A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
Awakening in a strange place is always a memorable experience;
especially to the young, in whom the capacity for novel sensations has
not yet been exhausted by repetition. When I emerged, somewhat
gradually, from the unconsciousness of sleep, my first impressions
concerned themselves with the unusual appearance of the bedroom wall
and its remarkable proximity to my nose. I further noticed that the
bedstead had become inexplicably tilted and that the house appeared to
be swaying; and as I mused on these phenomena with the vagueness of
the half-awake, a loud voice, proceeding apparently from the floor
above, roared out the mystic words, “Lee O!” whereupon there ensued a
sound like the shaking of colossal table cloths and the loud clanking
of chains, and my bedstead took a sharp tilt to the opposite side.
This roused me pretty completely, and, turning over in the bunk, I
looked out into the barge’s cabin.
It was broad daylight and evidently not early, for a square patch of
sunlight crept to and fro on the little table, whence presently it
slipped down to the floor and slithered about unsteadily, as if
Phœbus had overdone his morning dram and could not drive his chariot
straight. I watched it lazily for some time and then, becoming
conscious of a vacancy within, crept out from under the mountain of
bedclothes and made my way to the ladder.
As I put my head through the companion hatch, a man who stood at the
wheel regarded me stolidly.
“So you’ve woke up, have yer?” said he. “Thought you was going right
round the clock. Abel! he’s woke up. Tell young Ted to stand by with
them heggs and that there ’addick.”
Here Abel looked round from behind the luff of the mainsail, and
having verified the statement, conveyed the order to some invisible
person in the fore-peak. Then he came aft with an obvious air of
business. The time for explanations had arrived.
Accordingly I proceeded to “pitch them my yarn,” as they expressed it;
to which they listened with polite attention and manifest
disappointment, clearly regarding the story as a fabrication from
beginning to end. And no wonder. The whole affair was utterly
incredible even to me; to them it must have seemed sheer nonsense.
Their own verdict of “sooicide” during very temporary insanity with
sudden mental recovery, under the influence of cold water, was so much
more rational. Not that they obtruded their views. They listened
patiently and said nothing; and nothing that they could have said
could have been more expressive.
Meanwhile I looked about me with no little surprise. Some miles away
to the south lay a stretch of low land, faint and grey, with a single
salient object, apparently a church with two spires. In every other
direction was the unbroken sea horizon.
“You seem to have made a pretty good passage,” I remarked.
“We’ve had sixteen hours to do it in,” replied the skipper, “and
spring tides and a nice bit of breeze. If it ’ud only hold--which I’m
afraid it won’t--we’d be in Folkestone Harbour this time to-morrow, or
even sooner. Folkestone be much out of your way?”
I smiled at the artlessness of the question. It was undeniable that
the route from Charing Cross to Hampstead by way of Folkestone was
slightly indirect. But there was no need to insist on the fact. My
hospitable friends had acted for the best and their prudence was
justified by the result; for here I was, not a whit the worse for my
ducking save that I badly wanted a bath.
“Folkestone will suit me quite well,” I replied, “if there is enough
money left in my pockets to pay my fare home.”
“That’s all right,” said the skipper. “I cleared out your pockets
myself. You’ll find the things in a mug in the starboard locker.
Better overhaul ’em when you go below and see if you’ve dropped
anything. Here comes young Ted with your grub.”
As he spoke the apprentice rose through the fore-hatch like a stage
apparition--if one can imagine an apparition burdened with a tin
tea-pot, two “heggs” and an “’addick”--and came grinning along the
weather side-deck, to vanish through the cabin hatchway. I followed
gleefully, and, almost before young Ted had finished the somewhat
informal table arrangements, fell to on the food with voracious joy.
“If you want any more eggs or anythink,” said the apprentice, “all
you’ve got to do is just to touch the electric bell and the waiter’ll
come and take your orders,” and having delivered this delicate shaft
of irony he presented me with an excellent back view of a pair of
brown dreadnoughts as he retired up the ladder.
As I consumed the rough but excellent breakfast I reflected on the
strange events that had placed me in my present odd situation. For the
first time, I began fairly to realize that I was in some way involved
in a nexus of circumstances that I did not in the least understand. I
had an enemy; a vindictive enemy, too, in whose eyes mere human life
was a thing of no account. But who could he be? I knew of no one on
whom I had ever inflicted the smallest injury. I bore no man any
grudge and had never to my knowledge had unfriendly dealings with any
human creature. Was this inveterate enemy of mine anyone whom I knew?
