODEL
  VIII. THE AFFAIR OF THE CONTESSA'S PEARLS
    IX. THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MADAME VATROTSKI
     X. THE MYSTERY OF THE MAN AT WARBURTON'S
    XI. THE STRANGE CASE OF DANIEL HARDIMAN
   XII. THE CRIME IN THE YELLOW TAXI
  XIII. THE AFFAIR OF THE JEWELED CHALICE
   XIV. THE ADVENTURE OF THE FORTY-TON YAWL
    XV. THE SOLUTION OF THE GRANGE PARK MYSTERY




THE MASTER DETECTIVE




CHAPTER I

THE STRANGE CASE OF SIR GRENVILLE RUSHOLM


Sir Grenville Rusholm, Baronet, was dead. The blinds were down at the
Lodge, Queen's Square. For the last few days lengthy obituary notices had
appeared in all the papers, innumerable wreaths and crosses had arrived
at the house, and letters of sympathy and condolence had poured in upon
Lady Rusholm. The dead man had filled a considerable space in the social
world, although politically he had counted for little. Politics were not
his metier, he had said. He had consistently refused to stand for
parliament, his wealth had supported neither party, and perhaps his
social success was due more to his wife's charm than to his own
importance.

To-day the funeral was to take place. By his own desire his body was not
being taken to Moorlands, the family seat in Gloucestershire, but was to
be buried at Woking. The family chapel did not appeal to him. Indeed, he
had never spent much of his time at Moorlands, preferring his yacht or
the Continent when he was not at Queen's Square.

Last night the coffin had been brought downstairs and placed in the large
drawing-room, the scene of many a brilliant function, although by day it
was a somewhat dreary apartment. The presence of the coffin there added
to the depression, and the scent of the flowers was almost overpowering.

Many of the mourners were going direct to Woking, but there was a large
number of guests at the house who were received by the young baronet.
Naturally, Sir Arthur was of a sunny disposition, and his personality and
expectations had made him a favorite in society since he had left
Cambridge a year ago. To-day his face was more than grave. It was drawn
as if he were in physical pain, and it was evident how keenly he felt his
father's death. Lady Rusholm did not appear until the undertakers entered
the house. She came down the wide stairs, a pathetic figure in her deep
mourning, heavier than present-day fashion has made customary. She spoke
to no one, but went straight to the drawing-room and, standing just
inside the doorway, watched the men whose business is with death, as if
she feared some indignity might be offered to her dear one. In a few
moments her husband must pass out of that room for ever, and it was
hardly wonderful if she visualized for an instant the many occasions on
which he had been a central figure there.

The bearers stooped to lift the coffin from the trestles on to their
shoulders, then they straightened themselves under their burden, but they
did not move, at least only to start slightly, while their faces changed
from gravity to horror. Lady Rusholm uttered a short cry, and there was
consternation in the faces of the guests in the hall. There could be no
mistake; the sound, though dull and muffled, was too loud for that. It
was a knock from inside the coffin.

The man in charge whispered to the bearers. No, none of them had
inadvertently caused the sound. The coffin was replaced on the trestles,
and for a moment there was silence. No one moved; every one was waiting
for that knock again. It did not come.

The chief man stood looking at the coffin, then at the carpet, and, after
some hesitation, he crossed the room to Sir Arthur, who stood in the
doorway beside his mother.

"Was--was anything put into the coffin?" he whispered. "Something which
Sir Grenville wished buried with him, something which may have slipped?"

"No."

"I think--I think the coffin should be opened," whispered Dr. Coles, the
family physician.

"But he is dead! You know he is dead, doctor!"

"A trance--sometimes a mistake may happen, Sir Arthur. It was a distinct
knock. The coffin should certainly be opened."

"And quickly--quickly!"

It was Lady Rusholm who spoke, in a strained and unnatural voice.

Sir Arthur tried to persuade his mother to leave the room while this
was done, but she would not go. With a great effort she calmed herself
and remained with her son, the doctor, and two or three guests while
the coffin was unscrewed. The lid was lifted off, and for a moment no
one spoke.

"Empty!" the doctor cried.

As he spoke Lady Rusholm swayed backwards, and would have fallen had not
her son caught her.

There were two masses of lead in the coffin. There was no body.

Sir Arthur Rusholm immediately communicated with Scotland Yard, and the
utter confusion which followed this gruesome discovery had only partially
subsided when I, Murray Wigan, entered the house to enquire into a
mystery which was certainly amongst the most remarkable I have ever had
to investigate.

Some of those invited to the funeral had left the house before I
arrived, but the more personal friends were still there, and the story
as I have set it down was corroborated by different people with a wealth
of detail which seemed to leave nothing unsaid. Besides interviewing Sir
Arthur and the doctor, I saw Lady Rusholm for a few moments. She was
exceedingly agitated, as was natural, and I only asked her one or two
questions of a quite unimportant nature, but I was glad to see her. I
like to get into personal touch with the various people connected with
my cases as soon as possible.

I was in the house two hours or more, questioning servants, examining
doors and windows, and, to be candid, my investigations told me little.
When I left Queen's Square I knew I had a complex affair to deal with,
and it was natural my thoughts should fly to the one man who might help
me. If I could only interest Christopher Quarles in the case!

I remember speaking casually of a well-known person once and being met
with the question: Who is he? It may be that some of you have never heard
of Christopher Quarles, professor of philosophy, and one of the most
astute crime investigators of this or any other time. It has been my
privilege to chronicle some of our adventures together, and his help has
been of infinite benefit to me. Without it, not only should I have failed
to elucidate some of those mysteries the solving of which have made me a
power in the detective force, but I should never have seen his
granddaughter, Zena, who is shortly to become my wife.

For some months past the professor had given me no assistance at all.
He would not be interested in my cases, and would not enter the empty
room in his house in Chelsea where we had had so many discussions. It
was a fad of his that he could think more clearly in this room, which
had only three chairs and an old writing table in it, yet perhaps I
ought not to call it a fad, remembering the results of some of our
consultations there.

Months ago we had investigated a curious case in which jewels had been
concealed in a wooden leg. The solution had brought us a considerable
reward, and upon receiving the money Quarles had declared he would
investigate no more crimes. He had kept his word, had locked up the empty
room, and although I think I had sorely tempted him to break his vow on
more than one occasion, I had never quite succeeded.

As I got into a taxi I considered how very seldom it is that the ruling
passion ever dies. The Queen's Square mystery ought to shake Quarles's
resolution if anything could.

Zena was out when I got to Chelsea, but the professor seemed pleased
to see me.

"Are you out of work, Wigan?" he asked, looking at the clock.

I did not want him to think I had come with any deliberate intention, so
I answered casually:

"No. As a fact I am rather busy. I came out to Chelsea to think. Chelsea
air is rather good for thinking, you know."

"It used to be," he answered. "I'm glad I have given up criminal
hunting, Wigan."

"I still find excitement in it," I answered carelessly, "and really I
think criminals have grown cleverer since your time."

He looked at me sharply. I thought the remark would pique his curiosity.

"That means you have had some failures lately."

"On the contrary, I have been remarkably successful."

"Glad to hear it," he returned. "What makes you say criminals are more
clever then?"

"The Queen's Square Mystery."

"I don't read the papers as carefully as I did," he remarked.

"It only happened this morning," I answered. "I daresay you noticed that
Sir Grenville Rusholm died the other day. Some one has stolen his body,
that is all."

"Stolen his--"

"Yes, it is rather a curious case, but we won't talk about it. I know
that sort of thing doesn't interest you now."

I talked of other things--anything and everything--but I noted that he
was restless and uninterested.

"What did Sir Grenville die of?" he asked suddenly.

"A sudden and most unexpected collapse after influenza."

"And the body has been stolen?"

"Yes."

"I should like to hear about it, Wigan."

I hesitated until he began to get angry, and then I told him the story as
I have told it here. I had just finished when Zena came in.

"You, Murray! What has brought you here at this hour of the day?" she
asked in astonishment.

"Two pieces of lead," murmured Quarles.

"A case! Have you got interested in a case, dear? I am glad. What is the
mystery, Murray?"

"Where is the key of my room, Zena?" Quarles asked.

She took it from the drawer in a cabinet.

"I am not going to begin again," said the professor, "but this--this
is an exception. Come with us, Zena. Come and ask some of your absurd
questions. I wonder whether my brain is atrophied. There are cleverer
criminals than there used to be in my time, are there, Wigan? We
shall see."

He led the way to the empty room at the back of the house, muttering to
himself the while, and Zena and I smiled at each other behind his back as
we followed him. He was like an old dog on the trail again, and I did not
believe for a moment this case would be an exception.

"Tell the story, Wigan," he said when we were seated. "All the details,
mind, great and small."

So I went through the facts again.

"I made a careful study of the house and garden," I went on. "The Lodge
is a corner house, the garden is small, and a garage with an opening into
the other road--Connaught Road--has been built there. A 'Napier' car was
in the garage."

"Did you see the chauffeur?" asked Quarles.

"Yes. The car had not been used for a week. I could find no trace of an
entry having been made from the garden, but the latch of one of the
French windows of the drawing-room was unfastened. When I saw it this
window could be pushed open from outside. No one seems to have undone it
that morning, so the fact is significant."

Quarles nodded.

"Besides the servants only five people slept in the house that
night--Lady Rusholm, her son, two elderly ladies--cousins of Sir
Grenville's who had come from Yorkshire for the funeral--and a Mr.
Thompson, a friend of the family who was staying in the house when Sir
Grenville died."

"Who closed the windows after the body was taken to the drawing-room?"
asked Quarles.

"One of the undertaker's men."

"Is he positive he fastened them?"

"He is, but under the circumstances he is not anxious to swear to it."

"And the door of the room, had that been kept locked?"

"Yes. The key was in Sir Arthur's possession."

"Who first entered the room this morning?"

"Sir Arthur when he took in two or three wreaths which arrived late last
night. The room was just as it had been left on the previous day. The
wreaths and crosses were not disarranged in any way."

"And there were only two pieces of lead in the coffin when it was
opened?" queried Zena.

"A large lump and a small one," I answered.

"Couldn't they have been packed in such a way that they would not
have slipped?"

"Of course they could. No doubt that was the intention, but the work was
badly done because the thieves did it hurriedly," I answered.

"One of your foolish questions, Zena," said Quarles, looking keenly at
her. He always declared that her foolish inquiries put him on the
right road.

"It is a good thing the lead did slip, or the gruesome theft might never
have been discovered," she said.

"Was the coffin a very elaborate one?" Quarles asked, after nodding an
acquiescence to Zena's remark.

"No, quite a plain one."

"Has the drawing-room more than one door?"

"Only one into the hall. There is a small room out of the
drawing-room--a small drawing-room in fact. Lady Rusholm does her
correspondence there. It can only be reached by going through the large
room, and the door between the rooms was locked. Sir Arthur got the key
from his mother and opened the door for me."

"What could any one want with a dead body?" asked Zena.

"If we could answer that question we should be nearing the end of the
affair," said Quarles. "Years ago there were two men--Burke and
Hare--who--"

"Oh, the day of resurrectionists is past," I said.

"Don't be so dogmatic," returned Quarles sharply. "A corpse has been
stolen; can you suggest any use a corpse can be put to if it is not to
serve some anatomical or medical purpose? Remember, Wigan, that mentally
and materially there is always a tendency to move in a circle. What has
been will be again--altered according to environment--but practically the
same. Always start with the assumption that a similar case has happened
before. Our difficulties would be much greater if Solomon had been wrong,
and there were constantly new things under the sun. Undoubtedly there are
some interesting points in this case. Have you arrived at a theory?"

"No, at least only a very vague one. Sir Arthur seems certain that his
father had no enemies, and my theory would require an enemy; some one
who, having failed to injure him in life, had found an opportunity of
wreaking vengeance on the dead clay by preventing the body having
Christian burial."

"That is a very interesting idea, Wigan; go on."

"I daresay you remember that the Rusholm baronetcy caused some excitement
about twenty years ago. The papers have recalled it in connection with
Sir Grenville's death. Sir John Rusholm--the baronet at that time--was a
very old man, and during the two years before his death several relations
died. He had no son living, so the heir was a nephew, the son of a much
younger brother who had gone to Australia and died there. This nephew had
not been heard of for a long time, and as soon as he became the heir, Sir
John advertised for him in the Australian papers. There was no answer,
and the Yorkshire Rusholms, who are poor, expected to inherit. Then at
the very time when Sir John was on his death-bed news came of the nephew.
He had been in India for some years, had proposed there, had married and
had a son. There had been so many lives between him and the title that he
had thought nothing about it until a chance acquaintance had shown him
the advertisement in an old Australian paper. He wrote that he was
starting for England at once, but Sir John was dead when he arrived. That
is how Sir Grenville came into the property."

"Was his claim disputed?" asked Zena.

"Oh, no, there was no question about it. He had family papers which only
the nephew could possibly have, and you may depend the Yorkshire Rusholms
would have found a flaw in the title if they could. Their disappointment
must have been great, and if I could discover that Sir Grenville had an
enemy amongst them--some relation he had refused to help, for instance--I
should want to know all about him."

"Yours is a very interesting idea," said Quarles. "Do you happen to know
who Lady Rusholm was?"

"The daughter of a tea planter in Ceylon. Her social success here has
been very great, as you know."

"A very charming woman I should say," said the professor. "I saw her
once--not many months ago. She was distributing the prizes at a technical
institute in North London. I remember how well she spoke, and what an
exceedingly poor second the chairman was in spite of his being a Member
of Parliament. You have got a constable at The Lodge, I suppose?"

"Two. I have given instructions that no one is to be allowed in the room,
on any pretext whatever."

"Good. You and I will go there to-morrow. I'll be your assistant,
Wigan--say an expert in finger prints. I'll meet you outside The Lodge at
ten o'clock. There are so many clues in this case, the difficulty is to
know which one to follow, I must have a few quiet hours to decide."

I smiled. It was like Quarles to make such a statement, especially after
I had declared that criminals were becoming cleverer. Never were clues
more conspicuous by their absence, I imagine. I was, however, delighted
to have the professor's help. It was like old times.

The next morning I met Quarles in Queen's Square, and his appearance was
proof of his enthusiasm. He posed as rather a feeble, inquisitive old man
who could talk of nothing but finger prints and their significance. Sir
Arthur was evidently not impressed with his ability to solve any mystery.
When we entered the drawing-room he seemed lost in admiration of the
apartment, and did not even glance at the open coffin which stood on the
trestles. He walked to the window, drew aside the blind, and looked into
the garden. Then he looked into the small room.

"No other exit here but the window. An entrance might have been made by
that window."

"The door between the two rooms was locked," said Sir Arthur. "I had to
get the key from my mother when Mr. Wigan wanted to go in. It is my
mother's special room, but she had been so occupied in nursing my father
that she had not used it for more than a week."

Then Quarles looked at the wreaths, wanted to know which ones had been
left near the coffin when the room was locked for the night, and the
wreaths which Sir Arthur pointed out he examined carefully. Then he
pointed to a large cross lying on an armchair.

"Has that one been there all the time?"

Sir Arthur explained that two or three wreaths had come late in the
evening. He had himself brought them into the room on the morning of the
funeral. That cross was one of them.

"Ah, it is a pity you didn't bring them in that night. You might have
surprised the villains at work."

"We were in bed by eleven. Do you imagine they began before that?"

"Possibly," said Quarles, as he turned his attention to the coffin. He
examined the lid with a lens, for the finger marks, he said, which one
might expect to find near the screw holes. Then he studied the sides of
the coffin. The two pieces of lead did not appear to interest him very
much, but he asked me to push the smaller piece from the foot of the
coffin. He examined the lining, felt the padding, tried its thickness
with the point of a penknife, and in doing so he slit the lining.

"Sorry," he said. "My old hands are not as steady as they used to be.
Quite a thick padding, and quite a substantial coffin."

He had brought out some of the padding with his knife, and this left part
of the floor of the coffin near the foot visible. This he tapped with the
handle of his penknife to test its thickness.

"Quite an ordinary coffin--plain but good," he went on, looking at the
brass fittings.

"It was my father's wish that it should be so," said Sir Arthur.

"Strange what a lot of trouble some men take about their funerals,
while others never trouble at all," said the professor, looking round
the room again. "I suppose, Sir Arthur, like the rest of us your father
had enemies."

"Not that I know of."

"An old rival, for instance, in your mother's affections."

"There was nothing of the kind. Mr. Thompson, who is still in the
house--you saw him yesterday, Mr. Wigan--will endorse this. He knew my
mother before her marriage."

"Still, some people must have envied your father. But for him, another
branch of the family would have inherited the estates, I understand. Has
he always been on friendly terms with this branch of the family?"

"Always, and has helped them considerably."

"Experience teaches us that it is often the most difficult thing to
forgive those who do us favors," said Quarles sententiously.

"Do you believe that some one out of wanton cruelty has stolen the body
with no purpose beyond mere revenge?"

"It looks like it, Sir Arthur. The body will probably be discovered
presently. Possibly the thief will furnish you with a clue so that you
may know he or she has taken revenge. I am afraid there is nothing to be
done but to wait. I feel greatly for Lady Rusholm."

"The waiting will be dreadful. I am trying to persuade my mother to go
away at once."

"Why not? You will remain in London, of course. Your father's papers may
throw some light on the mystery."

"I have interviewed lawyers, and I have already gone through some of his
private papers. I do not think any light will come that way. Do you want
to look at anything else in the house?"

"I think not," I said.

"My specialty is finger prints," said Quarles, "nothing else. In this
case my specialty has proved useless." When we left the house Quarles
turned toward Connaught Road.

"Is it your real opinion that the only thing to do is to wait?" I asked.

"Let's go and see if we can find any more finger prints," he chuckled.

The garage was shut. Cut into the big gates was a small door.

"Not a difficult lock," said Quarles. "I may have a key that will fit it.
We must get in somehow."

"There is a door into the garage from the garden. We could have gone
that way."

"And advertised ourselves to the servants. I wanted to avoid that."

He found a key to open the door, and he made no pretense of looking for
finger prints now. He examined the car. It was a big one--open--with a
cape hood--capable of carrying five or six persons besides the driver.
He was interested in the seating accommodation, and the make of the car
generally. There was a window which had a shutter to it high up in the
garage looking into the side road, and a small window at the back
looking into the garden which had no shutter. Quarles got on a stool to
examine the frame of this window, and then inspected the cloths for
cleaning and the towels which were in the garage.

"Come on. The interest of this place is soon exhausted," he said.

In less than a quarter of an hour we were walking along Connaught
Road again.

"By the way, what is Dr. Coles's address?" asked Quarles.

I gave it to him. It was a turning off Connaught Road.

"I shall go and see him, and then I have a call to make elsewhere. Come
to Chelsea to-night, Wigan. Take my word for it, criminals are no
cleverer than they used to be."

When I went to Chelsea that evening I found the professor and Zena
waiting for me in the empty room. He was evidently impatient to talk.

"My brain may possibly require oiling, Wigan, but Zena's questions are
just as absurd as they ever were," he began. "She wanted to know why the
lead had been packed so carelessly, and what use a dead body could be to
any one. No bad points of departure for an inquiry. Now, when the coffin
was opened after the knock had been heard, a little sawdust from the
screw holes fell on the carpet. It was there when we went into the room
this morning. We may reasonably argue that some sawdust must have fallen
when the coffin was opened during the night. But no one seems to have
noticed it."

"It might easily have escaped casual notice even if the thieves neglected
to remove it, which is unlikely," I returned.

"It would not be so easy to remove, for the carpet is a thick one, and
the thieves would be in a hurry, you know. Also there were wreaths about
and I could find no trace of sawdust in them. But further, the screw
holes show a clear, perfect thread which one would hardly expect if the
coffin had been opened and closed again. Small points, but they promote
speculation. Yesterday, before I met you in Queen's Square, I went to see
the undertakers, and the man who was in charge of the arrangements says
emphatically that there was no sign of the coffin having been opened. A
little sawdust was the first thing he looked for."

"Are you trying to prove that the lead was already in the coffin when it
was taken to the drawing-room?" I asked.

"No. I am only trying to show that it is doubtful whether the coffin was
opened in the drawing-room."

