_Dear Sir,_

_I am giving up my chambers at No._ 51, _as I have been suddenly

called abroad. I enclose the key, but am not troubling you with the

rent. The sale of my costly furniture will more than cover it, and the

surplus can be expended on painting the garden railings._

_Yours sincerely,

A. Carrington._

Thorndyke smilingly replaced the letter and the key in the envelope

and asked:

“What is the furniture like?”

“You’ll see,” chuckled the porter, “if you care to look at the rooms.

And I think they might suit. They’re a good set.”

“Quiet?”

“Yes, pretty quiet. There’s a metallurgist overhead--Highley--used to

be Burt & Highley, but Burt has gone to the City, and I don’t think

Highley does much business now.”

“Let me see,” said Thorndyke, “I think I used to meet Highley

sometimes--a tall, dark man, isn’t he?”

“No, that would be Burt. Highley is a little, fairish man, rather

bald, with a pretty rich complexion”--here Mr. Larkin tapped his nose

knowingly and raised his little finger--“which may account for the

falling off of business.”

“Hadn’t we better have a look at the rooms?” Miller interrupted a

little impatiently.

“Can we see them, Mr. Larkin?” asked Thorndyke.

“Certainly,” was the reply. “You’ve got the key. Let me have it when

you’ve seen the rooms; and whatever you do,” he added with a broad

grin, “be careful of the furniture.”

“It looks,” the Superintendent remarked as we crossed the inner court,

“as if Mr. Carrington had done a mizzle. That’s hopeful. And I see,”

he continued, glancing at the fresh paint on the door-post as we

passed through the entry, “that he hasn’t been here long. That’s

hopeful, too.”

We ascended to the first floor, and as Thorndyke unlocked and threw

open the door, Miller laughed aloud. The “costly furniture” consisted

of a small kitchen table, a Windsor chair and a dilapidated

deck-chair. The kitchen contained a gas ring, a small saucepan and a

frying-pan, and the bedroom was furnished with a camp-bed devoid of

bed-clothes, a washhand basin on a packing case, and a water can.

“Hallo!” exclaimed the Superintendent. “He’s left a hat behind. Quite

a good hat, too.” He took it down from the peg, glanced at its

exterior and then, turning it over, looked inside. And then his mouth

opened with a jerk.

“Great Solomon Eagle!” he gasped. “Do you see, Doctor? It’s _the_

hat.”

He held it out to us, and sure enough on the white silk lining of the

crown were the embossed, gilt letters, D.B., just as Mr. Byramji had

described them.

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, as the Superintendent snatched up a

greengrocer’s paper bag from the kitchen floor and persuaded the hat

into it, “it is undoubtedly the missing link. But what are you going

to do now?”

“Do!” exclaimed Miller. “Why, I am going to collar the man. These

Baltic boats put in at Hull and Newcastle--perhaps he didn’t know

that--and they are pretty slow boats, too. I shall wire to Newcastle

to have the ship detained and take Inspector Badger down to make the

arrest. I’ll leave you to explain to the porter, and I owe you a

thousand thanks for your valuable tip.”

With this he bustled away, clasping the precious hat, and from the

window we saw him hurry across the court and dart out through the

postern into Fetter Lane.

“I think Miller was rather precipitate,” said Thorndyke. “He should

have got a description of the man and some further particulars.”

“Yes,” said I. “Miller had much better have waited until you had

finished with Mr. Larkin. But you can get some more particulars when

we take back the key.”

“We shall get more information from the gentleman who lives on the

floor above, and I think we will go up and interview him now. I wrote

to him last night and made a metallurgical appointment, signing myself

W. Polton. Your name, if he should ask, is Stevenson.”

As we ascended the stairs to the next floor, I meditated on the rather

tortuous proceedings of my usually straightforward colleague. The use

of the lumps of quartz was now obvious; but why these mysterious

tactics? And why, before knocking at the door, did Thorndyke carefully

take the reading of the gas meter on the landing?

The door was opened in response to our knock by a shortish,

alert-looking, clean-shaved man in a white overall, who looked at us

keenly and rather forbiddingly. But Thorndyke was geniality

personified.

“How do you do, Mr. Highley?” said he, holding out his hand, which the

metallurgist shook coolly. “You got my letter, I suppose?”

“Yes. But I am not Mr. Highley. He’s away and I am carrying on. I

think of taking over his business, if there is any to take over. My

name is Sherwood. Have you got the samples?”

Thorndyke produced the canvas bag, which Mr. Sherwood took from him

and emptied out on a bench, picking up the lumps of quartz one by one

and examining them closely. Meanwhile Thorndyke took a rapid survey of

the premises. Against the wall were two cupel furnaces and a third

larger furnace like a small pottery kiln. On a set of narrow shelves

were several rows of bone-ash cupels, looking like little white

flower-pots, and near them was the cupel-press--an appliance into

which powdered bone-ash was fed and compressed by a plunger to form

the cupels--while by the side of the press was a tub of bone-ash--a

good deal coarser, I noticed, than the usual fine powder. This

coarseness was also observed by Thorndyke, who edged up to the tub and

dipped his hand into the ash and then wiped his fingers on his

handkerchief.

“This stuff doesn’t seem to contain much gold,” said Mr. Sherwood.

“But we shall see when we make the assay.”

“What do you think of this?” asked Thorndyke, taking from his pocket

the small lump of glittering, golden-looking mineral that he had

picked out at the assayist’s. Mr. Sherwood took it from him and

examined it closely. “This looks more hopeful,” said he; “rather rich,

in fact.”

Thorndyke received this statement with an unmoved countenance; but as

for me, I stared at Mr. Sherwood in amazement. For this lump of

glittering mineral was simply a fragment of common iron pyrites! It

would not have deceived a schoolboy, much less a metallurgist.

Still holding the specimen, and taking a watchmaker’s lens from a

shelf, Mr. Sherwood moved over to the window. Simultaneously,

Thorndyke stepped softly to the cupel shelves and quickly ran his eye

along the rows of cupels. Presently he paused at one, examined it more

closely, and then, taking it from the shelf, began to pick at it with

his finger-nail.

At this moment Mr. Sherwood turned and observed him; and instantly

there flashed into the metallurgist’s face an expression of mingled

anger and alarm.

“Put that down!” he commanded peremptorily, and then, as Thorndyke

continued to scrape with his finger-nail, he shouted furiously, “Do

you hear? Drop it!”

Thorndyke took him literally at his word and let the cupel fall on the

floor, when it shattered into innumerable fragments, of which one of

the largest separated itself from the rest. Thorndyke pounced upon it

and in an instantaneous glance as he picked it up, I recognized it as

a calcined tooth.

Then followed a few moments of weird, dramatic silence. Thorndyke,

holding the tooth between his finger and thumb, looked steadily into

the eyes of the metallurgist; and the latter, pallid as a corpse,

glared at Thorndyke and furtively unbuttoned his overall.

Suddenly the silence broke into a tumult as bewildering as the crash

of a railway collision. Sherwood’s right hand darted under his

overall. Instantly, Thorndyke snatched up another cupel and hurled it

with such truth of aim that it shattered on the metallurgist’s

forehead. And as he flung the missile, he sprang forward, and

delivered a swift upper-cut. There was a thunderous crash, a cloud of

white dust, and an automatic pistol clattered along the floor.

I snatched up the pistol and rushed to my friend’s assistance. But

there was no need. With his great strength and his uncanny skill--to

say nothing of the effects of the knock-out blow--Thorndyke had the

man pinned down immovably.

“See if you can find some cord, Jervis,” he said in a calm, quiet tone

that seemed almost ridiculously out of character with the

circumstances.

There was no difficulty about this, for several corded boxes stood in

a corner of the laboratory. I cut off two lengths, with one of which I

secured the prostrate man’s arms and with the other fastened his knees

and ankles.

“Now,” said Thorndyke, “if you will take charge of his hands, we will

make a preliminary inspection. Let us first see if he wears a belt.”

Unbuttoning the man’s waistcoat, he drew up the shirt, disclosing a

broad, webbing belt furnished with several leather pockets, the

buttoned flaps of which he felt carefully, regardless of the stream of

threats and imprecations that poured from our victim’s swollen lips.

From the front pockets he proceeded to the back, passing an

exploratory hand under the writhing body.

“Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, “just turn him over, and look out for his

heels.”

We rolled our captive over, and as Thorndyke “skinned the rabbit,” a

central pocket came into view, into which, when he had unbuttoned it,

he inserted his fingers. “Yes,” he continued, “I think this is what we

are looking for.” He withdrew his fingers, between which he held a

small packet of Japanese paper, and with feverish excitement I watched

him open out layer after layer of the soft wrapping. As he turned back

the last fold a wonderful crimson sparkle told me that the “great

ruby” was found.

“There, Jervis,” said Thorndyke, holding the magnificent gem towards

me in the palm of his hand, “look on this beautiful, sinister thing,

charged with untold potentialities of evil--and thank the gods that it

is not yours.”

He wrapped it up again carefully and, having bestowed it in an inner

pocket, said, “And now give me the pistol and run down to the

telegraph office and see if you can stop Miller. I should like him to

have the credit for this.”

I handed him the pistol and made my way out into Fetter Lane and so

down to Fleet Street, where at the post office my urgent message was

sent off to Scotland Yard immediately. In a few minutes the reply came

that Superintendent Miller had not yet left and that he was starting

immediately for Clifford’s Inn. A quarter of an hour later he drove up

in a hansom to the Fetter Lane gate and I conducted him up to the

second floor, where Thorndyke introduced him to his prisoner and

witnessed the official arrest.

“You don’t see how I arrived at it,” said Thorndyke as we walked

homeward after returning the key. “Well, I am not surprised. The

initial evidence was of the weakest; it acquired significance only by

cumulative effect. Let us reconstruct it as it developed.

“The derelict hat was, of course, the starting point. Now the first

thing one noticed was that it appeared to have had more than one

owner. No man would buy a new hat that fitted so badly as to need all

that packing; and the arrangement of the packing suggested a

long-headed man wearing a hat that had belonged to a man with a short

head. Then there were the suggestions offered by the slips of paper.

The fragmentary address referred to a place the name of which ended in

‘n’ and the remainder was evidently ‘London, W.C.’ Now what West

Central place names end in ‘n’? It was not a street, a square or a

court, and Barbican is not in the W.C. district. It was almost

certainly one of the half-dozen surviving Inns of Court or Chancery.

But, of course, it was not necessarily the address of the owner of the

hat.

“The other slip of paper bore the end of a word ending in ‘el,’ and

another word ending in ‘eep,’ and connected with these were quantities

stated in ounces and pennyweights troy weight. But the only persons

who use troy weight are those who deal in precious metals. I inferred

therefore that the ‘el’ was part of ‘lemel,’ and that the ‘eep’ was

part of ‘floor-sweep,’ an inference that was supported by the

respective quantities, three ounces five pennyweights of lemel and

nine and a half ounces of floor-sweep.”