Or was he some stranger whose path I had crossed without knowing it,
and whom I should not recognize even if I saw him?
This last supposition was highly disquieting, especially as it seemed
rather probable; for if my enemy was unknown to me, what precautions
could I take?
Then, again, there was the question! What was the occasion of this
extraordinary vendetta? What had I done to this man that he should
pursue me with such deadly purpose? As to Jervis’s suggestion, that I
had seen something at the Samways’ house that I was not wanted to see,
there was nothing in it; for, as a matter of fact, I had seen nothing.
There was nothing to see. The man Maddock was certainly dead. As to
what he died of, that was Batson’s affair; but even in that there was
no sign of anything suspicious. The man himself had consulted Batson,
and had thought so badly of himself that he had made his will in
Batson’s presence. The patient himself was fully aware of his serious
condition; it was only Batson, with his eternal hurry and bustle and
his defective eyesight, who had missed observing it. The only
circumstance that supported Jervis’s view was that the acts of
violence seemed to be connected with the locality of Batson’s house.
Of course there remained the mystery of the dead priest or
lay-brother. But with that these attempts seemed to have no
connection. Nor was there any reason why the murderer should pursue
me. I had seen the body, it is true; but nobody believed me and no
proceedings were being taken. Nor could I have identified the murderer
if I had been confronted with him. Clearly, he had nothing to fear
from me.
From the causes of my present predicament I passed to the immediate
future. I should have to get back from Folkestone, and I ought to send
a telegram to my landlady, Mrs. Blunt, who would probably be in a
deuce of a twitter about me. I raised the lid of the locker, and,
reaching out the big earthenware mug, emptied its contents on the
table. All my portable property seemed to be there, including the
little gold reliquary, which I had carelessly carried in my pocket
ever since I had shown it to Thorndyke. My available funds were some
four or five pounds; amply sufficient to get me home and to discharge
my liability to the skipper as well. I swept the things back into the
mug, which I returned to the locker, and having cut myself another
thick slice of bread, proceeded with the largest breakfast that I have
ever eaten.
The skipper’s forebodings were justified by the course of events. When
I came on deck the breeze had died down to a mere faint breath, hardly
sufficient to keep the big red main-sail asleep--as the pretty old
nautical phrase has it. The skipper was still at the wheel and Abel
was anxiously taking soundings with a hand-lead.
“You won’t do it, Bill,” said the latter, coiling up the lead-line
with an air of finality, “this ’ere breeze is a-petering right out.”
The skipper said nothing, but stared gloomily at the land which was
now right ahead and much nearer than when I had last looked; and from
the land his eye travelled to a sand-bank from which rose a tall post
at the top of which was an inverted cone.
“Ought to a-gone about a bit sooner, Bill,” pursued Abel; whereupon
the skipper turned on him fiercely.
“What’s the good o’ saying that now?” he demanded. “If you’d a-told me
the wind was going to drop, I’d a-gone about sooner. What water is
there?”
“Five fathom here,” replied Abel; “that means one and a quarter on the
Woolpack. You’d best shove her nose round now, Bill.”
“Oh, all right!” retorted the skipper, “Lee O! This is going to be an
all-night job, this is,” and with this gloomy prediction, he spun the
wheel round viciously, and once more headed away from the land.
Prophecy appeared to be the skipper’s specialty and, like most
prophets, he tended to view the future with an unfavourable eye.
Gradually the breeze died away into a dead calm, so that we had
presently to let go the anchor to avoid drifting on to a great
sand-bank which now lay between us and the land. And here we remained
not only for the rest of the day and the succeeding night, as the
skipper had promised, but throughout the whole of the next day and
following night.
I have already remarked on the incalculable chances by which the
course of a man’s life is determined. Looking back now, I see that the
skipper’s little miscalculation and his failure to cross the Woolpack
Shoal into the inshore channel, was an antecedent determining the most
momentous consequences for me. For had the barge been becalmed in the
inshore channel, I could, and should, have landed in the boat and
returned home forthwith; and if I had, certain events would not have
happened and my life might have run a very different course. As it
was, miles of sea and the great bank known as the Margate Sand, lay
between me and the shore; whence I was committed to the wanderings and
dallyings of the barge as irrevocably as if we were crossing the
Pacific.
We lay, then, in the Queen’s Channel, outside Margate Sand, for two
whole days and nights; during which time the skipper and Abel slept
much and smoked more, and young Ted, having cleaned and dried my
clothes, inducted me into the art of bottom-fishing. On the third day,
a faint breath of breeze enabled us to crawl round the North Foreland,
and the skipper having elected to pass outside the Goodwin, managed to
get becalmed again in the neighbourhood of the East Goodwin Lightship.