"The change could not have been made in the bedroom, or the lead would
have slipped during the journey downstairs," I said.

"I agree, and we are therefore forced to the assumption that the body was
actually carried to the drawing-room, yet we are doubtful whether the
coffin was opened there."

"I have no doubt," I returned.

"That is a mistake on your part, Wigan. Doubts are often the forerunners
of convictions. My doubt led me to a curious discovery. When I went to
the undertaker's I saw the men who actually made the coffin. It was a
very plain coffin, less expensive than might have been expected for a man
in Sir Grenville's position. Now one of the men, in answer to a careful
question or two, mentioned a curious fact. In the floor of the coffin,
close to the foot of it, there was a wart in the wood. This morning you
saw me slit the lining and remove some of the padding. There was no wart
in the floor of the coffin, Wigan."

"You mean the coffins were changed?" said Zena.

"I do. One with the body in it was removed, and another with lead in it
was placed on the trestles in its stead. The plainer the coffin the
easier it would be to duplicate it by description. The makers of the
second coffin would not have the original before them to copy, you must
remember."

"But only Lady Rusholm and her son could possess the necessary knowledge
to give such a duplicate order," I said.

"You forget Mr. Thompson. He was an intimate friend, and staying in the
house at the time."

"I do not understand why the lead was not packed securely," said Zena.

"It puzzles me," said Quarles. "I could only find one answer. It was such
an obvious blunder that it must have been intentional. The lumps of lead
endorsed this idea. Whilst the large piece was flat and difficult to
move, the small piece was like a ball and meant to roll and strike the
side the moment the coffin was moved. It was presumably necessary that
the theft should be discovered, and your ingenious idea of a revengeful
enemy appealed to me, Wigan. I elaborated the idea to Sir Arthur, you
will remember."

I had nothing to say--no fault to find with his argument so far. Quarles
rather enjoyed my silence, I fancy.

"Sir Arthur unconsciously gave me a great deal of information," he went
on. "First, it was curious that the wreaths which came that night should
be left in the hall. It would have been more natural to place them in
the drawing-room. Why were they not put there? It looked as if there were
a desire not to open the room again. Another wreath might have come later
when it would have been very inconvenient to open the door, and not to
have put the other wreath into the room might have caused comment in the
light of after events. Again, influenza is a fairly common complaint, and
Sir Grenville died of a sudden and unexpected collapse; yet Sir Arthur
said it was by his father's desire that the coffin was plain. A man
suffering from influenza does not expect to die, and it seemed strange to
me that he should arrange details of his funeral. By itself it is not a
very important point, since Sir Grenville's wishes may have been known
for a long time, but almost in the same breath, emphasis was laid on the
fact that Lady Rusholm had not used the small room out of the
drawing-room for more than a week. Why not? There was absolutely no
reason why she should not continue to do her correspondence there, since
her husband was not seriously ill and could not require constant nursing.
I think an excuse was wanted for locking up that room, and I believe you
will find that none of the servants have entered the room during this
period, and that the blind has been down all the time. I believe the
duplicate coffin was hidden there."

"But how was the duplicate coffin got into the house?" asked Zena.

"In much the same way as the real coffin was got out of it, I imagine.
You remember the arrangement of the motor, Wigan; its size and swivel
seats give ample room to put the coffin on the floor of the car. In the
dead of night the coffin was carried across the garden, placed in the car
and driven away. On some previous night the same car had driven away and
brought back the duplicate coffin."

"The chauffeur said the car had not been out for a week," I said.

"So far as he knew," Quarles returned. "It was cleaned afterwards. There
is a shutter to the window in Connaught Road, and over the window looking
into the garden one of the towels had been nailed, clumsily, and with
large nails which were still on a shelf. I found the towel with the nail
holes in it."

"Where was the body taken?" asked Zena.

"That I do not know."

"And what was the use of it to any one?"

"Ah, I think I can answer that," said Quarles. "I had an interesting talk
with Dr. Coles after I left you to-day, Wigan. He told me he was not
altogether surprised at Sir Grenville's sudden collapse. The attack of
influenza was comparatively slight, but when Mr. Thompson arrived
unexpectedly from India it was evident to the doctor that he had brought
bad news. Both Sir Grenville and his wife were worried. Coles says Sir
Grenville was a man of a nervous temperament, who would have been utterly
lost without his wife. The doctor believes the sudden worry occasioned
the collapse."

"He had no suspicion of suicide, I suppose?"

"As a matter of form I put the question to him. I even suggested the
possibility of foul play. He scouted both ideas, and enlarged upon the
affectionate relations which existed between husband and wife. He
imagined the trouble had something to do with financial affairs. To-day,
you will remember, Wigan, Sir Arthur spoke about his mother going away.
That is not quite in keeping with the rest of her actions. We have ample
testimony and proof that Lady Rusholm is courageous and resourceful. Dr.
Coles is greatly impressed with her character; her personality appealed
to me when I heard her speak at the technical institute. She would be
present when the undertakers were removing the body, which is not
customary. She remained while the coffin was opened, and although she
apparently fainted--it was her son who caught her, remember--she saw you
soon afterwards. It seems to me two questions naturally ask themselves.
What was the ill news Mr. Thompson brought from India? Was Lady Rusholm
prepared for that knock from the coffin?"

"We are becoming speculative, indeed," I said.

"Are we? Consider for a moment the amount of evidence we have that the
theft of the body could only be contrived with the knowledge and help of
Lady Rusholm, her son, or Mr. Thompson; or, which is more likely, by the
connivance of all three. Then try to imagine their purpose. What use
could they make of a dead body? Why take such trouble that the theft
should be discovered?"

"We have not accumulated enough facts to tell us," I answered.

"I think we may indulge in a guess," said Quarles. "Sir Grenville, on his
own showing, had not expected to come into the title. Has it occurred to
you, Wigan, how exceedingly complete his claim was? Every possible doubt
seems to have been considered and arranged for. It was almost too
complete. Now, supposing Sir Grenville was not really Sir Grenville
Rusholm, supposing he had acquired the family knowledge and papers from
the real man--when that man was dying, perhaps--and in due time used
them to claim the estates. For about twenty years he has enjoyed the
result of his fraud, his intimate friend, Mr. Thompson, being in his
confidence, and very likely receiving some of the spoil. Suddenly Mr.
Thompson learns that some one else knows the secret, and hurries to
England to warn Sir Grenville."

"But why steal the body?" asked Zena.

"On leaving Dr. Coles, Wigan, I went to see Professor Sayle, who, with
the exception of the German physician Hauptmann, probably knows more
about oriental diseases and medicine than any man living. He proved to me
that it is possible by means of a certain vegetable drug to produce
apparent death. Fakirs often use it. The ordinary medical man would
certainly be deceived. Ultimately actual death would ensue were not the
antidote to the drug administered, but the suspension of life will
continue for a considerable time."

"It is pure speculation," I said.

"We have got to explain the theft of a dead body. I explain it by saying
there was no dead body," said Quarles sharply, as if I were denying a
self-evident fact. "I go still further. Judging by Coles's description of
the man calling himself Sir Grenville, I doubt his courage for carrying
through either the original fraud or the plan of escape. I believe his
wife was the moving spirit throughout, and it is quite possible the drug
was administered without her husband's knowledge."

"And where is the body now?" asked Zena.

"I do not know, but you tempt me to guesswork. Sir Grenville was a keen
yachtsman, and probably he is on board his yacht still resting in his
coffin, waiting for his wife to bring the antidote to the drug. His son
and Mr. Thompson took the body that night in the car. There must have
been two of them to deal with the burden, for I imagine the yacht had no
crew on her at the time. They would hardly take others into their
confidence. As everything had to be accomplished between eleven o'clock
at night and before dawn the next day, I imagine the yacht was lying
somewhere in the Thames estuary. I grant this is guesswork, Wigan."

"I do not see why it was necessary the theft should become known," I
said.

"It would occasion delay in the settlement of the estate. It placed
difficulties in the way of the rightful heir, It would help to throw a
distinct doubt whether, in spite of all the evidence that might be
forthcoming, Sir Grenville had committed fraud. There was even a
possibility that the son might be left in possession after all. I daresay
we shall learn more when we tackle Lady Rusholm and her son to-morrow."

When we went to Queen's Square next morning we found that Lady Rusholm
was gone. She had, in fact, already gone when her son told us he was
trying to persuade her to go. Mr. Thompson had left later in the day.

We found that even Quarles's guesswork was very near the actual facts,
although he had hardly given Lady Rusholm sufficient credit for the
working out of the scheme. The real heir, Sir John's nephew, had died in
Ceylon before Baxter--that was Sir Grenville's real name--had married. On
his death-bed he had entrusted his papers to Baxter to send to England,
and Baxter had shown them to his future wife. The scheme came full grown
into her head. They left Ceylon to meet again in India, and there they
were married, Baxter giving his name as Grenville Rusholm. Thompson was
their only confidant. He could not be left out because he had known all
about Rusholm. There was one other who knew, but they believed him to be
dead. He was a wanderer, somewhat of a ne'er-do-well, and to Thompson's
consternation, after twenty years, he had turned up in Calcutta very much
alive. He was going to England to expose the fraud. He did not suspect
Thompson, who came to England first.

All this we heard from the son who for a short hour or two had called
himself Sir Arthur Rusholm. He was able to prove quite conclusively that
he was in entire ignorance of the fraud until Thompson's arrival. His
mother confessed everything to him then. It was she who had planned how
to get out of the difficulty. The duplicate coffin had been made at
Harwich, for a yachtsman who was to be taken abroad to be buried, they
had explained, but it was brought to Queen's Square and hidden in the
small drawing-room as Quarles had surmised. It was only to spare his
mother and father that the son had entered into the scheme, and I fancy
Quarles was a little annoyed that he had not suspected this.

Mrs. Baxter was not caught. Indeed, there were many people who
disbelieved the whole story of the fraud, even when the man who knew
arrived from India--a very strong proof of Mrs. Baxter's charm and
personality. I have heard from her son that she is in South America, and
that her husband is not dead. So far as I am aware the new baronet has
taken no steps to bring them to justice.

As Quarles says, she is a genius, and it would be a thousand pities if
she were in prison.




CHAPTER II

THE KIDNAPING OF EVA WILKINSON


The Queen's Square affair seemed to have exhausted Quarles's enthusiasm.
I tried to interest him in several cases without success, and I began to
think we really had done our last work together, when on his own
initiative he mentioned Ewart Wilkinson to me. He had a personal interest
in the man; I had only just heard his name.

The multi-millionaire is not such a figure in this country as he is in
America, but Ewart Wilkinson was undoubtedly on the American scale. He
had made his money abroad, how or exactly where remained matters of
uncertainty, and if one were inclined to believe the stories told in
irresponsible journals, there must have been much in the past which he
found it wiser not to talk about. With such tales I have nothing to do. I
never met the millionaire, was, in fact, quite uninterested in him until
his wealth was concerned in a case which came into my hands.

With Christopher Quarles it was different. For a few days on one occasion
he had stayed in the same house with the millionaire in Scotland, and had
been impressed with him. Wilkinson was rough, but a diamond under the
rough, according to Quarles. He may have had his own ideas of what
constituted legitimate business, but whatever his shortcomings, the
professor found in him a vein of sentiment which was attractive. He had
a passion for his only daughter which appealed to Quarles, partly, no
doubt, because it made him think of Zena, and there was a strain of
melancholy in him which made him apprehensive that his wealth would not
be altogether for his daughter's good. He had talked in this way to
Quarles. For all we knew to the contrary, conscience may have been
pricking him, but the fact remained that he was prophetic.

Wherever and in whatever way Ewart Wilkinson made his money, he
undoubtedly had it. He rented a house in Mayfair, and purchased
Whiteladies in Berkshire. The Elizabethan house, built on to the partial
ruins of an old castle, has no doubt attracted many of you when motoring
through South Berkshire. Having bought a beautiful home, he looked for a
beautiful wife to put in it. Perhaps she was in the nature of a purchase,
too, for he married Miss Lavory, the only daughter of Sir Miles Lavory,
Bart., who put his pride in his pocket when he consented to an alliance
with mere millions. It was said that Miss Lavory was driven into the
match, but however this may be, Ewart Wilkinson proved a devoted husband,
and his wife had ten years of a happy married life in the midst of
luxury. She died when her daughter was eight.

For ten years after her mother's death Eva Wilkinson and her father were
hardly ever separated, and then Ewart Wilkinson died suddenly. He left
practically the whole of his vast fortune to his daughter; and her uncle,
Mrs. Wilkinson's brother Michael, who had recently succeeded his father
in the baronetcy, was left her guardian. There was a curious clause in
the will. Wilkinson, possibly because one or two cases had happened in
America at the time the will was made--half a dozen years before his
death--seemed particularly afraid that the heiress might be kidnaped,
and her guardian was enjoined to watch over her in this respect
especially. Within six months of his death the very thing he feared
happened. Eva Wilkinson was at Whiteladies at the time with her
companion, Mrs. Reville. After dinner one evening she went alone on to
the terrace, and from that moment had entirely disappeared. A telegram
was sent that night to Sir Michael, who was in London, Scotland Yard was
informed, and the mystery was given me to solve.

I had commenced my inquiries when on going to Chelsea in the evening
Quarles told me he had met Ewart Wilkinson about three years before, and
under the circumstances he was very interested in the mystery.

"The fact that he was afraid of something happening to his daughter
suggests that he had some reason for his fear," I said.

"It does, Wigan--it does! He mentioned this very thing to me three
years ago, and I thought then there was some one in his past of whom he
was afraid."

"And his past seems to be a closed book," I returned.

"Eva Wilkinson must be between eighteen and nineteen," Zena
remarked. "Kidnaping a girl of that age is a different thing from
kidnaping a child."

"True!" said Quarles.

"Isn't it more probable that she went away willingly?" said Zena.

"You don't help me, my dear," said the professor with a frown, and the
suggestion seemed to irritate him. It stuck in his mind, however, for
when we went to see Sir Michael the idea was evidently behind his
first question.

"Is there any love affair?" asked Quarles. "Any reason which might
possibly induce the girl to go away of her own accord?"

The suggestion seemed to bring a ray of hope into Sir Michael's despair.

"I think she is too sensible a girl to do anything of the kind, but there
was a little affair, not very serious on her side, I fancy, and there was
probably a desire for money on the man's part. Young Cayley has seen Eva
at intervals since they were children, but in her father's lifetime there
was no question of love. Directly after Wilkinson's death, however,
Edward Cayley came prominently on the scene. I talked to Eva about him,
and although she was inclined to be angry, I think it was rather with
herself than at my interference."

"Cayley is quite a poor man, I presume?" said Quarles.

"Yes; but that did not influence me. He is not the kind of man I should
like my niece to marry. Oh! I have nothing definite against him."

"May I ask whether, as guardian, you have control over your niece's
choice?" I asked.

"Until she is twenty-one, after that none at all," he answered. "If she
marries without my consent before she is of age, I am empowered to
distribute a million of money to certain specified hospitals and
charities. She has only to wait until she is twenty-one to do exactly as
she likes. It was my brother-in-law's way of ensuring that his daughter
should not act with undue haste. Perhaps, for my own sake, I ought to
explain that in no way, nor under any circumstances, can I benefit under
the will. When my sister married Mr. Wilkinson, he behaved very
generously to my father, paying off the mortgages on our estate; in
short, delivered us from a very difficult position. Naturally, we never
expected any place in the will, but I hear the omission has caused some
people to speculate, and now that this has happened there may be people
who will speculate about me personally."

"You certainly have a very complete answer," I returned. "What is your
own opinion of your niece's disappearance?"

"I think she has been kidnaped, possibly for the sake of ransom, possibly
because--" and then he paused for a moment. "You know Mr. Wilkinson was
afraid of this very thing?"

"Three years ago he mentioned it to me," said Quarles.

"You knew him, then?"

"I was staying in the same house with him in Scotland; his daughter was
not there. Such a fear, Sir Michael, suggests something in the past,
something Mr. Wilkinson kept to himself."

"I do not know of anything," was the answer. "Of course, I have seen
paragraphs in scandalous journals concerning his wealth, but I knew Ewart
Wilkinson extremely well. He was, and always has been, I am convinced, a
perfectly straightforward man."

This conversation took place early on the morning following the night of
Eva Wilkinson's disappearance, and afterwards Sir Michael journeyed down
with us to Whiteladies. The local police were already scouring the
country, and under intelligent supervision had accomplished a great deal
of the spade work. I may just state the facts as far as they were known.

Mrs. Reville, who was in the drawing-room when the girl went out on the
terrace, had heard nothing. A quarter of an hour or twenty minutes later
she went out herself with the intention of telling Eva that she ought to
put on a wrap. The girl was nowhere to be seen, and calling brought no
answer. Becoming alarmed, Mrs. Reville summoned the servants, and their
search proving fruitless, she had a telegram sent to Sir Michael. When I
questioned her with regard to Cayley, she was sure there was nothing
serious in the affair. He certainly could have had nothing to do with
Eva's disappearance, she declared, for he had gone to Paris two days
before. Since Sir Michael had spoken to Eva about him he had hardly
visited Whiteladies at all.

The servants had searched everywhere--in the house, in the grounds, and
in the ruins, and later the police had gone over the same ground, and
had searched everywhere on the estate; not a sign of the missing girl
had been found. A footman, however, said he had heard a motor-car in the
road about the time of the disappearance. He had listened, wondering who
was coming to Whiteladies at that hour. The house stood in one corner of
the estate, and there was a public road quite close to it, but it was a
road little frequented. The marks of a car, which had stopped and turned
at a point near the house, were plainly visible, and so far this was the
only clue forthcoming. It proved an important one, because a tramp was
found by the police who had seen a closed car traveling at a great speed
toward the London road. The time, which he was able to fix very
definitely, was about a quarter of an hour after Eva Wilkinson had gone
on to the terrace.

"Has the tramp been detained?" Quarles asked, and being answered in the
negative, said he ought to have been.

The professor examined the marks of the car minutely. There were two cars
at Whiteladies, but neither of the tire markings were those of the car
which had turned in the road.

It is only natural, I suppose, that when a number of persons are brought
in contact with a mystery their behavior should tend to become unnatural.
It is one of a detective's chief difficulties to determine between
innocent and suspicious actions, the latter being often the result of
temperament or of a desire to emphasize innocence. I never found a
decision more difficult than in the case of Eva Wilkinson's maid, a girl
named Joan Perry; and because I could not decide in her case I was also
suspicious of her young man Saunders, a gamekeeper on the estate. Joan
Perry, a little later in the day, claimed to have made a remarkable
discovery. A coat and skirt and a pair of walking shoes had been removed
from her mistress's wardrobe.

"What made you inspect her wardrobe?" I asked.

The question seemed to confuse her, but she finally said it was because
she wondered whether Miss Eva had gone away on purpose. According to
Perry the affair with Edward Cayley was a serious one. To some extent her
young mistress had confided in her, she declared.

"Then she would hardly have gone away without letting you into the
secret," I said.

"That is what I cannot understand," she answered.

Quarles agreed with me that this lent color to the idea that Eva
Wilkinson had gone of her own accord.

"It is possible--even probable," he said, "but if she did, I take it she
has been deceived and walked into a trap. If we can find that car we
shall be on the right road."

When we set out on this quest in one of the motors at Whiteladies we had
considerable success. The car had taken the direct road to London. We
heard of it at an inn on the outskirts of Beading. It had stopped there,
and a man had had his flask filled with brandy. A lady who was with him
was not very well, he said. Chance helped us farther. The car had stopped
by a roadside cottage. A man had come to the door full of apologies, but
seeing a light in the window he ventured to ask if they could oblige him
with a box of matches. He was quite a gentleman--young, dark, and very
merry--the woman told us. He had led her to suppose that he and a lady
were making a runaway match of it, because he had declared that there
would certainly be a chase after them, but they had got a good start. The
car had been drawn up on the side of the road at a little distance from
the cottage, and it was undoubtedly the car we were after. The tire
markings were quite distinct in the damp ground. At Hounslow we found the
car itself. There had been an accident. Two men had walked into a garage,
saying they had left the car on the roadside. Would the garage people
have it brought in and repaired? The car should be sent for in a day or
two. One man made a payment on account, and gave his name as Julius
Hoffman, staying at the Langham Hotel.

