EXIT DR. JARDINE
My second visit to “The Hawthorns,” to which I had looked forward
with some eagerness, had, after all, to be postponed indefinitely. I
say “had,” since, under the circumstances, it appeared to be so unsafe
that I could not fairly take the risk that it involved. I had made the
engagement thoughtlessly, and, in my preoccupation with Mrs. Samway,
had not realized the indiscretion to which I had committed myself
until I was brought back sharply to the actual conditions by the
incident in Love Lane which I have mentioned. But, after that, I saw
that it would be the wildest folly to show myself in the vicinity of
Sylvia’s house. Evidently the spy, after we had given him the slip so
neatly, had made direct for my lodgings and lurked in the
neighbourhood, and there it must have been that he had picked me up
again as I passed with Mrs. Samway. Of course it was possible that the
unseen person in the lane was not really shadowing me at all; but his
stealthy approach, his hasty retreat and his mysterious disappearance,
left me in very little doubt on the subject.
I was not very nervous about this enigmatical person on my own
account. In spite of my alarming experiences, I found it difficult to
take him as seriously as I should have done, and still felt a quite
unjustifiable confidence in my capability of taking care of myself.
But on Sylvia’s account I was exceedingly uneasy. The interest that
this man had shown in the unlucky little ornament that she wore,
associated itself in my mind most disagreeably with her mysterious and
terrifying adventure in Millfield Lane, and made me feel that it would
be sheer insanity for me to go from my house to hers and so possibly
give this unknown villain the clue to her whereabouts.
This conclusion, at which I had arrived over-night, was confirmed on
the following morning, for, having taken a brisk walk out in the
direction of Harrow, and having kept a very sharp look-out, I was
distinctly conscious of the fact that there always appeared to be a
man in sight. I never got near him and was not able to recognize him,
but at intervals throughout the morning he continually reappeared in
the distance, even on the comparatively solitary country roads and the
hedge-divided meadows.
It was excessively irritating. Yet what could I do? Even if I could
have identified him with the man who had apparently shadowed me
before, I really had nothing against him. And cogitating on the
matter, with no little annoyance, I determined to take counsel with
Thorndyke, and meanwhile to avoid the neighbourhood of “The
Hawthorns.”
After lunch, I wrote a letter to Sylvia, briefly explaining the state
of affairs, and, having given it to our maid to deliver, I took the
precaution to go out and saunter towards Kentish Town with the object
of engaging the spy’s attention and preventing him from following my
messenger to North End. The rest of the day I spent at home and
occupied my time in writing a long letter to Thorndyke in which I gave
a pretty detailed account of my recent experiences; which letter was
duly posted by Mrs. Blunt herself in time for the evening collection.
I had barely seated myself at the breakfast table on the following
morning when a telegram was brought to me. On opening it I found that
it was from Thorndyke, advising me that a letter had been dispatched
by hand and asking me to stay at home until I had received it; which I
did; and within an hour it arrived and was delivered into my own hands
by a messenger boy.
It was curt and rather peremptory in tone, desiring me to meet him at
one o’clock at Salter’s Club in a turning off St. James’s Street and
concluding with these somewhat remarkable instructions: “I want you to
wear an overcoat and hat of a distinctive and easily recognizable
character and to take every means that you can of being seen and, if
possible, followed to the club. You had better put a few necessaries
in a bag or suit-case and tell your landlady that you may not be home
to-night. Follow these instructions to the letter and bring this note
with you.”
At the latter part of these directions I was somewhat disposed to
boggle, remembering my worthy teacher’s threat to put me somewhere out
of harm’s way. But Thorndyke was a difficult man to disobey. Suave and
persuasive as his manners were, he had a certain final and compelling
way with him that silenced objections and produced a sort of
frictionless obedience without any sense of compulsion. Hence,
notwithstanding a slight tendency to bluster and tell myself that I
would see him hanged before I would submit to being mollycoddled like
an idiot, I found myself, presently, walking down the Grove in a buff
overcoat and a grey felt hat, carrying a green canvas suit-case in
which were packed the necessaries for a brief stay away from home, and
bearing in my pocket the incriminating letter.