“What is lemel?” I asked.

“It is the trade name for the gold or silver filings that collect in

the ‘skin’ of a jeweller’s bench. Floor-sweep is, of course, the dust

swept up on the floor of a jeweller’s or goldsmith’s workshop. The

lemel is actual metal, though not of uniform fineness, but the ‘sweep’

is a mixture of dirt and metal. Both are saved and sent to the

refiners to have the gold and silver extracted.

“This paper, then, was connected either with a goldsmith or a gold

refiner--who might call himself an assayist or a metallurgist. The

connection was supported by the leaf of a price list of gas stoves. A

metallurgist would be kept well supplied with lists of gas stoves and

furnaces. The traces of lead in the dust from the hat gave us another

straw blowing in the same direction, for gold assayed by the dry

process is fused in the cupel furnace with lead; and as the lead

oxidizes and the oxide is volatile, traces of lead would tend to

appear in the dust deposited in the laboratory.

“The next thing to do was to consult the directory; and when I did so,

I found that there were no goldsmiths in any of the Inns and only one

assayist--Mr. Highley, of Clifford’s Inn. The probabilities,

therefore, slender as they were, pointed to some connection between

this stray hat and Mr. Highley. And this was positively all the

information that we had when we came out this afternoon.

“As soon as we got to Clifford’s Inn, however, the evidence began to

grow like a rolling snowball. First there was Larkin’s contribution;

and then there was the discovery of the missing hat. Now, as soon as I

saw that hat my suspicions fell upon the man upstairs. I felt a

conviction that the hat had been left there purposely and that the

letter to Larkin was just a red herring to create a false trail.

Nevertheless, the presence of that hat completely confirmed the other

evidence. It showed that the apparent connection was a real

connection.”

“But,” I asked, “what made you suspect the man upstairs?”

“My dear Jervis!” he exclaimed. “Consider the facts. That hat was

enough to hang the man who left it there. Can you imagine this astute,

wary villain making such an idiot’s mistake--going away and leaving

the means of his conviction for any one to find? But you are

forgetting that whereas the missing hat was found on the first floor,

the murderer’s hat was connected with the second floor. The evidence

suggested that it was Highley’s hat. And now, before we go on to the

next stage, let me remind you of those finger-prints. Miller thought

that their rough appearance was due to the surface on which they had

been made. But it was not. They were the prints of a person who was

suffering from ichthyosis, palmar psoriasis or some dry dermatitis.

“There is one other point. The man we were looking for was a murderer.

His life was already forfeit. To such a man another murder more or

less is of no consequence. If this man, having laid the false trail,

had determined to take sanctuary in Highley’s rooms, it was probable

that he had already got rid of Highley. And remember that a

metallurgist has unrivalled means of disposing of a body; for not only

is each of his muffle furnaces a miniature crematorium, but the very

residue of a cremated body--bone-ash--is one of the materials of his

trade.

“When we went upstairs, I first took the reading of the gas meter and

ascertained that a large amount of gas had been used recently. Then,

when we entered I took the opportunity to shake hands with Mr.

Sherwood, and immediately I became aware that he suffered from a

rather extreme form of ichthyosis. That was the first point of

verification. Then we discovered that he actually could not

distinguish between iron pyrites and auriferous quartz. He was not a

metallurgist at all. He was a masquerader. Then the bone-ash in the

tub was mixed with fragments of calcined bone, and the cupels all

showed similar fragments. In one of them I could see part of the crown

of a tooth. That was pure luck. But observe that by that time I had

enough evidence to justify an arrest. The tooth served only to bring

the affair to a crisis; and his response to my unspoken accusation

saved us the trouble of further search for confirmatory evidence.”

“What is not quite clear to me,” said I, “is when and why he made away

with Highley. As the body has been completely reduced to bone-ash,

Highley must have been dead at least some days.”

“Undoubtedly,” Thorndyke agreed. “I take it that the course of events

was somewhat like this: The police have been searching eagerly for

this man, and every new crime must have made his position more

unsafe--for a criminal can never be sure that he has not dropped some

clue. It began to be necessary for him to make some arrangements for

leaving the country and meanwhile to have a retreat in case his

whereabouts should chance to be discovered. Highley’s chambers were

admirable for both purposes. Here was a solitary man who seldom had a

visitor, and who would probably not be missed for some considerable

time; and in those chambers were the means of rapidly and completely

disposing of the body. The mere murder would be a negligible detail to

this ruffian.

“I imagine that Highley was done to death at least a week ago, and

that the murderer did not take up his new tenancy until the body was

reduced to ash. With that large furnace in addition to the small ones,

this would not take long. When the new premises were ready, he could

make a sham disappearance to cover his actual flight later; and you

must see how perfectly misleading that sham disappearance was. If the

police had discovered that hat in the empty room only a week later,

they would have been certain that he had escaped to one of the Baltic

ports; and while they were following his supposed tracks, he could

have gone off comfortably via Folkestone or Southampton.”

“Then you think he had only just moved into Highley’s rooms?”

“I should say he moved in last night. The murder of Byramji was

probably planned on some information that the murderer had picked up,

and as soon as it was accomplished he began forthwith to lay down the

false tracks. When he reached his rooms yesterday afternoon, he must

have written the letter to Larkin and gone off at once to the East End

to post it. Then he probably had his bushy hair cut short and shaved

off his beard and moustache--which would render him quite

unrecognizable by Larkin--and moved into Highley’s chambers, from

which he would have quietly sallied forth in a few days’ time to take

his passage to the Continent. It was quite a good plan and but for the

accident of taking the wrong hat, would almost certainly have

succeeded.”

Once every year, on the second of August, there is delivered with

unfailing regularity at No. 5a, King’s Bench Walk, a large box of

carved sandal-wood filled with the choicest Trichinopoly cheroots and

accompanied by an affectionate letter from our late client, Mr.

Byramji. For the second of August is the anniversary of the death (in

the execution shed at Newgate) of Cornelius Barnett, otherwise known

as the “New Jersey Sphinx.”

IV.

THE TOUCHSTONE

It happened not uncommonly that the exigencies of practice committed

my friend Thorndyke to investigations that lay more properly within

the province of the police. For problems that had arisen as secondary

consequences of a criminal act could usually not be solved until the

circumstances of that act were fully elucidated, and, incidentally,

the identity of the actor established. Such a problem was that of the

disappearance of James Harewood’s will, a problem that was propounded

to us by our old friend, Mr. Marchmont, when he called on us, by

appointment, with the client of whom he had spoken in his note.

It was just four o’clock when the solicitor arrived at our chambers,

and as I admitted him he ushered in a gentlemanly-looking man of about

thirty-five, whom he introduced as Mr. William Crowhurst.

“I will just stay,” said he, with an approving glance at the

tea-service on the table, “and have a cup of tea with you, and give

you an outline of the case. Then I must run away and leave Mr.

Crowhurst to fill in the details.”

He seated himself in an easy chair within comfortable reach of the

table, and as Thorndyke poured out the tea, he glanced over a few

notes scribbled on a sheet of paper.

“I may say,” he began, stirring his tea thoughtfully, “that this is a

forlorn hope. I have brought the case to you, but I have not the

slightest expectation that you will be able to help us.”

“A very wholesome frame of mind,” Thorndyke commented with a smile. “I

hope it is that of your client also.”

“It is indeed,” said Mr. Crowhurst; “in fact, it seems to me a waste

of your time to go into the matter. Probably you will think so too,

when you have heard the particulars.”

“Well, let us hear the particulars,” said Thorndyke. “A forlorn hope

has, at least, the stimulating quality of difficulty. Let us have your

outline sketch, Marchmont.”

The solicitor, having emptied his cup and pushed it towards the tray

for replenishment, glanced at his notes and began:

“The simplest way in which to present the problem is to give a brief

recital of the events that have given rise to it, which are these: The

day before yesterday--that is last Monday--at a quarter to two in the

afternoon, Mr. James Harewood executed a will at his house at

Merbridge, which is about two miles from Welsbury. There were present

four persons: two of his servants, who signed as witnesses, and the

two principal beneficiaries--Mr. Arthur Baxfield, a nephew of the

testator, and our friend here, Mr. William Crowhurst. The will was a

holograph written on the two pages of a sheet of letter-paper. When

the witnesses signed, the will was covered by another sheet of paper

so that only the space for the signatures was exposed. Neither of the

witnesses read the will, nor did either of the beneficiaries; and so

far as I am aware, no one but the testator knew what were its actual

provisions, though, after the servants had left the room, Mr. Harewood

explained its general purport to the beneficiaries.”

“And what was its general purport?” Thorndyke asked.

“Broadly speaking,” replied Marchmont, “it divided the estate in two

very unequal portions between Mr. Baxfield and Mr. Crowhurst. There

were certain small legacies of which neither the amounts nor the names

of the legatees are known. Then, to Baxfield was given a thousand

pounds to enable him either to buy a partnership or to start a small

factory--he is a felt hat manufacturer by trade--and the remainder to

Crowhurst, who was made executor and residuary legatee. But, of

course, the residue of the estate is an unknown quantity, since we

don’t know either the number or the amounts of the legacies.

“Shortly after the signing of the will, the parties separated. Mr.

Harewood folded up the will and put it in a leather wallet which he

slipped into his pocket, stating his intention of taking the will

forthwith to deposit with his lawyer at Welsbury. A few minutes after

his guests had departed, he was seen by one of the servants to leave

the house, and afterwards was seen by a neighbour walking along a

footpath which, after passing through a small wood, joins the main

road about a mile and a quarter from Welsbury. From that time, he was

never again seen alive. He never visited the lawyer, nor did any one

see him at or near Welsbury or elsewhere.

“As he did not return home that night, his housekeeper (he was a

widower and childless) became extremely alarmed, and in the morning

she communicated with the police. A search party was organized, and,

following the path on which he was last seen, explored the wood--which

is known locally as Gilbert’s Copse--and here, at the bottom of an old

chalk-pit, they found him lying dead with a fractured skull and a

dislocated neck. How he came by these injuries is not at present

known; but as the body had been robbed of all valuables, including his

watch, purse, diamond ring and the wallet containing the will, there

is naturally a strong suspicion that he had been murdered. That,

however, is not our immediate concern--at least not mine. I am

concerned with the will, which, as you see, has disappeared, and as it

has presumably been carried away by a thief who is under suspicion of

murder, it is not likely to be returned.”

“It is almost certainly destroyed by this time,” said Mr. Crowhurst.

“That certainly seems probable,” Thorndyke agreed. “But what do you

want me to do? You haven’t come for counsel’s opinion?”

“No,” replied Marchmont. “I am pretty clear about the legal position.

I shall claim, as the will has presumably been destroyed, to have the

testator’s wishes carried out in so far as they are known. But I am

doubtful as to the view the Court may take. It may decide that the

testator’s wishes are not known; that the provisions of the will are

too uncertain to admit of administration.”

“And what would be the effect of that decision?” asked Thorndyke.