The car was of an old type, but the man at the garage said the engines
were in good condition. The tires were burst, otherwise there was nothing
much the matter with the car beyond its age.

"Was anything found in the car?" I asked.

"An old glove and a handkerchief," and the man took them out of a drawer.

The glove told us nothing, but the handkerchief was a lady's, and had "E.
W." embroidered on it.

"This is a police matter," I told the man. "A watch will be kept on the
premises in case the car is claimed, which is very unlikely, I fancy."

Quarles was perplexed.

"I don't understand it, Wigan. That car looks to me as if it had been
purposely abandoned. Had they another car waiting, or was Hounslow their
destination? Of course you must warn the police here, but--well, I do not
understand it. I am going straight back to Chelsea."

"I will see the Hounslow police, and then go on to the Langham," I
returned.

"Of course, that's just ordinary detective work, and out of my line,"
Quarles said somewhat curtly, "but I don't suppose your inquiries will
lead anywhere."

In this surmise he was perfectly correct. No one of the name of Julius
Hoffman was known at the Langham. The Hounslow police made no discovery,
and the car was not claimed.

Later, the press circulated a description of Eva Wilkinson, with the
result that scores of letters were received, most of them obviously
written by amateur detectives, or by those peculiar kind of imbeciles
whose imagination is so vivid that any person seems to fit the
description of the person missing. The information in a few of these
letters seemed definite enough to follow up, but in every case I drew
blank. I gave my chief attention to learning the recent movements of
known gangs who might be concerned in an enterprise of this sort, and at
the end of two days this persistency brought a result. I received a
letter posted in the West-central district, written, or rather scrawled,
in printed letters. It was as follows:

"You may be on the right scent or you may not, but take warning. If you
got to know anything, it would be the worse for E.W. We are in earnest,
and our advice is, leave the job alone. No harm will come to the old
devil's daughter, if you mind your own business. She'll turn up again all
right. If you don't mind your own business you'll probably find her
presently, and can bury her. You'll find her dead,--THE LEAGUE."

With this letter I went to Chelsea, and the professor met me with a
letter in his hand. He had received a like communication--word for
word the same.

"An exact copy shows a barrenness of ideas," said I.

"But they have begun to move, Wigan. That is a great thing, and what I
have been waiting for. Come and talk it over. For once Zena is no help.
All she says is that this is not an ordinary case of kidnaping. Well, it
certainly is a little out of the ordinary. That car, Wigan, the tramp who
saw it, the stoppages it made, the handkerchief in it--does anything
strike you?"

"Since we picked up the trail so easily to begin with, I do not quite
understand the subsequent difficulty," I said. "From Hounslow a much more
astute person must have taken charge of the enterprise."

"A booby trap, Wigan. It was prepared for us, and we walked into it, I am
a trifle sick at having done so, but perhaps it will serve us a good turn
in the end. The tramp no doubt was in the business. His definite
information to the police started us. If that car had wanted to escape
notice, do you suppose it would have pulled up outside Reading, or at a
cottage, where it obligingly left its imprint on the roadside? Why should
the man explain the filling of a flask at a public house? Why should he
talk of a runaway match to the woman at that cottage? He was laying a
trail. Miss Wilkinson's handkerchief was found in that car, but I wager
she was never in the car herself."

"I think you are right, but it doesn't help us to the truth, does it?"

"Every possibility proved impossible helps us," Quarles answered. "This
is a case for negative argument, so we next ask whether Eva Wilkinson
left the terrace willingly. I think we must say 'no.'"

"Do not forget the missing coat and skirt," I said.

"That is one of the reasons why I say 'no,'" he returned. "If she had
intended to go away she would have arranged to take more than a coat and
skirt. Besides, Eva Wilkinson is evidently not a fool. The only person
one can imagine her going away with is Cayley, and why should she go away
with him? If she married him before she was twenty-one, she forfeited a
million of money; well, she knew the penalty. Even if she would not wait
until she was of age, there is still no conceivable reason why she should
run away. We are forced, therefore, to the assumption that she was
kidnaped."

"I have never doubted it," I answered.

"I confess to some uncertainty," said Quarles, "but these letters put a
new complexion on the affair, I admit. Some one is out for money, Wigan,
and that fact is--"

He stopped short as a servant entered the room saying that I was wanted
on the telephone. I had left word that I was going to Chelsea. I was
informed that Sir Michael Lavory had telephoned for me to go and see him
at once. He said he had received a letter which was of the gravest
importance.

"Similar to ours, no doubt," said the professor when I repeated the
message to him. "We will go at once, Wigan, but I do not think there is
anything to be done until the scoundrels have made a further move. It
won't be many hours before they do so."

In the taxi he did not continue his negative arguments, and he was not
restless, as he usually was when upon a keen scent. No doubt he had a
theory, but I was convinced he was not satisfied with it himself.

Sir Michael, who had a flat in Kensington, was not alone. A young man was
with him, and Sir Michael introduced Mr. Edward Cayley.

"He has just arrived--came in ten minutes after I had received
this letter."

Cayley's presence there was rather a surprise, but I noted that his
appearance did not correspond with the woman's description of the young
man who had asked for a box of matches.

"I came as soon as I heard the news about Miss Wilkinson," Cayley said in
explanation.

"How did you hear it?" Quarles asked.

"There was a paragraph in _Le Gaulois_. I left Paris at once and came to
Sir Michael, thinking it a time when any little disagreement between us
would be easily forgotten."

"You can quite understand that I agree with Mr. Cayley," Sir Michael
said, "especially in the face of this letter."

"I can guess the contents of it," I said. "We have had letters too."

But I was mistaken. This communication was scrawled in the same printed
letters, was signed in the same way, but its purport was entirely
different.

"Sir,--Your niece is in our hands, and you may be sure that she is
securely hidden. Every move you take on her behalf increases her danger.
There is only one means of rescue--ransom. Within forty-eight hours you
shall pay to the credit of James Franklin with the Credit Lyonnais,
Paris, the sum of a quarter of a million sterling, a small sum when
Wilkinson's wealth is considered, and the means he used to amass it. The
moment the money is in our hands, and you may be sure we have left open
no possibility of your tricking us, your niece shall be set at liberty.
Delay or refuse, and your niece dies. In case you should deceive yourself
and think this is not genuine, that we are powerless to carry out our
threat, your niece herself has endorsed this letter."

Quarles looked at the endorsement.

"Is that Miss Wilkinson's signature?" he asked.

"It is," Sir Michael answered.

"I could swear to it anywhere," said Cayley. "The money is a small matter
when Eva has to be considered. We may succeed in tricking the scoundrels
later, but the money must be paid."

"If it is, you may depend they will get clear off," said Quarles. "They
have made their arrangements cleverly enough for that."

"But you forget--"

"I forget nothing, Mr. Cayley."

"I feel that it must be paid," said Sir Michael. "If you can devise any
way of tripping up the villains, do, but Eva's signature--"

"Look at it, Sir Michael," said Quarles. "I do not doubt that it is her
signature, but I think it was scribbled on that piece of paper before the
letter was written, and certainly a different ink was used."

Sir Michael took the letter and looked at it carefully.

"Yes--yes, I think you are right," he said after a pause. "What do
you advise?"

"Delay," said the professor promptly. "They are out for money, for a
quarter of a million. They will not hurt Miss Wilkinson while there is
any chance of their getting the money."

"How long would you make the delay?" Cayley asked.

"At least until after Mr. Wigan and I have visited Whiteladies again. We
propose to go there to-morrow."

"I was going down to-morrow after seeing the solicitors about this
money," said Sir Michael.

"That will be excellent," said Quarles. "You will be able to assist us in
a little investigation we want to make at Whiteladies. May I suggest that
you should arrange preliminaries with the solicitors so as not to waste
time, but tell them to await your instructions before taking final steps?
There may be nothing in our idea, but there may be a great deal in it."

"You do not wish to tell me what it is?"

"Not until to-morrow evening."

I was watching Cayley. I saw the ghost of a smile on his lips for a
moment. He evidently saw through Quarles's reticence, and knew that the
professor would not speak before him.

"It will be evening before we reach Whiteladies," Quarles went on,
"because there is an important inquiry we must make in London first."

"Very well," said Sir Michael. "I will delay until to-morrow night."

"There can be no harm in that," Cayley said. "We are given forty-eight
hours. I should like to do the scoundrels, but I cannot forget that
revenge may be as much a motive as money."

"I am not losing sight of that fact," said Quarles, "but I have little
doubt it is the money."

As we drove back to Chelsea the professor was silent, but when we were in
the empty room he began to talk quickly.

"I am puzzled, Wigan. Before we went out I was saying some one was out
for money, and the letter Sir Michael has received proves it. We were
engaged upon a negative argument, and I should have gone on to show why
it was unlikely Cayley had had anything to do with the affair. I confess
that his sudden appearance to-night tends to knock holes in the argument
I should have used. He comes from Paris, the money is to be paid to the
Credit Lyonnais, Paris. He is keen that the money should be paid, had
evidently been persuading Sir Michael that it ought to be paid. This
tends to confuse me, and I cannot forget Zena's remark about the girl's
age and that this is not an ordinary kidnaping case. If Cayley had met
her on the terrace she would naturally stroll away with him if he asked
her to do so. At a safe distance from the house he, and a confederate,
perhaps, may have secured her."

"But why?" I asked.

"He may want a quarter of a million of money and yet have no desire to
marry. It is a theory, but unsatisfactory, I admit. One thing, however,
we may take as certain. Eva Wilkinson was not driven away in that car. We
have no news of any suspicious car being seen in any other direction, nor
of any suspicious people being seen about, and it seems obvious that a
false trail was laid for us. Wigan, it is quite possible that the girl
never left Whiteladies at all, that she is hidden there now, in fact.
Doesn't the disappearance of that coat and skirt tend to corroborate
this? She was in evening dress at the time. It would be natural to get
her another dress."

"That would mean confederates in the house," I said.

"Exactly. This girl Perry, perhaps, in league with her lover, the
gamekeeper; or it may be Mrs. Reville herself. We are going down to
Whiteladies to-morrow to try and find out, and we are going circumspectly
to work, Wigan. You shall go to the house in the ordinary way, while I
stroll across to the ruins. They are a likely hiding place. It will be
dark, and I may chance upon some one keeping watch. In a few words you
can explain our idea to Sir Michael, and then, without letting the
servants know, you can come and find me in the ruins."

It was nearly dark when we arrived at Whiteladies on the following day,
and as arranged, I left Quarles before we reached the lodge gates--in
fact, helped him over a fence into the park before I went on to the house
alone. Near the front door I found Mrs. Reville giving a couple of pug
dogs a run. She told me Sir Michael was expecting me, and led the way
into the hall.

"I think he is in the library," she said, and opened a door. "Oh, I am
sorry, I thought you were alone, Sir Michael. It is Mr. Wigan."

He called out for me to enter. He was standing by a writing table,
talking to a young farmer, apparently a tenant on the estate because Sir
Michael was dismissing him with a promise to consider certain repairs to
some outbuildings. As the farmer passed me on his way to the door Sir
Michael held out his hand.

"You are later than I expected, and I thought Mr. Quarles--"

Then he laughed. I had been seized from behind, a rope was round me,
binding my arms to my side, a sudden jerk had me on my back. In that
instant Sir Michael was upon me, and I was gagged and trussed almost
before I realized what had happened. Never did the veriest tyro walk more
innocently into a trap.

"That's well done," said Sir Michael to the farmer. "You had better go
and see that the other has been taken as successfully."

Alone with me, he removed the revolver from my hip pocket and placed it
in a drawer, which he locked.

"Rather a surprise for you, Mr. Wigan. I am afraid Scotland Yard is
likely to lose an officer, and your friend Quarles is an old man who has
had a very good inning. I do not know exactly where he is at the present
moment, but somewhere about the grounds he has been caught and is in a
similar condition to yourself. You have both been very carefully shadowed
to-day. The quarter of a million will be paid, Mr. Wigan, and my niece
will reappear. She will be none the worse for her adventure--will thank
me for all the trouble I have taken to rescue her from the kidnapers her
father dreaded so much--and she will never suspect that the bulk of the
ransom money has gone into my pocket. It is money sorely needed, I can
assure you. I shall probably give my consent to her marriage with Cayley;
her marriage will make my guardianship less irksome. He will be as
unsuspicious of me as Eva. I prevailed upon him not to come to
Whiteladies until to-morrow by suggesting that you were foolish enough to
suspect him. I think it has all been rather cleverly managed. The only
regrettable thing will be the death of two--two brilliant detectives. It
may interest you to know that you will be found dead--shot--which will
account for my having waited for you in vain at Whiteladies to-night. You
have helped me greatly by being secretive to-day and not arriving here
until after dark. Your death will be a nine days' wonder, but it will be
a mystery which will not be solved, I fancy."

His cold-blooded manner left no doubt of his sinister intention, and I
felt convinced that Quarles had been trapped just as I had been. Sir
Michael laughed again as he bent over me to make sure that my bonds were
secure. Then he stood erect suddenly.

"Don't move," said a voice, "or I shall fire."

He did move, and a bullet ripped into a picture just behind him. With an
oath he stood perfectly still. A door had opened across the room and a
girl stood there. It was Joan Perry.

"I missed you on purpose," she said. "I shall not miss a second time. Cut
those ropes."

For a moment he stood still, then he moved again, but not with the
intention of setting me free; the next instant he stumbled, as if his leg
had suddenly given way, and he let out a savage oath.

"To show you I do not miss," said the girl. "Cut those ropes, or the
third bullet finds your heart."

Sir Michael took a knife from his pocket, and the girl came a little
closer, but not near enough to give him a chance of grabbing at her. Her
calm deliberation was wonderful.

"Do more than cut the ropes and you are a dead man," she said.

The instant my arms were free I had the gag from my mouth and could do
something in my own defense. I was quickly on my feet.

"Keep him covered," I said to Perry. "I think we change places,
Sir Michael."

Physically he was not a powerful man, and with Joan Perry near him he
seemed to have lost his nerve. Her courage had shaken him badly, and he
made no resistance. I was not long in having him bound and handcuffed.

"I have to thank you," I said, turning to the girl.

"Not yet. There is more to do. Mrs. Reville is in it, and Mr. Quarles has
no doubt been caught in the grounds, as he said. I will ring. The
servants are honest, and I expect Mr. Saunders is in the house by now. He
usually comes up in the evening."

Fortunately Mrs. Reville had not heard the revolver shots, or she might
have given the alarm to the two men who had secured the professor in the
ruins, and they would very probably have killed him. I took the lady by
strategy. I sent a servant to tell her that Sir Michael wished to speak
to her, a summons which she had evidently been expecting, and I secured
her as she came down the stairs. Then, leaving her and Sir Michael in
charge of Perry and Saunders and a footman, I went with other servants to
rescue Quarles. We took the confederates in the ruins by surprise, but in
my anxiety that no harm should come to the professor, who was bound just
as I had been, they managed to get away.

Now that he was captured, Sir Michael Lavory's pluck entirely deserted
him, and he told us where to find his niece. She was in a secret chamber
under a tower in the ruins. She had been caught that night at the end of
the terrace by Sir Michael's accomplices, had been rendered unconscious
by chloroform, and taken to the tower.

Quarles's deductions so far as they went were right, but they had not
gone nearly far enough. Neither of us had thought of Sir Michael as the
criminal, and had it not been for the maid Perry I have little doubt that
this would have been our last case. Perry herself had not suspected Sir
Michael until that day, but she had always been suspicious of Mrs.
Reville. That morning, however, when Sir Michael arrived at Whiteladies,
she had chanced to overhear a conversation. She heard Sir Michael tell
Mrs. Reville there would be visitors that evening, and suggested that she
should be near the front door at the time to admit them, as it would be
well if they were not seen by the servants. Perry did not understand who
the visitors were to be, but she thought such secrecy might be connected
with her young mistress, and she had hidden herself earlier in the
evening in the small room adjoining the library.

"It is fortunate Saunders taught me how to use a revolver," she said,
when Quarles thanked and complimented her.

"A narrow escape, Wigan," the professor said to me. "One of our failures,
eh? The fear expressed in the will, the fact that Sir Michael could not
benefit by the death of his niece, confused me. He is a very clever
scoundrel, making no mistake, making no attempt to implicate any one. His
treatment of Cayley on his sudden return from Paris was a masterpiece of
diplomacy; so was his handling of us from the first. He concocted no
complicated story, so ran no risk of contradicting himself. He was simple
and straightforward, and when a villain is that a detective is
practically helpless. I was thoroughly deceived, Wigan, I admit it, and
it is certain that had it not been for Joan Perry I should not be alive
to say so, and you would not be here to listen. Do you know, I should not
be surprised if it was the fear expressed in the will which gave Sir
Michael the idea of kidnaping his niece and putting the ransom into his
own pocket."

At his trial Sir Michael confessed that the will had given him the idea.
Personally I think he got far too light a sentence.

As I hear that Cayley and Miss Wilkinson are to be married shortly, I
suppose her guardian's consent to her marriage has been obtained; at any
rate, it will be a good thing for her to have a husband to protect her
from such a guardian. I hear, too, that Saunders and Perry are to be
married on the same day as their mistress, and I am quite sure of one
thing, two of the handsomest wedding presents Joan Perry receives will
come from Christopher Quarles and myself.




CHAPTER III

THE DELVERTON AFFAIR


After our experience at Whiteladies Christopher Quarles went into
Devonshire. He declared that excitement of that kind was a little too
much for a man of his years and he must take a long rest to recuperate
and get his nerves in order. Under no circumstances whatever was I to
bother him with any problems. Had I been able to do so I should have gone
away too. Sir Michael Lavory had succeeded in giving me the jumps. In her
letters Zena told me the professor was playing golf, and knowing
something of him as a golfer, I rather pitied the men he induced to play
with him. It was not so much that he was a very bad player, it was the
peculiar twist in his brain which convinced him that he was a good one.
To give him a hint was to raise his anger at once.

One morning I received a letter from him, two pages of golf talk, in
which he opined he was playing at about five handicap--pure imagination,
of course, because he never kept a card and didn't count his foozled
shots--and then he came to the _raison d'être_ of his letter.

"I want you to look up a case," he wrote. "It happened about three years
ago. A man named Farrell, partner in the firm of Delverton Brothers of
Austin Friars, was found dead in his office. An open verdict was
returned. It may have been a case of suicide. Get all the facts you can.
If you can obtain any information from some who were interested in the
tragedy, do. I am not sure that the result of your inquiries will
interest me, but it may. Send me along a full report, it may bring me
back to Chelsea, but I am so keen to put another fifty yards on to my
drive that I may remain here for three months. Why live in Chelsea when
there is such a place as Devonshire?"

I remembered that the Delverton case had caused a considerable amount of
excitement at the time, and had remained an unsolved mystery, but I knew
no more than this. Three years ago I had been away from London engaged on
an intricate investigation, with neither time nor inclination to think of
anything else.

As it happened there was little difficulty in getting a very full account
of the affair. It had been in the hands of Detective Southey, since
retired, and it was a persistent grievance with him that this case had
beaten him. He was delighted to talk about it when I went to see him in
his little riverside cottage at Twickenham.

Delverton Brothers were foreign bankers, and at the time of the tragedy
consisted of three partners, John and Martin Delverton, who were
brothers, and Thomas Farrell, their nephew. John Delverton was an
invalid, and for a year past had only come to the office for an hour once
or twice a week. He had died about six months after the tragedy.

One day during a Stock Exchange settlement Thomas Farrell left the office
early, and Martin Delverton was there until seven o'clock. When he left
the only clerks remaining in the outer office were Kellner, the second in
seniority on the staff, and a junior named Small.

These two left the office together ten minutes after Mr. Delverton had
gone. Next morning when the housekeeper went to the offices he found
Thomas Farrell sitting at the table in his private room, his head fallen
on his arms, which were stretched across the table. He had died from the
effects of poison, yet the tumbler beside him showed no traces of poison.

Medical evidence proved that he had been dead some hours, but there was
nothing to show at what time he had returned to the office.