A little breeze at night enabled us to move on a few miles farther;
and so we continued to crawl along at intervals, mainly on the tide,
until nine o’clock in the morning of the fifth day, when we finally
crawled into Folkestone Harbour.
As soon as the barge was brought up to a buoy, young Ted was detailed
to put me ashore in the boat. The skipper and Abel had insisted on
treating me as a guest, and I had perforce to accept the position. But
young Ted had no such pride; and when I ran up the wooden steps by the
old fish-market, I left him on the stage below, staring with an
incredulous grin at a gold coin in his none-too-delicate palm.
I was not sorry to be landed in this unfashionable quarter of the
town, for in spite of young Ted’s efforts, my turn-out left much to be
desired, especially in the matter of shirt-cuffs and collar, and I
was, moreover, hatless and somewhat imperfectly shaved. Accordingly, I
slunk inconspicuously past the market and the groups of lounging
fishermen, and when I saw a well-dressed, lady-like woman preceding me
into the little narrow street, known as the Stade, I slackened my pace
so as not to overtake her. She sauntered along with a leisurely air as
if she were waiting for something or somebody, and this and the fact
that she carried a light canvas portmanteau and a rug, suggested to me
that she was probably travelling by the cross-channel boat which was
due to start presently.
Suddenly my attention was diverted from her by a loud chattering and a
series of shouts. A small crowd of men and women ran excitedly past
the end of the little street. The clattering rapidly drew nearer; and
then a horse, with a light van, swept round the corner and passing
under an archway, advanced at a furious gallop. Evidently the horse
had bolted and now, mad with terror, dashed forward with trailing
reins, zigzagging erratically and making the van sway to and fro, so
that it took up the whole of the narrow street. The few wayfarers
darted into doorways and sheltered corners, and I was about to secure
my own safety in a similar manner, when I noticed that the woman in
front of me had apparently become petrified with terror, for she stood
stock still, gazing helplessly at the approaching horse. It was no
time for ceremony. The infuriated animal and the swaying van were
thundering up the street like an insane Juggernaut. With a hasty
apology, I seized the woman from behind, and half-dragged,
half-carried her to the opening of a little yard beside a sail-loft.
And even then, I was hardly quick enough, for as the van roared past,
some projecting object struck me between the shoulders and sent me
flying, face downwards, on to a pile of tarred drift-net.
I had had the presence of mind to let go, as I was struck, so that my
fair protegée was not involved in my downfall; but in a moment, she
was stooping over me, and with many expressions of concern,
endeavouring to help me to rise. Beyond a thump in the back, however,
I was not hurt in the least, but picked myself up, grinning and turned
to reassure her. And then I really did get a shock; for as I turned,
the woman gave a shriek and fell back on the steps of the sail-loft,
gasping, and staring at me with an expression of the utmost
astonishment and terror. I supposed the accident had upset her nerves;
but to be sure, my own received, as I have said, a pretty severe
shock. For the woman was Mrs. Samway.
We remained for a moment or two gazing at one another in mute
astonishment. Then I recollected myself, and advanced to shake hands;
but to my discomfiture, she shrank away from me and began to sob and
laugh in an unmistakably hysterical fashion. I must confess that I was
somewhat surprised at these manifestations in so robust a woman as
Mrs. Samway. Unreasonably so, indeed, for all women-kind are more or
less prone to hysteria; but whereas the normal woman tends to laugh
and cry, the weaker vessels develop inexplicable diseases, with a
tendency to social reform and emancipation.
I put on my best bedside manner, at once matter-of-fact and
persuasive. “You seem quite upset,” I said, “and all about nothing,
for the poor beggar of a horse must be half a mile away by now.”
“Yes,” she answered shakily, “it’s ridiculous of me, but it was so
sudden and so--” here she laughed noisily, and as the laugh ended in a
portentous sniff, I hastened to continue the conversation.
“Yes, it was a bit of a facer to see that beast coming up the street
as if it was Tottenham Corner. Why on earth didn’t you get out of the
way?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” she answered. “I seemed to be paralyzed and
idiotic and--” here the laughter began again.
“Well,” I interrupted cheerfully, “you didn’t get rolled on those
tarred nets, so that’s something to be thankful for.”
