CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

THE EPISODE OF THE SEALED DOCUMENT

CHAPTER I

THE EPISODE OF RAMA RAGOBAH

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

THE EPISODE OF THE PARALLEL READERS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

THE EPISODE OF THE TALETALE THUMB

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

THE EPISODE OF THE DARKENED ROOM

CHAPTER I

What shall we say when Dream-Pictures leave their frames of

night and push us from the waking world?

As the part I played in the events I am about to narrate was rather that

of a passive observer than of an active participant, I need say little

of myself. I am a graduate of a Western university and, by profession,

a physician. My practice is now extensive, owing to my blundering into

fame in a somewhat singular manner, but a year ago I had, I assure

you, little enough to do. Inasmuch as my practice is now secure, I feel

perfectly free to confess that the cure I effected in the now celebrated

case of Mrs. P-- was altogether the result of chance, and not, as I was

then only too glad to have people believe, due to an almost supernatural

power of diagnosis.

Mrs. P-- was not more surprised at the happy result than was I; the only

difference being that she showed her astonishment, while I endeavoured

to conceal mine, and affected to look upon the whole thing as a matter

of course.

My fame spread; the case got into the medical journals, where my skill

was much lauded, and my practice became enormous. There is but one thing

further I need mention regarding myself: that is, that I am possessed

of a memory which my friends are pleased to consider phenomenal. I can

repeat a lecture, sermon, or conversation almost word for word after

once hearing it, provided always, that the subject commands my interest.

My humble abilities in this direction have never ceased to be a source

of wonderment to my acquaintance, though I confess, for my own part,

when I compare them with those of Blind Tom, or of the man who, after a

single reading, could correctly repeat the London Times, advertisements

and all, they seem modest indeed.

It was about the time when, owing to the blessed Mrs. P--, my creditors

were beginning to receive some attention, that I first met George

Maitland. He had need, he said, of my professional services; he felt

much under the weather; could I give him something which would brace him

up a bit; he had some important chemical work on hand which he could

not afford to put by; in fact, he didn’t mind saying that he was at work

upon a table of atomical pitches to match Dalton’s atomic weights; if he

succeeded in what he had undertaken he would have solved the secret of

the love and hatred of atoms, and unions hitherto unknown could easily

be effected.

I do not know how long he would have continued had not my interest

in the subject caused me to interrupt him. I was something of an

experimenter myself, and here was a man who could help me.

It was a dream of mine that the great majority of ailments could be

cured by analysing a patient’s blood, and then injecting into his veins

such chemicals as were found wanting, or were necessary to counteract

the influence of any deleterious matter present. There were, of course,

difficulties in the way, but had they not already at Cornell University

done much the same for vegetable life? And did not those plants which

had been set in sea sand out of which every particle of nutriment had

been roasted, and which were then artificially fed with a solution of

the chemicals of which they were known to be composed, grow twice as

rank as those which had been set in the soil ordinarily supposed to be

best adapted to them? What was the difference between a human cell and

a plant cell? Yes, since my patient was a chemist, I would cultivate his

acquaintance.

He proceeded to tell me how he felt, but I could make nothing of it, so

I forthwith did the regulation thing; what should we doctors do without

it! I looked at his tongue, pulled down his eyelid, and pronounced

him bilious. Yes, there were the little brown spots under his

skin--freckles, perhaps--and probably he had an occasional ringing in

his ears. He was willing to admit that he was dizzy on suddenly rising

from a stooping posture, and that eggs, milk, and coffee were poison to

him; and he afterward told me he should have said the same of any

other three articles I might have mentioned, for he looked so hale

and vigorous, and felt so disgracefully well, that he was ashamed of

himself. We have had many a laugh over it since. The fact of the matter

is the only affliction from which he was suffering was an inordinate

desire to make my acquaintance. Not for my own sake--oh, dear, no!--but

because I was John Darrow’s family physician, and would be reasonably

sure to know Gwen Darrow, that gentleman’s daughter. He had first

met her, he told me after we had become intimate, at an exhibition of

paintings by William T. Richards,--but, as you will soon be wondering if

it were, on his part, a case of love at first sight, I had best relate

the incident to you in his own words as he told it to me. This will

relieve me of passing any judgment upon the matter, for you will then

know as much about it as I, and, doubtless, be quite as capable of

answering the question, for candour compels me to own that my knowledge

of the human heart is entirely professional. Think of searching for

Cupid’s darts with a stethoscope!

“I was standing,” Maitland said, “before a masterpiece of sea and rock,

such as only Richards can paint. It was a view of Land’s End, Cornwall,

and in the artist’s very best vein. My admiration made me totally

unmindful of my surroundings, so much so, indeed, that, although

the gallery was crowded, I caught myself expressing my delight in a

perfectly audible undertone. My enthusiasm, since it was addressed to no

one, soon began to attract attention, and people stopped looking at the

pictures to look at me. I was conscious of this in a vague, far-off way,

much as one is conscious of a conversation which seems to have followed

him across the borderland of sleep, and I even thought that I ought to

be embarrassed. How long I remained thus transported I do not know. The

first thing I remember is hearing someone close beside me take a quick,

deep breath, one of those full inhalations natural to all sensitive

natures when they come suddenly upon something sublime. I turned and

looked. I have said I was transported by that canvas of sea and rocks,

and have, therefore, no word left to describe the emotion with which

I gazed upon the exquisite, living, palpitating picture beside me. A

composite photograph of all the Madonnas ever painted, from the Sistine

to Bodenhausen’s, could not have been more lovely, more ineffably

womanly than that young girl, radiant with the divine glow of artistic

delight--at least, that is my opinion, which, by the bye, I should,

perhaps, have stated a little more gingerly, inasmuch as you are

yourself acquainted with the young lady. Now, don’t look incredulous

[noticing my surprise]. Black hair--not brown, black; clear pink and

white complexion; large, deep violet eyes with a remarkable poise to

them.”--Here I continued the description for him: “Slight of figure; a

full, honest waist, without a suggestion of that execrable death-trap,

Dame Fashion’s hideous cuirass; a little above middle height;

deliberate, and therefore graceful, in all her movements; carries

herself in a way to impress one with the idea that she is innocent,

without that time-honoured concomitant, ignorance; half girl, half

woman; shy, yet strong; and in a word, very beautiful--that’s Gwen

Darrow.” I paused here, and Maitland went on somewhat dubiously: “Yes,

it’s not hard to locate such a woman. She makes her presence as clearly

felt among a million of her sex as does a grain of fuchsine in a

hogshead of water. If, with a few ounces of this, Tyndall could colour

Lake Geneva, so with Gwen Darrow one might, such is the power of the

ideal, change the ethical status of a continent.”

He then told me how he had made a study of Miss Darrow’s movements, and

had met her many times since; in fact, so often that he fancied, from

something in her manner, that she had begun to wonder if his frequent

appearance were not something more than a coincidence. The fear that

she might think him dogging her footsteps worried him, and he began as

sedulously to avoid the places he knew she frequented, as he previously

had sought them. This, he confessed, made him utterly miserable. He had,

to be sure, never spoken to her, but it was everything to be able to see

her. When he could endure it no longer he had come to me under pretence

of feeling ill, that he might, when he had made my acquaintance, get me

to introduce him to the Darrows.

You will understand, of course, that I did not learn all this at our

first interview. Maitland did not take me into his confidence until we

had had a conference at his laboratory devoted entirely to scientific

speculations. On this occasion he surprised me not a little by turning

to me suddenly and saying: “Some of the grandest sacrifices the world

has ever known, if one may judge by the fortitude they require, and

the pain they cause, have occurred in the laboratory.” I looked at him

inquiringly, and he continued: “When a man, simply for the great love

of truth that is in him, has given his life to the solution of some

problem, and has at last arrived, after years of closest application,

at some magnificent generalisation--when he has, perhaps, published his

conclusions, and received the grateful homage of all lovers of truth,

his life has, indeed, borne fruit. Of him may it then be justly said

that his

“‘. . . life hath blossomed downward like

The purple bell-flower.’

But suddenly, in the privacy of his laboratory, a single fact arises

from the test-tube in his trembling hand and confronts him! His brain

reels; the glass torment falls upon the floor, and shatters into

countless pieces, but he is not conscious of it, for he feels it thrust

through his heart. When he recovers from the first shock, he can only

ejaculate: ‘Is it possible?’ After a little he is able to reason. ‘I

was fatigued,’ he says; ‘perhaps my senses erred. I can repeat the

experiment again, and be sure. But if it overthrow those conclusions

for which I have given my life?’ he gasps. ‘My generalisation is firmly

established in the minds of all--all but myself--no one will ever chance

upon this particular experiment, and it may not disprove my theory after

all; better, much better, that the floor there keep the secret of it all

both from me and from others!’ But even as he says this to himself he

has taken a new tube from the rack and crawled--ten years older for that

last ten minutes--to his chemical case. The life-long habit of truth is

so strong in him that self-interest cannot submerge it. He repeats the

experiment, and confirms his fears. The battle between his life and a

few drops of liquid in a test-tube has been mercilessly fought, and

he has lost! The elasticity of the man is gone forever, and the only

indication the world ever receives of this terrible conflict between a

human soul and its destiny is some half a dozen lines in Nature, giving

the experiment and stating that it utterly refutes its author’s previous

conclusions. Half a dozen lines--the epitaph of a dead, though unburied,

life!”

My companion paused there, but I found myself unable to reply. He had

spoken with such intensity, such dramatic fervour, that I was completely

swept away by his eloquence; so much so, indeed, that it did not even

occur to me to ask myself why he should have burst out in this peculiar

strain. I have given you the incident in order that you may see the

strange moods into which Maitland occasionally relapsed--at least, at

that time. After a quick glance at me he continued, in a quieter vein:

“All of us men of science have felt something, however little, of this,

and I believe, as a class, scientists transcend all other men in their

respect for absolute truth.” He cast another one of his searching

glances at me, and said quickly: “This is precisely why I am going to

confide in you and rely upon your assistance in a matter, the successful

termination of which would please me as much as the discovery of an

absolute standard of measurement.”

He then made the confession which I have already given you, and ended

by asking me to secure him an introduction to Miss Darrow. I cheerfully

promised to bring this about at the first opportunity. He asked me if

I thought, on account of his having met her so frequently, she would be

likely to think it was all a “put up job.”

“I do not know,” I replied. “Miss Darrow is a singularly close observer.

On the whole I think you had better reach her through her father. Do you

play croquet?” He replied that he was considered something of an expert

in that line. That, then, was surely the best way. John Darrow was known

in the neighbourhood as a “crank” on the subject of croquet. He had

spent many hundreds of dollars on his grounds. His wickets were fastened

to hard pine planks, and these were then carefully buried two feet

deep. The surface of the ground, he was wont to descant, must be of a

particular sort of gravel, sifted just so, and rolled to a nicety. The

balls must be of hard rubber, and have just one-eighth inch clearance in

passing through the wickets, with the exception of the two wires forming

the “cage,” where it was imperative that this clearance should be

reduced to one-sixteenth of an inch--but I need not state more to show

how he came to be considered a “crank” upon the subject.

It was easy enough to bring Maitland and Darrow together. “My friend is

himself much interested in the game; he heard of your superb ground;

may he be permitted to examine it closely?” Darrow was all attention. He

would be delighted to show it. Suppose they make a practical test of it

by playing a game. This they did and Maitland played superbly, but he

was hardly a match for the old gentleman, who sought to palliate his

defeat by saying: “You play an excellent game, sir; but I am a trifle

too much for you on my own ground. Now, if you can spare the time, I

should like to witness a game between you and my daughter; I think you

will be pretty evenly matched.”

If he could spare the time! I laughed outright at the idea. Why, with

the prospect of meeting Gwen Darrow before him, an absolute unit of

measure, with a snail’s pace, would have made good its escape from him.