“In that case,” said Marchmont, “the entire estate would go to

Baxfield as he is the next of kin, and there was no previous will.”

“And what is it that you want me to do?”

Marchmont chuckled deprecatingly. “You have to pay the penalty of

being a prodigy, Thorndyke. We are asking you to do an

impossibility--but we don’t really expect you to bring it off. We ask

you to help us to recover the will.”

“If the will has been completely destroyed, it can’t be recovered,”

said Thorndyke. “But we don’t know that it has been destroyed. The

matter is, at least, worth investigating; and if you wish me to look

into it, I will.”

The solicitor rose with an air of evident relief. “Thank you,

Thorndyke,” said he. “I expect nothing--at least, I tell myself that I

do--but I can now feel that everything that is possible will be done.

And now I must be off. Crowhurst can give you any details that you

want.”

When Marchmont had gone, Thorndyke turned to our client and asked,

“What do you suppose Baxfield will do, if the will is irretrievably

lost? Will he press his claim as next of kin?”

“I should say yes,” replied Crowhurst. “He is a business man and his

natural claims are greater than mine. He is not likely to refuse what

the law assigns to him as his right. As a matter of fact, I think he

felt that his uncle had treated him unfairly in alienating the

property.”

“Was there any reason for this diversion of the estate?”

“Well,” replied Crowhurst, “Harewood and I had been very good friends

and he was under some obligations to me; and then Baxfield had not

made himself very acceptable to his uncle. But the principal factor, I

think, was a strong tendency of Baxfield’s to gamble. He had lost

quite a lot of money by backing horses, and a careful, thrifty man

like James Harewood doesn’t care to leave his savings to a gambler.

The thousand pounds that he did leave to Baxfield was expressly for

the purpose of investment in a business.”

“Is Baxfield in business now?”

“Not on his own account. He is a sort of foreman or shop-manager in a

factory just outside Welsbury, and I believe he is a good worker and

knows his trade thoroughly.”

“And now,” said Thorndyke, “with regard to Mr. Harewood’s death. The

injuries might, apparently, have been either accidental or homicidal.

What are the probabilities of accident--disregarding the robbery?”

“Very considerable, I should say. It is a most dangerous place. The

footpath runs close beside the edge of a disused chalk-pit with

perpendicular or overhanging sides, and the edge is masked by bushes

and brambles. A careless walker might easily fall over--or be pushed

over, for that matter.”

“Do you know when the inquest is to take place?”

“Yes. The day after to-morrow. I had the subpœna this morning for

Friday afternoon at 2.30, at the Welsbury Town Hall.”

At this moment footsteps were heard hurriedly ascending the stairs and

then came a loud and peremptory rat-tat at our door. I sprang across

to see who our visitor was, and as I flung open the door, Mr.

Marchmont rushed in, breathing heavily and flourishing a newspaper.

“Here is a new development,” he exclaimed. “It doesn’t seem to help us

much, but I thought you had better know about it at once.” He sat

down, and putting on his spectacles, read aloud as follows: “A new and

curious light has been thrown on the mystery of the death of Mr. James

Harewood, whose body was found yesterday in a disused chalk-pit near

Merbridge. It appears that on Monday--the day on which Mr. Harewood

almost certainly was killed--a passenger alighting from a train at

Barwood Junction before it had stopped, slipped and fell between the

train and the platform. He was quickly extricated, and as he had

evidently sustained internal injuries, he was taken to the local

hospital, where he was found to be suffering from a fractured pelvis.

He gave his name as Thomas Fletcher, but refused to give any address,

saying that he had no relatives. This morning he died, and on his

clothes being searched for an address, a parcel, formed of two

handkerchiefs tied up with string, was found in his pocket. When it

was opened it was found to contain five watches, three watch-chains, a

tie-pin and a number of bank-notes. Other pockets contained a quantity

of loose money--gold and silver mixed--and a card of the Welsbury

Races, which were held on Monday. Of the five watches, one has been

identified as the one taken from Mr. Harewood; and the bank-notes have

been identified as a batch handed to him by the cashier of his bank at

Welsbury last Thursday and presumably carried in the leather wallet

which was stolen from his pocket. This wallet, by the way, has also

been found. It was picked up--empty--last night on the railway

embankment just outside Welsbury Station. Appearances thus suggest

that the man, Fletcher, when on his way to the races, encountered Mr.

Harewood in the lonely copse, and murdered and robbed him; or perhaps

found him dead in the chalk-pit and robbed the body--a question that

is now never likely to be solved.”

As Marchmont finished reading, he looked up at Thorndyke. “It doesn’t

help us much, does it?” said he. “As the wallet was found empty, it is

pretty certain that the will has been destroyed.”

“Or perhaps merely thrown away,” said Thorndyke. “In which case an

advertisement offering a substantial reward may bring it to light.”

The solicitor shrugged his shoulders sceptically, but agreed to

publish the advertisement. Then, once more he turned to go; and as Mr.

Crowhurst had no further information to give, he departed with his

lawyer.

For some time after they had gone, Thorndyke sat with his brief notes

before him, silent and deeply reflective. I, too, maintained a

discreet silence, for I knew from long experience that the motionless

pose and quiet, impassive face were the outward signs of a mind in

swift and strenuous action. Instinctively, I gathered that this

apparently chaotic case was being quietly sorted out and arranged in a

logical order; that Thorndyke, like a skilful chess-player, was

“trying over the moves” before he should lay his hand upon the pieces.

Presently he looked up. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think, Jervis?

Is it worth while?”

“That,” I replied, “depends on whether the will is or is not in

existence. If it has been destroyed, an investigation would be a waste

of our time and our client’s money.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But there is quite a good chance that it has not

been destroyed. It was probably dropped loose into the wallet, and

then might have been picked out and thrown away before the wallet was

examined. But we mustn’t concentrate too much on the will. If we take

up the case--which I am inclined to do--we must ascertain the actual

sequence of events. We have one clear day before the inquest. If we

run down to Merbridge to-morrow and go thoroughly over the ground, and

then go on to Barwood and find out all that we can about the man

Fletcher, we may get some new light from the evidence at the inquest.”

I agreed readily to Thorndyke’s proposal, not that I could see any way

into the case, but I felt a conviction that my colleague had isolated

some leading fact and had a definite line of research in his mind. And

this conviction deepened when, later in the evening, he laid his

research case on the table and rearranged its contents with evident

purpose. I watched curiously the apparatus that he was packing in it

and tried--not very successfully--to infer the nature of the proposed

investigation. The box of powdered paraffin wax and the spirit

blowpipe were obvious enough; but the “dust-aspirator”--a sort of

miniature vacuum cleaner--the portable microscope, the coil of Manila

line, with an eye spliced into one end, and especially the abundance

of blank-labelled microscope slides, all of which I saw him pack in

the case with deliberate care, defeated me utterly.

About ten o’clock on the following morning we stepped from the train

in Welsbury Station, and having recovered our bicycles from the

luggage van, wheeled them through the barrier and mounted. During the

train journey we had both studied the one-inch Ordnance map to such

purpose that we were virtually in familiar surroundings and immune

from the necessity of seeking directions from the natives. As we

cleared the town we glanced up the broad by-road to the left which led

to the race-course; then we rode on briskly for a mile, which brought

us to the spot where the footpath to Merbridge joined the road. Here

we dismounted and, lifting our bicycles over the stile, followed the

path towards a small wood which we could see ahead, crowning a low

hill.

“For such a good path,” Thorndyke remarked as we approached the wood,

“it is singularly unfrequented. I haven’t seen a soul since we left

the road.” He glanced at the map as the path entered the wood, and

when we had walked on a couple of hundred yards, he halted and stood

his bicycle against a tree. “The chalk-pit should be about here,” said

he, “though it is impossible to see.” He grasped a stem of one of the

small bushes that crowded on to the path and pulled it aside. Then he

uttered an exclamation.

“Just look at that, Jervis. It is a positive scandal that a public

path should be left in this condition.”

Certainly Mr. Crowhurst had not exaggerated. It was a most dangerous

place. The parted branches revealed a chasm some thirty feet deep, the

brink of which, masked by the bushes, was but a matter of inches from

the edge of the path.

“We had better go back,” said Thorndyke, “and find the entrance to the

pit, which seems to be to the right. The first thing is to ascertain

exactly where Harewood fell. Then we can come back and examine the

place from above.”

We turned back, and presently found a faint track, which we followed

until, descending steeply, it brought us out into the middle of the

pit. It was evidently an ancient pit, for the sides were blackened by

age, and the floor was occupied by a number of trees, some of

considerable size. Against one of these we leaned our bicycles and

then walked slowly round at the foot of the frowning cliff.

“This seems to be below the path,” said Thorndyke, glancing up at the

grey wall which jutted out above in stages like an inverted flight of

steps. “Somewhere hereabouts we should find some traces of the

tragedy.”

Even as he spoke my eye caught a spot of white on a block of chalk,

and on the freshly fractured surface a significant brownish-red stain.

The block lay opposite the mouth of an artificial cave--an old

wagon-shelter, but now empty--and immediately under a markedly

overhanging part of the cliff.

“This is undoubtedly the place where he fell,” said Thorndyke. “You

can see where the stretcher was placed--an old-pattern stretcher with

wheel-runners--and there is a little spot of broken soil at the top

where he came over. Well, apart from the robbery, a clear fall of over

thirty feet is enough to account for a fractured skull. Will you stay

here, Jervis, while I run up and look at the path?”

He went off towards the entrance, and presently I heard him above,

pulling aside the bushes, and after one or two trials, he appeared

directly overhead.

“There are plenty of footprints on the path,” said he, “but nothing

abnormal. No trampling or signs of a struggle. I am going on a little

farther.”

He withdrew behind the bushes, and I proceeded to inspect the interior

of the cave, noting the smoke-blackened roof and the remains of a

recent fire, which, with a number of rabbit bones and a discarded

tea-boiler of the kind used by the professional tramp, seemed not

without a possible bearing on our investigation. I was thus engaged

when I heard Thorndyke hail me from above, and coming out of the cave,

I saw his head thrust between the branches. He seemed to be lying

down, for his face was nearly on a level with the top of the cliff.

“I want to take an impression,” he called out. “Will you bring up the

paraffin and the blower? And you might bring the coil of line, too.”

I hurried away to the place where our bicycles were standing, and

opening the research case, took out the coil of line, the tin of

paraffin wax and the spirit blowpipe, and having ascertained that the

container of the latter was full, I ran up the incline and made my way

along the path. Some distance along, I found my colleague nearly

hidden in the bushes, lying prone, with his head over the edge of the

cliff.

“You see, Jervis,” he said as I crawled alongside and looked over,

“this is a possible way down, and some one has used it quite recently.

He climbed down with his face to the cliff--you can see the clear

impression of the toe of a boot in the loam on that projection, and

you can even make out the shape of an iron toe-tip. Now the problem is

how to get down to take the impression without dislodging the earth

above it. I think I will secure myself with the line.”

