I was one of those who helped to carry the unfortunate victim of John's
fury into the manager's office. He appeared to be a man of about medium
height and build, dressed in the severest clerical clothes. I remembered
having seen him arrive on the previous day. We laid him upon a sofa and
left him there while one of us telephoned for a doctor. Out in the
lounge, every one was grouped around the stairs, where Kinlosti was
talking to John. The veins of the latter's temples were still standing
out, but he was rapidly calming down. He spoke in a loud voice, so that
every one might hear.
"That man is a thief in disguise," he shouted. "You will find burglar's
tools in his pocket and a revolver. He came into the room where I was
guarding my master's property, pretended to have mistaken the room, and
tried to slip in behind me. I was too quick for him. He has followed us
from Russia, that man. My master will tell you."
The manager, who had been lingering in the background, came down the
stairs.
"The man's story may be true," he said. "Two of the maids saw him
hanging about. They heard the altercation, and there is a chloroformed
handkerchief in the sitting room."
"I have a valuable box there," Kinlosti explained, "which it is my
servant's duty to guard. It contains property which belongs to the
dead."
"All the same," one of the bystanders observed, "one does not treat even
a thief like that. The man's neck is probably broken."
Kinlosti seemed to have lost his nervousness in this minute of crisis.
"I beg," he said to the manager, "that you will await the doctor's
verdict before you send for the police. If the man is not seriously
injured, he got no more than his deserts. It was John's duty to guard
what he was guarding with his life."
"Here is the doctor," the manager announced.
Half a dozen of us followed the manager and the doctor back to the room
where we had carried the injured man. When we opened the door, however,
we were faced with a great surprise. There was a current of cold air,
the window was wide open, the sofa was empty! To all appearance, a
miracle had happened. We examined the ground below the window and found
traces of where a man had stepped out. To those of us who had seen the
fall, the thing grew more wonderful the more we thought of it.
"I think," the doctor pronounced, "that this is more a case for the
police."
Kinlosti shook his head.
"I do not think," he said drily, "that the police of Bath are likely to
be of much service in this matter."
"You have a suspicion, perhaps?" the manager asked.
Kinlosti smiled a little bitterly.
"I know the people who have been following me," he replied, "who would
follow me around the world until I am quit of my trust. They are
Jugo-Slav Jews, boneless and bloodless as the worm that you cut in two
only to find of dual life. No Bath policeman will ever lay hands upon
that seemingly reverend gentleman."
"At the same time," the manager said a little stiffly, "I shall give
information. It appears that he wrote for a room a week ago, from a
vicarage near London, and signed himself 'The Reverend Edward
Cummings.'"
"You will find that vicarage a myth," Kinlosti observed, "as much a myth
as the Reverend Edward Cummings himself."
The sensation died away. We all drifted back to our places. At the
manager's earnest request we recommenced our programme, but I am quite
sure that no one listened, for the buzz of conversation almost drowned
the sound of our instruments. The manager carried on an earnest
conversation with Kinlosti in his corner, greatly, apparently, to the
latter's distress. After our first essay we attempted no more music.
Leonard went off to speak to some friends in the lounge. I was talking
to Rose and showing her a paragraph in the evening paper, when Kinlosti
approached.
"It is very distressing," he said. "Because of this unfortunate
happening, the manager has asked me to leave the hotel. Every place in
Bath is full, and my cure is not complete."