As it is a trick of poor humanity to refuse when offered the very thing

one has been madly scheming to obtain, I hastened to accept Darrow’s

invitation for my friend, and to assure him on my own responsibility,

that time was just then hanging heavily on Maitland’s hands. Well, the

game was played, but Maitland was so unnerved by the girl’s presence

that he played execrably, so poorly, indeed, that the always polite

Darrow remarked: “You must charge your easy victory, Gwen, to your

opponent’s gallantry, not to his lack of skill, for I assure you he gave

me a much harder rub.” The young lady cast a quick glance at Maitland,

which said so plainly that she preferred a fair field and no favour that

he hastened to say: “Your father puts too high an estimate upon my play.

I did my best to win, but--but I was a little nervous; I see, however,

that you would have defeated me though I had been in my best form.” Gwen

gave him one of those short, searching looks, so peculiarly her own,

which seem to read, with mathematical certainty, one’s innermost

thoughts,--and the poor fellow blushed to the tips of his ears.--But

he was no boy, this Maitland, and betrayed no other sign of the tempest

that was raging within him. His utterance remained as usual, deliberate

and incisive, and I thought this perplexed the young lady. Before

leaving, both Maitland and I were invited to become parties to a

six-handed game to be played the following week, after the grounds had

been redressed with gravel.

Maitland looked forward to this second meeting with Miss Darrow with an

eagerness which made every hour seem interminably long, and he was in

such a flutter of expectancy that I was sure if

“We live . . . in thoughts, not breaths;

In feelings, not in figures on a dial

We should count time by heart-throbs,”

he must have passed through a period as long as that separating the

Siege of Troy from the “late unpleasantness.” The afternoon came at

last, however. The party consisted, besides Darrow and his daughter,

Maitland and myself, of two young gentlemen with whom personally I had

but a slight acquaintance, although I knew them somewhat by reputation.

The younger one, Clinton Browne, is a young artist whose landscapes were

beginning to attract wide attention in Boston, and the elder,

Charles Herne, a Western gentleman of some literary attainments, but

comparatively unknown here in the East. There is nothing about Mr. Herne

that would challenge more than passing attention. If you had said

of him, “He is well-fleshed, well-groomed, and intellectually

well-thatched,” you would have voiced the opinion of most of his

acquaintances.

This somewhat elaborately upholstered old world has a deal of mere

filling of one kind and another, and Mr. Herne is a part of it. To be

sure, he leaves the category of excelsior very far behind and approaches

very nearly to the best grade of curled hair, but, in spite of all this,

he is simply a sort of social filling.

Mr. Browne, on the other hand, is a very different personage. Of medium

height, closely knit, with the latent activity and grace of the cat

flowing through every movement and even stagnating in his pose, he is

a man that the first casual gaze instantly returns to with sharpened

focus. You have seen gymnasts whose normal movements were slowly

performed springs, just as rust is a slow combustion and fire the same

thing in less time. Well, Clinton Browne strongly suggested that sort

of athlete. Add to this a regularly formed, clearly cut, and

all-but-beautiful face, with a pair of wonderfully piercing, albeit

somewhat shifty, black eyes, and one need not marvel that men as well as

women stared at him. I have spoken of his gaze as “somewhat shifty,” yet

am not altogether sure that in that term I accurately describe it.

What first fastened my attention was this vague, unfocussed, roving,

quasi-introspective vision flashing with panther-like suddenness into a

directness that seemed to burn and pierce one like the thrust of a hot

stiletto, His face was clean-shaven, save for a mere thumb-mark of black

hair directly under the centre of his lower lip. This Iago-like tab

and the almost fierce brilliancy of his concentrated gaze gave to his

countenance at times a sinister, Machiavellian expression that was

irresistible and which, to my thinking, seriously marred an otherwise

fine face. Of course due allowance must be made for the strong prejudice

I have against any form of beard. However, I’d wager a box of my best

liver-pills against any landscape Browne ever painted,--I don’t care if

it’s as big as a cyclorama,--that if he had known how completely

Gwen shared my views,--how she disliked the appearance of bewhiskered

men,--that delicately nurtured little imperial would soon have been

reduced to a tender memory,--that is to say, if a physician can

diagnose a case of love from such symptoms as devouring glances and an

attentiveness so marked that it quite disgusted Maitland, who repeatedly

measured his rival with the apparent cold precision of a mathematician,

albeit there was warmth enough underneath.

This singular self-poise is one of Maitland’s most noticeable

characteristics and is, I think, rather remarkable in a man of such

strong emotional tendencies and lightning-like rapidity of thought. No

doubt some small portion of it is the result of acquirement, for life

can hardly fail to teach us all something of this sort; still I

cannot but think that the larger part of it is native to him. Born

of well-to-do parents, he had never had the splendid tuition of early

poverty. As soon as he had left college he had studied law, and had been

admitted to the bar. This he had done more to gratify the wishes of his

father than to further any desires of his own, but he had soon found the

profession, so distasteful to him that he practically abandoned it in

favour of scientific research. True, he still occasionally took a legal

case when it turned upon scientific points which interested him, but, as

he once confessed to me, he swallowed, at such times, the bitter pill of

the law for the sugar coating of science which enshrouded it. This legal

training could, therefore, it seems to me, have made no deep or radical

change in his character, which leads me to think that the self-control

he exhibited, despite the angry disgust with which I know Browne’s so

apparent attentions to Gwen inspired him, must, for the most part, have

been native to him rather than acquired.

Nothing worthy of record occurred until evening; at least nothing which

at the time impressed me as of import, though I afterward remembered

that Darrow’s behaviour was somewhat strange. He appeared singularly

preoccupied, and on one occasion started nervously when I coughed behind

him. He explained that a disagreeable dream had deprived him of his

sleep the previous night and left his nerves somewhat unstrung, and I

thought no more of it.

When the light failed we were all invited into the parlour to listen to

a song by Miss Darrow. The house, as you are perhaps aware, overlooks

Dorchester Bay. The afternoon had been very hot, but at dusk a cold east

wind had sprung up, which, as it was still early in the season, was not

altogether agreeable to our host, sitting as he was, back to, though

fully eight feet from, an open window looking to the east. Maitland,

with his usual quick observation, noticed his discomfort and asked if he

should not close the window. The old gentleman did not seem to hear the

question until it was repeated, when, starting as if from a reverie, he

said: “If it will not be too warm for the rest of you, I would like to

have it partly closed, say to within six inches, for the wind is cold”;

and he seemed to relapse again into his reverie. Maitland was obliged to

use considerable strength to force the window down, as it stuck in the

casing, and when it finally gave way it closed with a loud shrieking

sound ending in the bang of the counterweights. At the noise Darrow

sprang to his feet, exclaiming: “Again! The same sound! I knew I could

not mistake it!” but by this time Gwen was at his side, pressing him

gently back into his seat, as she said to him in an undertone audible

to all of us: “What is it, father?” The old gentleman only pressed her

closer by way of reply, while he said to us apologetically: “You must

excuse me, gentlemen. I have a certain dream which haunts me,--the dream

of someone striking me out of the darkness. Last night I had the same

dream for the seventh time and awoke to hear that window opened. There

is no mistaking the sound I heard just now; it is identical with that

I heard last night. I sprang out of bed, took a light, and rushed down

here, for I am not afraid to meet anything I can see, but the window

was closed and locked, as I had left it! What do you think, Doctor,” he

said, turning to me, “are dreams ever prophetic?”

“I have never,” I replied, anxious to quiet him, “had any

personal experience justifying such a conclusion.” I did not tell him

of certain things which had happened to friends of mine, and so my reply

reassured him.

Maitland, who had been startled by the old gentleman’s conduct, now

returned to the window and opened it about six inches. There was no

other window open in the room, and yet so fresh was the air that we

were not uncomfortable. Darrow, with ill-concealed pride, then asked his

daughter to sing, and she left him and went to the piano. “Shall I

not light the lamp?” I asked. “I think we shall not need it,” the old

gentleman replied, “music is always better in the gloaming.”

In order that you may understand what follows, it will be necessary for

me to describe to you our several positions in the room. The apartment

is large, nearly square, and occupies the southeast corner of the house.

The eastern side of the room has one window, that which had been left

open about six inches, and on the southern side of the room there were

two windows, both of which were securely fastened and the blinds of

which had been closed by the painters who, that morning, had primed

the eastern and southern sides of the house, preparatory to giving it a

thorough repainting. On the north side of the room, but much nearer

to the western than the eastern end, are folding doors. These on this

occasion were closed and fastened. On the western side of the room is

the piano, and to the left of it, near the southwest corner, is a door

leading to the hallway. This door was closed. As I have already told

you, Darrow sat in a high-backed easy-chair facing the piano and almost

in the centre of the room. The partly opened window on the east side was

directly behind him and fully eight feet away. Herne and Browne sat upon

Darrow’s right and a little in front of him against the folding doors,

while Maitland and I were upon his left, between him and the hall door.

Gwen was at the piano. There are no closets, draperies, or niches in the

room. I think you will now be able to understand the situation fully.

Whether the gloom of the scene suggested it to her, or whether it was

merely a coincidence, I do not know, but Miss Darrow began to sing “In

the Gloaming” in a deep, rich contralto voice which seemed fraught

with a weird, melancholy power. When I say that her voice was ineffably

sympathetic I would not have you confound this quality either with the

sepulchral or the aspirated tone which usually is made to do duty for

sympathy, especially in contralto voices. Every note was as distinct, as

brilliantly resonant, as a cello in a master’s hand. So clear, so full

the notes rang out that I could plainly feel the chair vibrate beneath

me.

“In the gloaming, O my darling!

When the lights are dim and low,

And the quiet shadows falling

Softly come and softly go.

When the winds are sobbing faintly

With a gentle unknown woe,

Will you think of me and love me

As you did once, long ago?

“In the gloaming, O my darling!

Think not bitterly of me,

Though I passed away in silence,

Left you lonely, set you free.

For my heart was crushed with longing.

What had been could never be:

It was best to leave you thus, dear,

Best for you and best--”

But the line was never finished. With a wild cry, more of fear than of

pain, Darrow sprang from his chair. “Gentlemen, I have been stabbed!”

was all he said, and fell back heavily into his seat. Gwen was kneeling

before him in an instant, even before I could assist him. His right

hand was pressed to his throat and his eyes seemed starting from their

sockets as he shouted hoarsely: “A light, a light! For God’s sake, don’t

let him strike me again in the dark!” Maitland was already lighting the

gas and Herne and Browne, so Browne afterward told me, were preparing

to seize the assailant. I remembered, after it all was over, a quick

movement Browne had made toward the darkest corner of the room.

The apartment was now flooded with light, and I looked for the assassin.

He was not to be found! The room contained only Gwen, Darrow, and his

four invited guests! The doors were closed; the windows had not been

touched. No one could possibly have entered or left the room, and

yet the assassin was not there. But one solution remained; Darrow was

labouring under a delusion, and Gwen’s voice would restore him. As she

was about to speak I stepped back to note the effect of her words upon

him. “Do not fear, father,” she said in a low voice as she laid her face

against his cheek, “there is nothing here to hurt you. You are ill,--I

will get you a glass of cordial and you will be yourself again in a

moment.” She was about to rise when her father seized her frantically by

the arm, exclaiming in a hoarse whisper: “Don’t leave me! Can’t you see?

Don’t leave me!” and for the first time he removed his hand from his

throat, and taking her head between his palms, gazed wistfully into her

face. He tried to speak again, but could not, and glanced up at us with

a helpless expression which I shall never forget. Maitland, his eyes

riveted upon the old gentleman, whose thoughts he seemed to divine,

hurriedly produced a pencil and note-book and held them toward him, but

he did not see them, for he had drawn Gwen’s face down to him and was

kissing her passionately. The next instant he was on his feet and from

the swollen veins that stood out like cords upon his neck and forehead,

we could see the terrible effort he was making to speak. At last the

words came,--came as if they were torn hissing from his throat, for

he took a full breath between each one of them. “Gwen--I--knew--it!

