THE CHANGED IMMUTABLE
Among the minor and purely physical pleasures of life, I am disposed
to rank very highly that feeling of bodily comfort that one
experiences on passing from the outer darkness of a wet winter’s
night to a cheerful interior made glad by mellow lamplight and
blazing hearth. And so I thought when, on a dreary November night, I
let myself into our chambers in the Temple and found my friend
smoking his pipe in slippered ease, by a roaring fire, and facing an
empty armchair evidently placed in readiness for me.
As I shed my damp overcoat, I glanced inquisitively at my colleague,
for he held in his hand an open letter, and I seemed to perceive in
his aspect something meditative and self-communing--something, in
short, suggestive of a new case.
“I was just considering,” he said, in answer to my inquiring look,
“whether I am about to become an accessory after the fact. Read that
and give me your opinion.”
He handed me the letter, which I read aloud.
“DEAR SIR,--I am in great danger and distress. A warrant has been
issued for my arrest on a charge of which I am entirely innocent. Can
I come and see you, and will you let me leave in safety? The bearer
will wait for a reply.”
“I said ‘Yes,’ of course; there was nothing else to do,” said
Thorndyke. “But if I let him go, as I have promised to do, I shall be
virtually conniving at his escape.”
“Yes, you are taking a risk,” I answered. “When is he coming?”
“He was due five minutes ago--and I rather think--yes, here he is.”
A stealthy tread on the landing was followed by a soft tapping on the
outer door.
Thorndyke rose and, flinging open the inner door, unfastened the
massive “oak.”
“Dr. Thorndyke?” inquired a breathless, quavering voice.
“Yes, come in. You sent me a letter by hand?”
“I did, sir,” was the reply; and the speaker entered, but at the
sight of me he stopped short.
“This is my colleague, Dr. Jervis,” Thorndyke explained. “You need
have no----”
“Oh, I remember him,” our visitor interrupted in a tone of relief. “I
have seen you both before, you know, and you have seen me too--though
I don’t suppose you recognize me,” he added, with a sickly smile.
“Frank Belfield?” asked Thorndyke, smiling also.
Our visitor’s jaw fell and he gazed at my colleague in sudden dismay.
“And I may remark,” pursued Thorndyke, “that for a man in your
perilous position, you are running most unnecessary risks. That wig,
that false beard and those spectacles--through which you obviously
cannot see--are enough to bring the entire police force at your
heels. It is not wise for a man who is wanted by the police to make
up as though he had just escaped from a comic opera.”
Mr. Belfield seated himself with a groan, and, taking off his
spectacles, stared stupidly from one of us to the other.
“And now tell us about your little affair,” said Thorndyke. “You say
that you are innocent?”
“I swear it, doctor,” replied Belfield; adding, with great
earnestness, “And you may take it from me, sir, that if I was not, I
shouldn’t be here. It was you that convicted me last time, when I
thought myself quite safe, so I know your ways too well to try to
gammon you.”
“If you are innocent,” rejoined Thorndyke, “I will do what I can for
you; and if you are not--well, you would have been wiser to stay
away.”
“I know that well enough,” said Belfield, “and I am only afraid that
you won’t believe what I am going to tell you.”
“I shall keep an open mind, at any rate,” replied Thorndyke.
“If you only will,” groaned Belfield, “I shall have a look in, in
spite of them all. You know, sir, that I have been on the crook, but
I have paid in full. That job when you tripped me up was the last of
it--it was, sir, so help me. It was a woman that changed me--the best
and truest woman on God’s earth. She said she would marry me when I
came out if I promised her to go straight and live an honest life.
And she kept her promise--and I have kept mine. She found me work as
clerk in a warehouse and I have stuck to it ever since, earning fair
wages and building up a good character as an honest, industrious man.
I thought all was going well and that I was settled for life, when
only this very morning the whole thing comes tumbling about my ears
like a house of cards.”
“What happened this morning, then?” asked Thorndyke.