“It is hardly worth the risk of a broken neck,” said I. “Probably the

print is that of some schoolboy.”

“It is a man’s foot,” he replied. “Most likely it has no connection

with our case. But it may have, and as a shower of rain would

obliterate it we ought to secure it.” As he spoke, he passed the end

of the cord through the eye and slipped the loop over his shoulders,

drawing it tight under his arms. Then, having made the line fast to

the butt of a small tree, he cautiously lowered himself over the edge

and climbed down to the projection. As soon as he had a secure

footing, I passed the spare cord through the ring on the lid of the

wax tin and lowered it to him, and when he had unfastened it, I drew

up the cord and in the same way let down the blowpipe. Then I watched

his neat, methodical procedure. First he took out a spoonful of the

powdered, or grated, wax and very delicately sprinkled it on the

toe-print until the latter was evenly but very thinly covered. Next he

lit the blow-lamp, and as soon as the blue flame began to roar from

the pipe, he directed it on to the toe-print. Almost instantly the

powder melted, glazing the impression like a coat of varnish. Then the

flame was removed and the film of wax at once solidified and became

dull and opaque. A second, heavier sprinkling with the powder,

followed by another application of the flame, thickened the film of

wax, and this process, repeated four or five times, eventually

produced a solid cake. Then Thorndyke extinguished the blow-lamp, and

securing it and the tin to the cord, directed me to pull them up. “And

you might send me down the field-glasses,” he added. “There is

something farther down that I can’t quite make out.”

I slipped the glasses from my shoulder, and opening the case, tied the

cord to the leather sling and lowered it down the cliff; and then I

watched with some curiosity as Thorndyke stood on his insecure perch

steadily gazing through the glasses (they were Zeiss 8-prismatics) at

a clump of wallflowers that grew from a boss of chalk about half-way

down. Presently he lowered the glasses and, slinging them round his

neck by their lanyard, turned his attention to the cake of wax. It was

by this time quite solid, and when he had tested it, he lifted it

carefully and placed it in the empty binocular case, when I drew it

up.

“I want you, Jervis,” Thorndyke called up, “to steady the line. I am

going down to that wallflower clump.”

It looked extremely unsafe, but I knew it was useless to protest, so I

hitched the line around a massive stump and took a firm grip of the

“fall.”

“Ready,” I sang out; and forthwith Thorndyke began to creep across the

face of the cliff with feet and hands clinging to almost invisible

projections. Fortunately, there was at this part no overhang, and

though my heart was in my mouth as I watched, I saw him cross the

perilous space in safety. Arrived at the clump, he drew an envelope

from his pocket, stooped and picked up some small object, which he

placed in the envelope, returning the latter to his pocket. Then he

gave me another bad five minutes while he recrossed the nearly

vertical surface to his starting-point; but at length this, too, was

safely accomplished, and when he finally climbed up over the edge and

stood beside me on solid earth, I drew a deep breath and turned to

revile him.

“Well,” I demanded sarcastically, “what have you gathered at the risk

of your neck? Is it samphire or edelweiss?”

He drew the envelope from his pocket, and dipping into it, produced a

cigarette-holder--a cheap bone affair, black and clammy with long

service and still holding the butt of a hand-made cigarette--and

handed it to me. I turned it over, smelled it and hastily handed it

back. “For my part,” said I, “I wouldn’t have risked the cervical

vertebrae of a yellow cat for it. What do you expect to learn from

it?”

“Of course, I expect nothing. We are just collecting facts on the

chance that they may turn out to be relevant. Here, for instance, we

find that a man has descended, within a few yards of where Harewood

fell, by this very inconvenient route, instead of going round to the

entrance to the pit. He must have had some reason for adopting this

undesirable mode of descent. Possibly, he was in a hurry, and probably

he belonged to the district, since a stranger would not know of the

existence of this short cut. Then it seems likely that this was his

cigarette tube. If you look over, you will see by those vertical

scrapes on the chalk that he slipped and must have nearly fallen. At

that moment he probably dropped the tube, for you notice that the

wallflower clump is directly under the marks of his toes.”

“Why do you suppose he did not recover the tube?”

“Because the descent slopes away from the position of the clump, and

he had no trusty Jervis with a stout cord to help him to cross the

space. And if he went down this way because he was hurried, he would

not have time to search for the tube. But if the tube was not his,

still it belonged to somebody who has been here recently.”

“Is there anything that leads you to connect this man with the crime?”

“Nothing but time and place,” he replied. “The man has been down into

the pit close to where Harewood was robbed and possibly murdered, and

as the traces are quite recent, he must have been there near about the

time of the robbery. That is all. I am considering the traces of this

man in particular because there are no traces of any other. But we may

as well have a look at the path, which, as you see, yields good

impressions.”

We walked slowly along the path towards Merbridge, keeping at the

edges and scrutinizing the surface closely. In the shady hollows, the

soft loam bore prints of many feet, and among them we could

distinguish one with an iron toe-tip, but it was nearly obliterated by

another studded with hob-nails.

“We shan’t get much information here,” said Thorndyke as he turned

about. “The search party have trodden out the important prints. Let us

see if we can find out where the man with the toe-tips went to.”

We searched the path on the Welsbury side of the chalk-pit, but found

no trace of him. Then we went into the pit, and having located the

place where he descended, sought for some other exit than the track

leading to the path. Presently, half-way up the slope, we found a

second track, bearing away in the direction of Merbridge. Following

this for some distance, we came to a small hollow at the bottom of

which was a muddy space. And here we both halted abruptly, for in the

damp ground were the clear imprints of a pair of boots which we could

see had, in addition to the toe-tips, half-tips to the heels.

“We had better have wax casts of these,” said Thorndyke, “to compare

with the boots of the man Fletcher. I will do them while you go back

for the bicycles.”

By the time that I returned with the machines two of the footprints

were covered with a cake each of wax, and Thorndyke had left the track

and was peering among the bushes. I inquired what he was looking for.

“It is a forlorn hope, as Marchmont would say,” he replied, “but I am

looking to see if the will has been thrown away here. It was quite

probably jettisoned at once, and this is the most probable route for

the robber to have taken, if he knew of it. You see by the map that it

must lead nearly directly to the race-course, and it avoids both the

path and the main road. While the wax is setting we might as well look

round.”

It seemed a hopeless enough proceeding and I agreed to it without

enthusiasm. Leaving the track on the opposite side to that which

Thorndyke was searching, I wandered among the bushes and the little

open spaces, peering about me and reminding myself of that “aged, aged

man” who

“Sometimes searched the grassy knolls,

For wheels of hansom cabs.”

I had worked my way nearly back to where I could see Thorndyke, also

returning, when my glance fell on a small, brown object caught among

the branches of a bush. It was a man’s pigskin purse; and as I picked

it out of the bush I saw that it was open and empty.

With my prize in my hand, I hastened to the spot where Thorndyke was

lifting the wax casts. He looked up and asked, “No luck, I suppose?”

I held out the purse, on which he pounced eagerly. “But this is most

important, Jervis,” he exclaimed. “It is almost certainly Harewood’s

purse. You see the initials, ‘J.H.,’ stamped on the flap. Then we were

right as to the direction that the robber took. And it would pay to

search this place exhaustively for the will, though we can’t do that

now, as we have to go on to Barwood. I wrote to say we were coming. We

had better get back to the path now and make for the road. Barwood is

only half an hour’s run.”

We packed the casts in the research case (which was strapped to

Thorndyke’s bicycle), and turning back, made our way to the path. As

it was still deserted, we ventured to mount, and soon reached the

road, along which we started at a good pace towards Barwood.

Half an hour’s ride brought us into the main street of the little

town, and when we dismounted at the police station we found the Chief

Constable himself waiting to receive us, courteously eager to assist

us, but possessed by a devouring curiosity which was somewhat

inconvenient.

“I have done as you asked me in your letter, sir,” he said.

“Fletcher’s body is, of course, in the mortuary, but I have had all

his clothes and effects brought here; and I have had them put in my

private office, so that you can look them over in comfort.”

“It is exceedingly good of you,” said Thorndyke, “and most helpful.”

He unstrapped the research case, and following the officer into his

sanctum, looked round with deep approval. A large table had been

cleared for the examination, and the dead pickpocket’s clothes and

effects neatly arranged at one end.

Thorndyke’s first proceeding was to pick up the dead man’s boots--a

smart but flimsy pair of light brown leather, rather down at heel and

in need of re-soling. Neither toes nor heels bore any tips or even

nails excepting the small fastening brads. Having exhibited them to me

without remark, Thorndyke placed them on a sheet of white paper and

made a careful tracing of the soles, a proceeding that seemed to

surprise the Chief Constable, for he remarked, “I should hardly have

thought that the question of footprints would arise in this case. You

can’t charge a dead man.”

Thorndyke agreed that this seemed to be true; and then he proceeded to

an operation that fairly made the officer’s eyes bulge. Opening the

research case--into which the officer cast an inquisitive glance--he

took out the dust-aspirator, the nozzle of which he inserted into one

after another of the dead thief’s pockets while I worked the pump.

When he had gone through them all, he opened the receiver and

extracted quite a considerable ball of dusty fluff. Placing this on a

glass slide, he tore it in halves with a pair of mounted needles and

passed one half to me, when we both fell to work “teasing” it out into

an open mesh, portions of which we separated and laid--each in a tiny

pool of glycerine--on blank-labelled glass slides, applying to each

slide its cover-glass and writing on the label, “Dust from Fletcher’s

pockets.”

When the series was complete, Thorndyke brought out the microscope,

and fitting on a one-inch objective, quickly examined the slides, one

after another, and then pushed the microscope to me. So far as I could

see, the dust was just ordinary dust--principally made up of broken

cotton fibres with a few fibres of wool, linen, wood, jute, and others

that I could not name and some undistinguishable mineral particles.

But I made no comment, and resigning the microscope to the Chief

Constable--who glared through it, breathing hard, and remarked that

the dust was “rummy-looking stuff”--watched Thorndyke’s further

proceedings. And very odd proceedings they were.

First he laid the five stolen watches in a row, and with a Coddington

lens minutely examined the dial of each. Then he opened the back of

each in turn and copied into his notebook the watch-repairers’

scratched inscriptions. Next he produced from the case a number of

little vulcanite rods, and laying out five labelled slides, dropped a

tiny drop of glycerine on each, covering it at once with a watch-glass

to protect it from falling dust. Then he stuck a little label on each

watch, wrote a number on it and similarly numbered the five slides.

His next proceeding was to take out the glass of watch No. 1 and pick

up one of the vulcanite rods, which he rubbed briskly on a silk

handkerchief and passed slowly across and around the dial of the

watch, after which he held the rod close to the glycerine on slide No.

1 and tapped it sharply with the blade of his pocket-knife. Then he

dropped a cover-glass on to the glycerine and made a rapid inspection

of the specimen through the microscope.