"In view of the doctor's statement it must have been between ten minutes
past seven and midnight," Southey told me. "The poison would produce
intense drowsiness, then sleep from which there was no waking. The time
of its action would vary in different individuals. I am inclined to think
it was late when he returned. He was a well-known figure in Austin Friars
and Throgmorton Street, and had he been about earlier in the evening some
one would almost certainly have seen him. That part of the world is alive
to a late hour during a Stock Exchange settlement. The offices consist of
a large outer room, which accommodates seven or eight clerks, and two
private rooms opening into one another, but opening into the outer office
only from the first room. This first room, which is the larger of the
two, the brothers Delverton occupied, Farrell having the smaller inner
room. From this there is a side door which gives on to a short passage
leading into Austin Friars. The partners used this side door constantly,
each of them having a key to the Yale lock, and we know from Mr.
Delverton that Farrell went out by the side door that afternoon.
Presumably he returned by it. Everything seemed to point to suicide, and
possibly had there been a shadow of a motive for Farrell taking his own
life, a verdict of suicide would have been returned. Apparently there was
no motive. His affairs were in perfect order, he was shortly to be
married, and the only person who suggested that he had looked in any way
worried recently was the junior clerk, Small."

"What of the woman he was to have married?"

"She was a Miss Lester, and she introduces a complication. Her people
were comparatively poor, her father being a clerk in a City bank. Mr.
Farrell, according to Miss Lester, had helped her father out of some
difficulty, and it was undoubtedly parental persuasion which had arranged
the marriage. It was a case of gratitude rather than love. But that is
not all. At the Lesters' house there was another constant visitor, a
young doctor named Morrison, and he and Farrell became friends in spite
of the fact that they were two angles of a triangle, Ruth Lester being
the third angle. The position was this: Morrison was in love with the
girl, but remained silent because he was too poor to marry; the girl
loved him, but, thinking that he was indifferent, consented to marry
Farrell. Whether Farrell was aware of this it is impossible to say. Now
on the very day of Farrell's death, Dr. Morrison called and asked for him
at the offices in Austin Friars. The clerk took in his name, and was told
by Mr. Delverton that Mr. Farrell had left for the day. This was the
first intimation the clerks had that he had left, and seems an indirect
proof that no one in the office could have had anything to do with the
tragedy. Farrell had been gone about an hour then. Morrison left no
message, merely asked that Mr. Farrell should be told he had called."

"What was Morrison's explanation?" I asked.

"He said Farrell had requested him to call. He was going to give him a
tip for a little flutter in the mining market."

"Is it known where Farrell went that afternoon?"

"I see you think the doctor's explanation thin, just as I did. Farrell
told his partner that he had an appointment with Miss Lester; Miss
Lester says there was no appointment. Naturally I at once speculated
whether Farrell and Morrison had met later in the afternoon. I followed
that trail every inch of the way. The doctor was poor and somewhat in
debt, and--"

"And Farrell, who died by poison, which is significant, was his
rival?" I said.

"I thought of all that," Southey returned. "Fortunately for him the
doctor could account for every hour of his time. Of course, the man in
the street was suspicious of him--is still, perhaps, to some extent, but
it hasn't prevented his getting on. He married Ruth Lester, and I hear is
getting a good practise together."

"What conclusion did you come to?"

"I am inclined to think there was some international reason at the back
of the mystery, some difficulty with a foreign government, it may be. If
Farrell had become mixed up in such an affair suicide might be the way
out. I suggested this to Mr. Delverton, and he did not scout it as
altogether a ridiculous idea. These foreign bankers are sometimes very
much behind the scenes in European politics."

"Do you know whether the invalid brother was at the office that
day?" I asked.

"He was not. He was quite incapacitated at the time."

I hunted up one or two points which occurred to me, and then went to
Austin Friars to call upon Mr. Delverton.

He was out of town, yachting, but his partner came into the clerks'
office to see me. I told him that my business with Mr. Delverton
was private.

This partner, I discovered, was Kellner, who had formerly been a clerk in
the firm. He was the man who, with the junior, had been the last to leave
the office on the night of the tragedy. He was worth a little attention,
and I spent two days making inquiries about him. He was as smart a man of
business as could be found within a mile radius of the Royal Exchange, I
was informed, a wonderful linguist, with a profound knowledge of
financial matters. Now he was a wealthy man, but three years ago he had
been in very low water.

This discovery sent me to Twickenham again. I said nothing about Kellner
having become a partner in Delverton Brothers'; I merely asked Southey
whether he had satisfactorily accounted for his time on the fatal night.

"Didn't I tell you?" said Southey. "Oh, yes, he had an absolute alibi; so
had the youth Small. I made them my first business."

I did not call on Dr. Morrison, but I went to his neighborhood, and asked
a few questions. Everybody spoke well of the doctor, which, of course,
might mean much or little, and I was fortunate enough to see him with his
wife in a motor. He looked like a doctor, a forceful and self-reliant
man, not one to lose his head or give himself away. He would be likely to
carry through any enterprise he set his mind to. His wife, without being
beautiful, was attractive, the kind of woman you begin to call pretty
after you have known her a little while.

That night I wrote a full report to Christopher Quarles with my own
comments in the margin, and three days later I had a wire from Zena,
saying they were returning to Chelsea at once.

There was no need to ask the professor whether the case interested him or
not. He began by being complimentary about my report, praised my
astuteness in not calling upon the doctor, and he made me give him a
verbal description of Morrison and his wife.

"Of course, Wigan, looks count for nothing, but they are often misleading
evidence, and we are told to beware of that man of whom every one speaks
well. The most saintly individual I ever knew had a strong likeness to a
notorious criminal I once saw, and on a slight acquaintance you and I
would probably have trusted Cleopatra or Helen of Troy, neither of them
very estimable women, I take it. Now apparently this doctor and his wife
are near the center of this mystery."

"It seems so, but--"

"Believe me, I am making no accusation," he interrupted; "indeed, I am
more inclined to argue that they occupy an eccentric point within the
circle rather than the true center. Still, we must not overlook one or
two facts which you have duly emphasized in your report. The rivalry
between Morrison and Farrell does supply, as you say, a motive for the
crime, if crime it was, and it is the only motive that is apparent.
Again, a doctor could obtain and make use of poison with less risk than
most men. And, again, it is curious the doctor should call on Farrell on
that particular day. The visit might be a subtle move to establish his
innocence. True, according to Southey, his time after the visit was
accounted for, but how about the time before the visit? Farrell had
already left the office an hour, and might have met Morrison."

"Do you suggest he was poisoned then, and came back hours afterwards to
die in the office?"

"You think that unlikely?"

"I do."

"Still, we must recollect the action of this particular poison," said
Quarles. "It produces drowsiness, the time necessary to get to this
condition varying in different persons, and the doctor, knowing Farrell,
might be able to gage how long it would take in his case. Of course, we
labor under difficulties. Three years having passed, we cannot rely on
direct investigation. Purposely I gave you no bias when I asked you to
gather up the known facts, and from your report I judge you have come to
the conclusion that Farrell committed suicide, possibly driven into a
corner by some international complication."

"Yes, on the whole, I lean to that idea."

"It is not the belief of Mr. Delverton himself."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I met Martin Delverton in Devonshire. He was yachting round the coast
and came ashore for golf. We played together several times, and became
quite friendly. It was not until he began to talk about it that I
remembered there had ever been a Delverton mystery. Practically he gave
me the same history of the case as your report does, missing some points
certainly, but enlarging considerably on others. That the villain had
escaped justice seemed to rankle in his mind, and he was contemptuous of
the intelligence of Scotland Yard. The tragedy, he said, had hastened his
brother's end, and I judged he had no great love for the Morrisons."

"He knew who you were, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes; and included my intelligence in the sneer at Scotland Yard. He
argued the point with me until he forced me to admit that there was a
large element of luck in most of my successes."

"You admitted that?" I exclaimed.

"I did. I had just beaten him three up and two to play, so was in an
angelic frame of mind. Even then he would not let me alone. He wanted to
know how I should have gone to work had the case been in my hands. To
his evident delight I gave him arguments on the lines of our empty room
conferences, making one thing especially clear, that I should have
enquired far more closely about the Morrisons than had been done. This
interested him immensely, and he did not attempt to hide from me the fact
that his suspicions lay in the same direction. He became keen that I
should look into the mystery; indeed, he challenged my skill. I am taking
up that challenge, and I am going to tell the world the truth about
Farrell's death."

"You know it?"

"Not yet, but the key to it is in this report of yours. Do you know what
has become of the junior clerk, Small?"

"No. He left the firm to go abroad, I understand."

"I should like to have asked him whether John Delverton, the invalid
partner, had seemed worried when he was last at the office."

"He was not at the office that day. I asked that question, and Southey is
certain upon the point."

"Farrell might have left early to see him."

"Of course, we might question Kellner," I suggested.

"Kellner has the interests of the firm at heart, and is not personally
connected with the affair. I don't suppose he will be pleased to have the
old mystery raked up; naturally he will fear damage to the firm. I do not
think he would be inclined to help us in any way, and I can imagine his
being angry with Delverton for mentioning the affair to me."

"Still, I think there is something that wants explaining about Mr.
Kellner," said Zena, "You evidently thought so too, Murray, since you
made such minute inquiries about him."

"I do not think there is anything against him," I answered.

"I am not very interested in Kellner's past," said the professor, "and as
we cannot get hold of Small we must do a little guessing."

"Is there anything further for me to do?" I asked.

"One thing. I want you to get hold of some stockbroker you know, and get
him to tell you whether there was any kind of panic here, or on the
Continent, with regard to any foreign securities between three and four
years ago. Find out, if you can, the names of any members of the House
who were hammered during that period, and the names of any firms
considered shaky at the time. I am not hoping for much useful
information, but we may learn something to assist our guesswork."

The information I obtained on the following day amounted to little. As my
friend in Threadneedle Street said, three years on the Stock Exchange are
a lifetime. In the different markets there had been several crises during
the period I mentioned, and certain men, chiefly small ones, had gone
under. As for shaky firms, it was impossible to speak unless you were
closely interested. A good firm, under temporary stress, would probably
be bolstered up, and a week or two might find it in affluence again.

I went to Chelsea with the information, such as it was, but only saw
Zena. Quarles was out, and I did not see him for nearly a week. Then he
'phoned to me to call for him one evening and to come in evening dress.

"I am dining with Mr. Delverton to-night," he said, "and I asked him if I
might bring you. He returned to town at the beginning of the week, and I
have seen him two or three times, once at the office in Austin Friars. I
did not see Kellner, he happened to be away that day."

Martin Delverton lived in Dorchester Square, rather a pompous house, and
he was rather a pompous individual. Of course he wasn't a bit like
Quarles in appearance, yet I was struck by a certain characteristic
resemblance between them. They both had that annoying way of appearing to
mean more than they said, and of watering down their arguments to meet
the requirements of your inferior intellect.

I had become accustomed to it in Quarles, but in a stranger I should have
resented it had not the professor told me of the peculiarity beforehand,
and warned me not to be annoyed.

He gave us an excellent dinner, and our conversation for a time had
nothing to do with the mystery.

"Well, Mr. Quarles, have you brought this affair to a head?" Mr.
Delverton asked at last.

"I think so."

"Sufficiently to bring the criminal to book?"

"If not, I could hardly claim success, could I?"

"You might claim it," laughed Delverton, "but I should not be satisfied.
Possibly I have my own opinion, but I trust nothing I have said has
influenced you and led you to a wrong conclusion. I do not want you to
get me into trouble by saying that I suggested who the criminal was."

"Not if I could prove that the solution was correct?"

"That might be a different matter, of course."

"It would prove your astuteness, Mr. Delverton," said Quarles. "Mine
would be only the spade work which any one can do when he has been told
how. Perhaps you will let me explain in my own way, and I will go over
the old ground as little as possible, since we three are aware of the
main facts and the investigations which originally took place. First,
then, the manner of Mr. Farrell's death. Now, since he was found in his
own private office, sitting at his own desk, with a tumbler beside him,
it is evident that if he did not commit suicide it was intended that it
should appear as if he had done so. To believe it a case of suicide is
the simplest solution. He could enter the office by the side door at his
will, he could poison himself there at his leisure, and it would never
occur to him to imagine that any one would afterwards suspect he had met
his death in any other way. The one thing missing is the motive. The only
person even to suggest that Farrell had looked worried was the junior
clerk, Small, and his uncorroborated opinion does not count for much.
Besides, his affairs were in order, and he was about to be married. You
must stop me, Mr. Delverton, if I make any incorrect statements."

"Certainly. So far you have merely repeated what every one knows."

"Except in one minor particular," said Quarles. "I lay special emphasis
on the desire of some one to show that it was a case of suicide. If we
deny suicide this becomes an important point, for we have to enquire when
and how the poison was administered. Did Farrell at some time before
midnight bring some one back to the office with him? For what purpose was
he brought there? How was the poison administered? We have evidence that
it was not drunk out of the glass on the table, no trace of poison being
found, and we can hardly suppose that Farrell would swallow a tablet at
any one's bidding. Since there was an evident desire to make it appear a
case of suicide, we should expect to find traces of poison in the glass;
it would have made it appear so much more like suicide. But we are
denying that it was suicide, so we are forced to the conclusion that some
one was present with Farrell in the office, and also that the somebody
ought to have allowed traces of the poison to remain in the glass. That
innocent tumbler is a fact we must not lose sight of. You see, Mr.
Delverton, I am not working along quite the same line as the original
investigation took."

"No; and I am very interested. Still, I think a man might take a tablet
were it offered by one he looked upon as a friend. It might be for
headache."

"Did Mr. Farrell suffer from headaches?" Quarles inquired.

"Not that I am aware of. I am only putting a supposititious case."

"Ah, but we are bound to stick to what we know, or we shall find
ourselves in difficulties," the professor returned. "Now, I understand
that when you left the office that evening only two of the clerks were
there, and they left the office together about ten minutes afterwards.
The junior clerk we may dismiss from our minds, but Kellner merits some
attention. It appears that his subsequent movements that evening are
accounted for; still, it is a fact that he directly profited by Mr.
Farrell's death. Shortly afterwards he became a partner in the firm."

"He had no reason at the time to suppose he would be a partner," said
Delverton.

"And would not have become one but for Farrell's death, I take it?"

"He might. It is really impossible to say. Left alone, I took in Kellner
because he was the most competent man I knew. I may add that I have not
regretted it."

"Had the detective who had the case in hand known that Kellner was to
become a partner, he would undoubtedly have given him more attention,"
said Quarles. "He does not seem to have discovered that Kellner was in
financial straits at the time."

"Was he?" said Delverton.

"I have found that it was so," I answered.

"I am surprised to hear it; but, after all, a clerk's financial
difficulties--" And he laughed as a man will who always thinks in
thousands.

"We come to another person who profited by Farrell's death, Dr.
Morrison," said Quarles. "He married Miss Lester not long afterwards.
It is known that he was friendly, or apparently friendly, with his
rival, for such Farrell was, although he may not have been aware of the
fact; and, curiously enough, Morrison called at the office in Austin
Friars on the fatal day, and wanted to see Farrell an hour or so after
he had left."

"Yes; I thought it was curious at the time."

"He was able to account for his subsequent doings that day," Quarles went
on; "so it seems impossible that he could have been the person Farrell
brought back to the office that night. I think we must say positively he
was not. At the same time we must not overlook the fact that in his case
there was a motive for the crime. Forgetting for a moment our conclusion
that some one must have been in the office with Farrell in order to make
the death appear like suicide, we ask whether in any way it was possible
for Morrison to administer poison to Farrell. Supposing Farrell had met
Morrison immediately upon leaving the office, could the doctor possibly
have given him poison in such a manner that it would not take effect for
hours after?"

"Stood him a glass of wine somewhere, you mean?"

"Or induced him to swallow a tablet," said Quarles.

"It is really a new idea," said our host.

"It is a possibility, of course," Quarles answered; "but not a very
likely one, I fancy. It might account for the tumbler. Farrell might have
felt ill and drunk some plain water, but why was he in the office at all?
I find the whole crux of the affair in that question. Why should he come
back when he had left for the day?"

"Then you are inclined to exonerate Morrison?"

"On the evidence, yes."

"You speak with some reservation, Mr. Quarles."

"I want to bring the whole argument into focus, as it were," the
professor went on. "It was a settlement day on the Stock Exchange. I
believe a point was made three years ago that it was curious no one had
seen Farrell return, since many people who knew him would be about Austin
Friars late that night. This does not seem to me much of an argument. If
he returned between nine and ten he might easily escape notice. What does
seem to me curious is that he should choose such a day to leave the
office early, and tell a lie about it into the bargain. He said he had an
appointment with Miss Lester, and we know he had not."

"Ought we not to say that we know she says he had not?" Delverton
corrected. "I do not wish to be captious, but--"

"You are quite right," said Quarles; "we must be precise. You knew Miss
Lester, of course?"

"I did not see her until after Farrell's death, then I saw her several
times. She seemed rather a charming person."

"You have not seen her since her marriage?"

"No."

"I saw her the other day," said Quarles, "and I quite endorse your
opinion. She is charming, and I do not think she is the kind of woman to
tell a deliberate falsehood. If Farrell had had an appointment with her I
think she would have said so."

"I am making no accusation against her," was the answer. "I was only
sticking to the actual evidence."

"And that does not tell us where Farrell went that day," said Quarles.
"It seems strange that he did not meet any of the scores of people who
knew him as he left the office that afternoon."

"Undoubtedly he did meet many."

"They didn't come forward to say they had seen him."

"I can see no reason why they should do so. There was no question of
fixing the time he left. I was able to give definite information on
that point."

"Well, we seem to have used up our facts," said Quarles, "and are forced
to theorize."

Delverton smiled.

"You must not jump to the conclusion that I have failed," said the
professor quickly. "I did not promise to tell you the name of the
murderer to-night. Let me theorize for a few moments. You told me you
believed that Farrell's tragic end had hastened your brother's death. Did
your brother chance to come to the office that day?"

"No."

"Perhaps he came that night after you had left. I suppose you cannot
bring evidence that he did not?"

"No; but--"

"Or it might have been with him that Farrell had an appointment that day,
which was connected with some affair you were not intended to know
anything about. That would account for his telling you a lie."

"I assure you--"

"Let me follow out my idea to the end," said Quarles, leaning over the
table, and emphasizing his words by patting the cloth with his open hand.
"Three years ago things were rather bad on the Stock Exchange, one or two
men in the House were hammered, and several respected firms were shaky.
Now supposing Farrell had been playing with the firm's money unknown to
his partners, or perchance unknown only to one of them--yourself. Your
brother may have--"

"Really, Mr. Quarles, you are getting absurd."

"I was going to say--"

"Oh, please, let me stop you before you say anything more foolish," said
Delverton. "At that time my brother was very ill and as weak as a rat.
How could he have administered poison to Farrell?"

"It requires no strength to administer poison, only subtlety," said
Quarles. "A glass of wine, perhaps by your brother's bedside, and the
thing would be accomplished. Or there is another alternative. Your
brother may have been playing with the firm's credit, and Farrell may
have found him out."

"Any other alternative, Mr. Quarles? Your fertile brain must hold
others."

"Yes, one more, and two opinions which lead up to it," was the
quick reply.

Delverton laughed.

"It is not so absurd as the others, I trust."

"The two opinions may lead you to change your ideas concerning this
mystery. First, I believe Kellner was made a partner because he knew
too much."

"I am inclined to think the discussion of a glass of my best port will
be more profitable than these speculations," said our host with a smile,
and he took up the cradle which the servant had placed beside him. "I
offered you a glass in the office the other day, but it was not such
good wine as this."

"And I was shocked at the idea of port in the middle of the morning,"
said Quarles.

"But not now, eh?" And Delverton filled our glasses and his own.

"Of course not. My second belief is that Farrell did not leave the office
at all that day. We have only your word for it, you know."

"Shall we drink to your clearer judgment?" said Delverton.

I had raised my glass when Quarles cried out and tossed a spoon across
the table at me.

"So you don't drink, Mr. Quarles," said Delverton, putting down his
emptied glass.

"Not this vintage. It is too strong for me, and also for my friend
Wigan."

"Your judgment of a vintage leaves something to be desired. That glass of
port has made me curious to hear the other alternative."