“Why, I was on my way to work when, as I passed the police station, I
noticed a bill with the heading ‘Wanted’ and a photograph. I stopped
for a moment to look at it, and you may imagine my feelings when I
recognized my own portrait--taken at Holloway--and read my own name
and description. I did not stop to read the bill through, but ran
back home and told my wife, and she ran down to the station and read
the bill carefully. Good God, sir! What do you think I am wanted
for?” He paused for a moment, and then re plied in breathless tones
to his own question: “The Camberwell murder!”
Thorndyke gave a low whistle.
“My wife knows I didn’t do it,” continued Belfield, “because I was at
home all the evening and night; but what use is a man’s wife to prove
an alibi?”
“Not much, I fear,” Thorndyke admitted; “and you have no other
witness?”
“Not a soul. We were alone all the evening.”
“However,” said Thorndyke, “if you are innocent--as I am
assuming--the evidence against you must be entirely circumstantial
and your alibi may be quite sufficient. Have you any idea of the
grounds of suspicion against you?”
“Not the faintest. The papers said that the police had an excellent
clue, but they did not say what it was. Probably some one has given
false information for the----”
A sharp rapping at the outer door cut short the explanation, and our
visitor rose, trembling and aghast, with beads of sweat standing upon
his livid face.
“You had better go into the office, Belfield, while we see who it
is,” said Thorndyke. “The key is on the inside.”
The fugitive wanted no second bidding, but hurried into the empty
apartment, and, as the door closed, we heard the key turn in the lock.
As Thorndyke threw open the outer door, he cast a meaning glance at
me over his shoulder which I understood when the newcomer entered the
room; for it was none other than Superintendent Miller of Scotland
Yard.
“I have just dropped in,” said the superintendent, in his brisk,
cheerful way, “to ask you to do me a favour. Good evening, Dr.
Jervis. I hear you are reading for the bar; learned counsel soon,
sir, hey? Medico-legal expert. Dr. Thorndyke’s mantle going to fall
on you, sir?”
“I hope Dr. Thorndyke’s mantle will continue to drape his own
majestic form for many a long year yet,” I answered; “though he is
good enough to spare me a corner--but what on earth have you got
there?” For during this dialogue the Superintendent had been deftly
unfastening a brown-paper parcel, from which he now drew a linen
shirt, once white, but now of an unsavoury grey.
“I want to know what this is,” said Miller, exhibiting a brownish-red
stain on one sleeve. “Just look at that, sir, and tell me if it is
blood, and, if so, is it human blood?”
“Really, Miller,” said Thorndyke, with a smile, “you flatter me; but
I am not like the wise woman of Bagdad who could tell you how many
stairs the patient had tumbled down by merely looking at his tongue.
I must examine this very thoroughly. When do you want to know?”
“I should like to know to-night,” replied the detective.
“Can I cut a piece out to put under the microscope?”
“I would rather you did not,” was the reply.
“Very well; you shall have the information in about an hour.”
“It’s very good of you, doctor,” said the detective; and he was
taking up his hat preparatory to departing, when Thorndyke said
suddenly----
“By the way, there is a little matter that I was going to speak to
you about. It refers to this Camberwell murder case. I understand you
have a clue to the identity of the murderer?”
“Clue!” exclaimed the superintendent contemptuously. “We have spotted
our man all right, if we could only lay hands on him; but he has
given us the slip for the moment.”
“Who is the man?” asked Thorndyke.
The detective looked doubtfully at Thorndyke for some seconds and
then said, with evident reluctance: “I suppose there is no harm in
telling you--especially as you probably know already”--this with a
sly grin; “it’s an old crook named Belfield.”
“And what is the evidence against him?”
Again the superintendent looked doubtful and again relented.
“Why, the case is as clear as--as cold Scotch,” he said (here
Thorndyke in illustration of this figure of speech produced a
decanter, a syphon and a tumbler, which he pushed towards the
officer). “You see, sir, the silly fool went and stuck his sweaty
hand on the window; and there we found the marks--four fingers and a
thumb, as beautiful prints as you could wish to see. Of course we cut
out the piece of glass and took it up to the Finger-print Department;
they turned up their files and out came Mr. Belfield’s record, with
his finger-prints and photograph all complete.”