Good-bye! Remember--your--promise!”--and he fell a limp mass into his

chair, overcome, I felt sure, by the fearful struggle he had made.

Maitland seized a glass of water and threw it in his face. I loosened

the clothing about his neck and, in doing so, his head fell backward and

his face was turned upward toward me. The features were drawn,--the eyes

were glazed and set. I felt of his heart; he was dead!

CHAPTER II

Silence is the only tender Death can make to Mystery.

The look of pain and astonishment upon my face said plainly enough to

Gwen:

“Your father is dead.” I could not speak. In the presence of her great

affliction we all stood silent, and with bowed heads. I had thought

Darrow’s attack the result of an overwrought mental condition which

would speedily readjust itself, and had so counted upon his daughter’s

influence as all but certain to immediately result in a temporary cure.

When, therefore, I found him dead without any apparent cause, I was, for

the time being, too dazed to think, much less to act, and I think the

other gentlemen were quite as much incapacitated as I. My first thought,

when I recovered so that I could think, was of Gwen. I felt sure her

reason must give way under the strain, and I thought of going nearer to

her in case she should fall, but refrained when I noticed that Maitland

had noiselessly glided within easy reach of her. To move seemed

impossible to me. Such a sudden transition from warm, vigorous life to

cold, impassive death seems to chill the dynamic rivers of being into a

horrible winter, static and eternal. Though death puts all things in the

past tense, even we physicians cannot but be strangely moved when the

soul thus hastily deserts the body without the usual farewell of an

illness.

Contrary to my expectations Gwen did not faint. For a long time,--it

may not have been more than twenty minutes, but it seemed, under the

peculiar circumstances, at least an hour,--she remained perfectly

impassive. She neither changed colour nor exhibited any other sign of

emotion. She stood gazing quietly, tenderly, at her father’s body as

if he were asleep and she were watching for some indication of his

awakening. Then a puzzled expression came over her countenance. There

was no trace of sorrow in it, only the look of perplexity. I decided to

break the gruesome silence, but the thought of how my own voice would

sound in that awe-inspired stillness frightened me. Gwen herself was the

first to speak. She looked up with the same impassive countenance, from

which now the perplexed look had fled, and said simply:

“Gentlemen, what is to be done?” Her voice was firm and sane,--that it

was pitched lower than usual and had a suggestion of intensity in it,

was perfectly natural. I thought she did not realise her loss and said:

“He has gone past recall.” “Yes,” she replied, “I know that, but should

we not send for an officer?” “An officer!” I exclaimed. “Is it possible

you entertain a doubt that your father’s death resulted from natural

causes?” She looked at me a moment fixedly, and then said deliberately:

“My father was murdered!” I was so surprised and pained that, for a

moment, I could not reply, and no one else sought to break the silence.

Maitland, as if Gwen’s last remark had given rise to a sudden

determination, glided to the body. He examined the throat, raised the

right hand and looked at the fingers: then he stepped back a little and

wrote something in his note-book. This done, he tried the folding doors

and found them locked on the inside; then the two windows on the south

side of the room, which he also found fastened. He opened the hall door

slightly and the hinges creaked noisily, of all of which he made a

note. Then taking a rule from his pocket he went to the east window, and

measured the opening, and then the distance between this window and

the chair in which the old gentleman had sat, recording his results as

before. His next act astonished me not a little and had the effect of

recalling me to my senses. With his penknife he cut a circle in the

carpet around each leg of the chair on which the body rested. He

continued his examinations with quiet thoroughness, but I ceased now

to follow him closely, since I had begun to feel the necessity of

convincing Gwen of her error, and was casting about for the best way to

do so.

“My dear Miss Darrow,” I said at length; “you attach too much importance

to the last words of your father, who, it is clear, was not in his

right mind. You must know that he has, for some months, had periods

of temporary aberration, and that all his delusions have been of a

sanguinary nature. Try to think calmly,” I said, perceiving from her

expression that I had not shaken her conviction in the least. “Your

father said he had been stabbed. You must see that such a thing is

physically impossible. Had all the doors and windows been open, no

object so large as a man could possibly have entered or left the room

without our observing him; but the windows were closed and fastened,

with the exception of the east window, which, as you may see for

yourself, is open some six inches or so, in which position it is secured

by the spring fastening. The folding doors are locked on the inside and

the only possible means of entrance, therefore, would have been by the

hall door. Directly in front of that, between it and your father, sat

Mr. Maitland and myself. You see by my chair that I was less than two

feet from the door. It is inconceivable that, in that half-light, anyone

could have used that entrance and escaped observation. Do you not see

how untenable your idea is? Had your father been stabbed he would have

bled, but I am as certain as though I had made a thorough examination

that there is not so much as a scratch anywhere upon his body.” Gwen

heard me through in silence and then said wearily, in a voice which had

now neither intensity nor elasticity, “I understand fully the apparent

absurdity of my position, yet I know my father was murdered. The wound

which caused his death has escaped your notice, but--”

“My dear Miss Darrow,” I interrupted, “there is no wound, you may be

sure of that!” For the first time since Darrow’s death Maitland spoke.

“If you will look at the throat a little more closely, you will see what

may be a wound,” he said, and went on quietly with his examinations.

He was right; there was a minute abrasion visible. The girl’s quick

observation had detected what had escaped me, convinced as I was that

there was nothing to be found by a scrutiny however close.

Gwen now transferred her attention to Maitland, and asked: “Had not one

of us better go for an officer?” Maitland, whose power of concentration

is so remarkable as on some occasions to render him utterly oblivious of

his surroundings, did not notice the question and Browne replied to it

for him. “I should be only too happy to fetch an officer for you, if you

wish,” he said. Have you ever noticed how acute the mind is for trifles

and slight incongruities when under the severe tension of such a shock

as we had experienced? Such attacks, threatening to invade and forever

subjugate our happiness, seem to have the effect of so completely

manning the ramparts of our intellect the nothing, however trivial,

escapes observation. Gwen’s father, her only near relative, lay cold

before her,--his death, from her standpoint, the most painful of

mysteries,--and yet the incongruity of Browne’s “only too happy” did

not escape her, as was evident by the quick glance and sudden relaxation

of the mouth into the faintest semblance of a smile. All this was

momentary and, I doubt not, half unconscious. She replied gravely:

“I would indeed be obliged if you would do so.”

Maitland, who had now finished his examination, noticed that Browne was

about to depart. When the artist would have passed him on his way to the

hall door, he placed his hand upon that gentleman’s shoulder, saying:

“Pardon me, sir, but I would strongly urge that you do not leave the

room!”

Browne paused. Both men stood like excited animals at gaze.

CHAPTER III

Nothing is so full of possibilities as the seemingly impossible.

Maitland’s request that Browne should not leave the room seemed to us

all a veritable thunderbolt. It impressed me at the time as being a

thinly veneered command, and I remember fearing lest the artist should

be injudicious enough to disregard it. If he could have seen his own

face for the next few moments, he would have had a lesson in expression

which years of portrait work may fail to teach him. At length the

rapidly changing kaleidoscope of his mind seemed to settle, to group its

varied imaginings about a definite idea,--the idea that he had been

all but openly accused, in the presence of Miss Darrow, of being

instrumental in her father’s death. For a moment, as he faced Maitland,

whom he instinctively felt to be a rival, he looked so dark and sinister

that one could easily have believed him capable of almost any crime.

Gwen was no less surprised than the rest of us at Maitland’s

interference, but she did not permit it to show in her voice as she said

quietly: “Mr. Browne has consented to go for an officer.” As I felt sure

she must have thought Maitland already knew this, as anyone else must

have heard what had passed, I looked upon her remark as a polite way of

saying:

“I am mistress here.”

Maitland apparently so regarded it, for he replied quickly: “I hope you

will not think me officious, or unmindful of your right to dictate in a

matter so peculiarly your own affair. My only desire is to help you. Mr.

Browne’s departure would still further complicate a case already far

to difficult of solution. My legal training has given me some little

experience in these matters, and I only wish that you may have the

benefit thereof. It is now nearly three-quarters of an hour since your

father’s death, and, I assure you, time at this particular juncture may

be of the utmost importance. Not a moment should be wasted in needless

discussion. If you will consent to despatch a servant to the police

station I will, in due time, explain to you why I have taken the liberty

of being so insistent on this point.”

He had hardly ceased speaking before Gwen rang for a servant. She

hurriedly told him what had transpired and sent him to the nearest

police station. As this was but a few rods away and the messenger was

fleet of foot, an officer was soon upon the scene. “We were able,” he

said to us generally as he entered the room, “to catch Medical Examiner

Ferris by ‘phone at his home in F-- Street, and he will be here

directly. In the meantime I have been sent along merely to see that the

body is not moved before his examination and that everything in the room

remains exactly as it was at the time of the old gentleman’s death. Did

I not understand,” he said to Maitland in an undertone, “that there is a

suspicion of foul play?”

“Yes,” replied George, “that is one explanation which certainly will

have to be considered.”

“I thought I heard the Cap’n say ‘murder’ when he ‘phoned in town for

some specials. They’re for detective work on this case, I reckon. Hello!

That sounds like the Doctor’s rig.”

A moment later the bell rang and Dr. Ferris entered the room.

“Ah, Doctor,” he said extending his hand to me, “what have we here?”

Before I could answer he had noticed Maitland and advanced to shake

hands with him.

“Is this indeed so serious as I have been told?” he asked, after his

greeting.

“It seems to me likely,” replied Maitland slowly, “to develop into the

darkest mystery I have ever known.”

“Hum!” replied the Examiner. “Has the body been moved or the disposition

of its members altered?”

“Not since I arrived,” replied Officer Barker.

“And before?” queried Dr. Ferris, turning to Maitland.

“Everything is absolutely intact. I have made a few notes and

measurements, but I have disturbed nothing,” replied Maitland.

“Good,” said the Examiner. “May I see those notes before I go? You were

on that Parker case and you have, you know, something of a reputation

for thoroughness. Perhaps you may have noted something that would escape

me.”

“The notes, Doctor, are at your service,” George replied.

Dr. Ferris’ examination of the body was very thorough, yet, since it was

made with the rapid precision which comes from extended practice, it was

soon over. Short as it was, however, it was still an ordeal under which

Gwen suffered keenly, to judge from her manner.

The Examiner then took Maitland aside, looked at his notes, and

conversed earnestly with him in an undertone for several minutes. I do

not know what passed between them. When he left, a few moments later,

Officer Barker accompanied him.

As soon as the door closed behind them Gwen turned to Maitland.

“Did he give you his opinion?” she asked with a degree of interest which

surprised me.

“He will report death as having resulted from causes at present

unknown,” rejoined Maitland.

Gwen seemed greatly relieved by this answer, though I confess I was

utterly at a loss to see why she should be.

Observing this change in her manner Maitland approached her, saying:

“Will you now permit me to explain my seeming rudeness in interfering

with your plan to make Mr. Browne your messenger, and at the same time

allow me to justify myself in the making of yet another request?”

Gwen bowed assent and he proceeded to state the following case as coolly

and accurately as if it were a problem in geometry.

“Mr. Darrow,” he began, “has just died under peculiar circumstances.

Three possible views of the case at once suggest themselves. First: his

death may have been due to natural causes and his last expressions the

result of an hallucination under which he was labouring. Second: he may

have committed suicide, as the result, perhaps, of a mania which in that

case would also serve to explain his last words and acts; or,--you

will pardon me, Miss Darrow,--these last appearances may have been

intentionally assumed with a view to deceiving us. The officers you have

summoned will not be slow in looking for motives for such a deception,

and several possible ones cannot fail at once to suggest themselves to

them. Third: your father may have been murdered and his last expressions

a more or less accurate description of the real facts of the case. It

seems to me that these three theories exhaust the possibilities of the

case. Can anyone suggest anything further?” And he paused for a reply.