"I think it was you who had been playing with the firm's money, and your
nephew found you out," said Quarles very deliberately. "That Stock
Exchange settlement was a crisis for you. I think you induced Farrell to
drink a glass of port with you, which was so doctored that he soon fell
into a sleep from which he never woke. Perchance you smiled at his
drowsiness, and suggested he should have half an hour's sleep in his
room. You would look after things in the meanwhile. You did so, and when
a clerk came in to say Dr. Morrison had called, you said Mr. Farrell had
left for the day. You took care to wash the wine glass, but it seemed a
good point to you to leave a tumbler with a little water in it on the
table. You did not leave the office until you knew that the last of the
clerks was ready to leave, and I imagine you waited somewhere in Austin
Friars to see them safely off the premises. You had no doubt that a
verdict of suicide would be returned. Later you were surprised to find
that your clerk, Kellner, knew of your money difficulties, and to silence
him he was taken into partnership. Whether the firm of Delverton
Brothers is running straight now I have no means of knowing, nor can I
say whether Mr. Kellner has any suspicion that the death of Mr. Farrell
was more opportune than natural. You are the kind of man who is much
impressed by his own cleverness, and when you met me in Devonshire it
occurred to you to throw down a challenge, to pit your wits against mine.
I suspected you then, for you overdid certain things, and a sinister
intention had entered into your head. You confessed yourself charmed with
Miss Lester, yet your whole attitude suggested that you believed Dr.
Morrison guilty of murder. You became something more than an ordinary
criminal who takes life to save himself from the consequence of his
actions, you crossed the line and became devilish. Mrs. Morrison believes
you would have asked her to marry you almost directly after Farrell's
death had she not very plainly shown you her loathing of such a union. So
you planned to be revenged when you threw down the challenge to me, and
having failed, you now attempt to be wholesale in your destruction."

"I end by cheating you," said Delverton.

"Not me, but the hangman. I will warn your butler that the port is
poisoned, and tell him to telephone for the doctor."

"You can go to the devil," said Delverton.

He died that night, and the following day the Delverton mystery filled
columns of the papers. It was a dull season, and the press made the most
of it. It is only right to say that Kellner was not generally believed to
have known that Farrell had been done to death by his uncle. Quarles
believes he was absolutely innocent in this respect. I am doubtful on the
point, I admit.




CHAPTER IV

THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE IN MANLEIGH ROAD


The dramatic suicide of Martin Delverton, and the solution of a mystery
which had been relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes produced a
sensation. The public clamored for intimate particulars concerning
Christopher Quarles, the house in Chelsea was besieged by hopeful
interviewers, and the professor could only escape their attentions by
going out of town. It was an excellent excuse for golf, he declared, and
an opportunity to improve on his five handicap. I am bound to say that
while I was with him he never went round in less than twenty over bogey,
and when he only took twenty over he had luck.

This sudden enthusiasm on the part of the public was the cause of some
difficulty and not a little annoyance so far as I was personally
concerned.

As I have said elsewhere, I have constantly received the credit of
unmasking a scoundrel simply because Quarles chose to remain in the
background, but I have never claimed any credit to which I was not
entitled. It was distinctly hard, therefore, when all the praise for
bringing a series of crimes to light was given to him when justly it
should have been accorded to me. I had been engaged on the work at the
time the case of Eva Wilkinson had cropped up, my investigations had
prevented my accompanying Quarles and Zena to Devonshire. He would be the
first to deny that he had any part in solving these problems. I daresay I
mentioned certain points about them to him, he may possibly have made a
suggestion or two, but it is only because he had really nothing to do
with them that they have found no place in his chronicle. I admit I was
much annoyed, because I rather prided myself on the astuteness I had
displayed.

Curiously enough, it was not only the public who persisted in giving him
the credit, but the victims of my ingenuity as well, and the mistake was
destined to bring peril to both of us in a most unexpected manner.

I was at breakfast one morning about a week after our little golfing
holiday, when Quarles telephoned for me to go to him at once. He would
give me no information, except that it was an urgent matter, and it was
like him to ignore the possibility that I might have another
engagement. As it happened I was free that morning, and was soon on my
way to Chelsea.

I found him studying some pamphlets and letters which had apparently come
altogether in the big envelope which was lying on the table.

"Have you seen the paper this morning?" he asked.

"I had just opened it when you 'phoned to me."

"Did you read that?"

He pointed to a paragraph headed, "Strange Affair in Savoy Street," and I
read as follows:

"Last night, just after twelve o'clock, an elderly gentleman was walking
down Savoy Street, and was approaching the Embankment end, when a man
stepped from a doorway and deliberately fired at him. This was the old
gentleman's story told to half a dozen pedestrians who came running to
the spot. He seemed rather dazed, as well he might be, at the sudden
attack, and his assailant had disappeared. None of those who were first
upon the scene saw him, and although there is no doubt that a revolver
was fired, and that the gentleman's description of the assailant's
position was so exact that the bullet was found embedded in a door on the
opposite side of the street, the denouement casts some doubt on the
story. Quite a small crowd had collected by the time the police arrived,
and then the old gentleman was not to be found. In the excitement he had
slipped away without any one seeing him go. We understand that the police
theory is that there was no attempt at murder, but that the old
gentleman, having fired a revolver for a lark, or perhaps for a wager,
told a tale to save himself from the consequences of his folly, and then,
seizing his opportunity, quietly slipped away. Those who were first upon
the spot say his dazed condition may have been the result of too much to
drink. We cannot say the explanation is altogether satisfactory to us."

"Well?" said Quarles when he saw I had finished.

"I agree with the writer of the paragraph," I answered. "The explanation
is far from satisfactory. Such a story and such a smart disappearance do
not suggest drunkenness."

"Perhaps not, although it is wonderful how Providence seems to watch over
the drunken man. However, the elderly gentleman was not drunk and his
story was strictly true. I was the elderly gentleman."

"You! And your assailant?"

Quarles got up and walked slowly to the window and back again.

"It was a very near thing, Wigan, and it has got on my nerves a bit. You
know that I am held chiefly responsible for the solution of these robbery
cases with which you have been busy lately. That belief is at the bottom
of this attempt, I fancy. You remember the fellow who got off over the
first affair. There was little doubt of his guilt, but you had
insufficient evidence to bring it home to him. He was the man who fired
at me last night."

"Had you no chance of capturing him?"

"No, and the moment I saw his face clearly by the light of a street
lamp as he turned to run away, I made up my mind not to give
information. I should have got away at once, only people were on the
spot too quickly; so I told the simple truth, and slipped away at the
first opportunity to avoid being recognized by the police. It was
rather neatly done, I think."

"But I do not see why you should withhold information," I said.

"I didn't want my name mentioned in connection with the affair, and I
did not want the man to know I had recognized him. I think there is
bigger game to go for. All along I have believed that in these cases of
yours there was a connecting-link, a subtle personality in the
background. I believe you have only succeeded in bringing some of the
tools to justice."

"And you want to get at the central scoundrel?"

"I must, or he will get at me. Without knowing it I have probably escaped
other traps he has set. The fact that I am only your scapegoat does not
alter the position. He means to have me if he can. We, or rather you,
have come very near to unmasking him, I imagine, and his fear has made
him desperate."

"What is to be done?"

"I want you to go very carefully through those cases, treating them as
though they were all part of one problem. If necessary, you could get an
interview with one or two of the men who are doing time. When a man is
undergoing punishment, and believes that an equally guilty person has
got off scot-free, he is likely to become communicative."

"All this will take time, and in the meanwhile--"

"I am chiefly concerned with the meanwhile," said Quarles, "and it
happens rather fortunately that I have something to interest me and take
my mind off the matter. These letters and pamphlets were sent to me a few
days ago by Dr. Randall. You have heard of him, no doubt."

"I don't think so."

"He is a specialist in nervous diseases, so is naturally interested in
psychological matters. An article of mine in a psychological review
attracted his attention, and through a mutual friend--a barrister in the
Temple--we were introduced last night. To-night I am dining with Randall
at a little restaurant in Old Compton Street, and--well, I want you to
come too, Wigan."

"But--"

"Oh, I can make it all right. I shall send him a note, asking if I can
bring a friend who is much interested in these matters."

"But I am not, and directly I open my mouth I shall show my ignorance."

"Then obviously you must keep your mouth shut," said Quarles. "The fact
is, Wigan, last night has got on my nerves. I am--I may as well be quite
honest--I am a little afraid of going about alone. I want you to call for
me and go with me."

"Of course I will. But surely, with your nerves on edge, it would be
wiser to keep away from psychological problems. What is the
particular problem?"

"Randall will explain to-night, and you must at least pretend to be
interested. As regards my nerves, I can assure you this kind of thing is
a relief after the other. I do not think I am a coward as a rule, but I
am afraid of this unknown scoundrel. I have a presentiment that I am in
very real danger."

"You probably exaggerate it," I said.

"Maybe. But I never ignore a strong presentiment, and I--I slept with a
loaded revolver under my pillow last night, Wigan."

There was no doubt as to his nervous condition; he showed it in his
restlessness, in his acute consciousness of sounds in the house and in
the street. He expected to be brought suddenly face to face with danger,
and was afraid he would not be ready to meet it.

He certainly was not himself. Zena had gone to stay with friends in the
country for a few days, or I should have got her to persuade the old man
to give up this psychological business--at least until he was in a normal
condition again.

The restaurant, where we found Dr. Randall waiting for us, was one of
those excellent little French places which cannot be beaten until they
have become too successful and popular, when they almost invariably
deteriorate. Randall said he was delighted the professor had brought me,
and dinner was served at once at a cozy table in a corner.

"A patient of mine originally brought me here," said the doctor. "It is
rather a discovery, I think, and personally I prefer dining where I am
unlikely to come in contact with a lot of people I know. In recent years
we have improved, of course; but in England we still eat, while in France
they dine. Here we are practically in France."

Certainly more French was spoken than English, and the doctor spoke in
French to the waiter. Quarles's nervousness, which had been apparent
during the drive from Chelsea, disappeared as dinner progressed, and I
did not suppose a stranger like Randall would notice it. He would
probably form rather a wrong impression of the professor, would look upon
him as a highly-strung man, and would not realize that he was not in a
normal condition this evening. Randall carried his profession in his
face, but for the time being his medical manner was laid aside; nor did
he speak of the business which had brought us together until we had got
to the coffee and liqueur stage.

"I suppose you read the papers I sent you, Professor?"

"Yes, but rather cursorily," Quarles answered. "I think if you told the
whole story I should understand it better; besides, my friend here knows
nothing of it, and will bring an unbiased mind to bear upon it."

"And may give us a new idea," said the doctor. "I don't know whether you
are acquainted with Manleigh Road, Bayswater. There are about fifty
houses in it--a terrace, in fact, on either side. The houses are sixty or
seventy years old, I daresay, ugly but roomy, and some few years ago a
lot of money was spent in bringing them up to date, putting in
bath-rooms, modernizing them, and redecorating them thoroughly. In spite
of this, however, they have not attracted the kind of tenant they were
intended for. Many of them have apartments to let. The house we have to
do with is No. 7. The even numbers are on one side of the road, the odd
on the other. No. 5 is a boarding-house of a very respectable kind,
frequented by young fellows in business chiefly. No. 9 is occupied by a
man who, after retiring from business comparatively wealthy, had
financial losses. His four daughters have had to go out and work. I
mention these facts to show that the surroundings are entirely
commonplace. The owner of No. 7 went abroad some years ago, owing to the
death of his wife, I understand, and left the house in the hands of an
agent. It was to be let furnished, but, except for a caretaker, it
remained empty for several months. It was then taken by a newly-married
couple. They could not remain in it. The house was haunted, they said,
and I believe the agent threatened them with legal proceedings if they
spread such an absurd report. He seemed to think they said so only to
repudiate their bargain. It was then let to a man named Greaves, about
whom nothing was known. He paid the rent in advance, and lived there
alone with a housekeeper and a young servant. One morning he was found
dead in his bed, in the large room on the first floor at the back. A
piece of cord was fastened tightly round his neck. There seemed little
doubt that he had committed suicide, for when he did not come down to
breakfast the housekeeper went to his room and found the door locked on
the inside. It had to be broken open. Perhaps you heard of the case?"

Quarles shook his head.

"Well, the door was locked on the inside, the window was shut and
fastened, there was no sign that any one had entered the room, and
nothing was missing. Foul play was out of the question, but the doctor
who was called in was troubled about the affair. It was from him that I
had these particulars. Dr. Bates had become acquainted--not
professionally, I believe--with the young couple who had lived in the
house for a time, and they had told him the place was haunted. In
bringing his judgment to bear upon Greaves' death, it is only right to
remember that his mind had received a bias."

"I take it he did not believe it was a case of suicide," said Quarles.

"His reason told him it must be, yet something beyond reason told him
it wasn't."

"He thought it was murder?" I asked.

"No, not ordinary murder," Randall answered. "He thought it was a
supernatural death."

"I have read the letter he wrote to you; there is nothing very definite
in it," said Quarles.

"It was his indefinite state of mind which caused him to relate the whole
story to me. When the police failed to make any discovery, he thought
some one interested in psychological research might solve the mystery."

"What, exactly, were the experiences of this young couple?" I asked.

"Chiefly noises, footsteps echoing through a silent house. Once the
shadow of a man, or so it seemed, was thrown suddenly upon the wall by a
ray of moonlight, and once the curtains and sheets of a bed were found
torn, as if hands, finding nothing else to destroy, had taken vengeance
upon them. Of course, this all comes second-hand from Dr. Bates."

"And is probably unconsciously exaggerated," said Quarles. "The ordinary
man is almost certain to overstate and to emphasize unduly one part of
the evidence."

"That was my feeling exactly," returned Randall, "so I spent a night in
that haunted room myself. The result was disappointing."

"Did nothing happen?" I asked.

"There was no direct manifestation--at least I saw nothing, and I do not
think I heard anything, but I am sure that I felt something. It was very
vague. You know it is my theory," Randall went on, addressing me, "that
different individuals are sensitive to different influences. For example,
let us suppose a certain spot is haunted, a spot where something
particularly desperate has taken place in the past. Now I believe that A,
B, and C, all sensitive to supernatural influences, may watch there and
seeing nothing, but that D, being sensitive to that particular influence,
or moving on that particular plane, may be successful. In another case,
where D fails, A, B, or C may be successful. I think it is this fact
which accounts for the comparatively small number of experiences which we
are able to authenticate. It was an article of the professor's, setting
forth similar views, which made me anxious to make his acquaintance."

"Are you suggesting that he should spend a night in this house?" I asked.

"I do not think I suggested such a thing," said Randall with a smile,
"but I believe that is the professor's intention."

"It is," said Quarles.

"When?" I asked.

"On Friday night."

"Greaves died on a Friday night," said Randall. "It is a small point,
perhaps, but, like myself, the professor believes in small details."

"I suppose the agent will let me have the key," said Quarles.

"I do not know the agent. I got the key through Dr. Bates, and I can give
you a card of introduction to him."

"It will be a very interesting experiment," I said, looking as learned as
I could. I thought I had kept my end up very well, and far from having to
pretend to be interested, as Quarles had suggested, I was profoundly
interested, not in the psychological discussion, but in the Bayswater
mystery. I had heard of it before, and remembered that Martin, one of the
oldest members of the force, had said that it was no more a case of
suicide than he was a raw recruit. I am far from saying that no mystery
is to be accounted for by the supernatural, but I always want to test it
in every other way first.

Quarles was pleased to jeer at me for a skeptic as we drove back to
Chelsea. He did not consider me altogether a fool as a detective, but he
had no use for me as a psychological student.

"Anyway, it is a pity you are undertaking this business in your present
nervous state," I said. "At least let me be with you on Friday night."

"Nonsense, that would make the experiment useless. You clear up the
mystery of this subtle scoundrel who has tried to get me shot and my
nervous state will soon disappear."

As a matter of fact, I couldn't settle to a careful study of my recent
cases, as the professor had suggested. I tried and failed. I could not
forget the experiment which was to be made on Friday night, and on
Wednesday morning I took action. First of all, I arranged that a special
constable should be on duty in Manleigh Road, and from his appearance no
one would have supposed that anything in the way of a genius had been
introduced into the neighborhood. He looked a fool; he was one of the
smartest men I knew. Strangely enough, on the Thursday night No. 7 was
burgled quite early in the evening as soon as it was dusk. Two men got in
at a basement window, and the constable was quite close at the time. He
had instructions, in fact, to give warning to the burglars if there was
any danger of their being seen.

I had not burgled the house alone; I had taken a young detective named
Burroughs with me. Of course, I might say it was because I wanted to give
him a chance, or because I thought we might encounter desperate
characters in the house; but as a fact, it was the supernatural element
which decided me. I do not like the idea of the supernatural; my nerves,
excellent in their way and in their own sphere, are inclined to get jumpy
under certain conditions.

We went up from the basement cautiously, and it would have needed keen
ears to have heard our movements.

Without showing a light, we went into every room in the house. Those in
front had some light in them from a street lamp outside, but those at the
back were dark, although, after a while, we got accustomed to the dark,
and could see to some extent. None of the blinds was drawn, and although
there was no moon, it was a clear, starlit night.

Our special attention was devoted to the room where Greaves had been
found dead. It was substantially furnished, mid-Victorian in character.
The lock on the door, which had been broken open, had been mended, and
the window was fastened. Systematically we examined every article of
furniture and the innocent-looking cupboard. The walls were substantial,
but we did not subject them to tapping. I did not want to arouse the
neighbors to the fact that No. 7 was not empty to-night.

"We have a long vigil before us, Burroughs," I said.

"What do you expect to discover, sir?"

"I don't know, nothing most likely; but if anything does happen it is
going to happen in this room. I am going to take up my position in this
chair by the bed, and I want you to keep watch on the landing. If you
hear any one about the house come in to me at once, but if you only hear
me move don't come in unless I call. I shall not fasten the door, but I
shall put it to. If in some way it is possible to find out that this room
is occupied, I want to appear as if I were quite alone. Do you
understand?"

"Perfectly."

I saw Burroughs settled in a chair on the landing; then I entered the
room and closed the door without latching it, and there was a certain
feeling down my spine, in spite of the knowledge that I had a comrade
near at hand.

It was quite beyond me how Quarles could undertake to stay there all
alone. I could have done it had I been convinced that danger could only
come from a material foe; it was the idea of the supernatural which beat
me. I was not skeptic enough to be unmoved.

I had determined to sit beside the bed; but remembering that Greaves had
been found on the bed I first of all lay down for a minute or two. The
bed was not made up, but the mattresses were there with blankets over
them, and the hangings were in place. The key to the mystery might lie in
some hidden mechanism in the bed. Then I settled myself in the chair
beside the bed, my hand in my pocket on my revolver.

This kind of waiting is always a trial. The silence, the bodily
inactivity while the mind is strained to be keenly alert, have a sort of
hypnotic influence. An untrained man will certainly fancy he hears and
sees things, and even a trained man has to light hard against the desire
to sleep. There comes a longing for something, anything, to happen. I
think I got into a condition at last in which I should have welcomed a
ghost. There was no church clock near to break the monotony with its
striking; time seemed non-existent.

Once I thought I heard Burroughs shift his position on the landing
outside, and there presently came to me an uncontrollable desire to move.
I stood up. Just to walk to the window and back would make all the
difference.

My journey across the room was noiseless, and, coming back, I
stopped suddenly.

To my left there was movement, movement without sound. In an instant my
revolver was ready, and then I felt a fool. In a recess there was a glass
fixed to the wall, we had noticed it when we examined the room, and I had
caught the dim reflection of my head and shoulders in it. The glass was
just at that height from the floor.

I went to it and called myself a fool to my reflection. I could only see
myself very dimly, so I cannot say whether the incident had driven any
color from my face.

It had the effect of quieting my restlessness, at any rate. I returned to
my chair refreshed, feeling capable of keeping a vigil, however long it
might last.

Almost unconsciously I began to consider how many deceptions
looking-glasses were responsible for, and remembered some of the
illusions I had seen at the Egyptian Hall. No doubt looking-glasses had
played a large part in some of them.