“And the finger-prints on the window-pane were identical with those
on the prison form?”
“Identical.”
“H’m!” Thorndyke reflected for a while, and the superintendent
watched him foxily over the edge of his tumbler.
“I guess you are retained to defend Belfield,” the latter observed
presently.
“To look into the case generally,” replied Thorndyke.
“And I expect you know where the beggar is hiding,” continued the
detective.
“Belfield’s address has not yet been communicated to me,” said
Thorndyke. “I am merely to investigate the case--and there is no
reason, Miller, why you and I should be at cross purposes. We are
both working at the case; you want to get a conviction and you want
to convict the right man.”
“That’s so--and Belfield’s the right man--but what do you want of us,
doctor?”
“I should like to see the piece of glass with the finger-prints on
it, and the prison form, and take a photograph of each. And I should
like to examine the room in which the murder took place--you have it
locked up, I suppose?”
“Yes, we have the keys. Well, it’s all rather irregular, letting you
see the things. Still, you’ve always played the game fairly with us,
so we might stretch a point. Yes, I will. I’ll come back in an hour
for your report and bring the glass and the form. I can’t let them go
out of my custody, you know. I’ll be off now--no, thank you, not
another drop.”
The superintendent caught up his hat and strode away, the
personification of mental alertness and bodily vigour.
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Thorndyke’s stolid calm
changed instantaneously into feverish energy. Darting to the electric
bell that rang into the laboratories above, he pressed the button
while he gave me my directions.
“Have a look at that bloodstain, Jervis, while I am finishing with
Belfield. Don’t wet it; scrape it into a drop of warm normal saline
solution.”
I hastened to reach down the microscope and set out on the table the
necessary apparatus and reagents, and, as I was thus occupied, a
latch-key turned in the outer door and our invaluable helpmate,
Polton, entered the room in his habitual silent, unobtrusive fashion.
“Let me have the finger-print apparatus, please, Polton,” said
Thorndyke; “and have the copying camera ready by nine o’clock. I am
expecting Mr. Miller with some documents.”
As his laboratory assistant departed, Thorndyke rapped at the office
door.
“It’s all clear, Belfield,” he called; “you can come out.”
The key turned and the prisoner emerged, looking ludicrously
woebegone in his ridiculous wig and beard.
“I am going to take your finger-prints, to compare with some that the
police found on the window.”
“Finger-prints!” exclaimed Belfield, in a tone of dismay. “They don’t
say they’re my finger-prints, do they, sir?”
“They do indeed,” replied Thorndyke, eyeing the man narrowly. “They
have compared them with those taken when you were at Holloway, and
they say that they are identical.”
“Good God!” murmured Belfield, collapsing into a chair, faint and
trembling. “They must have made some awful mistake. But are mistakes
possible with finger-prints?”
“Now look here, Belfield,” said Thorndyke. “Were you in that house
that night, or were you not? It is of no use for you to tell me any
lies.”
“I was not there, sir; I swear to God I was not.”
“Then they cannot be your finger-prints, that is obvious.” Here he
stepped to the door to intercept Polton, from whom he received a
substantial box, which he brought in and placed on the table.
“Tell me all you know about this case,” he continued, as he set out
the contents of the box on the table.
“I know nothing about it whatever,” replied Belfield; “nothing, at
least, except----”
“Except what?” demanded Thorndyke, looking up sharply as he squeezed
a drop from a tube of finger-print ink onto a smooth copper plate.
“Except that the murdered man, Caldwell, was a retired fence.”
“A fence, was he?” said Thorndyke in a tone of interest.
“Yes; and I suspect he was a ‘nark’ too. He knew more than was
wholesome for a good many.”
“Did he know anything about you?”
“Yes; but nothing that the police don’t know.”
With a small roller Thorndyke spread the ink upon the plate into a
thin film. Then he laid on the edge of the table a smooth white card
and, taking Belfield’s right hand, pressed the forefinger firmly but
quickly, first on the inked plate and then on the card, leaving on
the latter a clear print of the finger-tip. This process he repeated
with the other fingers and thumb, and then took several additional
prints of each.