“It is clear,” replied Mr. Herne with portly deliberation, “that all

deaths must be either natural or unnatural; and equally clear that when

unnatural the agent, if human, must be either the victim himself, or

some person external to him.”

“Precisely so,” continued Maitland. “Now our friend, the Doctor,

believes that Mr. Darrow’s death resulted from natural causes. The

official authorities will at first, in all probability, agree with him,

but it is impossible to tell what theory they will ultimately adopt. If

sufficient motive for the act can be found, some are almost certain to

adopt the suicide theory. Miss Darrow has expressed her conviction that

we are dealing with a case of murder. Mr. Browne and Mr. Herne have

expressed no opinion on the subject, so far as I am aware.”

At this point Gwen, with an eagerness she had not before displayed,--or

possibly it was nervousness,--exclaimed: “And your own view of the

case?” “I believe,” Maitland replied deliberately, “that your father’s

death resulted from poison injected into the blood; but this is a matter

so easily settled that I prefer not to theorise upon it. There are

several poisons which might have produced the effects we have observed.

If, however, I am able to prove this conjecture correct I have still

only eliminated one of the three hypotheses and resolved the matter to

a choice between the suicide and murder theories, yet that is something

gained. It is because I believe it can be shown death did not result

from natural causes that I have so strongly urged Mr. Browne not to

leave the room.”

“Pardon me, sir!” ejaculated Browne, growing very dark and threatening.

“You mean to insinuate--” “Nothing,” continued Maitland, finishing his

sentence for him, and then quietly ignoring the interruption. “As I have

already said, I am somewhat familiar with the usual methods of ferreting

out crime. As a lawyer, and also as a chemical expert, I have listened

to a great deal of evidence in criminal cases, and in this and other

ways, learned the lines upon which detectives may confidently be

expected to act, when once they have set up an hypothesis. The means

by which they arrive at their hypotheses occasionally surpass all

understanding, and we have, therefore, no assurance as to the view they

will take of this case. The first thing they will do will be to make

what they will call a ‘thorough examination’ of the premises; but a

study of chemistry gives to the word ‘thorough’ a significance of which

they have no conception. It is to shorten this examination as much

as possible,--to prevent it from being more tiresome to you than is

absolutely necessary,” he said to Gwen, “that I have taken the liberty

of ascertaining and recording most of the data the officers will

require.”

“Believe me,” Gwen said to him in an undertone not intended for the rest

of us, though we heard it, “I am duly grateful for your consideration

and shall find a fitting time to thank you.”

With no other reply than a deprecating gesture, Maitland continued:

“Now let us look at the matter from the standpoint of the officers. They

must first determine in their own minds how Mr. Darrow met his death.

This will constitute the basis of their first hypothesis. I say ‘first’

because they are liable to change it at any moment it seems to them

untenable. If they conclude that death resulted from natural causes, I

shall doubtless be able to induce them to waive that view of the case

until I have been given time to prove it untenable--if I can--and to act

for the present upon one of the other two possible theories. It appears,

from our present knowledge of the case, that, whichever one of these

they choose, the same difficulty will confront them.”

Gwen looked at him inquiringly and he continued, answering the question

in her eyes:

“This is what I mean. Your father, whether he committed suicide or

was murdered, in all probability met his death through that almost

imperceptible wound under his chin. This wound, so far as I have yet

been able to examine it without a glass, was made with a somewhat blunt

instrument, able, apparently, to little more than puncture the skin and

draw a drop or so of blood. Of course, on such a theory, death must have

resulted from poisoning. The essential point is: Where is the instrument

that inflicted the wound?”

“Might it not be buried in the flesh?” Gwen asked.

“Possibly, but as I have not been able to find it I cannot believe it

very likely, though closer search may reveal it,” replied Maitland.

“Your father’s right forefinger,” he continued, “is slightly stained

with blood, but the wound is of a nature which could not have been

caused by a finger nail previously poisoned. Since we know he pressed

his hand to his throat this blood-stain makes no more strongly toward

the truth of the suicide theory than it does toward that of the murder

hypothesis. Suppose now, for we must look at all sides of the question,

the officers begin to act upon the assumption that murder has been

committed. What will they then do? They will satisfy themselves that

the east window was opened six and three-quarters inches and securely

fastened in that position; that the two south windows were closed

and fastened and that the blinds thereof were also closed. They will

ascertain the time when death occurred,--we can easily tell them,--and

this will show them that neither of the blinds on the south side could

have been opened without so increasing the light in the room as to be

sure to attract our attention. They will learn also that the folding

doors were locked, as they are now, on this side and that these two

gentlemen [indicating Browne and Herne] sat against them. They will then

turn to the hall door as the only possible means of entrance and I shall

tell them that the Doctor and I sat directly in front of this door and

between it and Mr. Darrow. I have taken the liberty to cut the carpet to

mark the positions of our chairs. In view of all these facts what must

they conclude? Simply this: no one entered the room, did the deed, and

then left it, at least not without being observed.” “But surely,” I

ventured to suggest, “you do not think they will presume to question the

testimony of all of us that no one was observed.”

“That is all negative evidence,” he replied, “and does not conclusively

prove that another might not have observed what we failed to detect.

However, it is all so self-evident that they will not question it. I

know so well their methods of reasoning that I am already prepared to

refute their conclusions at every point, without, I regret to say, being

myself able to solve the mystery, though I may say in passing that I

purposely am refraining from formulating any theory whatever until I

have ascertained everything which it is possible to learn in the matter.

In this way I hope to avoid the error into which the detective is so

prone to fall. Once you set up an hypothesis you unconsciously, and in

spite of yourself, accentuate unduly the importance of all data making

toward that hypothesis, while, on the other hand you either utterly

neglect, misconstrue, or fail to fully appreciate, the evidence

oppugnant to your theory. In chemical research I gather the material for

an entire series of experiments before performing any, so that the first

few shall not, either by satisfying or discouraging me, cause me to

leave the bush half beaten.

“Let us see how, from the officers’ standpoint, the murder hypothesis

now stands. No assassin, it will be clear to them, could have entered or

left this room unobserved. If, therefore, a man did enter the room and

kill our friend, we, all of us, must be his accomplices.” This remark

drew some sort of exclamatory protest from every other person in the

room save Browne.

“Ah, that is probably the true solution,” said the artist with

ill-concealed disgust.

This remark and the tone in which it was uttered would have been

discourteous under any circumstances; at this particular time and in the

painful situation in which we all found ourselves it was boorish almost

beyond endurance.

There was nothing in Maitland’s manner to indicate that he had heard

Browne’s remark, as he quietly continued:

“You see this cold-blooded view, the mere statement of which causes you

all to shudder,--the more so because one of our number is the daughter

of the dead man,--is not to be entertained a moment and is only

mentioned to show the logical chain which will force the officers into

the certain conviction that no assassin did enter or leave this room.

What, then, remains of their theory? Two possibilities. First, the

murderer may have done the deed without entering. If so, it is clear

that he must have made use of the partly-opened window. This seems so

likely that they will seize upon it with avidity. At first they will

suggest that the assassin reached in at the window and struck his victim

as he sat by it. This, they will urge, accounts for our not finding the

weapon, and they will be so sure that this is the correct solution of

the problem that I shall probably have to point out to them its patent

absurdity. This illustrates the danger of forming an hypothesis from

imperfect data. Remind them that Mr. Darrow did not sit by the window,

but eight feet three and one-half inches from it, in almost the exact

centre of the room, and their theory falls to the ground, only to be

hastily replaced, as a drowning man catches at a straw, by a slightly

varied theory. If the victim sat that distance from the window, they

will inform us, it is clear the murderous implement must have been

thrown or shot at him by the assassin.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Herne, “though I had not thought of that theory it

seems to me so plausible, now that you mention it, that I think the

officers will show rare acumen if they adopt it. Very properly may they

hold that some projectile might have been shot through the partly opened

window and none of us have detected the act.”

“Ah, yes,” rejoined Maitland; “but when I ask them where this implement

is under this assumption, and remind them of what I shall already have

told them, viz., that Mr. Darrow sat back to the window as well as

over eight feet from it, and sat in a chair, the solid back of which

extended, like a protecting shield, fully six inches above the top of

his head, they will find it difficult to show how, unless projectiles

travel in sharp curves or angles, a man in this position could thus

receive a wound directly beneath his chin, a wound so slight as not to

penetrate the thyroid cartilage immediately under it.

“The abandonment of this hypothesis will force them to relinquish the

idea that the murder was committed from without. What then remains? Only

the second alternative. They must either give up altogether the idea

of murder, or have recourse to what is known as the theory of exclusive

opportunity.”

“Theory of exclusive opportunity,” repeated Gwen, as a puzzled look

overspread her countenance. “I--I fear I do not quite understand what

you mean.”

“Pardon me, Miss Darrow, for not making my meaning clearer to you,”

said Maitland with a deferential inclination of the head. “The theory

of exclusive opportunity, to state it plainly in this case, means simply

this: if Mr. Darrow were murdered, some one of us five, we being the

only ones having an opportunity to do the deed, must be the assassin.

Whether this view be taken, or that of suicide, it becomes of paramount

importance to find the weapon. Do you not now see why I objected to

having anyone leave the room? If, as appears likely from my search, the

weapon is not to be found, and if, as I feel reasonably certain, either

the suicide or the murder theory be substantiated, then, anyone who left

the room before official search was made would be held to have taken

the weapon with him and disposed of it, because his would have been the

exclusive opportunity of so doing. Someone must have disposed of it,

and no one else had a chance to do so; that would be the way it would

be stated. But, since no one of us has left the room, a thorough search

both of it and of our persons, must convince the officers that we,

at least, are not responsible for the fact that the weapon is not

forthcoming.”

Maitland paused and looked at Browne as if he expected him to speak, but

that gentleman only shut his square jaws the more firmly together and

held his peace,--at least in so far as words were concerned. If looks,

like actions, “speak louder than words,” this black visage with its two

points of fire made eloquent discourse. I charged all this display of

malice to jealousy. It is not altogether pleasant to be placed at a

disadvantage before the one being whose good opinion one prizes above

all things else,--that is to say, I have read that such is the case. I

do not consider my own views upon such matters expert testimony. In all

affairs of the heart my opinions cease to have weight at exactly the

point where that organ ceases to be a pump.

Even Gwen, I think, noticed Browne’s determined silence, for she said to

Maitland:

“I am very grateful that your forethought prevented me from causing Mr.

Browne even temporary annoyance by making him my messenger.”

She paused a moment and then continued:

“You were speaking of the officers’ theories. When they have convinced

themselves that no one of us has removed the weapon, what then?”

“In my opinion,” said Maitland, “they will ultimately fall back upon

the suicide theory, but they must find the weapon here before they can

substantiate it; for if it be not here someone must have taken it away

and that someone could have only been the one who used it--the assassin,

in short--but here are the officers. Let each one of us insist upon

being searched. They can send to the station for a woman to search you,”

he said in an undertone to Gwen and then added: “I trust you will

pardon my suggesting a course which, in your case, seems so utterly

unnecessary, but, believe me, there are urgent reasons for it which I

can explain later. If we would hope to solve this mystery, everything

depends upon absolute thoroughness at this juncture.”

“I should evince but poor appreciation,” Gwen replied, “of the

ability you have already shown should I fail to follow your slightest

suggestion. It is all I can offer you by way of thanks for the kind

interest you have taken.”

The return of Officer Barker, accompanied by three other men, now

changed the tide of conversation. Maitland advanced and shook hands

with one whom he introduced as Mr. Osborne, and this gentleman in turn

introduced his brother officer, a Mr. Allen, and M. Godin, a special

detective.