This was a rather unlucky shot, for the semblance of facetiousness
started a most alarming train of giggles, interrupted by rather loud
sobs; but at this point, a new curative influence made itself
manifest. Two smack boys halted outside the opening and surveyed her
with frank interest and pleased surprise. Simultaneously, an elderly
mariner appeared at the door of the sail-loft, grasping a black bottle
and a tea-cup, and rather shyly descending the steps, suggested that
“perhaps a drop o’ sperits might do the lady good.”
Mrs. Samway bounced off the steps, her hitherto pale cheeks aflame
with anger. “I am making a fool of myself,” she exclaimed. “Let us go
away from here.”
She walked out into the street, and I, having thanked the old
gentleman for his most efficacious remedy, followed. As soon as I
caught her up, she turned on me quickly and held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Dr. Jardine,” she said, “and thank you so very much for
risking your life for a--for a wretched giggling woman.”
“Oh, you’re not going to send me packing like this,” I protested,
“when we’ve hardly said good morning. Besides, you’re not fit to be
left. But you’re not to begin laughing again,” I added, threateningly,
for an ominous twitching of her mouth seemed to herald a relapse, “or
I shall go back and get that black bottle.”
She shook her head impatiently, but without looking at me. “I would
rather you went away, Dr. Jardine,” she said in an agitated voice. “I
would, really. I wish to be alone. Don’t think me ungracious. I am
really most grateful to you, but I would rather you left me now.”
Of course there was nothing more to be said. She was not really ill or
in need of assistance, and probably her instinct was right. Hysteria
is not one of those affections which waste their sweetness on the
desert air. I shook her hand cordially and, advising her to keep out
of the way of stray vans and horses, once more pursued my way towards
the town, meditating as I went, on the oddity of the whole affair. It
was an astonishing coincidence that I should have run against this
woman in this out of the way place. I had left her but a few days
since apparently firmly rooted in the Hampstead Road, and now, behold,
as I step ashore from the barge, she is almost the first person that I
meet. And yet the coincidence, which had evidently hit her as hard as
it had me, like most coincidences, tended to disappear on closer
inspection. The only really odd feature was my own presence in
Folkestone. As to Mrs. Samway, she had probably been sent for by her
husband, and was crossing by the boat that was now due to start.
Her anxiety to get rid of me was more puzzling, until I suddenly
remembered my bare head, my crumpled collar and generally raffish and
disreputable appearance. The latter was, in fact, at this moment
brought to my notice by a man, with whom, in my preoccupation, I
collided; who first uttered an impatient exclamation and then,
bestowing on me a quick stare of astonishment, muttered a hasty
apology and hurried past. The incident emphasized the necessity for
some reform, and I mended my pace towards the region of shops in a
very ferment of uncomfortable self-consciousness.
With the purchase of a new hat, a collar, a pair of cuffs, a neck-tie,
a pair of gloves and a stick, some faint glimmer of self-respect
revived in me. I was even conscious of a temptation to linger in
Folkestone and spend a few hours by the sea; but a sense of duty,
aided by a large, muddy stain on my coat, finally decided me to return
to town at once. Accordingly, having sent off a telegram to my
landlady and ascertained that a train left for London in about twenty
minutes, I betook myself to the station.
There were comparatively few people travelling by this particular
train; in fact, when I had established myself with the morning paper
in the off-side corner seat of a smoking compartment, I began, with an
Englishman’s proverbial unsociability, to congratulate myself on the
prospect of having the compartment to myself, when my hopes were
dashed by the entrance of an elderly clergyman; who not only broke up
my solitude, but aggravated the offence by quite unnecessarily seating
himself opposite to me. I was almost tempted to move to another
corner, for my length of leg gives an added value to space; but it
seemed a rude thing to do; and as the train moved off at this moment,
I resigned myself to the trifling discomfort.
My clerical friend was a somewhat uncommon-looking man, with a
countenance at once strong and secretive; a rectangular, masterful
face, with a bull-like dew-lap and a small, and very sharp, Roman
nose. On further inspection, I decided that he was either a
High-Church parson or a Roman Catholic priest. His proceedings seemed
to favour the latter hypothesis, for the train was barely out of the
station before he had whisked out of his pocket an
ecclesiastical-looking volume, which he opened at a marked place, and
instantly began to read. I watched him with inquisitive interest, for
his manner of reading was very singular. There was something habitual,
almost mechanical, about it, suggesting an allotted and familiar task,
and a lack of concentration that suggested a corresponding lack of
novelty in the matter. As he read, his lips moved, and now and again I
caught a faint whisper, by which I gathered that he was reading
rapidly; but the most singular phenomenon was, that when his eyes
strayed out of the carriage window, as they did at frequent intervals,
his lips went on sputtering with unabated rapidity. Quite suddenly he
appeared to come to the end of a sort of literary measured mile, for
even as his lips were still moving, he clapped in the book-mark, shut
the volume, and returned it to his pocket with a curious air of
business-like finality.