This operation he repeated on the other four watches, using a fresh

rod for each, and when he had finished he turned to the open-mouthed

officer. “I take it,” said he, “that the watch which has the chain

attached to it is Mr. Harewood’s watch?”

“Yes, sir. That helped us to identify it.”

Thorndyke looked at the watch reflectively. Attached to the bow by a

short length of green tape was a small, rather elaborate key. This my

friend picked up, and taking a fresh mounted needle, inserted it into

the barrel of the key, from which he then withdrew it with a tiny ball

of fluff on its point. I hastily prepared a slide and handed it to

him, when, with a pair of dissecting scissors, he cut off a piece of

the fluff and let it fall into the glycerine. He repeated this

manœuvre with two more slides and then labelled the three, “Key,

outside,” “middle” and “inside,” and in that order examined them under

the microscope.

My own examination of the specimens yielded very little. They all

seemed to be common dust, though that from the face of watch No. 3

contained a few broken fragments of what looked like animal

hairs--possibly cat’s--as also did the key-fluff marked “outside.” But

if this had any significance, I could not guess what it was. As to the

Chief Constable, he clearly looked on the whole proceeding as a sort

of legerdemain with no obvious purpose, for he remarked, as we were

packing up to go, “I am glad I’ve seen how you do it, sir. But all the

same, I think you are flogging a dead horse. We know who committed the

crime and we know he’s beyond the reach of the law.”

“Well,” said Thorndyke, “one must earn one’s fee, you know. I shall

put Fletcher’s boots and the five watches in evidence at the inquest

to-morrow, and I will ask you to leave the labels on the watches.”

With renewed thanks and a hearty handshake he bade the courteous

officer adieu, and we rode off to catch the train to London.

That evening, after dinner, we brought out the specimens and went over

them at our leisure; and Thorndyke added a further specimen by drawing

a knotted piece of twine through the cigarette-holder that he had

salved from the chalk-pit, and teasing out the unsavoury, black

substance that came out on the string in glycerine on a slide. When he

had examined it, he passed it to me. The dark, tarry liquid somewhat

obscured the detail, but I could make out fragments of the same animal

hairs that I had noted in the other specimens, only here they were

much more numerous. I mentioned my observation to Thorndyke. “They are

certainly parts of mammalian hairs,” I said, “and they look like the

hairs of a cat. Are they from a cat?”

“Rabbit,” Thorndyke replied curtly; and even then, I am ashamed to

admit, I did not perceive the drift of the investigation.

The room in the Welsbury Town Hall had filled up some minutes before

the time fixed for the opening of the inquest, and in the interval,

when the jury had retired to view the body in the adjacent mortuary, I

looked round the assembly. Mr. Marchmont and Mr. Crowhurst were

present, and a youngish, horsey-looking man in cord breeches and

leggings, whom I correctly guessed to be Arthur Baxfield. Our friend

the Chief Constable of Barwood was also there, and with him Thorndyke

exchanged a few words in a retired corner. The rest of the company

were strangers.

As soon as the coroner and the jury had taken their places the medical

witness was called. The cause of death, he stated, was dislocation of

the neck, accompanied by a depressed fracture of the skull. The

fracture might have been produced by a blow with a heavy, blunt

weapon, or by the deceased falling on his head. The witness adopted

the latter view, as the dislocation showed that deceased had fallen in

that manner.

The next witness was Mr. Crowhurst, who repeated to the Court what he

had told us, and further stated that on leaving deceased’s house he

went straight home, as he had an appointment with a friend. He was

followed by Baxfield, who gave evidence to the same effect, and stated

that on leaving the house of deceased he went to his place of business

at Welsbury. He was about to retire when Thorndyke rose to

cross-examine.

“At what time did you reach your place of business?” he asked.

The witness hesitated for a few moments and then replied, “Half-past

four.”

“And what time did you leave deceased’s house?”

“Two o’clock,” was the reply.

“What is the distance?”

“In a direct line, about two miles. But I didn’t go direct. I took a

round in the country by Lenfield.”

“That would take you near the race-course on the way back. Did you go

to the races?”

“No. The races were just over when I returned.”

There was a slight pause and then Thorndyke asked, “Do you smoke much,

Mr. Baxfield?”

The witness looked surprised, and so did the jury, but the former

replied, “A fair amount. About fifteen cigarettes a day.”

“What brand of cigarettes do you smoke, and what kind of tobacco is

it?”

“I make my own cigarettes. I make them of shag.”

Here protesting murmurs arose from the jury, and the coroner remarked

stiffly, “These questions do not appear to have much connection with

the subject of this inquiry.”

“You may take it, sir,” replied Thorndyke, “that they have a very

direct bearing on it.” Then, turning to the witness he asked, “Do you

use a cigarette-tube?”

“Sometimes I do,” was the reply.

“Have you lost a cigarette-tube lately?”

The witness directed a startled glance at Thorndyke and replied after

some hesitation, “I believe I mislaid one a little time ago.”

“When and where did you lose that tube?” Thorndyke asked.

“I--I really couldn’t say,” replied Baxfield, turning perceptibly

pale.

Thorndyke opened his dispatch box, and taking out the tube that he had

salved at so much risk, handed it to the witness. “Is that the tube

that you lost?” he asked.

At this question Baxfield turned pale as death, and the hand in which

he received the tube shook as if with a palsy. “It may be,” he

faltered. “I wouldn’t swear to it. It is like the one I lost.”

Thorndyke took it from him and passed it to the coroner. “I am putting

this tube in evidence, sir,” said he. Then, addressing the witness, he

said, “You stated that you did not go to the races. Did you go on the

course or inside the grounds at all?”

Baxfield moistened his lips and replied, “I just went in for a minute

or two, but I didn’t stay. The races were over, and there was a very

rough crowd.”

“While you were in that crowd, Mr. Baxfield, did you have your pocket

picked?”

There was an expectant silence in the Court as Baxfield replied in a

low voice:

“Yes. I lost my watch.”

Again Thorndyke opened the dispatch box, and taking out a watch (it

was the one that had been labelled 3), handed it to the witness. “Is

that the watch that you lost?” he asked.

Baxfield held the watch in his trembling hand and replied

hesitatingly, “I believe it is, but I won’t swear to it.”

There was a pause. Then, in grave, impressive tones, Thorndyke said,

“Now, Mr. Baxfield, I am going to ask you a question which you need

not answer if you consider that by doing so you would prejudice your

position in any way. That question is, When your pocket was picked,

were any articles besides this watch taken from your person? Don’t

hurry. Consider your answer carefully.”

For some moments Baxfield remained silent, regarding Thorndyke with a

wild, affrighted stare. At length he began falteringly, “I don’t

remember missing anything----” and then stopped.

“Could the witness be allowed to sit down, sir?” Thorndyke asked. And

when the permission had been given and a chair placed, Baxfield sat

down heavily and cast a bewildered glance round the Court. “I think,”

he said, addressing Thorndyke, “I had better tell you exactly what

happened and take my chance of the consequences. When I left my

uncle’s house on Monday, I took a circuit through the fields and then

entered Gilbert’s Copse to wait for my uncle and tell him what I

thought of his conduct in leaving the bulk of his property to a

stranger. I struck the path that I knew my uncle would take and walked

along it slowly to meet him. I did meet him--on the path, just above

where he was found--and I began to say what was in my mind. But he

wouldn’t listen. He flew into a rage, and as I was standing in the

middle of the path, he tried to push past me. In doing so he caught

his foot in a bramble and staggered back, then he disappeared through

the bushes and a few seconds after I heard a thud down below. I pulled

the bushes aside and looked down into the chalk-pit, and there I saw

him lying with his head all on one side. Now, I happened to know of a

short cut down into the pit. It was rather a dangerous climb, but I

took it to get down as quickly as possible. It was there that I

dropped the cigarette-tube. When I got to my uncle I could see that he

was dead. His skull was battered and his neck was broken. Then the

devil put into my head the idea of making away with the will. But I

knew that if I took the will only, suspicion would fall on me. So I

took most of his valuables--the wallet, his watch and chain, his purse

and his ring. The purse I emptied and threw away, and flung the ring

after it. I took the will out of the wallet--it had just been dropped

in loose--and put it in an inner pocket. Then I dropped the wallet and

the watch and chain into my outside coat pocket.

“I struck across country, intending to make for the race-course and

drop the things among the crowd, so that they might be picked up and

safely carried away. But when I got there a gang of pickpockets saved

me the trouble; they mobbed and hustled me and cleared my pockets of

everything but my keys and the will.”

“And what has become of the will?” asked Thorndyke.

“I have it here.” He dipped into his breast pocket and produced a

folded paper, which he handed to Thorndyke, who opened it, and having

glanced at it, passed it to the coroner.

That was practically the end of the inquest. The jury decided to

accept Baxfield’s statement and recorded a verdict of “Death by

Misadventure,” leaving Baxfield to be dealt with by the proper

authorities.

“An interesting and eminently satisfactory case,” remarked Thorndyke,

as we sat over a rather late dinner. “Essentially simple, too. The

elucidation turned, as you probably noticed, on a single illuminating

fact.”

“I judged that it was so,” said I, “though the illumination of that

fact has not yet reached me.”

“Well,” said Thorndyke, “let us first take the general aspect of the

case as it was presented by Marchmont. The first thing, of course,

that struck one was that the loss of the will might easily have

converted Baxfield from a minor beneficiary to the sole heir. But even

if the Court agreed to recognize the will, it would have to be guided

by the statements of the only two men to whom its provisions were even

approximately known, and Baxfield could have made any statement he

pleased. It was impossible to ignore the fact that the loss of the

will was very greatly to Baxfield’s advantage.

“When the stolen property was discovered in Fletcher’s possession it

looked, at the first glance, as if the mystery of the crime was

solved. But there were several serious inconsistencies. First, how

came Fletcher to be in this solitary wood, remote from any railway or

even road? He appeared to be a London pickpocket. When he was killed

he was travelling to London by train. It seemed probable that he had

come from London by train to ply his trade at the races. Then, as you

know, criminological experience shows that the habitual criminal is a

rigid specialist. The burglar, the coiner, the pickpocket, each keeps

strictly to his own special line. Now, Fletcher was a pickpocket, and

had evidently been picking pockets on the race-course. The

probabilities were against his being the original robber and in favour

of his having picked the pocket of the person who robbed Harewood. But

if this were so, who was that person? Once more the probabilities

suggested Baxfield. There was the motive, as I have said, and further,

the pocket-picking had apparently taken place on the race-course, and

Baxfield was known to be a frequenter of race-courses. But again, if

Baxfield were the person robbed by Fletcher, then one of the five

watches was probably Baxfield’s watch. Whether it was so or not might

have been very difficult to prove, but here came in the single

illuminating fact that I have spoken of.

“You remember that when Marchmont opened the case he mentioned that

Baxfield was a manufacturer of felt hats, and Crowhurst told us that

he was a sort of foreman or manager of the factory.”