Osborne impressed me as a man of only mediocre ability, thoroughly

imbued with the idea that he is exceptionally clever. He spoke loudly

and, I thought, a bit ostentatiously, yet withal in a manner so frank

and hearty that I could not help liking the fellow.

M. Godin, on the contrary, seemed retiring almost to the point of

self-abnegation. He said but little, apparently preferring to keep

in the background, where he could record his own observations in his

note-book without too frequent interruption. His manner was polished

in the extreme, and so frank withal that he seemed to me like a man of

glass through whom every thought shone unhindered. I wondered how

one who seemed powerless to conceal his own emotions should possess

a detective’s ability to thread his way through the dark and hidden

duplicity of crime. When he spoke it was in a low, velvety, and soothing

voice, that fell upon the ear with an irresistible charm. When Osborne

would make some thoughtless remark fraught with bitterness for Gwen,

such an expression of pain would flit across M. Godin’s fine face as

one occasionally sees in those highly organised and sympathetic

natures,---usually found among women if a doctor’s experience may be

trusted,--which catch the throb of another’s hurt, even as adjacent

strings strive to sing each other’s songs.

M. Godin seemed to me more priest than detective. His clean-shaven face,

its beautifully chiselled features suffused with that peculiar pallor

which borrows the transparency of marble; the large, limpid brown eyes

and the delicate, kindly mouth--all these, combined with a faultless

manner and a carriage suggestive of power in reserve, so fascinated

me that I found myself watching him continually. I remember saying to

myself: “What a rival he would make in a woman’s affections!”

At just that time he was looking at Gwen with tender, solicitous

sympathy written in every feature, and that doubtless suggested my

thought.

Mr. Allen was even more ordinary than Mr. Osborne in manner and

appearance. I do not presume to judge his real merits, for I did not

notice him sufficiently to properly portray him to you, even if I had

the gift of description, which I think you will admit I have not. He

lives in my memory only as a something tall, spare, coarse of texture,

red, hairy, and redolent of poor tobacco.

How different men are! (Of course women are all alike!) While Osborne,

like a good-natured bumble-bee, was buzzing noisily about, as though

all the world were his clover-blossom; and Allen, so far as I know, was

doing nothing; M. Godin, alert and keen despite his gentleness and a

modesty which kept him for the most part unobtrusively in the shadow of

his chosen corner, was writing rapidly in a note-book and speaking

no word. It seemed as if nothing escaped him. Clearly he was there

to enlighten himself rather than others. At length, pausing to make a

measurement, he noticed my gaze and said to me in an undertone, as he

glanced solicitously at Gwen lest she should hear:

“Pardon me, but did any of you observe anything, at or about the time

of Mr. Darrow’s death, which impressed you as singular,--any noise, any

shadow, any draught or change of temperature, say a rushing or I might

say swishing sound,--anything, in fact, that would seem to you as at all

unusual?”

“Nothing whatever,” I replied. “Everything seemed perfectly normal and

commonplace.”

“Hum! Strange!” he said, and returned to his notes.

I felt sure M. Godin had had a theory and that my testimony had not

strengthened it, but he did not volunteer any information, neither did

he take part in the conversation of his companions, and so my curiosity

remained ungratified. It was clear that M. Godin’s methods were very

different from those of Osborne and Allen.

I need not weary you by further narrating what occurred at this official

examination. Suffice it to say that, with one or two minor exceptions,

Osborne and Allen followed the precise course of reasoning prophesied

by Maitland, and, as for M. Godin, he courteously, but firmly, held his

peace. The two officers did not, however, lean as strongly to the theory

that death resulted from natural causes as Maitland had anticipated,

and, I think, this surprised him. He had already told them that

he expected to be able to show death to have resulted from poison

hypodermically applied, and, as I overheard a remark made by Osborne

to Allen, I readily understood their speedy abandonment of their

natural-death theory. They were engaged in verifying Maitland’s

measurement of the east side of the room when Osborne said softly to his

companion: “He has figured in several of my cases as a chemical expert,

and when he expresses an opinion on a matter it’s about the same as

proved. He’s not the kind that jumps in the dark. He’s a lawyer as well

as chemist and knows what’s evidence, so I reckon we’d better see if we

can make anything out of the suicide and murder theories.”

Maitland had asked them to send to the station for a woman to search

Gwen and she had just arrived. We all requested that a most thorough

examination should now be made to assure the officers that no one of us

possessed the missing weapon. This done, the officers and departed for

the night, assuring Gwen that there was nothing further to be done till

morning, and Osborne, doubtless with a view to consoling her, said: “It

may be a relief to you, miss, to know that there is scarcely a doubt

that your father took his own life.” This had an effect upon Gwen very

different from that which had been intended. Her face contracted, and it

was plain to see she was beginning to think everyone was determined to

force a falsehood upon her. Herne and Browne also prepared to take their

leave. A glance from Maitland told me he wished me to remain with him a

moment after the others had departed, and I accordingly did so.

When we were alone with Gwen he said to her: “I think I understand your

feeling with regard to Mr. Osborne’s remark, as well as your conviction

that it does not represent the truth. I foresaw they would come to this

conclusion, and know very well the pains they will take to prove their

hypothesis.” “Can nothing be done?” she asked beseechingly. “It is

that of which I wish to speak,” he replied. “If you have sufficient

confidence in me to place the case in my hands, I will do everything in

my power to establish the truth,--on one condition,” and he glanced

at her face, now pale and rigid from her long-continued effort of

self-control. “And that condition is?” she said quickly. “That you

follow my directions and permit me to order your movements in all

things, so long as the case remains in my hands; if at any time I seek

to abuse your faith, you are as free to discharge me as if I were a paid

detective.” Gwen looked searchingly at him; then, extending her hand to

him, she said impulsively: “You are very kind; I accept the condition.

What shall I do?”

I tried to catch Maitland’s eye to tell him what he should counsel her,

but a man with his ability to observe conditions and grasp situations

can very well do without prompting. “First,” he said, “you must return

home with the Doctor and spend the rest of the night with his sister;

I shall stay here until morning; and second, I desire that you use your

utmost endeavour to keep the incidents of this evening out of your mind.

You cannot, of course, forget your loss, unless you sleep,”--and he gave

me a look which said: “I depend on you to see to that,”--“but you must

not continually re-enact the scene in imagination, In the morning the

Doctor will come here to bring me my camera, microscope, and a few

things I shall require “--and he passed me a list he had written.

“If you have slept well you can be of considerable service, and may

accompany him--if not, you must remain quietly at his house.” With

this he turned to me, and said: “She is making a condenser of herself,

Doctor, and will soon break through the insulation. Sparks will be

dangerous--you must secure the brush effect.” He spoke quickly, and

used electrical terms, that she might not understand him, but either

he failed of his purpose, or the observation she immediately made was

a strange coincidence. I believe she understood, for, while young

women educated by their mothers are usually ignorant upon all the more

masculine subjects, those who have long been their father’s companions

are ever prone to startle one with the most unexpected flashes of

intelligence. “I am in rather a high state of tension now,” she said,

turning calmly to Maitland; “but when alone the expression which

has been denied me here will afford relief.” Maitland glanced at

her quickly, and then at me, and I knew he was wondering if she had

understood. Then he said: “It is getting late. I shall expect you to

sleep well and to come in the morning. Please say to the servants as you

go that I shall stay here all night, and that no one must enter without

permission. Good-night.” She held out her hand to him, but made no

reply; then she fervently kissed her father’s lips, and together we left

the chamber of death.

CHAPTER IV

Death speaks with the tongue of Memory, and his ashen hand reaches

out of the great unknown to seize and hold fast our plighted souls.

What Maitland’s reason was for spending the night with the dead body of

Darrow, or how he busied himself until morning, I do not know. Perhaps

he desired to make sure that everything remained untouched, or, it may

be, that he chose this method of preventing Gwen from performing a vigil

by the body. I thought this latter view very probable at the time, as

I had been singularly impressed with the remarkable foresight my

friend had displayed in so quickly and adroitly getting Gwen away from

everything connected with her father’s sad and mysterious death.

Arriving at my house my sister took an early opportunity to urge upon

Gwen a glass of wine, in which I had placed a generous sedative. The

terrible tension soon began to relax, and in less than half an hour she

was sleeping quietly. I dreaded the moment when she should awake and the

memory of all that had happened should descend like an avalanche upon

her. I told my sister that this would be a critical moment, cautioning

her to stay by Gwen and to give her, immediately upon her arising,

a draught I had prepared for the purpose of somewhat deadening her

sensibilities. I arose early, and went to Maitland’s laboratory to

collect the things he desired. When I returned Gwen was awake, and to

my intense gratification in even a better condition than I had dared to

hope.

It was quite late when we reached her house, and Maitland had evidently

been at work several hours. He looked sharply at Gwen when she

entered, and seemed much pleased at her condition. “You have obeyed

my instructions, I see, and slept,” he said, as he gave her his hand.

“Yes,” she replied, “I was very tired, and the doctor’s cordial quite

overcame me;” and she cast an inquiring glance at the network of white

string which Maitland had stretched across the carpet, dividing it into

squares like an immense checker-board. In reply to her questioning look,

he said: “French detectives are the most thorough in the world, and I am

about to make use of their method of instituting an exhaustive search.

Each one of the squares formed by these intersecting strings is

numbered, and represents one square foot of carpet, the numbers running

from one to two hundred and eighty-eight. Every inch of every one of

these squares I shall examine under a microscope, and anything found

which can be of any possible interest will be carefully preserved, and

its exact location accurately marked upon this chart I have prepared,

which, as you will see, has the same number of squares as the room, the

area of each square being reduced from one square foot to one square

inch. You will note that I have already marked the location of all

doors, windows, and furniture. The weapon, if there be one, may be very

minute, but if it be on the floor we may be assured the microscope will

find it. The walls of the room, especially any shelving projections, and

the furniture, I shall examine with equal thoroughness, though I have

now some additional reasons for believing the weapon is not here.”

“Have you discovered anything new?” Gwen exclaimed, unable to control

the excitement caused by this last remark. “You must pardon me,”

Maitland rejoined, “if I ask you and the Doctor a question before

replying.” She nodded assent, and he continued: “I wish to know if you

agree with me that we shall be more likely to arrive at a solution of

the problem before us if we keep our own counsel than if we take

the officers of the law, or, for that matter, anyone else, into our

confidence. You undoubtedly noticed how carefully M. Godin kept his own

counsel. Official methods, and the hasty generalisations which form a

part thereof--to say nothing of the petty rivalries and the passion for

notoriety--can do much to hinder our own work, and, I believe, nothing

to help it. What say you?” “That we keep our work to ourselves,” Gwen

quickly rejoined, and I signified that I was of the same opinion.

“Then,” Maitland continued, “I may say this in answer to your question.

I have ascertained something which may bear upon the case in hand. You

will remember that part of the gravel for redressing the croquet ground

was dumped under the east window there. The painters, I learn, finished

painting that side of the house yesterday forenoon before the gravel was

removed and placed upon the ground, so that any footprints they may have

made in it while about their work were obliterated. As you see, there

was loose gravel left under the window to the depth of about two

inches. I carefully examined this gravel this morning--there were no

footprints.”