I walked slowly as far as the Junction Road in order to give any
pursuer a fair opportunity to take up the chase and to make the
necessary observations on my tasteful turn-out. At the Junction I
waited for a tram and carefully abstained from staring about in a
manner which would have embarrassed any person who might wish
unobserved to share the conveyance with me; and from the terminus at
Euston Road I proceeded in leisurely fashion on foot, still resisting
the temptation to look about and see if I had picked up a companion by
the way.
Salter’s Club was domiciled in a typical West End house situated in a
quiet street of similar houses, graced at one end by a cabstand. I
timed my arrival with such accuracy that a neighbouring church-clock
struck one as I ascended the steps; and on my entering the hall, I was
met by an elderly man in a quiet livery who seemed to expect me, for,
when I mentioned Thorndyke’s name, he asked, “Dr. Jardine, sir?” and,
hardly waiting for my reply, showed me to the cloak-room.
“Dr. Thorndyke,” said he, “will be with you in a few minutes. When you
have washed, I will show you to the dining room where he wished you to
wait for him.”
I was just a little surprised at even this short delay, for Thorndyke
was the soul of punctuality. However, I had not to wait long. I had
been sitting less than three minutes at a small table laid for two in
the deep bay window, scanning the street through the wire-gauze
blinds, when he arrived.
“I needn’t apologize, I suppose, Jardine,” he said, shaking my hand
heartily. “You will have guessed why I have kept you waiting.”
“You flatter me, sir,” I replied with a slight grin. “I haven’t your
powers of instantaneous deduction.”
“You hardly needed them,” he retorted. “Of course I was watching your
approach and observing the corner by which you entered the street to
see who came after you.”
“Did anyone come after me?”
“Several persons. I examined them all very carefully with a prism
binocular that magnifies twelve times linear, and an assistant is now
at the same window--the one over this--following the fortunes of those
persons with the same excellent glass.”
“Did you spot anyone in particular as looking a likely person?”
“Yes. The second man who came after you seemed to be sauntering in a
rather unpurposive fashion and looking a little obtrusively
unconcerned. I noticed, too, that he was carrying an umbrella in his
left hand. But we needn’t concern ourselves. If anyone is shadowing
you we are certain to see him. He must expose himself to view from
time to time, for he can’t afford to lose sight of our doorway for
more than a few seconds, and there is practically no cover in this
street.”
“He might hide in a doorway,” I suggested.
“Oh, might he! These are all clubs in this street. He’d very soon have
the servants out wanting to know his business. No; he’ll have to keep
on the move and he’ll have to keep mostly in sight of this house. And
meanwhile we are going to take our lunch at our leisure and have a
little talk to while away the time.”
The lunch was on a scale that my youthful appetite approved strongly,
though the number of courses and irrelevant, time-consuming kickshaws
struck me as rather unusual. And I never saw a man eat so slowly and
delay a meal so much as Thorndyke did on that occasion. I believe that
it took him fully twenty minutes to consume a fried sole; and even
then he created a further delay by drawing my attention to the
skeleton on his plate as an illustration of inherited deformity
adjusted to special environmental conditions. But all the time,
whether eating or talking, I noticed that his eye continually
travelled up and down the stretch of street that was visible through
the wire blinds.
“You haven’t told me why you sent for me, sir,” I said, after waiting
patiently for him to open the subject.
“I dare say you have guessed,” he replied; “but we may as well thrash
the matter out now. You realize that you are running an enormous and
unnecessary risk by going abroad with this man at your heels?”
“Well, I don’t suppose he is following me about from sheer affection.”