And then I began to wonder why the mattresses had been left upon the bed.
Was the agent expecting to let the house again at once, or had they been
put there for Quarles's convenience to-morrow night?

How long my mind slid from one thing to another I cannot say; but
gradually my ideas seemed to dwindle away into nothingness, and it is
easy to imagine that I slept. I do not think I did, however.

Although my mind was a blank for a time, I am convinced I never lost
consciousness of that room or of the business I had in hand. There was
absolutely no sensation of waking, only another sudden desire to move.

Again I walked to the window, and as I came back I glanced in the
direction of the glass. This time my own reflection did not startle me;
not because I was ready for it, but because I did not see it.

I must have crossed the room at a different angle, or my eyes--

I went to the glass, and then I started. There was no reflection. I was
not in the glass.

In a moment the knowledge that this room was haunted came to me in full
force. There was the glass, plainer than I had seen it before, my eyes
were not at fault. Indeed, as I stared into it, there was a dim outline
of images in the glass, the furniture of the room, but of me no
reflection at all. Was I bewitched? Surely I must be in my chair,
sleeping, dreaming, for suddenly in the glass, moving as in a mist, there
were shadows--a bed and a man lying on it, and bending over him was
another man whose hands were twisting about his companion.

I tried to call out to stop him, then I drew back, and the next moment I
was at the door, speaking to Burroughs in a whisper.

"What is it?" he asked, coming swiftly into the room.

"Look!" and I seized him by the arm and drew him to the looking-glass.

"Well, what is it?" he asked again.

His reflection and mine were looking out at us, one scared face, mine;
one full of questioning, his.

I told him what I had seen.

"You dropped off to sleep, Mr. Wigan, that's what it was."

Had I? It couldn't have been a dream, and yet faith in myself was shaken.
It was possible I had only walked across the room a second time in my
dreams. One thing is certain, I did not fall asleep again that night.

I had arranged with the constable in Manleigh Road that he should keep a
careful watch at dawn. We should leave then by the same way as we had
entered, and he was to signal to us if the coast was clear.

It was an essential part of my plan that no one should know the house had
been occupied that night. I had kept watch, thinking that if harm were
intended to Quarles the trap would be made ready previously. How and by
whom I had not fully considered. Now I determined not to leave the house
during the day.

I would be there when Quarles came that night.

I scribbled a note to him, explaining what I was doing, and I said that
if the agent should accompany him to the house I would remain hidden
until the agent had gone. This note I gave to Burroughs, and instructed
him to explain matters to the constable.

I had provided myself with a flask and some dry biscuits in case of
contingencies, and prepared to pass the day as comfortably as I could. It
is needless to say that in daylight I examined that haunted room again,
especially the looking-glass.

It was in an ornamental wooden frame fixed on the wall, formed, in fact,
a finish to a wooden dado. It was like the fixed overmantel one finds
sometimes in small modern villas, only it wasn't over the mantelpiece.

I think there was nothing in the room which I did not examine carefully,
but I did not sit there; I preferred the front room.

It was an immense relief when I saw Quarles and another man, the agent,
come through the gate.

It was between eight and nine, and I retired to the basement to be out of
the way. The agent stayed about half an hour, and they were chiefly in
the haunted room together.

"I sincerely hope your report will set at rest this silly idea that the
house is haunted," I heard the agent say as they came down to the hall.
"When my client returns he will be pretty mad about it."

"When does he return?" asked Quarles.

"I don't know. I haven't had a line from him since he went away, but
the sum I have received for him in rent doesn't amount to much, I can
tell you."

I expected to find the professor rather ill-tempered at my interference,
but I found him inclined to raillery.

"Are you hunting a murderer or a ghost, Wigan?" he asked.

"I am not quite sure, but I think at the back of my mind there is an idea
to keep you out of the clutches of the subtle personality of whom you are
afraid. Come up to the haunted room; we will talk there, but it must be
in whispers. If I have had any success it is believed that you are in
this house alone to-night."

"A foolish old man alone, eh?"

"In this instance I am inclined to answer yes."

"You are quite right to say exactly what you think," he returned.

"Have you considered the possibility that some one is trading on your
known enthusiasm for psychological research?" I asked.

"Surely you do not mean Randall?"

"No, but he may have been used as a tool. Frankly now, would you have
undertaken this business just at the present time had it not been for
Dr. Randall?"

"Probably not."

"So if you are being deceived it is being managed very subtly."

"You are full of supposition. Let us get to work. You speak in your
letter of an experience you had last night. What was it?"

"You will say no doubt that my fear of the supernatural got the
better of me."

I told him the story of the looking-glass as we stood in front of it, our
two faces looking out at us dimly.

"Come away from it now, Wigan," he said when I had finished. "Burroughs
thought you had fallen asleep, did he? You are convinced you were not
dreaming, I presume?"

"At the time I confess Burroughs rather shook my faith in myself, but
during the day I have become certain that I did not sleep."

Sitting on the other side of the bed--Quarles was very particular where
he sat in the room--he questioned me closely about the actions of the
shadows, and I answered him as well as I could. Only a very vague picture
was in my mind.

"It may astonish you to know, Wigan, that it was only your note this
morning which brought me to this house at all to-night, I 'phoned to you
at least a dozen times yesterday."

"Why?"

"I was afraid of to-night. Perhaps for the time being I have lost my grip
a little on account of my nervous condition. I have had a long talk with
Dr. Bates, and he tried to persuade me to give up the idea of spending a
night here alone. He was rather doubtful about a supernatural solution to
the mystery. Then I didn't like the agent when I went to him to arrange
about the key. I shouldn't have entered the house with him to-night had I
not known you were here."

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Always that strong presentiment of danger," he answered. "Were these
hangings on the bed last night?"

"It was exactly as you see it now."

"The agent said the mattress and blankets had been put here for my
convenience."

"Did he say when they were put here?"

"I thought he meant to-day," said Quarles.

"No one has entered the house to-day," I answered.

"Yet, if Greaves was murdered, some one must have gained access to this
room somehow, in spite of the locked door and fastened window."

"You have dropped the idea of the supernatural, then?"

"I am keeping an open mind."

"Shall we give it up and go, Professor?"

"Certainly not. I am supposed to be alone in the house, so we will
await events. On the other side of that wall where the glass hangs is
No. 5, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"That is the boarding-house. Keep still a minute while I get an idea of
the furniture against this opposite wall. Randall said a man and his four
daughters lived at No. 9, didn't he?"

I whispered an affirmative, and could dimly see the professor going
slowly along the wall. He began tapping things, apparently with a
pocket knife.

I warned him not to make a noise.

"I am known to be here," he answered, coming back to me. "A man who
undertakes to investigate the supernatural would be expected to take
precautions that no tricks were likely to be played upon him. It would be
suspicious if I didn't make a little noise. Now we will settle ourselves.
I shall lie on the bed. You move a chair under that glass and sit there.
I have an electric torch with me. Don't fall asleep to-night, Wigan."

"I didn't last night," I answered.

After that we were silent, and the vigil began. In one way it was a
repetition of the previous night. I lost count of time, and had sudden
desires to move, but managed to control them.

Certainly I did not sleep, and I fought successfully against the hypnotic
influence which silence and darkness exert. Not a sound of movement came
from Quarles, not a murmur from the world outside.

More than once I wanted to ask the professor whether he was all right,
but did not do so.

It seemed that this utter silence had lasted for hours, when it was
broken, not suddenly, but gradually. It was not a sound so much as a
movement which broke it. Some one or something was near us. At first it
did not seem to be in the room, but as if it were trying to get in. I
could not tell where it was, but for a time it was outside, and then just
as certainly I knew that it was in.

I cannot say positively that I heard a footfall on the carpet, but I
think I did, and then came an unmistakable sound; the swish of the bed
hangings suddenly drawn back.

"Quarles!"

Whether I shouted his name or whispered it, I do not know, but the next
moment a ray from the electric torch cut the darkness like a long sword.

There was a low, almost inarticulate cry, then a light thud upon the
floor--so light it might have been some clothes falling from the bed.

"Don't move, Wigan!" Quarles said, and a second afterwards he
fired--downwards it must have been, although he had warned me to keep
still, in case he should hit me.

There was an unearthly yell, and something rushed past my feet--a man on
all fours, a little man, a--

"The glass, Wigan! Quick!"

I sprang up. For just an instant I saw my own reflection, then it was
gone; instead, I was looking into a luminous mist out of which there
suddenly flashed a face looking into mine.

I saw it quite clearly, and then it went as quickly as it had come. It
appeared to have been jerked away.

"Look!"

Quarles was behind me, and in the glass, almost as I had seen them last
night, were the shadows, only now they struggled and twisted first; it
was afterwards that one lay still across the bed.

"An ape, Wigan!" Quarles said excitedly. "An ape, trained to imitate, and
now--did some one look through the glass?"

"Yes."

"Was it Dr. Randall?"

Directly he asked the question I knew that it was the doctor's face which
had been there.

"The subtle personality, Wigan."

"When did you guess?"

"I didn't guess--I didn't think it possible. Bates' disbelief in the
supernatural made me a little suspicious, but I didn't think it possible.
To-night--that ape--the whole plot--I could only think of Randall. There
was no one else."

We left the house at once, both of us in an excited state.

The constable I had on special duty soon had several others with him, and
before dawn No. 5 Manleigh Road was raided.

It was only a garbled statement which got into the papers, and
probably the whole truth will never be known; but I gradually gathered
the main facts, partly from the doctor's confederates, partly from
some of his victims.

Dr. Randall, posing as a nerve specialist, and fully qualified to do so,
had lived a double life. As a doctor he was respected and was fairly
successful; as the head and organizer of a small army of miscreants he
had been eminent for years.

Under the guise of a respectable boarding-house, No. 5 had been used
as the headquarters of the gang, and the operations had been so
widespread, so all-embracing in the field of crime, that after the
raid many mysteries which the police had failed to unravel were
credited to Randall. Many of these he could have had nothing to do
with, but he had quite enough to answer for. He seems to have
exercised a kind of terrorism over his subordinates, or he would
surely have been betrayed before.

Exactly at what point my investigations had jeopardized his secret I
could not find out, but he evidently thought it was in danger, and
believing Quarles was responsible, he determined to get rid of him.

I was told that he had made two attempts upon his life before the night
he was introduced to him in the Temple. That night Quarles was followed
when he left the Temple, and, as we know, was shot at in Savoy Street.

This attempt failing, the doctor, who had already asked Quarles to dinner
on the following night as an extra precaution, determined to use a method
which had already proved successful.

Quarles's enthusiasm for psychological research could hardly fail to
tempt him into the trap.

No. 7 Manleigh Road belonged to a man in the doctor's employment. It had
been prepared for eventualities some time before--probably tragedies had
occurred in the house which had never been heard of. The house agent was
one of the gang, and when, either by mistake or because he could not help
himself without causing undesirable comment, he let the house to the
young married couple, they were frightened away. The house was then let
to Greaves, a man who had become a danger to the doctor, and in due
course he was found dead in his bed.

Between the fireplace of the haunted room and that of the corresponding
room in No. 5 part of the chimney wall had been removed, so that there
was sufficient space for the ape to get from one room to the other.

This ape, some four feet in height, was exceedingly powerful and more
than usually imitative, but was not naturally vicious. Any action done in
its presence the animal would be certain to repeat at the first
opportunity; but having done so, it did not repeat it again unless the
action was performed again. The action of strangling a man in his sleep
by means of a cord was performed before the ape, and afterwards the
animal was allowed to steal through the hole in the chimney. The result
was that Greaves was found dead.

It was intended that Quarles should die in a like manner, and special
pains were taken with the ape to insure success. The action was performed
before the animal in every detail more than once, and it was kept in
strict confinement until the right moment came.

The ape was out of my sight, but I chanced to see the imitation in
progress on the Thursday night through the glass, which had unaccountably
been left open for some minutes after it had been tried to see that it
was in working order. I saw only dimly because the imitation was being
done by the light of a single candle, and that shaded as much as
possible, to suggest to the ape the gloomy conditions of the room in
which it was to repeat its lesson. Let into the wall of the room in the
boarding-house there was a glass backing on to the one in the haunted
room. A small handle swung aside the back, which was common to both, and
the looking-glass became a window from one room to the other.

When he fired Quarles evidently hit the ape. Mad with pain, the animal
dashed back through the hole in the chimney and attacked the doctor, who
was probably taken entirely unawares, as he was looking through the glass
to see what the revolver shot might mean.

The ape went through its part of the performance, and the doctor fell a
victim to his own diabolical ingenuity. The wounded animal had to be
shot before any one could get near the body.

Some people have declared that Dr. Randall was a madman, but I think
Quarles' answer hit the truth.

"Of course, in a sense, all criminals are mad," he said, "but Randall was
the sanest criminal I ever came in contact with."




CHAPTER V

THE DIFFICULTY OF BROTHER PYTHAGORAS


Whether it was my statement that criminals had grown cleverer than they
used to be which aroused Quarles's interest so effectually, or whether it
was that success made him thirst for further fields to conquer, I do not
know. I do know, however, that he grew restless if any considerable time
elapsed without my having a clue worthy of his powers.

As it happened we had two or three cases close together which stretched
his powers to the utmost, and the extremely subtle manner in which he
solved them shows him at his best.

When I sent him a telegram from Fairtown, merely requesting him to join
me there, I felt certain he would come by the first available train, and
was at the station to meet him.

"Fine, invigorating air this, Wigan," he remarked. "Is there really a
case for us to deal with, or did you merely telegraph for the purpose of
giving me a holiday?"

"The case is for you rather than for me. I am still--"

"Still waiting for something to turn up in the Beverley affair?" he
asked.

"Were I answering a layman, or even a rival detective, I should look very
wise and talk indefinitely of clues; to you I will admit a blank ten
days, not a forward step in any direction whatever."

"So you send for me."

"Upon a different matter altogether," I returned.

I had come to Fairtown ten days ago on the lookout for a man named
Beverley. His friends were anxious about him, and said they believed he
was suffering from a loss of memory; the police had reason to suspect
that he was implicated in some company-promoting frauds, and thought the
family only wanted to find him to get him out of the country. His people
were certainly not aware that I was looking for him in Fairtown, and I
need not go into the reasons which made me expect to run my quarry to
earth in this particular spot; they were sound ones, or I should not have
spent ten days on the job.

To describe Fairtown would be superfluous. Every one knows this popular
seaside resort. This year, I believe for the first time, a large tent had
been erected behind the sea-baths building, which was occupied each week
by a different company of entertainers. In my second week a troupe of
pierrots was there, the "Classical P's," they were called, and hearing
from some one in the hotel that they were quite out of the ordinary, I
went on the Thursday evening. At the opening of the performance the
leader of the troupe announced that Brother Pythagoras, after the
performance on the previous evening, had been obliged to go to town, and
unfortunately had not yet returned, so they would be without his services
that night. There was some disappointment; he had a charming tenor voice,
my neighbor told me. The full troupe numbered six, described on the
program as Brothers Pluto, Pompey, and Pythagoras, and Sisters Psyche,
Pomona, and Penelope; that night, of course, they were only five, but the
entertainment was excellent.

Sister Pomona was altogether an exceptional pianist, her interpretation
of items by Schumann and Mendelssohn being little short of a revelation.
She was pretty, too, and her scarlet dress with its white pompons, and
her pierrot's hat to match, suited her to perfection.

I was amongst the last left in the tent after the performance, partly
owing to the position of my seat, partly, at least so Zena would have it
later, and I did not contradict her, because I was lingering in the hope
of getting another glimpse of Pomona. As I moved toward the exit there
came a short scream, a terrified scream it seemed to me, from behind the
stage. I turned back and waited, and in a minute or two Brother Pluto
came from behind the curtains.

"Are you a doctor?" he asked.

"No, but--"

"I am a doctor," said a voice behind me.

I was not invited, but I followed the doctor. The space available for
the artistes was very small. There was little more than passageway
between the tent wall and the stage built up some three feet from the
ground, and we had to step over the various paraphernalia which was
necessary for the performance. What had happened was this. A projecting
piece of woodwork had caught Pomona's dress as she passed, tearing off
one of the white pompons, which had rolled underneath the platform. She
saw it, as she supposed, lying in a dark corner, and stooped to reach
it. What she had caught sight of, and what she caught hold of, was a
man's hand, a cold hand. Brothers Pluto and Pompey were beside her a
moment afterwards, and had dragged a body from under the stage. It was
Brother Pythagoras, the performer who was supposed to have gone to
London on the previous night. He was dressed in his pierrot costume,
but had been dead some hours, the doctor said, death being due to a blow
on the head, from a stick, probably.

I told the story to Quarles as we walked to the hotel.

"Does the doctor suggest an accident?" he asked.

"No."

"How long, in his opinion, had the man been dead?"

"Some hours."

"Twenty-four?"

"I particularly asked that question," I answered. "He thought death had
taken place that day."

"It may be an interesting case," said Quarles doubtfully. "I suppose I
can see the body."

"I have arranged that."

"Who are these brothers and sisters?"

"Pluto and Psyche are husband and wife, a Mr. and Mrs. Watson. She is a
Colonial, and he has been in the Colonies for a year or two. It is their
second season of entertaining in this country. Pompey, whose name is
Smith, and Penelope, otherwise Miss Travers, have been with them from the
first. Pomona, otherwise Miss Day, only joined them this season, and is
evidently a lady. The dead man, Henley by name, joined them after the
season had commenced, taking the place of a man who fell ill. He has been
very reticent about himself."

"According to Watson, I suppose?" said Quarles.

"They were all agreed upon that point," I answered.

"On what points were they not agreed?" Quarles asked quickly.

"Well, although they all spoke in the warmest terms of their comrade, it
struck me they were not all so fond of him as they made out."

"What makes you think that?"

"The way they looked at the dead man. Naturally, I was watching them
rather keenly as the doctor made his examination."

"That is rather an interesting idea, Wigan, and has possibilities in it;
still, a murdered man is not a pleasant sight, and the artistic
temperament must be taken into consideration."

We went to the mortuary that afternoon. The dead man was still in the
pierrot's dress--I had arranged this should be so, wishing to afford the
professor every facility in his investigation. He was more interested in
the dress than in the man, examining it very carefully with his lens. The
stockings and shoes came in for close inspection, also the comical
pierrot's hat, which he fitted to the dead man's head for a moment.

"Had he his hat on when he was pulled from under the platform?" he asked.

"No. It was found after the doctor's examination, close to where the body
had been."

"Who found it?"

"Watson--Brother Pluto."

"Who first thought of looking for it?" Quarles asked.

"I think Watson just stooped down and saw it. He would naturally think of
it, since it was part of the dress."

The professor nodded, as if the explanation satisfied him. Then he looked
at the head, neck, and hands.

"He was a singer, you say?"

"Yes--a tenor."

"What instrument did he play?"

"I don't know."

"Ah, a sad end. Henley, you say his name was--I see there is 'H' marked
in pencil in his hat."

"He called himself Henley," I answered; "it may not have been his real
name. As I said, his companions know very little about him."

"So his friends, if he has any, cannot be advised of the tragedy. This
company of mummers is alone in its mourning for him. I should like to
examine this hat more closely, Wigan. Can I take it away with me?"

I arranged for him to do so, and we went back to the hotel.

"Do you find it an interesting case, Professor?" I asked.

"It certainly presents some difficulties which are interesting. The clue
may lie in Henley's unknown past, and that might be a difficulty not to
be overcome; or we may find the clue in jealousy."

"You surely are not thinking that--"

"Oh, I have not got so far as suspecting Watson or any of his
companions," said Quarles, "but certain facts force us to keep an open
mind, Wigan. To begin with, there was apparently no struggle before
death. The blow was not so severe that a comparatively weak arm might not
have delivered it, a woman's, for the sake of argument. We may,
therefore, deduct two theories at once. He probably had no suspicion or
fear of the person in whose company he was, and I think the doctor will
endorse our statement if we affirm that he was not in a healthy
condition. Personally, I should credit Henley with a fairly rapid past,
which may account for his companions not looking upon the body with any
particular kindness, as you noticed."

"You seem to have built more on that idea of mine than I
intended," I said.

"I have built nothing at all on it," he answered. "I argue entirely from
the appearance of the dead man. Another point. I looked for some sign
that the dress had been put on after the man was dead. The signs all
point to an opposite conclusion."