“That was a nasty injury to your forefinger, Belfield,” said
Thorndyke, holding the finger to the light and examining the tip
carefully. “How did you do it?”
“Stuck a tin-opener into it--a dirty one, too. It was bad for weeks;
in fact, Dr. Sampson thought at one time that he would have to
amputate the finger.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Oh, nearly a year ago, sir.”
Thorndyke wrote the date of the injury by the side of the
finger-print and then, having rolled up the inking plate afresh, laid
on the table several larger cards.
“I am now going to take the prints of the four fingers and the thumb
all at once,” he said.
“They only took the four fingers at once at the prison,” said
Belfield. “They took the thumb separately.”
“I know,” replied Thorndyke; “but I am going to take the impression
just as it would appear on the window glass.”
He took several impressions thus, and then, having looked at his
watch, he began to repack the apparatus in its box. While doing this,
he glanced, from time to time, in meditative fashion, at the
suspected man who sat, the living picture of misery and terror,
wiping the greasy ink from his trembling fingers with his
handkerchief.
“Belfield,” he said at length, “you have sworn to me that you are an
innocent man and are trying to live an honest life. I believe you;
but in a few minutes I shall know for certain.”
“Thank God for that, sir,” exclaimed Belfield, brightening up
wonderfully.
“And now,” said Thorndyke, “you had better go back into the office,
for I am expecting Superintendent Miller, and he may be here at any
moment.”
Belfield hastily slunk back into the office, locking the door after
him, and Thorndyke, having returned the box to the laboratory and
deposited the cards bearing the finger-prints in a drawer, came round
to inspect my work. I had managed to detach a tiny fragment of dried
clot from the bloodstained garment, and this, in a drop of normal
saline solution, I now had under the microscope.
“What do you make out, Jervis?” my colleague asked.
“Oval corpuscles with distinct nuclei,” I answered.
“Ah,” said Thorndyke, “that will be good hearing for some poor devil.
Have you measured them?”
“Yes. Long diameter 1/2100 of an inch; short diameter about 1/3400.”
Thorndyke reached down an indexed note-book from a shelf of reference
volumes and consulted a table of histological measurements.
“That would seem to be the blood of a pheasant, then, or it might,
more probably, be that of a common fowl.” He applied his eye to the
microscope and, fitting in the eye-piece micrometer, verified my
measurements. He was thus employed when a sharp tap was heard on the
outer door, and rising to open it he admitted the superintendent.
“I see you are at work on my little problem, doctor,” said the
latter, glancing at the microscope. “What do you make of that stain?”
“It is the blood of a bird--probably a pheasant, or perhaps a common
fowl.”
The superintendent slapped his thigh. “Well, I’m hanged!” he
exclaimed. “You’re a regular wizard, doctor, that’s what you are. The
fellow said he got that stain through handling a wounded pheasant and
here are you able to tell us yes or no without a hint from us to help
you. Well, you’ve done my little job for me, sir, and I’m much
obliged to you; now I’ll carry out my part of the bargain.” He opened
a handbag and drew forth a wooden frame and a blue foolscap envelope
and laid them with extreme care on the table.
“There you are, sir,” said he, pointing to the frame; “you will find
Mr. Belfield’s trademark very neatly executed, and in the envelope is
the finger-print sheet for comparison.”
Thorndyke took up the frame and examined it. It enclosed two sheets
of glass, one being the portion of the window-pane and the other a
cover-glass to protect the finger prints. Laying a sheet of white
paper on the table, where the light was strongest, Thorndyke held the
frame over it and gazed at the glass in silence, but with that faint
lighting up of his impassive face which I knew so well and which
meant so much to me. I walked round, and looking over his shoulder
saw upon the glass the beautifully distinct imprints of four fingers
and a thumb--the finger-tips, in fact, of an open hand.