As his eyes were no longer occupied with the book, my observations had
to be suspended, and my attention was now turned to my own affairs.
Putting my hand in my coat pocket for my pipe and pouch, I became
aware of a state of confusion in the said pocket which I had already
noticed when making my purchases. The fact is, that I had nearly come
away from the barge without my portable property. It was only at the
last moment that the skipper, remembering the mug, had fetched it
hurriedly from the locker and shot its contents bodily into my coat
pocket. The present seemed a good opportunity for distributing the
various articles among their proper receptacles. Accordingly I turned
out the whole pocketful on the seat by my side, and a remarkably
miscellaneous collection they formed; comprising knives, pencils,
match-box, keys, the minor implements of my craft, and various other
objects, useful and useless, including the little gold reliquary.
My neighbour opposite was, I think, quite interested in my
proceedings, though he kept up a dignified pretence of being entirely
unaware of my existence. Only for a while, however. Suddenly he sat
up, very wide awake, and slewing his head round, stared with
undisguised intentness at my little collection. I guessed at once what
it was that had attracted his attention. A cleric would not be
thrilled by the sight of a clinical thermometer or an ophthalmoscope.
It was the reliquary that had caught his eye. That was an article in
his own line of business.
With deliberate mischief, I left the little bauble exposed to view as
I very slowly and methodically conveyed the other things one by one,
each to its established pocket. Last of all, I picked up the reliquary
and held it irresolutely as if debating where I should stow it. And at
this point His Reverence intervened, unable any longer to contain his
curiosity.
“Zat is a very remargable liddle opchect, sir,” he said in excellent
Anglo-German. “Might one bresume to ask vat its use is?”
I handed the reliquary to him and he took it from me with
ill-disguised eagerness.
“I understand,” said I, “that it is a reliquary. But you probably know
more about such things than I do. I haven’t opened it so I can’t say
what is inside.”
He nodded gravely. “Zo! I am glad to hear you zay zat. Brobably zere
is inside some holy relic vich ought not to be touched egzepting by
bious handts.” He turned the case over, and, putting on a pair of
spectacles--which he had not appeared to require for reading--closely
scrutinized the inscriptions, and even the wisp of cord that remained
attached to one of the rings.
“You zay,” he resumed without raising his eyes, “zat you understandt
zat zis is a reliquary. Do you not zen know? Ze berson who gafe it to
you, did he not tell you vat it gondained?”
“It wasn’t given to me at all,” I replied. “In fact, it isn’t properly
mine. I picked it up and am merely keeping it until I find the owner.”
He pondered this statement with a degree of profundity that seemed
rather out of proportion to its matter; and he continued to gaze at
the reliquary, never once raising his eyes to mine. At length, after a
considerable pause and a most unnecessary amount of reflection, he
asked:
“Might one ask, if you shall bardon my guriosity, vere you found zis
liddle opchect?”
I hesitated before replying. My first, and natural, impulse was to
tell him exactly where and under what circumstances I had found the
“opchect.” But the way in which my information had been received by
the police had made me rather chary of offering confidences; besides
which, I had half promised them not to talk about the affair. And,
after all, it was no business of this good gentleman’s where I found
it. My answer was, therefore, not very explicit.
“I picked it up in a lane at Hampstead, near London.”
“At Hampstead!” he repeated. “Zo! Zat would be--a--very good blace to
find such sings. I mean,” he added, hastily, “zere are many beople in
zat blace and some of zem will be of ze old religion.”
Now, this last remark was such palpable nonsense that it set me
speculating on what he had intended to say, for it was obvious that he
had altered his mind in the middle of the sentence and completed it
with the first words that came to hand. However, as I could read no
sense into it at all, I said that “perhaps he was right,” which seemed
an eminently safe rejoinder to an unintelligible statement.
When he had finished his minute examination of the reliquary, he
handed it back to me with such evident reluctance that, if it had been
mine, I should have been tempted to ask him to accept it. But it was
not mine. I was only a trustee. So I made no remark, but watched him
as he, very deliberately, took off his spectacles and returned them to
their case, looking meanwhile, at the floor with an air of deep
abstraction. He appeared to be thinking hard, and I was quite curious
as to what his next remark would be. A considerable interval elapsed
before he spoke again; but at last the remark came, in the form of a
question, and very disappointing it was.