“No. I thought it possible that he might be a plain-clothes policeman,
but I have ascertained that he is not. Who he is we don’t know, but we
have the strongest reasons for suspecting his intentions. There have
been three very determined attempts on your life. They were all made
with such remarkable caution and foresight that, though they failed,
practically no traces have been left. Those attempts imply a strong
motive, though to us, an unknown one; and that motive, presumably,
still exists. Your enemy may well be getting desperate, and may be
prepared to take greater risks to get rid of you; and if he is, the
chances are that he will succeed sooner or later. Murder isn’t very
difficult to a cool-headed man who means business.”
“Then what do you propose, sir?”
“I propose that you disappear from your ordinary surroundings and come
and stay, for a time, at my chambers in the Temple.”
This was no more than I had expected, but my jaw dropped considerably,
notwithstanding.
“It’s awfully good of you, sir,” I stammered--and so, to be sure, it
was--“but don’t you think it would be simpler to turn the tables on
this Johnnie and shadow him?”
“An excellent idea, Jardine, and one, I may say, that I am acting on
at this moment. But there isn’t so much in it as you seem to think.
Supposing we identify this man and even run him to earth? What then?
We have nothing against him. We know of no crime that has been
committed. We may suspect that the man whom you saw at Hampstead had
been murdered. But we can’t prove it. We can’t produce the body or
even prove that the man was dead. And we couldn’t connect this person
with the affair because nobody was known to be connected with it. I
should like to know who this man is, but I don’t want to put him on
his guard; and above all, I can’t agree to your going about as a sort
of live-bait to enable us to locate him. By the way, that man on the
opposite side of the street is the one whom I selected as being
probably your attendant. Apparently I was right, as this is the third
time he has passed. Do you recognize him?”
I looked attentively at the uncharacteristic figure on the farther
side of the street, but could find nothing familiar in his appearance.
“No,” I replied; “he doesn’t look to me like the same man. He is
dressed differently--but that’s nothing, as he has been dressed
differently on each occasion--and that torpedo beard and full
moustache are quite unlike, though there’s nothing in that either; but
the man looks different altogether--distinctly taller, for instance.”
Thorndyke chuckled. “Good,” said he. “Now look at his feet, as he
passes opposite. Did you ever see an instep set at that angle to the
sole? And does not your anatomical conscience cry out at a foot of
that thickness?”
“Yes, by Jove!” I exclaimed; “there’s room for a double row of
metatarsals. It is a fake of some kind, I suppose?”
“Cork ‘raisers’ inside high-heeled boots. Through the glasses I could
see that the boots gaped considerably at the instep, as they will when
there is a pad inside as well as a foot. But you notice, also, that
the man is dressed for height. He has a tall hat, a long coat, and his
shoulders are obviously raised by padding. I think there is very
little doubt that he is our man.”
“It must be a dull job,” I remarked, “hanging about by the hour to see
a man come out of a house.”
“Very,” Thorndyke agreed. “I am quite sorry for the worthy person,
especially as we are going to play him a rather shabby trick
presently.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“We are going to let him in for one of the longest waits he has ever
had, I am afraid. Perhaps I had better give you the particulars of our
_modus operandi_. First, I shall send down to the stand for a hansom,
which will draw up opposite the club; and thereupon I have no doubt
our friend will hurry down to the cabstand to be in readiness. At any
rate, I shall let him get down to that end of the street before I do
anything more. Then I shall take the liberty of putting on your coat
and hat and go out to the cab with your suit-case in my hand; I shall
stand on the kerb long enough to let our friend get a good view of my
back, I shall get into the cab, give the driver the direction through
the trap to drive to the hospital, and pay the fare in advance.”
“Why in advance?” I asked.
“So that I shall not have to turn round and show my face when I get
out at the hospital entrance. I assume that your friend will follow me
in another hansom. Also that he will alight at the outer gates,
whereas I shall drive into the courtyard right up to the main
entrance, so that he will merely see your hat, coat and suit-case
disappear into the building. Then, as I say, he will be in for an
interminable vigil. I have a lecture to give this afternoon, and, when
I have finished, I shall come away in a black overcoat and tall hat
(which are at this moment hanging up in the curator’s room), leaving
your friend to wait for the reappearance of your coat, hat and
suit-case. I only hope he won’t wait too long.”