After regarding the frame attentively for some time, Thorndyke
produced from his pocket a little wash-leather bag, from which he
extracted a powerful doublet lens, and with the aid of this he again
explored the finger-prints, dwelling especially upon the print of the
forefinger.
“I don’t think you will find much amiss with those finger-prints,
doctor,” said the superintendent, “they are as clear as if he made
them on purpose.”
“They are indeed,” replied Thorndyke, with an inscrutable smile,
“exactly as if he had made them on purpose. And how beautifully clean
the glass is--as if he had polished it before making the impression.”
The superintendent glanced at Thorndyke with quick suspicion; but the
smile had faded and given place to a wooden immobility from which
nothing could be gleaned.
When he had examined the glass exhaustively, Thorndyke drew the
finger-print form from its envelope and scanned it quickly, glancing
repeatedly from the paper to the glass and from the glass to the
paper. At length he laid them both on the table, and turning to the
detective looked him steadily in the face.
“I think, Miller,” said he, “that I can give you a hint.”
“Indeed, sir? And what might that be?”
“It is this: you are after the wrong man.”
The Superintendent snorted--not a loud snort, for that would have
been rude, and no officer could be more polite than Superintendent
Miller. But it conveyed a protest which he speedily followed up in
words.
“You don’t mean to say that the prints on that glass are not the
finger-prints of Frank Belfield?”
“I say that those prints were not made by Frank Belfield,” Thorndyke
replied firmly.
“Do you admit, sir, that the finger-prints on the official form were
made by him?”
“I have no doubt that they were.”
“Well, sir, Mr. Singleton, of the Finger-print Department, has
compared the prints on the glass with those on the form and he says
they are identical; and I have examined them and I say they are
identical.”
“Exactly,” said Thorndyke; “and I have examined them and I say they
are identical--and that therefore those on the glass cannot have been
made by Belfield.”
The Superintendent Snorted again--somewhat louder this time--and
gazed at Thorndyke with wrinkled brows.
“You are not pulling my leg, I suppose, sir?” he asked, a little
sourly.
“I should as soon think of tickling a porcupine,” Thorndyke answered,
with a suave smile.
“Well,” rejoined the bewildered detective, “if I didn’t know you,
sir, I should say you were talking confounded nonsense. Perhaps you
wouldn’t mind explaining what you mean.”
“Supposing,” said Thorndyke, “I make it clear to you that those
prints on the window-pane were not made by Belfield. Would you still
execute the warrant?”
“What do _you_ think?” exclaimed Miller. “Do you suppose we should go
into court to have you come and knock the bottom out of our case,
like you did in that Hornby affair--by the way, that was a
finger-print case too, now I come to think of it,” and the
superintendent suddenly became thoughtful.
“You have often complained,” pursued Thorndyke, “that I have withheld
information from you and sprung unexpected evidence on you at the
trial. Now I am going to take you into my confidence, and when I have
proved to you that this clue of yours is a false one, I shall expect
you to let this poor devil Belfield go his way in peace.”
The superintendent grunted--a form of utterance that committed him to
nothing.
“These prints,” continued Thorndyke, taking up the frame once more,
“present several features of interest, one of which, at least, ought
not to have escaped you and Mr. Singleton, as it seems to have done.
Just look at that thumb.”
The superintendent did so, and then pored over the official paper.
“Well,” he said, “I don’t see anything the matter with it. It’s
exactly like the print on the paper.”
“Of course it is,” rejoined Thorndyke, “and that is just the point.
It ought not to be. The print of the thumb on the paper was taken
separately from the fingers. And why? Because it was impossible to
take it at the same time. The thumb is in a different plane from the
fingers; when the hand is laid flat on any surface--as this
window-pane, for instance--the palmar surfaces of the fingers touch
it, whereas it is the _side_ of the thumb which comes in contact and
not the palmar surface. But in this”--he tapped the framed glass with
his finger--“the prints show the palmar surfaces of all the five
digits in contact at once, which is an impossibility. Just try to put
your own thumb in that position and you will see that it is so.”
The detective spread out his hand on the table and immediately
perceived the truth of my colleague’s statement.