“Yes, I remember, now you speak of it. But what is the bearing of the

fact?”

“My dear Jervis!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Don’t you see that it gave us

a touchstone? Consider, now. What is a felt hat? It is just a mass of

agglutinated rabbits’ hair. The process of manufacture consists in

blowing a jet of the more or less disintegrated hair on to a revolving

steel cone which is moistened by a spray of an alcoholic solution of

shellac. But, of course, a quantity of the finer and more minute

particles of the broken hairs miss the cone and float about in the

air. The air of the factory is thus charged with the dust of broken

rabbit hairs; and this dust settles on and penetrates the clothing of

the workers. But when clothing becomes charged with dust, that dust

tends to accumulate in the pockets and find its way into the hollows

and interstices of any objects carried in those pockets. Thus, if one

of the five watches was Baxfield’s it would almost certainly show

traces where this characteristic dust had crept under the bezel and

settled on the dial. And so it turned out to be. When I inspected

those five watches through the Coddington lens, on the dial of No. 3

I saw a quantity of dust of this character. The electrified vulcanite

rod picked it all up neatly and transferred it to the slide, and under

the microscope its nature was obvious. The owner of this watch was

therefore, almost certainly, employed in a felt hat factory. But, of

course, it was necessary to show not only the presence of rabbit hair

in this watch, but its absence in the others and in Fletcher’s

pockets, which I did.

“Then with regard to Harewood’s watch. There was no rabbit hair on the

dial, but there was a small quantity on the fluff from the key barrel.

Now, if that rabbit-hair had come from Harewood’s pocket it would have

been uniformly distributed through the fluff. But it was not. It was

confined exclusively to the part of the fluff that was exposed. Thus

it had come from some pocket other than Harewood’s, and the owner of

that pocket was almost certainly employed in a felt hat factory, and

was most probably the owner of watch No. 3.

“Then there was the cigarette-tube. Its bore was loaded with rabbit

hair. But its owner had unquestionably been at the scene of the crime.

There was a clear suggestion that his was the pocket in which the

stolen watch had been carried and that he was the owner of watch No.

3. The problem was to piece this evidence together and prove

definitely who this person was. And that I was able to do by means of

a fresh item of evidence, which I acquired when I saw Baxfield at the

inquest. I suppose you noticed his boots?”

“I am afraid I didn’t,” I had to admit.

“Well, I did. I watched his feet constantly, and when he crossed his

legs I could see that he had iron toe-tips on his boots. That was what

gave me confidence to push the cross-examination.”

“It was certainly a rather daring cross-examination--and rather

irregular, too,” said I.

“It was extremely irregular,” Thorndyke agreed. “The coroner ought not

to have permitted it. But it was all for the best. If the coroner had

disallowed my questions we should have had to take criminal

proceedings against Baxfield, whereas now that we have recovered the

will, it is possible that no one will trouble to prosecute him.”

Which, I subsequently ascertained, is what actually happened.

V.

A FISHER OF MEN

“The man,” observed Thorndyke, “who would successfully practice the

scientific detection of crime must take all knowledge for his

province. There is no single fact which may not, in particular

circumstances, acquire a high degree of evidential value; and in such

circumstances, success or failure is determined by the possession or

non-possession of the knowledge wherewith to interpret the

significance of that fact.”

This _obiter dictum_ was thrown off apropos of our investigation of

the case rather magniloquently referred to in the press as “The Blue

Diamond Mystery”; and more particularly of an incident which occurred

in the office of our old friend, Superintendent Miller, at Scotland

Yard. Thorndyke had called to verify the few facts which had been

communicated to him, and having put away his notebook and picked up

his green canvas-covered research case, had risen to take his leave,

when his glance fell on a couple of objects on a side-table--a leather

handbag and a walking-stick, lashed together with string, to which was

attached a descriptive label.

He regarded them for a few moments reflectively and then glanced at

the Superintendent.

“Derelicts?” he inquired, “or jetsam?”

“Jetsam,” the Superintendent replied, “literally jetsam--thrown

overboard to lighten the ship.”

Here Inspector Badger, who had been a party to the conference, looked

up eagerly.

“Yes,” he broke in. “Perhaps the doctor wouldn’t mind having a look at

them. It’s quite a nice little problem, Doctor, and entirely in your

line.”

“What is the problem?” asked Thorndyke.

“It’s just this,” said Badger. “Here is a bag. Now the question is,

Whose bag is it? What sort of person is the owner? Where did he come

from and where has he gone to?”

Thorndyke chuckled. “That seems quite simple,” said he. “A cursory

inspection ought to dispose of trivial details like those. But how did

you come by the bag?”

“The history of the derelicts,” said Miller, “is this: About four

o’clock this morning, a constable on duty in King’s Road, Chelsea, saw

a man walking on the opposite side of the road, carrying a hand-bag.

There was nothing particularly suspicious in this, but still the

constable thought he would cross and have a closer look at him. As he

did so the man quickened his pace and, of course, the constable

quickened his. Then the man broke into a run, and so did the

constable, and a fine, stern chase started. Suddenly the man shot down

a by-street, and as the constable turned the corner he saw his quarry

turn into a sort of alley. Following him into this, and gaining on him

perceptibly, he saw that the alley ended in a rather high wall. When

the fugitive reached the wall he dropped his bag and stick and went

over like a harlequin. The constable went over after him, but not like

a harlequin--he wasn’t dressed for the part. By the time he got over,

into a large garden with a lot of fruit trees in it, my nabs had

disappeared. He traced him by his footprints across the garden to

another wall, and when he climbed over that he found himself in

another by-street. But there was no sign of our agile friend. The

constable ran up and down the street to the next crossings, blowing

his whistle, but of course it was no go. So he went back across the

garden and secured the bag and stick, which were at once sent here for

examination.”

“And no arrest has been made?”

“Well,” replied Miller with a faint grin, “a constable in Oakley

Street who had heard the whistle arrested a man who was carrying a

suspicious-looking object. But he turned out to be a cornet player

coming home from the theatre.”

“Good,” said Thorndyke. “And now let us have a look at the bag, which

I take it has already been examined?”

“Yes, we’ve been through it,” replied Miller, “but everything has been

put back as we found it.”

Thorndyke picked up the bag and proceeded to make a systematic

inspection of its exterior.

“A good bag,” he commented; “quite an expensive one originally, though

it has seen a good deal of service. You noticed the muddy marks on the

bottom?”

“Yes,” said Miller. “Those were probably made when he dropped the bag

to jump over the wall.”

“Possibly,” said Thorndyke, “though they don’t look like street mud.

But we shall probably get more information from the contents.” He

opened the bag, and after a glance at its interior, spread out on the

table a couple of sheets of foolscap from the stationery rack, on

which he began methodically to deposit the contents of the bag,

accompanying the process with a sort of running commentary on their

obvious characteristics.

“Item one: a small leather dressing wallet. Rather shabby, but

originally of excellent quality. It contains two Swedish razors, a

little Washita hone, a diminutive strop, a folding shaving-brush,

which is slightly damp to the fingers and has a scent similar to that

of the stick of shaving soap. You notice that the hone is distinctly

concave in the middle and that the inscription on the razors,

‘Arensburg, Eskilstuna, Sweden,’ is partly ground away. Then there is

a box containing a very dry cake of soap, a little manicure set, a

well-worn toothbrush, a nailbrush, dental-brush, button-hook,

corn-razor, a small clothes-brush and a pair of small hairbrushes. It

seems to me, Badger, that this wallet suggests--mind, I only say

‘suggests’--a pretty complete answer to one of your questions.”

“I don’t see how,” said the Inspector. “Tell us what it suggests to

you.”

“It suggests to me,” replied Thorndyke, laying down the lens through

which he had been inspecting the hairbrushes, “a middle-aged or

elderly man with a shaven upper lip and a beard; a well-preserved,

healthy man, neat, orderly, provident and careful as to his

appearance; a man long habituated to travelling, and--though I don’t

insist on this, but the appearances suggest that he had been living

for some time in a particular household, and that at the time when he

lost the bag, he was changing his residence.”

“He was that,” cackled the Inspector, “if the constable’s account of

the way he went over that wall is to be trusted. But still, I don’t

see how you have arrived at all those facts.”

“Not facts, Badger,” Thorndyke corrected. “I said suggestions. And

those suggestions may be quite misleading. There may be some factor,

such as change of ownership of the wallet, which we have not allowed

for. But, taking the appearances at their face value, that is what

they suggest. There is the wallet itself, for instance--strong,

durable, but shabby with years of wear. And observe that it is a

travelling wallet and would be subjected to wear only during travel.

Then further, as to the time factor, there are the hone and the

razors. It takes a good many years to wear a Washita hone hollow or to

wear away the blade of a Swedish razor until the maker’s mark is

encroached on. The state of health, and to some extent the age, are

suggested by the toothbrush and the dental-brush. He has lost some

teeth, since he wears a plate, but not many; and he is free from

pyorrhea and alveolar absorption. You don’t wear a toothbrush down

like this on half a dozen rickety survivors. But a man whose teeth

will bear hard brushing is probably well-preserved and healthy.”

“You say that he shaves his upper lip but wears a beard,” said the

Inspector. “How do you arrive at that?”

“It is fairly obvious,” replied Thorndyke. “We see that he has razors

and uses them, and we also see that he has a beard.”

“Do we?” exclaimed Badger. “How do we?”

Thorndyke delicately picked a hair from one of the hairbrushes and

held it up. “That is not a scalp hair,” said he. “I should say that it

came from the side of the chin.”

Badger regarded the hair with evident disfavour. “Looks to me,” he

remarked, “as if a small-tooth comb might have been useful.”

“It does,” Thorndyke agreed, “but the appearance is deceptive. This is

what is called a moniliform hair--like a string of beads. But the

bead-like swellings are really parts of the hair. It is a diseased, or

perhaps we should say an abnormal, condition.” He handed me the hair

together with his lens, through which I examined it and easily

recognized the characteristic swellings.

“Yes,” said I, “it is an early case of _trichorrexis nodosa_.”

“Good Lord!” murmured the Inspector. “Sounds like a Russian nobleman.

Is it a common complaint?”

“It is not a rare disease--if you can call it a disease,” I replied,

“but it is a rare condition, taking the population as a whole.”

“It is rather a remarkable coincidence that it should happen to occur

in this particular case,” the Superintendent observed.

“My dear Miller,” exclaimed Thorndyke, “surely your experience must

have impressed on you the astonishing frequency of the unusual and the

utter failure of the mathematical laws of probability in practice.

Believe me, Miller, the Bread-and-butterfly was right. It is the

exceptional that always happens.”

Having discharged this paradox, he once more dived into the bag, and

this time handed out a singular and rather unsavoury-looking parcel,

the outer investment of which was formed by what looked like an

excessively dirty towel, but which, as Thorndyke delicately unrolled

it, was seen to be only half a towel which was supplemented by a still

dirtier and excessively ragged coloured handkerchief. This, too, being

opened out, disclosed an extremely soiled and frayed collar (which,

like the other articles, bore no name or mark), and a mass of grass,

evidently used as packing material.