“Why?”
“Because he may wear out the patience of my assistant. I have a
plain-clothes man keeping a watch from the window above. If your
friend sets off in pursuit of your garments, as I anticipate, the
plain-clothes man will go straight to the hospital and take up his
post in the porter’s lodge, which, as you know, commands the whole
street outside the gates.”
“And what have I got to do?”
“First of all, you will put your tooth brush in your pocket--never
mind about your razor--and let me try on your hat, in case we have to
pad the lining. Then, when you have seen your friend start off in
pursuit and are sure the coast is clear, you will make straight for my
chambers and wait there for me.”
“And supposing the chappie doesn’t start off in pursuit? Supposing he
twigs the imposture?”
“Then the plain-clothes man will go out and threaten to arrest him for
loitering with intent to commit a felony. That would soon move him on
out of the neighbourhood, and the officer might accompany him some
distance and try to get his address. Meanwhile, you would be off to
King’s Bench Walk.”
“But wouldn’t it be simpler to run the Johnnie in, in any case? Then
we should know all about him.”
“No, it wouldn’t do. The police wouldn’t actually make an arrest
without an information; and, if they did proceed, they would want me
to appear. That wouldn’t suit me at all. Until we obtain some fresh
evidence, I don’t want this man to get any suspicion that the case is
being investigated. And now I think the time has come for a move. Let
us go to the cloak-room and see if your hat fits me sufficiently
well.”
It was not a good fit, being just a shade small; but, as it was a soft
felt, this was not a vital defect. The overcoat fitted well enough,
though a trifle long in the sleeves, and when Thorndyke was fully
arrayed in this borrowed plumage, his back view, so far as I could
judge, was indistinguishable from my own.
“If you will take out your toothbrush and hand me your suit-case,”
said he, “I will send for a hansom, and then we will watch the
progress of events from the dining-room window.”
I handed him the green canvas case and we returned to the dining-room
and there, when he had ordered the cab, we took up a position at the
window, screened from observation by the wire blinds.
“Our friend,” said Thorndyke, “was walking towards the right hand end
of the street when we saw him last. As the cabstand is at the left
hand end, we may hope to look upon his face once again.”
As he spoke, the air was rent by the shriek of the cab-whistle, and
the leading hansom began immediately to bear down on the club. It had
hardly come to rest at our door when a figure appeared from the
opposite direction, advancing at a brisk walk on our side of the road.
I recognized him instantly as the man to whom Thorndyke had directed
my attention, and watched him closely, as he approached, to see if I
could identify him with the man who had shadowed Sylvia and me at the
picture gallery; but, though he passed within a few yards of the
window, and I felt no doubt that he was the same man, I could trace no
definite resemblance. It is true, that while actually passing the
club, he averted his face somewhat; but I had a good view of him
within an easy distance, and the face that I then saw was certainly
not the face of the man at the gallery. The skilfulness of the
make-up--assuming it to be really a disguise--was incredible, and I
remarked on it to Thorndyke.
“Yes,” he agreed, “a really artistic make-up is apt to surprise the
uninitiated. And that reminds me that Polton has instructions to make
a few trifling alterations in your own appearance.”
I stared at him aghast. “You don’t mean to say,” I exclaimed, “that
you contemplate making me up?”
“We won’t discuss the question now,” he replied a little evasively.
“You talk it over with Polton. It is time for me to go now, as our
quarry has considerately acted up to our expectations. He little knows
what confusion of our plans he would have occasioned by simply staying
at the other end of the street.”