"The dress puzzles me," I said.

"Of course, if the doctor were not so certain that death had occurred
during the day, we might place the murder at some time on the previous
night, after the performance, when Henley would naturally be in his
pierrot's dress, but why should he put it on during the day. There was no
rehearsal, I suppose?"

"Nothing was said about it; besides, Henley was supposed to be in town."

"Yes, I know. That is one of our difficulties. I take it that
neither Watson nor any of his company have offered any explanation
of the tragedy?"

"I believe not. I saw the local inspector this morning, and he said
nothing further had transpired, nor had any clue been found amongst the
dead man's effects. Of course, if his companions had any guilty knowledge
they would have made some explanation."

"Why?"

"To mislead us."

"My dear Wigan, there are times when you jump as far to a conclusion
as a woman."

"I am arguing from a somewhat ripe experience," I retorted
somewhat hotly.

"Strengthened by an interest in Sister Pomona, eh? Something of the
old-fashioned school lingers about you, which is picturesque but always a
handicap in these days. The methods of crime have changed just as the
methods of other enterprises have changed. Your bungling villain has no
chance nowadays; to succeed a criminal must be an artist, a scientist
even, and he does not fall into the error of accusing himself by
excusing himself. And since increased knowledge tends to simplify those
explanations with which we have sought to explain away difficulties in
the past, I think we shall be wise to apply modern methods to any
difficulty with which we are confronted."

Naturally, I argued the point, endeavoring to justify myself, and in the
process we nearly quarreled.

That night we went to the entertainment. It was an exceedingly full
house, showing the commercial wisdom of the proprietors of the sea-baths
in not canceling the engagement. The verve and go in the performance
astonished me. One would not have supposed that a tragedy had happened in
this little company of players. I felt that they ought to be horribly
conscious of the ghastly thing which had been found under that platform
only a few hours since. I said something of the kind to Quarles.

"Don't forget the artistic temperament," he answered.

"Surely it would be the very temperament to be influenced," I said.

"Presently we shall find out, perhaps," he whispered as Sister Pomona
went to the piano.

It was Chopin she played to-night, and Quarles, who had been more
interested in her than in the rest of the company, immediately lost
himself in the music. He applauded as vociferously as any one in the
audience, and after the performance would talk of nothing but music. It
pleased him to become learned on harmony and counterpoint; at least, I
suppose it was learned; I could not understand him.

I had suggested that he should make the acquaintance of the pierrots as
soon as the curtain was down, but this he would not do.

"To-morrow will be time enough; besides, I want to see them with the
paint off."

We called on them on the following morning. They had rooms in a quiet
street in Fairtown. The landlady was accustomed to have strolling
companies as lodgers, and evidently had the knack of making them
comfortable. Quarles had a word or two with her before seeing her
visitors, and learnt that they were the nicest and quietest people
she had ever had. The poor gentleman who was dead was the quietest of
the company.

"Perhaps he was in love," laughed Canaries.

"I shouldn't be surprised," the landlady answered.

"With whom?"

"He seemed to spend most of his time looking at Miss Day when he
didn't think she would notice him. I don't wonder. She is well worth
looking at."

"Admiration is not necessarily love," remarked the professor. "By the
way, have you been to the mortuary to see the body?"

"Me!" exclaimed the landlady in horror. "No. I am not one of those
who take a morbid pleasure in that kind of thing. Nothing would
induce me to go."

"Very sensible of you," Quarles said.

We were then taken to the Watsons' sitting-room, and I explained the
reason of our call, speaking of Quarles as a brother detective. He did
not at once act up to his part. Mr. and Mrs. Watson were alone when we
first entered, but the others joined us almost at once, and I fancy they
were prepared for a visit from me; the local inspector may have said it
was likely. Quarles began to talk of music, and judging by Miss Day's
interest I concluded that he knew what he was talking about; in fact, all
of them were immensely interested in the old man, and for at least half
an hour the real reason of our being there was not mentioned.

"Bach, no, I am not an admirer of Bach," said the professor, in answer to
a question from Miss Day. "Bad taste, no doubt, but I always think
musical opinion is particularly difficult to follow. By the way, I
suppose Mr. Henley played some instrument?"

The sudden question seemed to change the whole atmosphere. Watson, I
fancy, had been ready to enter upon a defense of Shaw, and Miss Day to
convert Quarles to Bach worship; in fact, I firmly believe that every one
except myself had forgotten all about the dead man until that moment.

"Why do you ask!" Watson inquired after a pause.

"You are such a musical set, it would be strange if one of your company
could not play any instrument at all. I am told he sang tenor songs, and
was wondering whether that was all he could do."

"As a fact he played the banjo and the guitar," said Watson, "but he has
not done so in Fairtown. The people here are high-class people, and we
have to vary our performance to suit our audiences. At Brighton, where we
go next week, Henley's banjo playing might have been the most popular
item on the program."

"I can understand that. You know very little about Mr. Henley, I am
told," and he waved his hand in my direction to show where he had got his
information.

"Very little," Watson replied. "He told us he had no relations, and he
received very few letters, which seemed to be from agents and business
people. I did not question him very closely when he applied to me. I
judged that he was down on his luck, but he fitted my requirements, and
my wife was favorably impressed with him."

"And you have no reason to regret taking him into your company?"

"On the contrary, he proved a great acquisition, a far better man than
the one whose place he took."

"That is not quite what I meant," said Quarles. "Companies of
entertainers vary, not only in ability, but in individual tastes, in
personnel. By engaging Mr. Henley you were obliged to admit him into your
private circle, and I imagine--"

"That is what I meant by saying my wife approved of him," said Watson. "I
wouldn't engage the finest tenor in the world unless he were a decent
fellow. It wouldn't be fair to the rest of us."

Quarles nodded his appreciation of such an attitude.

"Of course, as long as he behaves decently I am satisfied," Watson went
on. "I don't make my enquiries too particular. For instance, I shouldn't
bar a man because he had got into trouble."

"Have you any reason to suppose that Henley had done so?" Quarles asked.
"That might account for his mysterious death."

"I have no such suspicion," Watson answered; "indeed, he was not that
kind of man. It is my way--my clumsy way of explaining what I mean by
decent. Many a decent man has seen the inside of a prison. By being there
he pays his debt, and afterwards, in common justice, he should be free,
really free, free from his fellow-man's contempt."

"You have started my husband on his pet hobby," laughed Mrs. Watson. "He
always declares that our prisons hold some of the best men in the world."

"Some of the strongest and most potential," corrected her husband.

"I am inclined to agree with him," said Quarles.

"But I am taking up your time and not asking the one or two
questions I came especially to ask. You dress for the performance in
the tent, I suppose?"

"The men do. The ladies dress here and go down with cloaks over their
costumes."

Quarles undid a small brown paper parcel--I had wondered what he had
brought with him--and produced the pierrot's hat.

"That is Henley's, I suppose?"

Watson looked at it.

"Undoubtedly. There is an 'H' in it, you see. We all put our initial in
like that so that we should know our own."

"Now, can you suggest why Henley was wearing his dress?" asked Quarles.

"That has puzzled us all," Watson answered. "I am inclined to think the
doctor is wrong as regards the time he had been dead. The last we saw of
Henley was when we left the tent that night. He was not coming back with
us, he was going straight to the station. He was a long time changing,
and I told him he would have to hurry to catch his train."

"Is there such a late train up?"

"Only during the summer."

"And none of you went down to the tent until the evening of the
next day?"

They all replied in the negative.

"We are perhaps fortunate in being able to substantiate the denial," said
Watson. "We all drove to Craybourne and spent the day there, starting
soon after ten and not getting back until six."

"And in the ordinary way Henley would have gone with you?"

"Certainly. It was only just before the performance that evening that he
announced his journey to town. He said it was a matter of business."

"One more question," said Quarles, "a delicate one, but you will forgive
it because you are as desirous of clearing up this mystery as any one.
Have you any reason to suppose poor Henley was in love?"

"I have no reason to think so," said Watson.

"Nor you, Miss Travers?" said Quarles, turning to Sister Penelope.

"He certainly was not in love with me."

"I ask the question just to clear the ground," said the professor after a
short pause, and rising as he spoke. "The man whose place Henley took
might have fallen in love with one of you young ladies, and if he thought
Henley had supplanted him he might have taken a mad revenge. Such things
do happen."

"There was nothing of that sort," said Mrs. Watson. "Russell, that was
the other man, has gone on a voyage for his health. Only a week ago I had
a picture postcard from him from a port in South America."

"That absolutely squashes the very germ of the theory," said the
professor with a smile. "Sometime I hope to enjoy your charming
entertainment again, and to hear you play, Miss Day. I hope it won't be
Bach. Good-by."

As we walked back to the hotel I asked Quarles why he had not suggested
that Henley might be in love with Miss Day instead of Miss Travers.

"My dear Wigan, you have yourself said she is undoubtedly a lady. Can
you imagine her allowing a man like the dead man to have anything to do
with her?"

"Circumstances have thrown them into each other's company," I answered.
"In such a small circle she could hardly avoid him."

"I am inclined to think the company will get on better without him,"
he answered.

To my astonishment the professor insisted on going back to town that
afternoon. No, he was not giving up the case, but he wanted to be in
Chelsea to think it out, and to see if Zena had got any foolish questions
to ask. This was Saturday, and on Monday I received a telegram from him,
requesting me to come to town. It was important. Of course I went, and
the three of us adjourned to the empty room.

"I am sorry to bring you off the Beverley affair, Wigan, but I think we
ought to settle this pierrot business."

"Then you have formed a theory?"

"Oh, yes, and it is for you to prove whether I am right or wrong. If my
theory be correct, it is rather a simple case, although it appears
complicated. We will accept the doctor's statement that the man had been
murdered that day, and not on the previous night. He was done to death,
therefore, during the morning probably, when for some reason he had
visited the tent, and for some reason had put on his pierrot's dress.
Watson is inclined to think that the doctor is wrong as regards time, but
we may dismiss his opinion. The dead man's face had no make-up on it; had
the murder been committed on the previous night before he had got out of
his costume, the grease paint would have been still on him."

"I think that conclusion is open to argument," I said.

"I base the conclusion rather on the doctor's opinion than on the
paint," said Quarles. "Now, it seems to follow that Henley's tale about
being called to town was false, was apparently told for the purpose of
getting out of the excursion with his comrades; and we may fairly assume
that his visit to the tent was for some purpose which he did not want his
companions to know anything about."

"Why did he put on the dress?" said Zena.

"That is her persistent question, Wigan, and she also asks another almost
as persistently: Why, in spite of friendly words concerning Henley,
should they look upon the dead body with such repugnance?"

"You make too much of that idea of mine, as I have said before," I
objected.

"Let me put it another way," said Quarles. "How was it possible for
them to show so little concern about a comrade they liked! They might
screw themselves up to go through their performance and hide their
sorrow from the public, but in private one would have expected to find
them depressed. I hardly think they showed great sorrow while we were
with them."

"They did not, certainly."

"May I say that Watson and Miss Day seemed the least concerned, and even
venture a step further and guess that they were the two who seemed to you
to look upon the dead man with repugnance?"

I admitted that this was the case, and it was then that Zena, having
heard the whole story from her grandfather, accused me of lingering in
the tent that night for the purpose of seeing Sister Pomona again.

"Now, two points as we go," said Quarles, interrupting our little
side-spar. "Miss Day volunteered no statement when I talked of love.
Could she have made an unqualified denial I think she would have done so.
I did not ask her a direct question on purpose; I thought she would be
more likely to answer an indirect one. Her silence, I fancy, was the
answer. In view of what the landlady told us, I think we are safe in
assuming that Henley admired her, and that she was aware of the fact. The
second point is Watson's defense of the men who had been in prison, his
hobby, as his wife called it. We will come back to both these points in a
moment. Let us consider the dead man first. The face was evidently that
of a fast liver, not that of a decent man such as Watson spoke of; the
throat and neck were not of the kind one expects in a singer, but, of
course, we must not argue too much from this; the hands showed breed,
certainly, but they had never been used to twang the strings of a banjo
or guitar."

"But Watson distinctly said--"

"And the hat with 'H' in it had never fitted the dead man," said Quarles.
"Oh, I remember perfectly what Watson said, and, moreover, I believe I
heard a good many of his thoughts which were not put into words--you can
hear thoughts, you know, only it is with such delicacy that the very idea
of hearing seems too heavy and materialistic to describe the sensation.
Watson said the hat was Henley's, he also said that Henley played these
instruments; but the pierrots all wore hats that fitted, well-made hats,
and for this reason each of them marked his hat, and the skin at the
finger tips of a banjo player always hardens. The dead man was certainly
not Brother Pythagoras, and so far the deduction is simple."

I made no comment.

"Now it is obvious since these entertainers agreed that it was the body
of their comrade, they are in a conspiracy to deceive. Why? More than one
complicated reason might be found, but let us remain simple. They knew
who the dead man was, and because of what they knew of him concluded that
their comrade was responsible for his death. Have you any fault to find
with that deduction, Wigan?"

"I don't think it follows," I said.

"If they did not know the dead man, if they had nothing to conceal, why
did they allow it to be supposed that the dead man was Henley?" said
Queries. "There would be no object. They were running a risk for nothing.
As it was, their action protected Henley. No one was likely to question
their identification. The dead man would be buried as Henley, and there
would be an end of the matter."

"But the dead man might be identified by his friends," I said.

"Evidently they thought it worth while to run that risk, knowing perhaps
that it was not a very great one. Apparently it was not, for up to now no
one has made anxious inquiries for the dead man."

"But some of the people about the sea-baths and the tent attendants would
know it was not Henley," said Zena.

"We have evidence that he was a very quiet, reticent man," said Quarles.
"They probably hardly saw him in the daytime, and at night he would have
a painted face, and the fact that he was wearing the dress would go a
long way to convince any one who chanced to see him in the dim light at
the back of the stage that night."

"And who do you suppose he was?" I asked.

"We will go back to Watson and Miss Day," said Quarles. "Miss Day was
silent on the question of love, fearful, I take it, that her natural
repugnance to the man might serve to betray the conspiracy. I believe
the conspiracy was formed on the spur of the moment, just before Watson
came from behind the curtains that evening and asked whether you were a
doctor. I should say the dead man had pestered her, and that she was
relieved by his death. I find some confirmation of this in Watson's
attitude. He talks of some of the best men having been in prison, in such
a way, in fact, that his wife hastens to laugh at his hobby, afraid that
he will betray himself. Now he could hardly have been referring to the
dead man; he declared himself that he was not thinking of Henley; I
suggest that he was thinking of himself."

"And you accused me of jumping to a conclusion!" I exclaimed.

"I haven't finished yet," answered the professor. "Here is my complete
theory. The dead man knew something of Watson's past, and was holding
that knowledge over him, blackmailing him, in fact, and I think the
company knew it. At the same time he pesters Miss Day with his
attentions, which Henley, more than half in love with Miss Day himself,
resents and determines to rid the troupe of a blackguard. He begins by
pretending some friendship for his victim, and after giving out that he
is going to town, suggests to the dead man that his absence may be an
opportunity for the other to get into Miss Day's good graces. Why should
he not dress up and take his place on the following evening? I have
little doubt that Henley expected him to come to try on the dress that
night after the performance, which would account for his being such a
long time changing. The victim did not come; by the look of him in death
I should say he had not been sober, which would account for his not
coming. Next morning Henley goes to find him, takes him to the tent, not
through the door, which would be fastened probably in some way, but
surreptitiously, through some weak spot in the pegging down very likely."

"But why should he wait until the man had got into the pierrot's dress
before murdering him?" said Zena.

"Because, my dear, he hoped the body would not be discovered until
another troupe took possession of the tent. A dead pierrot would be
discovered, and the troupe at Brighton would be communicated with. In the
meanwhile Henley would have warned them, and the same tale would have
been told, and the body been identified as Henley's. There would be no
hue and cry after the murderer. Had it not been for Miss Day's pompon
being torn off, I have no doubt this would have been the course of
events. You will have to travel to Brighton, Wigan, and put one or two
questions to our friend Watson."

"And who was the man?" I asked.

"Since no one seems to have missed him I should say he was a man not too
anxious to have inquiries made about him, one careful to cover up his
tracks, perhaps one not altogether unknown in criminal circles, a man of
the type of your Beverley, for instance. By the way, have you ever seen
Beverley?"

"No."

"How were you to know him, then?"

"By the man in whose company he would be."

"And you have good reasons for expecting to run him to earth at
Fairtown?"

"Excellent reasons," I answered.

"Wigan, get some one who knows Beverley to go and look at the dead
pierrot. The result might be interesting."

It was. Quarles admitted that the idea was a leap in the dark, but he
pointed out that the dead man was the type he imagined Beverley to be.
The fact remains he was right. The dead man was Beverley. And, moreover,
the professor's deduction was right throughout as far as we were able to
verify it. Watson had been in prison, quite deservedly he admitted, but
having paid the debt for his fall, he was facing the world bravely. Then
came Beverley, who knew of the past, and Watson admitted that his death
was a thing that he could not help rejoicing over. He had heard nothing
from Henley, who had no doubt read of the discovery in the paper, and
thought it wiser to obliterate himself altogether.




CHAPTER VI

THE TRAGEDY IN DUKE'S MANSIONS


I believe Beverley's exit from this life was a relief to his family.
Whether any very strenuous efforts were made to find Henley, I do not
know. Possibly the "Classical P's" are interrogated concerning him from
time to time, for they are still appearing at well-known watering places,
though whether Miss Day is still of the company, I cannot say.

I quickly forgot all about Henley, being absorbed in a new case, which
created considerable attention. At the outset it brought me in contact
with rather a fascinating character, a man whose personality sticks in
your memory.

He was an Italian by birth, cosmopolitan by circumstances, and by nature
something of an artist. Fate had ordained that he should be man-servant
to an English M.P.; he would have looked more at home in a Florentine
studio or in a Tuscany vineyard, but then Fate is responsible for many
incongruities.

In well-chosen words, and in dramatic fashion, he drew the picture for
me.

"The little dinner was over," he said, using his hands to illustrate his
speech. "I had removed everything but the wine. It had not been a merry
party, no; it was all business, I think, and serious. When I enter the
room to bring this or take that, they pause, say something of no
consequence--evidently I am not to hear anything of what they are
talking. They talk English, though only my master was English. One of his
guests was German, the other a countryman of my own, but not of Tuscany,
no, I think of the South. So there was only the wine on the table, and
cigars, and the silver box of cigarettes. My master had in his hand a
sheet of paper, and the German had taken a map from his pocket, and my
countryman was laughing at something which amused him. I can see it all
just as it was."

He paused, closed his eyes, as if he would impress for ever on his memory
what he had seen.

"And now--this," he said, throwing out his arms. "This, and not two hours
afterwards."

This was certainly tragic enough. A shaded electric light hanging over
the table left the corners of the room in shadow. The wine, the cigars,
the silver cigarette box were still on the table, the smoke was heavy in
the atmosphere. A tray contained cigar and cigarette ends. On either side
of the table was a chair pushed back as it would be by a man rising from
it. At the end was a chair, with arms, also pushed back a little, but it
was not empty. In it was a man in evening dress, leaning back, his head
fallen a little to one side, his arms hanging loosely. But for the arms
of the chair he would have fallen to the floor. He was dead. How he had
died was uncertain. A casual examination told nothing, and I had not
moved him. I had arrived first and was expecting the doctor every moment.
I happened to be in my office when the telephone message came through
that Arthur Bridwell, M.P., had been found dead under suspicious
circumstances in his flat at Duke's Mansions, Knightsbridge. I went there
at once and found a constable in possession. It was barely half-past
nine now, and the Italian manservant said he had last seen his master
alive at seven o'clock.

"He dined early to-night?" I said.

"Yes, at six. He was going to the House afterwards. It was important, I
heard him say so to his guests."

"And you went out at seven?"

"About seven. It is my custom to go for a walk after serving my master,"
was the answer. "I came back just before nine. I looked into this room,
not expecting to find any one here, but to put the wine away and take the
glasses, and I find this. I have moved nothing, I have touched nothing. I
called to the porter, and he fetched the police, and the policeman used
the telephone to call you."