“And what does that prove?” he asked.
“It proves that the thumb-print on the window-pane was not made at
the same time as the finger-prints--that it was added separately; and
that fact seems to prove that the prints were not made accidentally,
but--as you ingeniously suggested just now--were put there for a
purpose.”
“I don’t quite see the drift of all this,” said the superintendent,
rubbing the back of his head perplexedly; “and you said a while back
that the prints on the glass can’t be Belfield’s because they are
identical with the prints on the form. Now that seems to me sheer
nonsense, if you will excuse my saying so.”
“And yet,” replied Thorndyke, “it is the actual fact. Listen: these
prints”--here he took up the official sheet--“were taken at Holloway
six years ago. These”--pointing to the framed glass--“were made
within the present week. The one is, as regards the ridge-pattern, a
perfect duplicate of the other. Is that not so?”
“That is so, doctor,” agreed the superintendent.
“Very well. Now suppose I were to tell you that within the last
twelve months something had happened to Belfield that made an
appreciable change in the ridge-pattern on one of his fingers?”
“But is such a thing possible?”
“It is not only possible but it has happened. I will show you.”
He brought forth from the drawer the cards on which Belfield had made
his finger-prints, and laid them before the detective.
“Observe the prints of the forefinger,” he said, indicating them;
“there are a dozen, in all, and you will notice in each a white line
crossing the ridges and dividing them. That line is caused by a scar,
which has destroyed a portion of the ridges, and is now an integral
part of Belfield’s finger-print. And since no such blank line is to
be seen in this print on the glass--in which the ridges appear
perfect, as they were before the injury--it follows that that print
could not have been made by Belfield’s finger.”
“There is no doubt about the injury, I suppose?”
“None whatever. There is the scar to prove it, and I can produce the
surgeon who attended Belfield at the time.”
The officer rubbed his head harder than before, and regarded
Thorndyke with puckered brows.
“This is a teaser,” he growled, “it is indeed. What you say, sir,
seems perfectly sound, and yet--there are those finger-prints on the
window-glass. Now you can’t get finger prints without fingers, can
you?”
“Undoubtedly you can,” said Thorndyke.
“I should want to see that done before I could believe even you,
sir,” said Miller.
“You shall see it done now,” was the calm rejoinder. “You have
evidently forgotten the Hornby case--the case of the Red Thumb-mark,
as the newspapers called it.”
“I only heard part of it,” replied Miller, “and I didn’t really
follow the evidence in that.”
“Well, I will show you a relic of that case,” said Thorndyke. He
unlocked a cabinet and took from one of the shelves a small box
labelled “Hornby,” which, being opened, was seen to contain a folded
paper, a little red-covered oblong book and what looked like a large
boxwood pawn.
“This little book,” Thorndyke continued, “is a ‘thumbograph’--a sort
of finger-print album--I dare say you know the kind of thing.”
The superintendent nodded contemptuously at the little volume.
“Now while Dr. Jervis is finding us the print we want, I will run up
to the laboratory for an inked slab.”
He handed me the little book and, as he left the room, I began to
turn over the leaves--not without emotion, for it was this very
“thumbograph” that first introduced me to my wife, as is related
elsewhere--glancing at the various prints above the familiar names
and marvelling afresh at the endless variations of pattern that they
displayed. At length I came upon two thumb-prints of which one--the
left--was marked by a longitudinal white line--evidently the trace of
a scar; and underneath them was written the signature “Reuben Hornby.”
At this moment Thorndyke re-entered the room carrying the inked slab,
which he laid on the table, and seating him self between the
superintendent and me, addressed the former.
“Now, Miller, here are two thumb-prints made by a gentleman named
Reuben Hornby. Just glance at the left one; it is a highly
characteristic print.”
“Yes,” agreed Miller, “one could swear to that from memory, I should
think.”
“Then look at this.” Thorndyke took the paper from the box and,
unfolding it, handed it to the detective. It bore a pencilled
inscription, and on it were two blood-smears and a very distinct
thumb-print in blood. “What do you say to that thumb-print?”