The spy had, in fact, now halted opposite the cabstand and was
apparently making some notes in a pocket-book, facing, meanwhile, in
our direction. With a few parting instructions to me, Thorndyke picked
up the suit-case and hurried out, and I saw him dart down the
steps--with his face turned somewhat to the right--and stand for a few
seconds at the edge of the pavement with his back to the cabstand, but
in full view, looking at his watch as if considering some appointment.
Suddenly he sprang into the cab and, pushing up the trap, gave the
driver his instructions and handed up the fare. At the same moment I
saw the unknown shadower hail a hansom, and, scrambling to the
footboard, give some brief directions to the driver. Then Thorndyke’s
cabman touched his horse with the whip, and away he went at a smart
trot; but hardly had the cab turned the first corner when the second
hansom rattled past the club in hot pursuit.
I was about to turn away from the window when a tall, well-dressed man
ran down the steps and immediately signalled to the cabstand with his
stick. Thinking it probable that this was the plain-clothes policeman,
I stopped to watch; and when I had seen him enter the cab and drive
off in the same direction as the other two, I decided that the show
was over and that it was time for me to take my departure; which I
did, after stuffing a couple of envelopes into the lining of
Thorndyke’s hat, to prevent it from slipping down towards my ears.
That my arrival at number 5a, King’s Bench Walk was not quite
unexpected I gathered not only from the fact that the “oak” stood wide
open, revealing the inner door, but from the instantaneous way in
which this latter opened in response to my knock; and something
gleeful and triumphant in Mr. Polton’s manner as he invited me to
enter, stirred my suspicions and aroused vague forebodings.
He helped me out of my--or rather Thorndyke’s--overcoat, and, having
taken the hat from me, peered inquiringly into its interior and fished
out the two envelopes, which he politely offered to me. Then, having
disposed of his employer’s property, he returned to confront me, and,
wrinkling his countenance into a most singular and highly corrugated
smile, he opened his mouth and spoke.
“So you have come, sir, the Doctor tells me, to take sanctuary for a
time with us from the malice of your enemies.”
“I don’t know about that,” I replied; “but there is a cockeyed
transformationist who seems to be dodging about after me, and Dr.
Thorndyke thinks I had better give him the go-by for the present.”
“And very proper, too, sir. Discretion is the better part of valour,
as the proverb says--though I really could never see that it is any
part at all. But no doubt our forefathers, who made the proverb, knew
best. Did the Doctor mention that he had given me certain instructions
about you?”
“He said that I was to talk over some question with you, but I didn’t
quite follow him. What were his instructions?”
Polton rubbed his hands, and his face became more crinkly than ever.
“The Doctor instructed me,” he replied, looking at me hungrily and
obviously making a mental inventory of my features, “to effect certain
slight alterations in your outward personality.”
“Oh, did he,” said I. “And what does he mean by that? Does he mean
that you are to make me up as an old woman or a nigger minstrel?”
“Not at all, sir,” replied Polton. “Neither of those characters would
be at all suitable. They would occasion remark, which it is our object
to avoid; and as to a negro minstrel, his presence in chambers would
undoubtedly be objected to by the benchers.”
“But,” I expostulated, “why any disguise at all, if I am to be boxed
up in these chambers? The chappie isn’t likely to come and look
through the keyhole.”
“He wouldn’t see anything if he did,” said Polton. “I fitted these
locks. But, you see, sir, many strangers come to these chambers, and
then, too, you might like to take a little exercise about the inn or
the gardens. That would probably be quite safe if you were
unrecognizable, but otherwise, I should think, inadmissible. And
really, sir,” he continued persuasively, “if you do a thing at all you
may as well do it thoroughly. The Doctor wishes you to disappear; then
disappear completely. Don’t do it by halves.”
I could not but admit to myself that this was reasonable advice.
Nevertheless, I grumbled a little sulkily. “It seems to me that Dr.
Thorndyke is making a lot of unnecessary fuss. It is absurd for an
able-bodied man to be sneaking into a hiding-place and disguising
himself like a runaway thief.”