The Inspector picked up the collar and quoted reflectively, “He is a

man, neat, orderly and careful as to his appearance,” after which he

dropped the collar and ostentatiously wiped his fingers.

Thorndyke smiled grimly but refrained from repartee as he carefully

separated the grass from the contained objects, which turned out to be

a small telescopic jemmy, a jointed auger, a screwdriver and a bunch

of skeleton keys.

“One understands his unwillingness to encounter the constable with

these rather significant objects in his possession,” Thorndyke

remarked. “They would have been difficult to explain away.” He took up

the heap of grass between his hands and gently compressed it to test

its freshness. As he did so a tiny, cigar-shaped object dropped on the

paper.

“What is that?” asked the Superintendent. “It looks like a chrysalis.”

“It isn’t,” said Thorndyke. “It is a shell, a species of Clausilia, I

think.” He picked up the little shell and closely examined its mouth

through his lens. “Yes,” he continued, “it is a Clausilia. Do you

study our British mollusca, Badger?”

“No, I don’t,” the Inspector replied with emphasis.

“Pity,” murmured Thorndyke. “If you did, you would be interested to

learn that the name of this little shell is _Clausilia biplicata_.”

“I don’t care what its beastly name is,” said Badger. “I want to know

whose bag this is; what the owner is like; and where he came from and

where he has gone to. Can you tell us that?”

Thorndyke regarded the Inspector with wooden gravity. “It is all very

obvious,” said he, “very obvious. But still, I think I should like to

fill in a few details before making a definite statement. Yes, I think

I will reserve my judgment until I have considered the matter a little

further.”

The Inspector received this statement with a dubious grin. He was in

somewhat of a dilemma. My colleague was addicted to a certain dry

facetiousness, and was probably “pulling” the Inspector’s “leg.” But,

on the other hand, I knew, and so did both the detectives, that it was

perfectly conceivable that he had actually solved Badger’s problem,

impossible as it seemed, and was holding back his knowledge until he

had seen whither it led.

“Shall we take a glance at the stick?” said he, picking it up as he

spoke and running his eye over its not very distinctive features. It

was a common ash stick, with a crooked handle polished and darkened by

prolonged contact with an apparently ungloved hand, and it was smeared

for about three inches from the tip with a yellowish mud. The iron

shoe of the ferrule was completely worn away and the deficiency had

been made good by driving a steel boot-stud into the exposed end.

“A thrifty gentleman, this,” Thorndyke remarked, pointing to the stud

as he measured the diameter of the ferrule with his pocket

calliper-gauge. “Twenty-three thirty-seconds is the diameter,” he

added, looking gravely at the Inspector. “You had better make a note

of that, Badger.”

The Inspector smiled sourly as Thorndyke laid down the stick, and once

more picking up the little green canvas case that contained his

research outfit, prepared to depart.

“You will hear from us, Miller,” he said, “if we pick up anything that

will be useful to you. And now, Jervis, we must really take ourselves

off.”

As the tinkling hansom bore us down Whitehall towards Waterloo, I

remarked, “Badger half suspects you of having withheld from him some

valuable information in respect of that bag.”

“He does,” Thorndyke agreed with a mischievous smile; “and he doesn’t

in the least suspect me of having given him a most illuminating hint.”

“But did you?” I asked, rapidly reviewing the conversation and

deciding that the facts elicited from the dressing wallet could hardly

be described as hints.

“My learned friend,” he replied, “is pleased to counterfeit

obtuseness. It won’t do, Jervis. I’ve known you too long.”

I grinned with vexation. Evidently I had missed the point of a subtle

demonstration, and I knew that it was useless to ask further

questions; and for the remainder of our journey in the cab I struggled

vainly to recover the “illuminating hint” that the detectives--and

I--had failed to note. Indeed, so preoccupied was I with this problem

that I rather overlooked the fact that the jettisoned bag was really

no concern of ours, and that we were actually engaged in the

investigation of a crime of which, at present, I knew practically

nothing. It was not until we had secured an empty compartment and the

train had begun to move that this suddenly dawned on me; whereupon I

dismissed the bag problem and applied to Thorndyke for details of the

“Brentford Train Mystery.”

“To call it a mystery,” said he, “is a misuse of words. It appears to

be a simple train robbery. The identity of the robber is unknown, but

there is nothing very mysterious in that; and the crime otherwise is

quite commonplace. The circumstances are these: Some time ago, Mr.

Lionel Montague, of the firm, Lyons, Montague & Salaman, art dealers,

bought from a Russian nobleman a very valuable diamond necklace and

pendant. The peculiarity of this necklace was that the stones were all

of a pale blue colour and pretty accurately matched, so that in

addition to the aggregate value of the stones--which were all of large

size and some very large--there was the value of the piece as a whole

due to this uniformity of colour. Mr. Montague gave £70,000 for it,

and considered that he had made an excellent bargain. I should mention

that Montague was the chief buyer for the firm, and that he spent most

of his time travelling about the Continent in search of works of art

and other objects suitable for the purposes of his firm, and that,

naturally, he was an excellent judge of such things. Now, it seems

that he was not satisfied with the settings of this necklace, and as

soon as he had purchased it he handed it over to Messrs. Binks, of Old

Bond Street, to have the settings replaced by others of better design.

Yesterday morning he was notified by Binks that the resetting was

completed, and in the afternoon he called to inspect the work and take

the necklace away if it was satisfactory. The interview between Binks

and Montague took place in a room behind the shop, but it appears that

Montague came out into the shop to get a better light for his

inspection; and Mr. Binks states that as his customer stood facing the

door, examining the new settings, he, Binks, noticed a man standing by

the doorway furtively watching Mr. Montague.”

“There is nothing very remarkable in that,” said I. “If a man stands

at a shop door with a necklace of blue diamonds in his hand, he is

rather likely to attract attention.”

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed. “But the significance of an antecedent is apt

to be more appreciated after the consequences have developed. Binks is

now very emphatic about the furtive watcher. However, to continue: Mr.

Montague, being satisfied with the new settings, replaced the necklace

in its case, put the latter into his bag--which he had brought with

him from the inner room--and a minute or so later left the shop. That

was about 5 p.m.; and he seems to have gone direct to the flat of his

partner, Mr. Salaman, with whom he had been staying for a fortnight,

at Queen’s Gate. There he remained until about half-past eight, when

he came out accompanied by Mr. Salaman. The latter carried a small

suit-case, while Montague carried a handbag in which was the necklace.

It is not known whether it contained anything else.

“From Queen’s Gate the two men proceeded to Waterloo, walking part of

the way and covering the remainder by omnibus.”

“By omnibus!” I exclaimed, “with seventy thousand pounds worth of

diamonds about them!”

“Yes, it sounds odd. But people who habitually handle portable

property of great value seem to resemble those who habitually handle

explosives. They gradually become unconscious of the risks. At any

rate, that is how they went, and they arrived safely at Waterloo in

time to catch the 9.15 train for Isleworth. Mr. Salaman saw his

partner established in an empty first-class compartment and stayed

with him, chatting, until the train started.

“Mr. Montague’s destination was Isleworth, in which rather unlikely

neighbourhood Mr. Jacob Lowenstein, late of Chicago, and now Berkeley

Square, has a sort of river-side villa with a motor boat-house

attached. Lowenstein had secured the option of purchasing the blue

diamond necklace, and Montague was taking it down to exhibit it and

carry out the deal. He was proposing to stay a few days with

Lowenstein, and then he was proceeding to Brussels on one of his

periodic tours. But he never reached Isleworth. When the train stopped

at Brentford, a porter noticed a suit-case on the luggage-rack of an

apparently empty first-class compartment. He immediately entered to

take possession of it, and was in the act of reaching up to the rack

when his foot came in contact with something soft under the seat.

Considerably startled, he stooped and peered under, when, to his

horror, he perceived the body of a man, quite motionless and

apparently dead. Instantly he darted out and rushed up the platform in

a state of wild panic until he, fortunately, ran against the station

master, with whom and another porter he returned to the compartment.

When they drew the body out from under the seat it was found to be

still breathing, and they proceeded at once to apply such restoratives

as cold water and fresh air, pending the arrival of the police and the

doctor, who had been sent for.

“In a few minutes the police arrived accompanied by the police

surgeon, and the latter, after a brief examination, decided that the

unconscious man was suffering from the effects of a large dose of

chloroform, violently and unskilfully administered, and ordered him to

be carefully removed to a local nursing home. Meanwhile, the police

had been able, by inspecting the contents of his pockets, to identify

him as Mr. Lionel Montague.”

“The diamonds had vanished, of course?” said I.

“Yes. The handbag was not in the compartment, and later an empty

handbag was picked up on the permanent way between Barnes and

Chiswick, which seems to indicate the locality where the robbery took

place.”

“And what is our present objective?”

“We are going, on instructions from Mr. Salaman, to the nursing home

to see what information we can pick up. If Montague has recovered

sufficiently to give an account of the robbery, the police will have

a description of the robber, and there may not be much for us to do.

But you will have noticed that they do not seem to have any

information at Scotland Yard at present, beyond what I have given you.

So there is a chance yet that we may earn our fees.”

Thorndyke’s narrative of this somewhat commonplace crime, with the

discussion which followed it, occupied us until the train stopped at

Brentford Station. A few minutes later we halted in one of the quiet

by-streets of this old-world town, at a soberly painted door on which

was a brass plate inscribed “St. Agnes Nursing Home.” Our arrival had

apparently been observed, for the door was opened by a middle-aged

lady in a nurse’s uniform.

“Dr. Thorndyke?” she inquired; and as my colleague bowed assent she

continued: “Mr. Salaman told me you would probably call. I am afraid I

haven’t very good news for you. The patient is still quite

unconscious.”

“That is rather remarkable,” said Thorndyke.

“It is. Dr. Kingston, who is in charge of the case, is somewhat

puzzled by this prolonged stupor. He is inclined to suspect a

narcotic--possibly a large dose of morphine--in addition to the

effects of the chloroform and the shock.”

“He is probably right,” said I; “and the marvel is that the man is

alive at all after such outrageous treatment.”

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed. “He must be pretty tough. Shall we be able to

see him?”

“Oh, yes,” the matron replied. “I am instructed to give you every

assistance. Dr. Kingston would like to have your opinion on the case.”

With this she conducted us to a pleasant room on the first floor

where, in a bed placed opposite a large window--purposely left

uncurtained--with the strong light falling full on his face, a man lay

with closed eyes, breathing quietly and showing no sign of

consciousness when we somewhat noisily entered the room. For some time

Thorndyke stood by the bedside, looking down at the unconscious man,

listening to the breathing and noting its frequency by his watch. Then

he felt the pulse, and raising both eyelids, compared the two pupils.