The Italian, whose name was Masini, was the only servant. Duke's
Mansions, as you probably know, is a set of flats, varying in
accommodation, with a central service. There is a general dining-room,
and there are smoking rooms and lounges which all the tenants may use;
or meals are served in the various flats from the central kitchen.
To-night Mr. Bridwell had had dinner served for three at an early hour
in his flat.

The telephone was in the corner of the room, and I was going to it to
call up Christopher Quarles, convinced this was a case in which I should
need all the assistance I could get, when the telephone bell rang.

"Hallo!" I said. "Who's that?"

"I left my bag on the Chesterfield," came the answer. "Better not send
it. Keep it until I come again."

"When?" I asked.

There was a pause.

"Is that you, Arthur?" came the question.

"About the bag," I said, then paused. "Are you there?"

No answer. My voice had evidently betrayed me. The woman at the other
end had discovered that she was speaking to the wrong man. I looked at
the Chesterfield. There was no bag of any kind upon it now. Then I
telephoned to Quarles, telling him there was a mysterious case for him to
investigate.

"Had your master any other visitors to-day?" I asked casually, turning
to Masini.

"Not to my knowledge. All the afternoon I was out."

"Where were you?"

"Out for my master. I took a parcel to a gentleman at Harrow."

"To whom?"

"It was to a Mr. Fisher. It was a small parcel, a big letter rather, for
it was in an envelope that--that size. There was no answer. I just told
my master that Mr. Fisher said it was all right."

"So Mr. Bridwell might have had visitors while you were out?"

"Certainly."

"Did he have many visitors as a rule?"

"Sometimes from what you call his constituency."

"Any ladies?"

"Ah, no, signore; my master was of the other kind. He did not like the
vote for women."

"And you say you have moved nothing in this room?"

"Nothing at all."

Quarles arrived soon after the doctor had begun to examine the dead man,
so I could not then give him the particulars as far as I knew them. It
chanced that the doctor, a youngish man, was acquainted with the
professor, and was quite ready to listen to his suggestions.

"What do you make of it, Professor?" he asked.

"Is it poison!" said Quarles interrogatively.

The doctor had already examined the glasses on the table.

"I can find no signs of poison," he said. "And two hours ago the man
was alive."

"That is according to the servant," I said. Masini was not in the room at
this time.

"There is no reason to doubt the statement, is there?" the doctor asked.

"No, but we have not yet corroborated it," I returned.

Quarles was already busy with his lens examining the dead man's
shirt front.

"You, have begun trying to find out who killed him before I have
pronounced upon the cause of death," said the doctor. "I am inclined to
think it is poison, but--"

"He didn't inject a drug, I suppose!" said Quarles.

"Not in his arm, you can look and satisfy yourself on that point. It is
just possible that he made an injection through his clothes. It requires
a more careful investigation than I can make to-night before I can give a
decided opinion."

"Quite so, but you do not mind my looking at the body rather closely? A
little thing so often tells a big story, and the little things are
sometimes difficult to find once the body has been moved."

The doctor watched Quarles's close investigation with some amusement. The
shirt front came in for a lot of attention, and the collar was examined
right round to the back of the neck. It was a long time before Quarles
stood erect and put the lens in his pocket. I got the impression that he
had prolonged the investigation for the purpose of impressing the doctor.

"It would be virulent poison which would kill a man so quickly and while
he sat in his chair," Quarles said reflectively.

"It would, indeed," the doctor returned.

"You have formed no idea what the poison was?"

"Not yet."

"No hypodermic syringe has been found, I suppose?" said Quarles,
turning to me.

"No."

"You see, doctor," he went on, "if the glasses there show no evidence of
poison, and nothing has been moved, and you decide that poison was the
cause of death, one might jump to the conclusion that it had been
self-administered with a syringe; that is why I ask about a syringe."

"There are such things as tablets," said the doctor, "or the poison may
have been in the food he has eaten to-night."

"Exactly," Quarles snapped irritably.

The doctor smiled; he had certainly scored a point and was
evidently pleased.

"Besides, Professor, you are a little previous with your questions. This
isn't the inquest, you know; we haven't got through the post-mortem yet."

"I generally form an opinion before the inquest," said Quarles as he
looked at each glass in turn and stirred the contents of the ash-tray
with a match.

"You must often make mistakes," remarked the doctor. "I propose having
the body moved to the bedroom; there is nothing else you would like to
look at before I do so?"

"Thanks, doctor, nothing," said Quarles with a smile which showed that he
had recovered his lost temper.

After the removal of the body the doctor departed, fully convinced, I
believe, that the professor was a much overrated person.

"Well, Wigan, shall I tell you what the result of the post-mortem is
likely to be?" said Quarles.

"If you can. Remember you have not heard what I have to say yet."

"No sign of poison will be found. No sign of violence will be discovered
anywhere upon the body. Sudden heart failure--that will be apparent. The
cause obscure. Organs seemingly healthy; no discernible disease. Muscular
failure. Death from natural causes. A case interesting to the medical
world, perhaps, but with no suggestion of foul play about it. Now let me
have your tale."

"But surely you--"

"I assure you I have formed no definite theory yet. How can I until I
have your story!"

I repeated what Masini had told me, and I told him about the
telephone message.

"It was a woman. You are quite sure it was a woman?"

"Quite certain."

He went to the telephone.

"There is a directory here, I see; did you touch it?"

"No."

"It wasn't open?"

"It was just as you see it now."

He took a piece of paper and made one or two notes.

"I imagine that particular call would be difficult to trace," he said.
"Duke's Mansions has a number, and from the office in the building the
particular flat required is switched on. There must have been scores of
calls during the evening. I don't remember anything particular about
Arthur Bridwell's parliamentary career, do you?"

"No, beyond the fact that he is Member for one of the divisions
of Sussex."

Quarles looked slowly round the room.

"A bag," he mused; "one of those small chain or leather affairs which
women carry, I suppose; a purse in it, a handkerchief, perhaps a letter
or two. Bridwell would see it in all probability after the lady had
left, and he would--he would put it on a side table or slip it into a
drawer out of the way. Shall we just have Masini in and ask him a
question or two?"

Instead of questioning the Italian the professor got him to repeat the
story as he had told it to me. It was exactly the same account.

"You know nothing about these two visitors?"

"Nothing, signore. I had never seen them before, but I should know
them again."

"No names were mentioned in your presence?"

"No."

"Have you ever taken parcels to this Mr. Fisher before?" asked Quarles.

"Never."

"Was the parcel hard; something of metal or leather?"

"Oh, no, signore; it was papers only."

"And you saw Mr. Fisher?"

"Yes."

"What was he like? Was he English?"

Masini said he was, and gave a description which might have fitted any
ten men out of the first dozen encountered in the street. He also
described the two visitors, but the portraits drawn were not startling.

"What did Mr. Fisher say when you gave him the packet? What were his
exact words, I mean?"

"He said: 'All right, tell Mr. Bridwell I shall start at once'."

"How long have you been in Mr. Bridwell's service?"

"Three years," was the answer. "He was traveling in Italy, and I
was a waiter in an hotel at Pisa. He liked me and made me an offer,
and I became his servant. I have traveled much with him in all
parts of Europe."

"Are you sure you never saw either of the men who dined here to-night
while you were traveling with your master in Italy?"

"I am sure, but on oath--it would be difficult to take an oath. His
friends were of a different kind. My master was writing a book on Italy;
he is still at work on it. Ah, signore, I should say he was at work on
it. Shall I show you his papers in the other room?"

The voluminous manuscripts proved that Bridwell was engaged upon a
monumental work dealing with the Italian Renaissance.

"Most interesting," said Quarles. "I should like to sit down at once and
spend hours with it. This is valuable. Mr. Bridwell's business man ought
to take charge of these papers. Do you know the name of his solicitors?"

"Mr. Standish, in Hanover Square," Masini answered.

The Italian declared he knew nothing about a lady's bag, and we searched
for it in vain. Then Quarles and I interviewed the hall porter. He knew
that Bridwell had had two gentlemen to dine with him that evening, but he
had not taken any particular notice of them. They left soon after eight,
he said. He corroborated the Italian's statement that he had gone out at
seven, and had returned just before nine.

"You didn't see a lady go up to Mr. Bridwell's flat?"

"No, sir, but I was not in the entrance hall at the time from eight to
nine. It is usually a slack time with me."

"I did not mean then," said Quarles. "I meant at any time during the
day."

"I do not remember a lady calling on Mr. Bridwell at anytime."

It was early morning when the professor and I left Duke's Mansions.

"There are two obvious things to do, Wigan," said Quarles. "First, we
must know something of this man Fisher. I think you should go to Harrow
as soon as possible. Then we want to know something of Bridwell's
parliamentary record. You might get an interview with one or two of his
colleagues, and ask their opinion of him as a public man and as a private
individual. Come to Chelsea to-night. You will probably have raked up a
good many facts by then, and we may find the right road to pursue. I will
also make an inquiry or two. At present I confess to being puzzled."

"You told the doctor that you usually formed an opinion before the
inquest," I reminded him with a smile.

"And he immediately talked of tablets and poisoned foods, and looked
horribly superior. He is a young man, and I knew his father, who once did
me a good turn. I shall have to repay the debt and prevent the son making
a fool of himself."

"You have no doubt that it was murder?" I asked.

"Why, you told me it was yourself when you rang me up on the 'phone,"
he answered.

As had often happened before, Quarles's manner of shutting me up annoyed
me, but when you have to deal with an eccentric it is no use expecting
him to travel in an ordinary orbit.

To obviate unnecessary repetition I shall give the result of my
inquiries as I related it to Quarles and Zena when I went to Chelsea
that night.

"You look satisfied and successful, Wigan," said the professor.

"I am both," I answered. "Whether we shall catch the actual criminal is
another matter. We may at least lay our hands on one of his accomplices.
Will it surprise you to learn that I am having the Italian Masini
carefully watched?"

"It is a wise precaution."

"I am inclined to adopt the method you do sometimes, professor, and begin
at the end," I went on. "First, as regards Mr. Bridwell's parliamentary
friends and acquaintances, and his political career. Although he is a
Member whose voice is not often heard in the House, his intimate
knowledge of Europe, its general history and politics, gives him
importance. He is constantly consulted by the Government, and his opinion
is always considered valuable. His colleagues are unanimous on this
point, and generally he seems to be respected."

"But the respect is not unanimous, you mean?"

"It is not."

"And in his private life?"

"I have not found any one who was intimate with him in private."

"I see; kept politics and his private life entirely separate,"
said Quarles.

"I am not prepared to say that," I answered. "I have not had time to hunt
up anybody on the private side yet, and I do not think it will be
necessary. One of the men I saw was Reynolds, of the War Office. I was
advised to go and see him, as he was supposed to know Bridwell well. He
did not have much good to say about him. It seems that for some time past
there has been a leakage of War Office secrets, that in some
unaccountable way foreign powers have obtained information, and suspicion
has pointed to Bridwell being concerned. So far as I can gather, nothing
has been actually proved against him, and I pointed out that his intimate
knowledge of European affairs made him rather a marked man. Reynolds,
however, was very definite in his opinion, spoke as if he possessed
knowledge which he could not impart to me. He was not surprised to hear
of Bridwell's death. When I spoke of murder he was rather skeptical,
remarked that in that case Bridwell must have been double-dealing with
his paymasters, and had paid the penalty; but it was far more likely to
be suicide, he thought, and said it was the best thing, the only thing,
in fact, which Bridwell could do. I have no doubt Reynolds knew that some
action had been taken which could not fail to show Bridwell that he was
suspected."

Quarles nodded, evidently much interested.

"This view receives confirmation from the movements of Fisher," I went
on. "He left Harrow last night--must have gone almost directly after he
received the packet. He only occupies furnished rooms in Harrow, and the
landlady tells me that during the year he has had them he has often been
away for days and even weeks at a time. Announcing his return, or giving
her some instructions, she has received letters from him from Berlin,
Madrid, Rome, and Vienna. That is significant, Professor."

"It is. Did she happen to mention any places in England from which she
has heard from him?"

"Yes, several--York, Oakham, Oxford, and also from Edinburgh."

"She did not mention any place in Sussex?"

"No, I think not."

"It would appear then that Fisher could have had nothing to do with
Bridwell's legitimate political business or he would certainly have
spent some time in the constituency. Well, Wigan, what do you make of
the case?"

"I think it is fairly clear in its main points," I answered. "Bridwell
has been selling information to foreign powers, and would naturally deal
with the highest bidders. Fisher is a foreign agent, and having received
valuable information yesterday, left England with it at once. The two men
who came to dinner represented some other power, came no doubt by
appointment to receive information, but probably knew that their host was
dealing doubly with them. Bridwell's commercial ingenuity in the matter
has been his undoing, hence his death. Whether Masini was attached to
Fisher, or to the schemes of the other two, it is impossible to say, but
I believe he was an accomplice on one side or the other."

"I built up a similar theory, Wigan; not with the completeness you have,
of course, because I knew nothing of the suspicions concerning Bridwell,
but when I had made it as complete as I could, I began to pick it to
pieces. It fell into ruins rather easily, and you do not help me to build
it again."

"It seems to me the main facts cannot be got away from," I said.

"Zena assisted in the ruining process by saying, 'Cherchez la femme.'"

"You see, Murray, you do not account for the woman and the bag,"
said Zena.

"They are extraneous incidents belonging to his private life. It is
remarkable how distinct he kept his private from his political life."

"Very remarkable," Quarles said. "Yet the woman is also a fact, and she
seems to me of the utmost importance. We must account for her, and your
explanation brings me no sense of satisfaction. Let me tell you how I
began to demolish my theory, Wigan. I started with Masini. Now, he seemed
honest to me. He was very ready to repeat Fisher's exact words, and the
very fact of my asking for them would have made him suspicious and put
him on his guard had he possessed any guilty knowledge, whether it
concerned Fisher or the two visitors. Further, had he been in league with
the two visitors and knew they had murdered his master, he would hardly
have been so ready to block suspicion in other directions. He would not
have said his master's visitors came chiefly from his constituency, and
he certainly would not have scouted the idea of a woman caller. He would
have welcomed such a suggestion, fully appreciating how valuable a woman
would be in starting an inquiry on a false trail."

"But you mustn't attribute to an Italian servant all the subtlety you
might use under similar circumstances," I said.

"I am showing you how I picked my own theory to pieces," he answered. "I
next considered the visitors. I assumed they were there for an unlawful
purpose--your facts go to show that my assumption was right--and I asked
myself why and how they had murdered Bridwell. If he were a schemer with
them, there would be no need to murder him, no need to silence him; were
he to talk afterwards he would only injure himself, not them. If they
were there to force papers from their host, it seems unlikely that he
would be so unsuspicious of them that he would have asked them to dinner,
and, even if he were, a moment must have come during, or after dinner,
when they must have shown their hand. A man who deals in this kind of
commerce does not easily trust people. Bridwell's suspicions would
certainly have been aroused; he would in some measure, at any rate, have
been prepared, and we should have found some signs of a struggle."

"I admit the soundness of the argument," I answered. "For my part I
incline to Reynolds' opinion that it was suicide after all."

"Oh, no; it was murder," said Quarles.

"A tablet--" I began.

"I know it was murder," returned the professor sharply, "and the manner
of it has presented the chief difficulty I have found in demolishing my
theory altogether. Bridwell was poisoned by an injection. The hypodermic
needle was inserted under the hair at the back of the head, here in the
soft part of the base of the skull, the hair concealing the small mark it
made. I believe the secret of the poison used is forgotten, but you may
read of it in books relating to the Vatican of old days and concerning
the old families of Italy. I might mention the Borgias particularly. So
you see my difficulty, Wigan. The crime literally reeked of Italy, and we
had two Italians amongst our dramatis personæ."

"A significant fact," I said.

"Of course I am letting the doctor know of my discovery; that is the good
turn I shall do him. He will be considered quite smart over this affair.
Now consider this point. It would surely have been very difficult, once
the host's suspicions had been aroused, to make the injection without a
struggle on the victim's part."

"No suspicion may have been aroused," I said. "Masini has told us of a
map. The murderer might have been leaning over his victim examining it."

"That is true. You pick out the weak point," said Quarles.

"Even then there would have been some sort of struggle, surely," said
Zena. "The poison can hardly act instantaneously."

"Practically it does," Quarles answered. "I have read of it, of the
different methods of its administration, and of its results, and no doubt
any one acquainted with old Italian manuscripts would be able to get more
detailed information than I have; but it produces almost instant
paralysis, acts on the nerve centers, and stops the heart's action,
leaving no trace behind it. What straggle there was could be overcome by
the pressure of a man's hand upon the victim's chest, to keep him from
rising from his seat, for instance. I found signs of such a detaining
hand on Bridwell's shirt front. Of course, Wigan, while pulling my theory
to pieces I knew nothing of your facts about Bridwell, but now that I do
know them, the theory is not saved from ruin. Have you ever watched
trains rushing through a great junction--say Clapham Junction?"

"Yes; often."

"And haven't you noticed how the lines, crossing and recrossing one
another, seem to be alive, seem to be trying to draw the train to run
upon them, to deviate it from its course, until you almost wonder whether
the train will be able to keep its right road? There seems to be great
confusion; yet we know this is not so. We know those many lines are
mathematically correct. If you want to keep your eye on the main line,
you mustn't be misled by the lines which touch and cross it, which seem
to belong to it, until they suddenly sweep off in another direction. In
this Bridwell affair we have to be careful not to be misled by cross
lines, and I grant there are many. You say the woman is an extraneous
episode; but is she? She left a bag, which is not to be found. Had Masini
known of her existence I do not think he would have denied all knowledge
of her, for the reasons I have already given, and I argue that her visit
to the flat was timed to occur when the servant was out, so that he
should know nothing about her. The hall porter knew nothing; about a lady
visiting the flat at any time, so we must assume the woman was not a
constant visitor. Moreover, we know that she had something to hide, some
secret, or she would not have ceased speaking directly she found she was
addressing a stranger. She probably belonged to Bridwell's private life.
Now Zena says, 'Cherchez la femme,' but there is no need to look for her;
she forces herself upon our notice. We know that Bridwell was alive at
seven o'clock: we know his visitors did not leave him until eight. It is
hardly conceivable that the woman came to the flat after that to commit a
crime, impossible to believe that she would leave her bag there to be
evidence against her, and then telephone about it to a man she knew to be
dead. We may dismiss from our minds any idea that she committed murder."

"I can see a possibility of immense subtlety on her part," I said.

"That is to be deceived by a crossing line, which ought not to deceive
you, which leads only into a siding," said Quarles. "We have to remember
that there was a bag, and that it has disappeared"

"She may have made a mistake and left it somewhere else," said Zena.

"I think we may be sure it was left there, because she states distinctly
where it was left--on the Chesterfield. There was something in her mind
to fix the place. Moreover, she says, 'Better not send it.' Very
significant, that. Bridwell is to keep it until she comes again.
Therefore there was some person she would not have know of her visit to
the flat, some person who might possibly find out if the bag were
returned. I suggest that person was her husband."

"I think you have struck the side line," I remarked.

"Let me continue to build on the private life of Mr. Bridwell," Quarles
went on. "I find a foundation in his literary work--no mean work,
absorbing a great part of his life. There would be constant need to refer
to libraries, to pictures and other works of art, some of them in private
collections. A great deal of this work could be done by an assistant.
Shall we say the name of this assistant was Fisher? I observe you do not
think it likely."

"I certainly do not."

"But a secret agent engaged in stealing Government information would
hardly advertise his movements to his landlady; he would surely have been
more secret than that. On the other hand, the places Fisher mentions have
famous libraries and picture galleries. What would a secret agent want at
Oxford? A man bent on research would be going to the Bodleian. Country
seats with famous works of art in their galleries would account for
Fisher's presence in other places mentioned by the landlady."

"Is it not strange the Italian servant knew nothing about this wonderful
assistant?" I said.

"No doubt Bridwell usually saw him in town, at his club, or elsewhere, or
communicated with him through the post; but on this occasion Masini was
purposely sent to be out of the way when the lady came. We know there
was some need for secrecy, and I suggest that Bridwell was 

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