“I can offer no opinion on that, sir,” said Polton; “but you’re wrong
about the Doctor. He is a cautious man but he is not nervous or fussy.
You would be wise to act as he thinks best, I am sure.”
“Very well,” I said; “I won’t be obstinate. When do you want to begin
on me?”
“I should like,” replied Polton, brightening up wonderfully at my
sudden submission, “to have you ready for inspection by the time that
the Doctor returns. If agreeable to you, sir, I would proceed
immediately.”
“Then in that case,” said I, “we had better adjourn to the green-room
forthwith.”
“If you please, sir,” replied Polton; and with this, having opened the
door and cautiously inspected the landing, he conducted me up the
stairs to the floor above, the rooms of which appeared to be fitted as
workshops and laboratories. In one of the former, which appeared to be
Polton’s own special den, I saw my watch hanging from a nail, with a
rating table pinned above it, and proceeded to claim it.
“I suppose, sir,” said Polton, reluctantly taking it from its nail and
surrendering it to me, “as you are going to reside on the premises and
I can keep it under observation, you may as well wear it. The present
rate is plus one point three seconds daily. And now I will trouble you
to sit down on this stool and take off your collar.”
I did as he bade me, and, meanwhile, he turned up his cuffs and stood
a little way off, surveying me as a sculptor might survey a bust on
which he was at work. Then he fetched a large cardboard box, the
contents of which I could not see, and fell to work.
His first proceeding was to oil my hair thoroughly, part it in the
middle and brush it smoothly down either side of my forehead. Next he
shaved off the outer third of each eyebrow, and, having applied some
sort of varnish or adhesive, he proceeded to build up, with a number
of short hairs, a continuation of the eyebrows at a higher level. The
result seemed to please him amazingly, for he stepped back and viewed
me with an exceedingly self-satisfied smirk.
“It is really surprising, sir,” said he, “how much expression there is
in the corner of an eyebrow. You look a completely different gentleman
already.”
“Then,” said I, “there’s no need to do any more. We can leave it at
this.”
“Oh, no, we can’t, sir,” Polton replied hastily, making a frantic dive
into the cardboard box. “Begging your pardon, sir, it is necessary to
attend to the lower part of the face, in case you should wish to wear
a hat, which would cover the hair and throw the eyebrows into shadow.”
Here he produced from the box an undeniable false beard of the torpedo
type and approached me, holding it out as if it were a poultice.
“You are not going to stick that beastly thing on my face!” I
exclaimed, gazing at it with profound disfavour.
“Now, sir,” protested Polton, “pray be patient. We will just try it
on, and the Doctor shall decide if it is necessary.”
With this he proceeded to affix the abomination to my jowl with the
aid of the same sticky varnish that he had used previously, and,
having attached a moustache to my upper lip, worked carefully round
the edges of both with a quantity of loose hair, which he stuck on the
skin with the adhesive liquid and afterwards trimmed off with
scissors. The process was just completed and he had stepped back once
more to admire his work when an electric bell rang softly in the
adjoining room.
“There’s the Doctor,” he remarked. “I’m glad we are ready for him.
Shall we go down and submit our work for his inspection?”
I assented readily, having some hopes that Thorndyke would veto the
beard, and we descended together to the sitting-room, where we found
that Jervis and his principal had arrived together. As to the former,
he greeted my entrance by staggering back several paces with an
expression of terror, and then seated himself on the edge of the table
and laughed with an air of enjoyment that was almost offensive;
particularly to Polton, who stood by my side, rubbing his hands and
smiling with devilish satisfaction.
“I assume,” Thorndyke said, gravely, “that this is our friend
Jardine.”
“It isn’t,” said Jervis. “It’s the shopwalker from Wallis’s. I
recognized him instantly.”
“Look here,” I said, with some heat, “it’s all very well for you to
make me up like Charley’s Aunt and then jeer at me, but what’s the use
of it? The fifth of November’s past.”