I glanced at Gwen; her face had a set expression, and she was deathly

pale. “There were, however,” he continued, “places where the gravel

had been tamped down as if by the pressure of a rectangular board. I

examined these minutely and, by careful measurement and close scrutiny

of some peculiar markings suggestive of the grain of wood, satisfied

myself that the depressions in the gravel were made by two, and not, as

I had at first thought, by one small piece of wood. I found further that

these two boards had always borne certain relative relations to each

other, and that when one had been turned around the other had undergone

a similar rotation. This last is, in my mind, a most important point,

for, when coupled with the fact that between any two impressions of the

same board the distance was sensibly constant, and was that of a short

stride, there could be no reasonable doubt but these boards had been

worn upon some person’s feet. They could not have been thrown down

merely to be stepped upon, for, in that case, they would not have borne

fixed relations to each other--probably would not have been turned end

for end at all--and certainly, both would not always have happened to

get turned at the same time. I procured a board of the combined area

of the two supposed to have made the impressions in the gravel, and

weighted it down until, as nearly as I could measure, it impacted the

soil to the same extent the others had. The weight was one hundred and

thirty-five pounds, which is about right for a man five feet five inches

tall. The position of the depressions in the gravel indicated a stride

just about right for a man of that height.

“There was one other most important discovery which I made after I

had divided the impressions into two classes--according as they were

produced by the right or left board--which was that when the right foot

was thrown forward the stride was from three to four inches longer

than when the left foot led. Directly under the window there was a deep

impression in the sand. I took a plaster cast of it, and here it is,” he

said, producing an excellent facsimile of a closed hand. “There can

be little doubt,” he continued, “from the position occupied by the

depression, of which this is a reverse copy, that it was either

accidentally made by someone who, stooping before the east window to

avoid obstructing its light, suddenly lost his balance and regained his

equilibrium by thus thrusting out his hand, or--and this seems far more

likely to me--that the hand was deliberately placed in the gravel

in order to steady its possessor while he performed some peculiar

operation.”

At this point I ventured to ask why he regarded the latter view as

so much more tenable than the former. “There are several reasons,” he

replied, “which render the view I prefer to take all but certain. First,

the impression was made by the left hand. Second, it is the impression

of a closed hand, with the upper joints of the fingers undermost. Did

you ever know one to save himself from falling by thrusting out a closed

hand? Certainly not. There is a certain amount of fear, however slight,

invariably associated with losing one’s balance. This sentiment, so far

as the hand is concerned, is expressed by opening it and spreading the

fingers. This he would instinctively have done, if falling. Then there

is the position of the impression relative to the window and some slight

testimony upon the sill and glass, for the thorough investigation

of which I have been obliged to await my microscope. I have worked

diligently, but that is all I have been able to accomplish.”

“All!” exclaimed Gwen, regarding him with ill-concealed admiration. “It

seems to me a very great deal. The thoroughness, the minuteness of it

all, overwhelms me; but, tell me, have your discoveries led you to any

conclusion?” “No,” he replied, “nothing definite yet; I must not allow

myself to become wedded to any theory, so long as there is anything

further to be learned. If I were to hazard a few idle guesses, I should

say your father was murdered in some mysterious way--by a person about

five feet five inches tall, weighing, say, one hundred and thirty-five

pounds, and having a lame leg, or, perhaps, one limb shorter than

the other,--at all events having some deformity or ailment causing a

variation in the length of the strides. I should guess also that this

person’s feet had some marked peculiarity, since such pains had

been taken to conceal the footprints. Then the cast of the hand here

encourages speculation. Fingers long, slim, and delicate, save at the

nails, where, with the exception of the little finger, are to be found

unmistakable signs of the habit of biting the nails,--see, here are the

hang-nails,--but, strange to say, the nail of the little finger has been

spared, and suffered to grow to an unusual length. I ask myself why this

particular nail has been so favoured, and can only answer, ‘because it

has some peculiar use.’ It is clear this is not the hand of a manual

labourer; the joints are too small, the fingers too delicate, the

texture of the skin, which is clearly visible, much too fine--in short,

wouldn’t it pass anywhere for a woman’s hand? Say a woman who bit her

nails. If it were really such there would be a pair of feminine feet

also to be concealed, and boards would do it very nicely--but this

is all guesswork, and must not be allowed to affect any subsequent

conclusions. If you will excuse me a few minutes I will use the

microscope a little on the sill of the east window before we are

interrupted by our friends the officers, who will be sure to be here

soon.”

While Maitland was thus engaged I did all in my power to distract Gwen’s

attention, as much as possible, from her father’s body. Whenever

she regarded it, the same intense and set expression overspread her

countenance as that which at first had alarmed me. I was glad when

Maitland returned from the window and began mixing some of the chemicals

I had brought him, for Gwen invariably followed all his movements, as

if her very existence depended upon her letting nothing escape her.

Maitland, who had asked me for a prescription blank, now dipped it in

the chemicals he had mixed and, this accomplished, put the paper in his

microscope box to dry.

“I have something here,” he said, “which I desire to photograph quite as

much as this room and some of its larger objects,” and he pinned a

tiny, crumpled mass against the wall, and made an exposure of it in that

condition. “Do you know what this is?” he said, as he carefully smoothed

it out for another picture. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said. “It

is plain enough under the microscope,” he continued, placing it upon

the slide, and adjusting the focus. “Would you like to examine it, Miss

Darrow?” Gwen had scarcely put her eye to the instrument before she

exclaimed: “Why, it’s a piece of thin outside bark from a twig of

alder.” Maitland’s face was a study... “Would you mind telling me,” he

said deliberately, “how you found that out so quickly?” She hesitated a

moment, and then said methodically, pointing toward the water, “I know

the alder well--our boat is moored near a clump of them.” “You are a

keen observer,” he replied, as he took the prepared paper from his box

and spread the film of bark upon it to take a blue print of it. “There

is one other object upon the sill which, unfortunately, I cannot take

away with me,” he continued, “but shall have to content myself with

photographing. I refer to a sinuous line made in the paint, while green,

and looking as if a short piece of rope, or, more properly, rubber

tubing, since there is no rope-like texture visible, had been dropped

upon it, and hastily removed--but see, here are Osborne and Allen

looking for all the world as if they were prepared to demonstrate

a fourth dimension of space. Now we shall see the suicide theory

proved--to their own satisfaction, at least. But, whatever they say,

don’t forget we are to keep our own work to ourselves.”

The two officers were alone. M. Godin had apparently decided to work by

himself. This did not in the least surprise me, since I could easily see

that he had nothing to gain by working with these two officers.

“We’ve solved the matter,” was the first thing Osborne said after

passing the time of day. “Indeed?” replied Maitland in a tone which was

decidedly ambiguous; “you make it suicide, I suppose?” “That’s just what

we make it,” returned the other. “We hadn’t much doubt of it last night,

but there were some things, such as the motive, for example, not quite

clear to us; but it is all as plain as daylight now.”

“And what says M. Godin?” asked Maitland.

Mr. Osborne burst into a loud guffaw.

“Oho, but that’s good! What says M. Godin? I say, Allen, Maitland wants

to know what ‘Frenchy’ says,” and the pair laughed boisterously. “It’s

plain enough you don’t know,” he continued, addressing Maitland. “He’s

tighter ‘n any champagne bottle you ever saw. The corkscrew ain’t

invented that’ll draw a word out of M. Godin. You saw him making notes

here last night. Well, the chances are that if this were a murder case,

which it isn’t, you’d see no more of M. Godin till he bobbed up some

day, perhaps on the other side of the earth, with a pair of twisters

on the culprit. He’s a ‘wiz,’ is M. Godin. What does he think? He knows

what he thinks, and he’s the only individual on the planet that

enjoys that distinction. I say, Allen, do you pump ‘Frenchy’ for

the gentleman’s enlightenment,” and again the pair laughed long and

heartily.

“Well, then,” said Maitland, “since we can’t have M. Godin’s views

we shall have to content ourselves with those of your more confiding

selves. Let’s hear all about the suicide theory.”

“I think,” said Osborne in an undertone, “you had better ask Miss Darrow

to withdraw for a few moments, as there are some details likely to pain

her.” This suggestion was intended only for Maitland, but the officer,

used to talking in the open air, spoke so loudly that we all overheard

him. “I thank you for your consideration,” Gwen said to him, “but I

would much prefer to remain. There can be nothing connected with this

matter which I cannot bear to hear, or should not know. Pray proceed.”

Osborne, anxious to narrate his triumph, needed no further urging. “We

felt sure,” he began, “that it was a case of suicide, but were perplexed

to know why Mr. Darrow should wish to make it appear a murder. Of

course, we thought he might wish to spare his daughter the shame such an

act would visit upon her, but when this was exchanged for the horrible

notoriety of murder, the motive didn’t seem quite sufficient, so

we looked for a stronger one--and found it.” “Ah! you are getting

interesting,” Maitland observed.

Osborne cast a furtive glance at Gwen, and then continued: “We learned

on inquiry that certain recent investments of Mr. Darrow’s had turned

out badly. In addition to this he had been dealing somewhat extensively

in certain electric and sugar stocks, and when the recent financial

crash came, he found himself unable to cover his margins, and was so

swept clean of everything. Nor is this all; he had lost a considerable

sum of money in yet another way--just how my informant would not

disclose--and all of these losses combined made his speedy failure

inevitable. Under such conditions many another man has committed

suicide, unable to face financial ruin. But this man had a daughter to

consider, and, as I have already said, he would wish to spare her the

disgrace which the taking of his own life would visit upon her, and,

more than all, would desire that she should not be left penniless. The

creditors would make away with his estate, and his daughter be left a

beggar. We could see but one way of his preventing this, and that was to

insure his life in his daughter’s favour. We instituted inquiries at the

insurance offices, and found that less than a month ago he had taken out

policies in various companies aggregating nearly fifty thousand dollars,

whereas, up to that time, he had been carrying only two thousand dollars

insurance. Why this sudden and tremendous increase? Clearly to provide

for his daughter after his act should have deprived her of his own

watchful care. And now we can plainly see why he wished his suicide to

pass for murder. He had been insured but a month, and immediate ruin

stared him in the face. His death must be consummated at once, and yet,

by our law, a man who takes his life before the payment of his second

annual insurance premium relieves the company issuing his policy of all

liability thereunder, and robs his beneficiary of the fund intended for

her. Here, then, is a sufficient motive, and nothing more is required

to make the whole case perfectly clear. Of course, it would be a little

more complete if we could find the weapon, but even without it, there

can be no doubt, in the light of our work, that John Darrow took his

own life with the intentions, and for the purposes, I have already set

forth.”

“Upon my soul, gentlemen,” exclaimed Maitland, “you have reasoned that

out well! Did you carefully read the copies of the various policies

when interrogating the companies insuring Mr. Darrow?” “Hardly,” Osborne

replied. “We learned from the officials all we needed to know, and

didn’t waste any time in gratifying idle curiosity.” A long-drawn

“hm-m” was the only reply Maitland vouchsafed to this. “We regret,”

said Osborne, addressing Gwen, “that our duty, which has compelled us to

establish the truth in this matter, has been the means of depriving you

of the insurance money which your father intended for you.” Gwen bowed,

and a slight enigmatical smile played for a moment about her lips,

but she made no other reply, and, as neither Maitland nor I encouraged

conversation, the two officers wished us a good-morning, and left the

house without further remark.

“I wish to ask you a few questions,” Maitland said to Gwen as soon as

the door had closed behind Osborne and his companion, “and I beg you

will remember that in doing so, however personal my inquiries may seem,

they have but one object in view--the solution of this mystery.” “I

have already had good proof of your singleness of purpose,” she replied.

“Only too gladly will I give you any information in my possession. Until

this assassin is found, and my father’s good name freed from the obloquy

which has been cast upon it, my existence will be but a blank,--yes,

worse, it will be an unceasing torment; for I know my father’s

spirit--if the dead have power to return to this earth--can never rest

with this weight of shame upon it.” As she spoke these words the depth

of grief she had hitherto so well concealed became visible for a moment,

and her whole frame shook as the expression of her emotion reacted upon

her. The next instant she regained her old composure, and said calmly:

“You see I have every reason to shed whatever light I can upon this dark

subject.”

“Please, then, to answer my questions methodically, and do not permit

yourself to reason why I have asked them. What was your father’s age?”