“Why,” answered Miller, “it’s this one, of course; Reuben Hornby’s
left thumb.”
“Wrong, my friend,” said Thorndyke. “It was made by an ingenious
gentleman named Walter Hornby (whom you followed from the Old Bailey
and lost on Ludgate Hill); but not with his thumb.”
“How, then?” demanded the superintendent incredulously.
“In this way.” Thorndyke took the boxwood “pawn” from its receptacle
and pressed its flat base onto the inked slab; then lifted it and
pressed it onto the back of a visiting-card, and again raised it; and
now the card was marked by a very distinct thumb-print.
“My God!” exclaimed the detective, picking up the card and viewing it
with a stare of dismay, “this is the very devil, sir. This fairly
knocks the bottom out of finger-print identification. May I ask, sir,
how you made that stamp--for I suppose you did make it?”
“Yes, we made it here, and the process we used was practically that
used by photo-engravers in making line blocks; that is to say, we
photographed one of Mr. Hornby’s thumb-prints, printed it on a plate
of chrome-gelatine, developed the plate with hot water and
this”--here he touched the embossed surface of the stamp--“is what
remained. But we could have done it in various other ways; for
instance, with common transfer paper and lithographic stone; indeed,
I assure you, Miller, that there is nothing easier to forge than a
finger-print, and it can be done with such perfection that the forger
himself cannot tell his own forgery from a genuine original, even
when they are placed side by side.”
“Well, I’m hanged,” grunted the superintendent, “you’ve fairly
knocked me, this time, doctor.” He rose gloomily and prepared to
depart. “I suppose,” he added, “your interest in this case has
lapsed, now Belfield’s out of it?”
“Professionally, yes; but I am disposed to finish the case for my own
satisfaction. I am quite curious as to who our too-ingenious friend
may be.”
Miller’s face brightened. “We shall give you every facility, you
know--and that reminds me that Singleton gave me these two
photographs for you, one of the official paper and one of the prints
on the glass. Is there anything more that we can do for you?”
“I should like to have a look at the room in which the murder took
place.”
“You shall, doctor; tomorrow, if you like; I’ll meet you there in the
morning at ten, if that will do.”
It would do excellently, Thorndyke assured him, and with this the
superintendent took his departure in renewed spirits.
We had only just closed the door when there came a hurried and urgent
tapping upon it, whereupon I once more threw it open, and a
quietly-dressed woman in a thick veil, who was standing on the
threshold, stepped quickly past me into the room.
“Where is my husband?” she demanded, as I closed the door; and then,
catching sight of Thorndyke, she strode up to him with a threatening
air and a terrified but angry face.
“What have you done with my husband, sir?” she repeated. “Have you
betrayed him, after giving your word? I met a man who looked like a
police officer on the stairs.”
“Your husband, Mrs. Belfield, is here and quite safe,” replied
Thorndyke. “He has locked himself in that room,” indicating the
office.
Mrs. Belfield darted across and rapped smartly at the door. “Are you
there, Frank?” she called.
In immediate response the key turned, the door opened and Belfield
emerged looking very pale and worn.
“You _have_ kept me a long time in there, sir,” he said.
“It took me a long time to prove to Superintendent Miller that he was
after the wrong man. But I succeeded, and now, Belfield, you are
free. The charge against you is withdrawn.”
Belfield stood for a while as one stupefied, while his wife, after a
moment of silent amazement, flung her arms round his neck and burst
into tears. “But how did you know I was innocent, sir?” demanded the
bewildered Belfield.
“Ah! how did I? Every man to his trade, you know. Well, I
congratulate you, and now go home and have a square meal and get a
good night’s rest.”
He shook hands with his clients--vainly endeavouring to prevent Mrs.
Belfield from kissing his hand--and stood at the open door listening
until the sound of their retreating footsteps died away.
“A noble little woman, Jervis,” said he, as he closed the door. “In
another moment she would have scratched my face--and I mean to find
out the scoundrel who tried to wreck her happiness.”