“My dear Jardine,” Thorndyke said, soothingly, “you are confusing your
sensations with your appearance. I daresay that make-up is rather
uncomfortable, but it is completely successful, and I must
congratulate Polton; for the highest aim of a disguise is the utterly
common-place, and I assure you that you are now a most
ordinary-looking person. Fetch the looking-glass from the office,
Polton, and let him see for himself.”
I gazed into the mirror which Polton held up to me with profound
surprise. There was nothing in the least grotesque or unusual in the
face that looked out at me, only it was the face of an utter stranger;
and, as Thorndyke had said, a perfectly common-place stranger, at whom
no one would look twice in the street. Grudgingly, I acknowledged the
fact, but still objected to the beard.
“Do you think it is really necessary, sir, in addition to the other
disfigurements?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Thorndyke. “It is only a temporary expedient,
because, in a fortnight, your own beard will have grown enough to
serve with a little artificial re-enforcement. And,” he continued, as
Polton retired with a gratified smile, “I am anxious that your
disappearance shall be complete. It is not only a question of your
safety--although that is very urgent and I feel myself responsible for
you, as we are not appealing to the police. There are other issues.
Assuming, as we do assume, that some crime has been committed, the
lapse of time must inevitably cause some of the consequences of that
crime to develop. If the man whose body you saw at Hampstead was
really murdered, he must presently be missed and enquired for. Then we
shall learn who he was and perhaps we may gather what was the motive
of the crime. Then, your secret enemy will be left unemployed and may
produce some fresh evidence--for he can’t wait indefinitely for your
reappearance. And finally, certain enquiries which I am making may set
us on the right track. And, if they do, you must remember, Jardine,
that you are probably the sole witness to certain important items of
evidence; so you must be preserved in safety as a matter of public
policy, apart from your own prejudices in favour of remaining alive.”
“I didn’t know that you were actually working at the case,” I said.
“Have you been following up that man Gill of the mineral water works?”
“I followed him up to the vanishing-point. He has gone and left no
trace; and I have been unable to get any description of him.”
“Then,” said I, “if it is allowable to ask the question, in what
direction have you been making enquiries?”
“I have been interesting myself,” Thorndyke replied, “in the other
case; that of your patient Mr. Maddock, as the attacks on you seemed
to be associated with his neighbourhood rather than with that of
Hampstead. I have examined his will at Somerset House and am
collecting information about the persons who benefited by its
provisions. Especially, I am making some enquiries about a legatee who
lives in New York, and concerning whom I am rather curious. I can’t go
into further details just now, but you will see that I am keeping the
case in hand, and you must remember that, at any moment, fresh
information may reach me from other sources. My practice is a very
peculiar one, and there are few really obscure cases that are not,
sooner or later, brought to me for an opinion.”
“And, meanwhile, I am to eat the bread of idleness here and wait on
events.”
“You won’t be entirely idle,” Thorndyke replied. “We shall find you
some work to do, and you will extend your knowledge of medico-legal
practice. You write shorthand fairly well, don’t you?”
“Yes; and I can draw a little, if that is of any use.”
“Both accomplishments are of use, and, even if they are not, we should
have to exercise them for the sake of appearances. It will certainly
become known that you are here, so we had better make no secret of it,
but find you such occupation as will account for your presence. And,
as you will have to meet strangers now and again, we must find you a
name. What do you think of ‘William Morgan Howard’?”
“It will do as well as any other,” I replied.
“Very well, then William Morgan Howard let it be. And, in case you
might forget your alias, as the crooks are constantly doing, we will
drop the name of Jardine and call you Howard even when we are alone.
It will save us all from an untimely slip.”
To this arrangement also I agreed with a sour smile, and so, with some
physical discomfort in the neighbourhood of the lower jaw, and a
certain relish of the novelty and absurdity of my position, I placed
myself, under the name of Howard, on the roster of Thorndyke’s
establishment.