“Sixty-two.”

“Did he drink?”

“No.”

“Did he play cards?”

“Yes.”

“Poker?”

“Yes, and several other games.”

“Was he as fond of them as of croquet?”

“No; nothing pleased him as croquet did--nothing, unless it were chess.”

“Hum! Do you play chess?”

“Yes; I played a good deal with father.”

“What kind of a game did he play?”

“I do not understand you. He played a good game; my father did not enjoy

doing anything that he could not do well.”

“I mean to ask if his positions were steadily sustained--or if, on

the other hand, his manoeuvres were swift, and what you might call

brilliant.”

“I think you would call them brilliant.”

“Hum! How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Tell me your relations with your father.”

“We were most constant companions. My mother--she and my father--they

were not altogether companionable--in short, they were ill-mated,

and, being wise enough to find it out, and having no desire to longer

embitter each other’s lives, they agreed to separate when I was only

four. They parted without the slightest ill-feeling, and I remained with

father. He was very fond of me, and would permit no one else to teach

me. At seven I was drawing and painting under his guidance. At eight

the violin was put into my hands and my studies in voice began. In the

meantime father was most careful not to neglect my physical training;

he taught me the use of Indian clubs, and how to walk easily. At eight

I could walk four miles an hour without fatigue. The neighbours used to

urge that I be put to school, but my father would reply--many a time I

have heard him say it--‘a child’s brain is like a flower that blossoms

in perceptions and goes to seed in abstractions. Correct concepts are

the raw material of reason. Every desk in your school is an intellectual

loom which is expected to weave a sound fabric out of rotten raw

material. While your children are wasting their fibre in memorising the

antique errors of classical thought my child is being fitted to perceive

new truths for herself.’ It is needless to say his friends considered

these views altogether too radical. But for all that I was never sent to

school. My father’s library was always at my disposal, and I was taught

how to use it. We were constantly together, and grew so into each

other’s lives that “--but her voice failed her, and her eyes moistened.

Maitland, though he apparently did not notice her emotion, so busy was

he in making notes, quickly put a question which diverted her attention.

“Your father seemed last night to have a presentiment of some impending

calamity. Was this a common experience?”

“Of late, yes. He has told me some six or seven times of dreaming

the same dreams--a dream in which some assassin struck him out of the

darkness.” “Did you at any of these times notice anything which might

now lead you to believe this fancied repetition was the result of any

mental malady?”

“No.”

“Was his description of the dreams always the same?”

“No; never were they twice alike, save in the one particular of the

unseen assassin.”

“Hum!, Did the impression of these dreams remain long with him?”

“He never recovered from it, and each dream only accentuated his

assurance that the experience was prophetic. When once I tried to

dissuade him from this view, he said to me: ‘Gwen, it is useless; I am

making no mistake. When I am gone you will know why I am now so sure--I

cannot tell you now, it would only ‘--here he stopped short, and,

turning abruptly to me, said with a fierceness entirely alien to his

disposition: ‘Hatred is foreign to my nature, but I hate that man with a

perfect hell of loathing! Have I been a kind father to you, Gwen? If

so, promise me ‘--and he seized me by the wrist--’ promise me if I’m

murdered--I may as well say when I’m murdered--you will look upon the

man who brings my assassin to justice--the thought that he may escape is

damning--as your dearest friend on earth! You will deny him nothing.

You will learn later that I have taken care to reward him. My child, you

will owe this man a debt you can never repay, for he will have enabled

your father’s soul to find repose. I dreamed last night that I came back

from the dead, and heard my avenger ask you to be his wife. You

refused, and at your ingratitude my restless soul returned to torment

everlasting. Swear to me, Gwen, that you’ll deny him nothing,

nothing, nothing!’ I promised him, and he seemed much reassured. ‘I am

satisfied,’ he said, ‘and now can die in peace, for you are an anomaly,

Gwen,--a woman who fully knows the nature of a covenant,’ and he put his

arm about me, and drew me to him. His fierceness had subsided as quickly

as it had appeared, and he was now all tenderness.”

Maitland, who appeared somewhat agitated by her recital, said to her:

“After the exaction of such a promise you have, of course, no doubt that

your father was the victim of a mental malady--at least, at such times

as those of which you speak?”

Gwen replied deliberately: “Indeed, I have grave doubts. My father

was possessed by a strange conviction, but I never saw anything which

impressed me as indicating an unsound mind. I am, of course, scarcely

fitted to judge in such matters.”

Maitland’s face darkened as he asked: “You would not have me infer that

you would consider your promise in any sense binding?”

“And why not?” she ejaculated in astonishment.

“Because,” he continued, “the request is so unnatural as to be in itself

sufficient evidence that it was not made by a man in his right mind.”

“I cannot agree with you as to my father’s condition,” Gwen replied

firmly; “yet you may be right; I only know that I, at least, was in

my right mind, and that I promised. If it cost me my life to keep

that pledge, I shall not hesitate a moment. Have you forgotten that my

father’s last words were, ‘remember your promise’?” She glanced up

at Maitland as she said this, and started a little as she saw the

expression of pain upon his face. “I seem to you foolishly deluded,” she

said apologetically; “and you are displeased to see that my purpose is

not shaken. Think of all my father was to me, and then ask yourself if

I could betray his faith. The contemplation of the subject is painful at

best; its realisation may, from the standpoint of a sensitive woman,

be fraught with unspeakable horror,--I dare not think of it! May we not

change the subject?”

For a long time Maitland did not speak, and I forbore to break the

silence. At last he said: “Let us hope, if the supposed assassin

be taken, the discovery may be made by someone worthy the name of

man--someone who will not permit you to sacrifice either yourself or

your money.” Gwen glanced at him quickly, for his voice was strangely

heavy and inelastic, and an unmistakable gloom had settled upon him. I

thought she was a little startled, and I was considering if I had not

better call her aside and explain that he was subject to these moods,

when he continued, apparently unaware of the impression he had made: “Do

you realise how strong a case of suicide the authorities have made out?

Like all of their work it has weak places. We must search these in order

to overthrow their conclusion. The insurance policies they were ‘too

busy’ to read we must peruse. Then, judging from your story, there

seems little doubt that your father has left some explanation of affairs

hitherto not confided to you--some document which he has reserved for

your perusal after his death. No time should be lost in settling this

question. The papers may be here, or in the hands of his attorney. Let

us search here first.”

“His private papers,” Gwen said, rising to lead the way, “are in his

desk in the study.”

“One moment, please,” Maitland interrupted, calling her back, “I have

something I have been trying to ask you for the last hour, but have

repeatedly put off. I believe your father’s death to have resulted

from poisoning. You know the result of the post-mortem inquest. It is

necessary to make an analysis of the poison, if there be any, and an

absolutely thorough microscopic examination of the wound. I--I regret to

pain you--but to do this properly it will be necessary to cut away the

wounded portion. Have we your permission to do so?”

For a moment Gwen did not answer. She fell upon her knees before her

father’s body, and kissed the cold face passionately. For the first

time since the tragedy she found relief in tears. When she arose a

great change had come over her. She was very pale and seized a chair

for support as she replied to Maitland’s question between the convulsive

sobs which she seemed powerless to check: “I--I have bidden him

good-bye. We shall but obey his command in sparing no pains to reach the

assassin. You--you have my permission to do anything--everything--that

may be--necessary to that end. I--I know you will be as gentle--” But

she could not finish her sentence. The futility of gentleness--the

realisation that her father was forever past all need of tenderness,

fell like a shroud about her soul. The awakening I had dreaded had come.

Her hand fell from the chair, she staggered, and would have fallen to

the floor had not Maitland caught her in his arms.

THE EPISODE OF THE SEALED DOCUMENT

CHAPTER 1

Father of all surveyors, Time drags his chain of rust through

every life, and only Love--unaging God of the Ages--immeasurable,

keeps his untarnished youth.

Maitland carried the unconscious girl into the study, and for some

time we busied ourselves in bringing her to herself. When this task was

accomplished we did not feel like immediately putting any further tax

upon her strength. Maitland insisted that she should rest while he and

I ransacked the desk, and, ever mindful of her promise to obey his

instructions, she yielded without remonstrance. Our search revealed the

insurance policies, and a sealed envelope bearing the inscription: “To

Miss Gwen Darrow, to be opened after the death of John Darrow,” and

three newspapers with articles marked in blue pencil. I read the first

aloud. It ran as follows:

I have reason to believe an attempt will sooner or later be made upon

my life, and that the utmost cunning will be employed to lead the

authorities astray. The search for the assassin will be long, expensive,

and discouraging--just such a task as is never successfully completed

without some strong personal incentive. This I propose to supply in

advance. My death will place in my daughter’s hands a fund of fifty

thousand dollars, to be held in trust by her, and delivered, in the

event of my being murdered, to such person or persons as shall secure

evidence leading to the conviction of the murderer.

(Signed) JOHN HINTON DARROW.

I glanced at the other two papers--the marked article was the same in

each. “I wonder what your friend Osborne would say to that,” I said to

Maitland.

“How old are the papers?” he replied.

“March 15th,--only a little over a month,” I answered.

“Let me see them, please,” he said. “Hum! All of the same date, and each

in the paid part of the paper! It is clear Mr. Darrow inserted these

singular notices himself. I will tell you what Osborne will say when he

learns of these articles. He will say they strengthen his theory; that

no sane man would publish such a thing, except as a weak attempt to

deceive the insurance companies. As for the money all being paid to the

discoverer of the assassin, instead of to his daughter, he will simply

dispose of that by saying: ‘No assassin, no reward, and the fund remains

intact.’ If now, the other papers permit Miss Darrow to use the interest

of this fund while holding the principal in trust, we do not at present

know enough of this matter to successfully refute Osborne’s reasoning.

This mystery seems to grow darker rather than lighter. The one thing

upon which we seem continually to get evidence is the question of

sanity. If Mr. Darrow’s suspicions were directed against no one in

particular, then it is clear his dreams, and all the rest of his fears

for that matter, had a purely subjective origin, which is to say that

upon this one subject, at least, he was of unsound mind.”

“I cannot think so,” Gwen interrupted. “He was so rational in everything

else.”

“That is quite possible,” I replied. “I have known people to be

monomaniacs upon the subject of water, and to go nowhere without a glass

of it in their hands. There is also a well-authenticated case of a man

who was as sane as you or I until he heard the words ‘real estate.’ One

day while quietly carving the meat at a dinner to which he had invited

several guests, a gentleman opposite him inadvertently spoke the fatal

words, when, without a word of warning, he sprang at him across the

table, using the carving-knife with all the fury of the most violent

maniac; and yet, under all other conditions, he was perfectly rational.”

“If, on the other hand,” said Maitland, continuing his remarks as if

unaware of our interruption, “Mr. Darrow’s suspicions had any foundation

in fact, it is almost certain they must have been directed against

some specific person or persons. If so, why did he not name them?--but,

stay--how do we know that he did not? Let us proceed with our

examination of the papers,” and he began perusing the insurance

policies. Neither Gwen nor I spoke till he had finished and thrown them

down, when we both turned expectantly toward him.

“All in Osborne’s favour so far,” he said. “Principal to be held in

trust by Miss Darrow under the terms of a will which we have yet to

find; the income, until the discharge of the trust, to go to Miss

Darrow. Now for this,” and he passed Gwen the sealed envelope addressed

to her.

She broke the seal with much agitation. “Shall I read it aloud?” she

asked.

We signified our desire to hear it, and she read as follows:

MY DEAR GWEN:

My forebodings have seemed to you strange and uncalled for, but

when this comes to your hand you will know whether or not they were

groundless. Of one episode in my career which shook the structure of

my being to its foundation stone, you have been carefully kept in

ignorance. It is necessary that you should know it when I am gone, and

I have accordingly committed it to this paper, which will then fall into

your hands. My early life, until two years after I married your mother,

was spent in India, the adult portion thereof being devoted to the

service of the East India Company. I had charge of a department in their

depot at Bombay. You have seen Naples. Add to the beauties of that city

the interesting and motley population of Cairo and you can form some

idea of the attractions of Bombay. I was very happy there until the

occurrence of the event I am about to narrate.