“You are not berhaps very much interested in relics and reliquaries?”
As a matter of fact, I didn’t care two straws for either the one or
the other; but there was no need to put it as strongly as that.
“We are apt,” I replied, “to find a lack of interest in subjects of
which we are ignorant.” (That was a fine sentence. It might have come
straight out of Sandford and Merton.)
“Zat is vat I sink, too,” he rejoined. “Ve do not know; ve do not
care. But zere is a very egsellent liddle book vich egsplains all ze
gustoms and zeremonies gonnected vid relics of ze zaints. I should
like you to read zat book. Vill you bermit me to send you a gobby vich
I haf?”
Of course I said I should be delighted. It was an outrageous
falsehood, but what else could I say?
“Zen,” said he, “I shall haf great pleasure in zending it to you if
you vill kindly tell me how I shall address it.”
I presented him with my card, which he read very attentively before
bestowing it in his pocket-book.
“I see,” he remarked, “zat you are a doctor of medecine. It is a fine
brofession, if one does not too much vorget ze spiritual life in
garing for zat of ze body.”
In this I acquiesced vaguely, and the conversation drifted into
detached commonplaces, finally petering out as we approached Paddock
Wood; where my reverend acquaintance bought a newspaper and underwent
a total eclipse behind it.
As soon as the train started again, I took up my own paper; and the
very first glance at it gave me a shock of surprise that sent all
other matters clean out of my mind. It was an advertisement in the
column headed “Personal” that attracted my attention, an advertisement
that commenced with the word “Missing,” in large type, and went on to
offer Two Hundred Pounds Reward: thus:--
“MISSING. TWO HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD.
“Whereas, on the 14th inst., Dr. Humphrey Jardine disappeared from his
home and his usual places of resort; the above reward will be paid to
any person who shall give information as to his whereabouts, if alive,
or the whereabouts of his body if he is dead. He was last seen at
12.20 p.m. on the above date in the Hampstead Road, and was then
walking towards Euston Road. The missing man is about twenty-six years
of age; is somewhat over six feet in height; of medium complexion; has
brown hair, grey eyes, straight nose and a rather thin face, which is
clean-shaved. He was wearing a dark tweed suit, and soft felt hat.
“Information should be given to Hector Brodribb, Esquire, 65, New
Square, Lincoln’s Inn, by whom the above reward will be paid.”
Here was a pretty state of affairs: It seemed that while I was
placidly taking events as they came; smoking the skipper’s tobacco and
bottom-fishing with young Ted; my escapade had been producing
somewhere a most almighty splash. I read the advertisement again, with
a self-conscious grin, and out of it there arose one or two rather
curious questions. In the first place, who the deuce was Hector
Brodribb? And what concern was I of his? And how came he to know that
I was walking down Hampstead Road at 12.20 on the 14th inst.?
I felt very little doubt it was actually Thorndyke who was tweaking
the strings of the Brodribbian puppet. But even this left the mystery
unsolved. For how did Thorndyke know? This was only the fifth day
after my disappearance, and it would seem that there had hardly been
time for exhaustive enquiries.
Then another highly interesting fact emerged. The only person who had
seen me walk away down Hampstead Road was Sylvia Vyne; whence it
followed that Thorndyke, or the mysterious Brodribb, had in some way
got into touch with her. And reflecting on this, the mechanism of the
enquiry came into view. The connecting-link was, of course, the
sketch. Thorndyke had, himself, left the canvas with Mr. Robinson, the
artist’s-colourman, and he must have called to enquire if I had
collected it. Then, he would have been told of my meeting with Miss
Vyne, and as she was a regular customer, Mr. Robinson would have been
able to give him her address. It was all perfectly simple, the only
remarkable feature being the extraordinary promptitude with which the
inquiry had been carried out. Which went to show how much more clearly
Thorndyke had realized the danger that surrounded me than I had
myself.
These various reflections gave me full occupation during the remainder
of the journey, extending themselves into consideration of how I
should act in the immediate future. My first duty was obviously to
report myself to Thorndyke without delay; after which, I persuaded
myself, it would be highly necessary for me personally to reassure the
fair, and, perhaps, anxious Sylvia. As to how this was to be managed,
I was not quite clear, and in spite of the most profound cogitation, I
had reached no conclusion when the train rumbled into Charing Cross
Station.