“His condition doesn’t appear alarming,” was his conclusion. “The

breathing is rather shallow, but it is quite regular, and the pulse is

not bad though slow. The contracted pupils strongly suggest opium, or

more probably morphine. But that could easily be settled by a chemical

test. Do you notice the state of the face, Jervis?”

“You mean the chloroform burns? Yes, the handkerchief or pad must have

been saturated. But I was also noticing that he corresponds quite

remarkably with the description you were giving Badger of the owner of

the dressing wallet. He is about the age you mentioned--roughly about

fifty--and he has the same old-fashioned treatment of the beard, the

shaven upper lip and the monkey-fringe under the chin. It is rather an

odd coincidence.”

Thorndyke looked at me keenly. “The coincidence is closer than that,

Jervis. Look at the beard itself.”

He handed me his lens, and, stooping down, I brought it to bear on the

patient’s beard. And then I started back in astonishment; for by the

bright light I could see plainly that a considerable proportion of the

hairs were distinctly moniliform. This man’s beard, too, was affected

by an early stage of _trichorrexis nodosa!_

“Well!” I exclaimed, “this is really an amazing coincidence. I wonder

if it is anything more.”

“I wonder,” said Thorndyke. “Are those Mr. Montague’s things, Matron?”

“Yes,” she replied, turning to the side table on which the patient’s

effects were neatly arranged. “Those are his clothes and the things

which were taken from his pockets, and that is his bag. It was found

on the line and sent on here a couple of hours ago. There is nothing

in it.”

Thorndyke looked over the various objects--keys, card-case,

pocket-book, etc.--that had been turned out of the patient’s pockets,

and then picked up the bag, which he turned over curiously and then

opened to inspect the interior. There was nothing distinctive about

it. It was just a plain, imitation leather bag, fairly new, though

rather the worse for its late vicissitudes, lined with coarse linen to

which two large, wash-leather pockets had been roughly stitched. As he

laid the bag down and picked up his own canvas case, he asked: “What

time did Mr. Salaman come to see the patient?”

“He came here about ten o’clock this morning, and he was not able to

stay more than half an hour as he had an appointment. But he said he

would look in again this evening. You can’t stay to see him, I

suppose?”

“I’m afraid not,” Thorndyke replied; “in fact, we must be off now for

both Dr. Jervis and I have some other matters to attend to.”

“Are you going straight back to the chambers, Jervis?” Thorndyke

asked, as we walked down the main street towards the station.

“Yes,” I replied in some surprise. “Aren’t you?”

“No. I have a little expedition in view.”

“Oh, have you?” I exclaimed, and as I spoke it began to dawn on me

that I had overestimated the importance of my other business.

“Yes,” said Thorndyke; “the fact is that--ha! excuse me one moment,

Jervis.” He had halted abruptly outside a fishing tackle shop and now,

after a brief glance in through the window, entered with an air of

business. I immediately bolted in after him, and was just in time to

hear him demand a fishing rod of a light and inexpensive character.

When this had been supplied he asked for a line and one or two hooks;

and I was a little surprised--and the vendor was positively

scandalized--at his indifference to the quality or character of these

appliances. I believe he would have accepted cod-line and a shark-hook

if they had been offered.

“And now I want a float,” said he.

The shopkeeper produced a tray containing a varied assortment of

floats over which Thorndyke ran a critical eye, and finally reduced

the shopman to stupefaction by selecting a gigantic, pot-bellied,

scarlet-and-green atrocity that looked like a juvenile telegraph buoy.

I could not let this outrage pass without comment. “You must excuse

me, Thorndyke,” I said, “if I venture to point out that the Greenland

whale no longer frequents the upper reaches of the Thames.”

“You mind your own business,” he retorted, stolidly pocketing the

telegraph buoy when he had paid for his purchases. “I like a float

that you can see.”

Here the shopman, recovering somewhat from the shock of surprise,

remarked deferentially that it was a long time since a really large

pike had been caught in the neighbourhood; whereupon Thorndyke

finished him off by replying: “Yes, I’ve no doubt. They don’t use the

right sort of floats, you know. Now, when the pike see my float, they

will just come tumbling over one another to get on the hook.” With

this he tucked the rod under his arm and strolled out, leaving the

shopman breathing hard and staring harder.

“But what on earth,” I asked, as we walked down the street (watched by

the shopman, who had come out on the pavement to see the last of us),

“do you want with such an enormous float? Why, it will be visible a

quarter of a mile away.”

“Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “And what more could a fisher of men

require?”

This rejoinder gave me pause. Evidently Thorndyke had something in

hand of more than common interest; and again it occurred to me that my

own business engagements were of no special urgency. I was about to

mention this fact when Thorndyke again halted--at an oilshop this

time.

“I think I will step in here and get a little burnt umber,” said he.

I followed him into the shop, and while the powder-colour was being

weighed and made up into a little packet I reflected profoundly.

Fishing tackle and burnt umber had no obvious associations. I began to

be mystified and correspondingly inquisitive.

“What do you want the burnt umber for?” I asked as soon as we were

outside.

“To mix with plaster,” he replied readily.

“But why do you want to colour the plaster? And what are you going to

do with it?”

“Now, Jervis,” he admonished with mock severity, “you are not doing

yourself justice. An investigator of your experience shouldn’t ask for

explanations of the obvious.”

“And why,” I continued, “did you want to know if I was going straight

back to the chambers?”

“Because I may want some assistance later. Probably Polton will be

able to do all that I want, but I wished to know that you would both

be within reach of a telegram.”

“But,” I exclaimed, “what nonsense it is to talk of sending a telegram

to me when I’m here!”

“But I may not want any assistance, after all.”

“Well,” I said doggedly, “you are going to have it whether you want it

or not. You’ve got something on and I’m going to be in it.”

“I like your enthusiasm, Jervis,” he chuckled; “but it is quite

possible that I shall merely find a mare’s nest.”

“Very well,” said I. “Then I’ll help you to find it. I’ve had plenty

of experience in that line, to say nothing of my natural gifts. So

lead on.”

He led on, with a resigned smile, to the station, where we were

fortunate enough to find a train just ready to start. But our journey

was not a long one, for at Chiswick Thorndyke got out of the train,

and on leaving the station struck out eastward with a very evident air

of business. As we entered the outskirts of Hammersmith he turned into

a by-street which presently brought us out into Bridge Road. Here he

turned sharply to the right and, at the same brisk pace, crossed

Hammersmith Bridge and made his way to the towing path. As he now

slowed down perceptibly, I ventured to inquire whether this was the

spot on which he proposed to exhibit his super-float.

“This, I think, will be our fishing-ground,” he replied; “but we will

look over it carefully and select a suitable pitch.”

He continued to advance at an easy pace, and I noticed that, according

to his constant habit, he was studying the peculiarities of the

various feet that had trodden the path within the last day or two,

keeping, for this purpose, on the right-hand side, where the shade of

a few pollard willows overhanging an indistinct dry ditch had kept the

ground soft. We had walked on for nearly half a mile when he halted

and looked round.

“I think we had better turn back a little way,” said he. “We seem to

have overshot our mark.”

I made no comment on this rather mysterious observation, and we

retraced our steps for a couple of hundred yards, Thorndyke still

walking on the side farthest from the river and still keeping his eyes

fixed on the ground. Presently he again halted, and looking up and

down the path, of which we were at the moment the only occupants,

placed the canvas case on the ground and unfastened its clasps.

“This, I think, will be our pitch,” said he.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I am going to make one or two casts. And meanwhile you had better get

the fishing rod fixed together so as to divert the attention of any

passers by.”

I proceeded to make ready the fishing tackle, but at the same time

kept a close watch on my colleague’s proceedings. And very curious

proceedings they were. First he dipped up a little water from the

river in the rubber mixing bowl with which he mixed a bowlful of

plaster, and into this he stirred a few pinches of burnt umber,

whereby its dazzling white was changed to a muddy buff. Then, having

looked up and down the path, he stooped and carefully poured the

plaster into a couple of impressions of a walking-stick that were

visible at the edge of the path and finished up by filling a deep

impression of the same stick, at the margin of the ditch, where it had

apparently been stuck in the soft, clayey ground.

As I watched this operation, a sudden suspicion flashed into my mind.

Dropping the fishing rod, I walked quickly along the path until I was

able to pick up another impression of the stick. A very brief

examination of it confirmed my suspicion. At the centre of the little

shallow pit was a semicircular impression--clearly that of a half-worn

boot-stud.

“Why!” I exclaimed, “this is the stick that we saw at Scotland Yard!”

“I should expect it to be and I believe it is,” said Thorndyke. “But

we shall be better able to judge from the casts. Pick up your rod.

There are two men coming down the path.”

He closed his “research case” and drawing the fishing-line from his

pocket, began meditatively to unwind it.

“I could wish,” said I, “that our appearance was more in character

with the part of the rustic angler; and for the Lord’s sake keep that

float out of sight, or we shall collect a crowd.”

Thorndyke laughed softly. “The float,” said he, “was intended for

Polton. He would have loved it. And the crowd would have been rather

an advantage--as you will appreciate when you come to use it.”

The two men--builder’s labourers, apparently--now passed us with a

glance of faint interest at the fishing-tackle; and as they strolled

by, I appreciated the value of the burnt umber. If the casts had been

made of the snow-white plaster they would have stared conspicuously

from the ground and these men would almost certainly have stopped to

examine them and see what we were doing. But the tinted plaster was

practically invisible.

“You are a wonderful man, Thorndyke,” I said, as I announced my

discovery. “You foresee everything.”

He bowed his acknowledgments, and having tenderly felt one of the

casts and ascertained that the plaster had set hard, he lifted it with

infinite care, exhibiting a perfect facsimile of the end of the stick,

on which the worn boot-stud was plainly visible, even to the remains

of the pattern. Any doubt that might have remained as to the identity

of the stick was removed when Thorndyke produced his calliper-gauge.

“Twenty-three thirty-seconds was the diameter, I think,” said he as he

opened the jaws of the gauge and consulted his notes. He placed the

cast between the jaws, and as they were gently slid into contact, the

index marked twenty-three thirty-seconds.

“Good,” said Thorndyke, picking up the other two casts and

establishing their identity with the one which we had examined. “This

completes the first act.” Dropping one cast into his case and throwing

the other two into the river, he continued: “Now we proceed to the

next and hope for a like success. You notice that he stuck his stick

into the ground. Why do you suppose he did that?”

“Presumably to leave his hands free.”

“Yes. And now let us sit down here and consider why he wanted his

hands free. Just look around and tell me what you see.”

I gazed rather hopelessly at the very undistinctive surroundings and

began a bald catalogue. “I see a shabby-looking pollard willow, an

assortment of suburban vegetation, an obsolete tin

saucepan--unserviceable--and a bald spot where somebody seems to have

pulled up a small patch of turf.”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke. “You will also notice a certain amount of dry,

powdered earth distributed rather evenly over the bottom of the ditch.

And your patch of turf was cut round with a large knife before it was

pulled up. Why do you suppose it was pulled up?”