One morning, my duties calling me to one of the wharves, my attention

was attracted by a young girl dancing upon the flags by the water’s

edge. The ordinary bayadere is so common an object in India as to

attract but little notice from anyone of refined tastes, but this girl,

judging from the chaste beauty of her movements, was of a very different

type. As my curiosity drew me nearer to her she turned her face toward

me, and in that instant I knew my hour had come.

Though many years her senior she was still my first love,--the one great

passion of my life.

I do not attempt to describe her ineffable loveliness, for, like the

beauty of a flower, it was incapable of analysis. Nothing that I could

write would give you any adequate idea of this girl’s seraphic face, for

she was like unto no one you have ever seen in this cold Western world.

I watched in a wild, nervous transport, I know not how long--time and

space had no part in this new ecstasy of mine! I could think of nothing,

do nothing--only feel,--feel the hot blood deluge my brain only to fall

back in scalding torrents upon my heart with a pain that was exquisite

pleasure.

Suddenly she changed her step and executed a quick backward movement

toward the water, stopping just as her heels touched the curb at

the edge of the wharf; then forward, and again a quick return to the

backward movement, but this time she mistook the distance, her heels

struck the curb forcibly, and she was precipitated backward into the

water. For a moment I stood as one petrified, unable to reason, much

less to act; then the excited voices of the crowd recalled me. They had

thrown a rope into the water and were waiting for her to come to the

surface and grasp it. The wall from which she had fallen must have been

at least fifteen feet above the water, which was littered with broken

spars, pieces of timber, and other odd bits of wood. It seemed as if she

would never come to the surface, and when at length she did, she did not

attempt to seize the rope thrown to her, but sank without a movement.

The truth flashed upon me in an instant. She had struck her head against

some of the floating drift and was unconscious! Something must be done

at once. I seized the rope and sprang in after her, taking good care to

avoid obstructions, and although, as you know, I never learned to swim,

I succeeded in reaching her, and we were drawn up together. I bore her

in my arms into one of the storerooms close by, and, laying her upon a

bale of cotton, used such restoratives as could be quickly procured.

I was kneeling by her, my arm under her neck, in the act of raising her

head, when she opened her eyes, and fastened them, full of wonderment,

upon my face. A moment more, her memory returning to her, she made a

little movement, as if to free herself. I was too excited then to heed

it, and continued to support her head. She did not repeat the movement,

but half closed her eyes and leaned back resignedly against my arm.

If, I thought, these few minutes could be expanded into an eternity,

it would be my idea of heaven. She was recovering rapidly now and soon

raised herself into a sitting posture, saying, in very good English, “I

think I can stand now, Sahib.” I gave her my arm and assisted her to her

feet. Her hand closed upon my sleeve as if to see how wet it was, and

glancing at my dripping garments, she said simply: “You have been in the

water, Sahib, and it is to you I owe my life. I shall never forget your

kindness.” She raised her eyes to my face and met my gaze for a moment,

as she spoke. We are told that the eye is incapable of any expression

save that lent it by the lids and brow,--that the eyeball itself,

apart from its direction, and the changes of the pupil resulting from

variations in the intensity of light, can carry no message whatsoever.

This may be so, but, without any noticeable movement of the eyes that

met mine, I learned with ineffable delight that this young girl’s soul

and mine were threaded upon the same cord of destiny. My emotion so

overpowered me that I could not speak, and when my self-possession

returned the young girl had vanished.

From the height of bliss I now plunged into the abyss of despair. I had

let her go without a word. I did not even know her name. I had caught

her to myself from the ocean only to suffer her to drown herself among

the half-million inhabitants of Bombay. What must she think of me? I

asked the wharfinger if he knew her, but he had never seen her before.

All my other inquiries proved equally fruitless. I wondered if she

knew that I loved her, but hardly dared to hope she had been able to

correctly interpret my boorish conduct. I could think of but one thing

to do. If I did not know her name, neither did she know mine, and so if

she desired a further acquaintance, she, like myself, must rely upon a

chance meeting. If she had detected my admiration for her she must

know that I too would strive to meet her again. Where would she be most

likely to expect me to look for her? Clearly at the same place we had

met before, and at the same time of day. She might naturally think my

duties called me there daily at that hour. I determined to be there at

the same time the next day.

I arrived to find her there before me, anxiously peering at the

passers-by. She was certainly looking for me,--there was ecstasy in the

thought!

It is not necessary, my dear child, that I should describe the details

of our love-making, for my present purpose is not merely to interest

you, but rather to acquaint you with certain occurrences which I now

deem it wise you should know. Time only intensified our love for each

other, and for several months all went well. One serious obstacle to

our union presented itself,--that of caste. Her people, Lona said, would

never permit her to marry outside her own station in life, besides which

there was another ground upon which we might be equally sure of their

opposition. They had already chosen for her and she was betrothed to

Rama Ragobah. It is of this man that I have chiefly to speak. By birth

he was of the same Vaisya caste as Lona. Early in life his lot had

fallen among fakirs and he had acquired all their secrets. This did not

satisfy his ambitions, for he wished to be numbered among the rishis or

adepts, and subjected himself to the most horrible asceticism to qualify

himself for adeptship. His indifference to physical pain was truly

marvellous. He had rolled his naked body to the Ganges over hundreds of

miles of burning sands! He had held his hands clinched until the nails

had worn through the palm and out at the back of the hand. He had at one

time maintained for weeks a slow fire upon the top of his head, keeping

the skin burned to the skull.

When he came wooing Lona, his rigid asceticism had much relaxed, but he

would still seek to amuse her by driving knives into his body until

she would sicken at the blood, a condition of affairs which, she said,

afforded him great enjoyment. Ragobah was a man of gigantic build and

immense physical strength. His features were heavy and forbidding. You

are familiar with pictures of Nana Sahib. If I had not known this fiend

to have died while beset in a swamp, I should have mistaken Ragobah

for him. It was to such a being that Lona was betrothed in spite of the

loathing her parents knew she felt for him. She told me all this one

night at our accustomed tryst on Malabar Hill. We had chosen to meet

here on account of the beauty of the place and the seclusion it offered.

There, on bright moonlit nights, with the sea and the city below me,

the “Tower of Silence” in the Parsees’ burial plot ablaze with reflected

glory, the majestic banyan over me rustling gently in the soft sea

breeze, while Lona nestled close beside me,--the exquisite perfume of

the luxuriant garden less welcome than the delicious fragrance of

her breath,--hours fraught with years of bliss would pass as if but

pulse-beats. In the world of love the heart is the only true timepiece.

On one or two occasions Lona had thought she had been followed when

coming to meet me, and she began to conceive a strange dislike for a

little cavelike recess in the rocks just back of the tree by which we

sat. I tried on one occasion to reassure her by telling her it was so

shallow that, with the moonlight streaming into it, I could see clear

to the back wall, and arose to enter it to convince her there was no one

there, but she clung to me in terror, saying: “Don’t go! Don’t leave me!

I was foolish to mention it. I cannot account for my fear,--and yet, do

you know,” she continued in a low, frightened tone, “there is a shaft

at the back of the cave that has, they say, no bottom, but goes

down,--down,--down,---hundreds of feet to the sea?” It is useless, as

you know only too well, to strive to reason down a presentiment, and so,

instead, I sought to make use of her fear in the accomplishment of my

dearest wish. “Why need we,” I urged, “come here; why longer continue

these clandestine meetings? Let us be brave, darling, in our loves. Your

people have chosen another husband for you,--my people another wife for

me; but we are both quite able to choose for ourselves. We have done so,

and it is our most sacred duty to adhere to and consummate that choice.

Let us, I beseech you, do so without further delay. Dearest, meet me

here to-morrow night prepared for a journey. We will take the late train

for Matheron Station, where I have friends who can be trusted. We will

be married immediately upon our arrival, and can communicate by post

with our respective families, remaining away from them until they are

glad to welcome us with open arms.”

She raised some few objections to my plan and expressed some misgivings,

but she loved me and I was able to reason away the one and kiss away

the other, and with our souls upon our lips we parted for the night.

The last thing I had said to her,--I remember it as if it all happened

yesterday,--was: “Think of it, dear heart, there will be no more such

partings between us after to-night!” and she had replied by silently

nestling closer to me and twining her arms about my neck. And so we

parted on that never-to-be-forgotten night more than a score of years

ago.

The twenty-four hours intervening between this parting and our next

meeting may be passed over in silence, as nothing occurred during that

time at all essential to the purpose this narrative subserves. The

longed-for time came at last and, with a depth of happiness I had never

known before--a peace passing all understanding--I set out for Malabar

Hill. The night was perfect and the moonlight so bright I could

distinctly see the air-roots of our trysting tree when more than a

quarter of a mile away. I thought at the time how this tree, with its

crown of luxuriant foliage and its writhing roots, might well pass for

some gigantic Medusa-head with its streaming serpent-hair. As I neared

the tree Lona stepped from behind it and awaited my approach. She was

even more impatient than I, I thought, and my heart beat more wildly

than ever. “Sweet saint, have I kept you waiting?” I asked, as I came

within speaking distance of her. She stood motionless against the tree

and apparently did not hear me. I waited till I was within ten feet of

her and repeated the question, but, although she fixed her unfathomable

eyes full upon mine, she made no reply, and gave no evidence of having

heard me. I stood as if petrified. A nameless dread was settling upon

me, paralysing my faculties. She had always before sprung forward at

sight of me and thrown herself with a bewitching little pirouette into

my arms, now she stood coldly aloof, silent and motionless, on this, our

wedding night! I waited for some word of explanation, but none came. The

suspense became unbearable--I could endure it no longer!

“For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried, rushing forward to seize

her in my arms. She raised her right hand above her head and, as I had

almost reached her, threw something full in my face! Instinctively

I struck at it with my walking-stick, and it fell in the grass at my

feet,--it was a young Indian cobra--Naja tripudians--a serpent of the

deadliest sort. I did not pause to reason how this sweet angel had been

so quickly changed into a venomous fiend, although the thought that

somehow she had been led to think me false to her, and that this act

was the swift vengeance of her hot Eastern blood, flashed momentarily

through my mind,--all that could be explained as soon as I had her

nestling in my arms. I reached forward to embrace her, but she struck me

in the face and fled! For an instant my heart stood still. It seemed to

me it would never start, but it soon began to throb again like a thing

of lead, and the blood it pumped was cold, for the winter had closed

in upon it. The elasticity of my life, that ineffable resiliency of the

soul which makes us more than beasts of burden, was gone forever. An

automaton, informed only with the material life, remained,--the spirit

followed that fleeting figure down the hill. More than twenty years have

passed and still the unrewarded chase continues!

But it is to facts I have to call your attention, rather than to their

effects. A flutter of white muslin in the moonlit distance was all that

was visible of the retreating girl when I started mechanically, and

without any particular purpose in view, in pursuit of her. My path lay

by the banyan tree under which we had so often sat, but every air-root

seemed changed to a writhing serpent. As I threaded my way among them, a

man stepped from behind the trunk and disputed my passage. His gigantic

form was silhouetted against the mass of rock forming the entrance to

the little cave. The bright moonlight did what it could to illumine that

sinister face. It was Rama Ragobah! For fully a minute we stood silently

face to face, each expecting the assault of the other. It was Ragobah

who spoke first. “She is mine, body and soul; and the English cur may

find a mate in his own kennel!” He bent toward me and hissed these words

in my very face. His hot breath seemed to poison me. It made me beside

myself. I knew he meant to take advantage of his physical superiority

and attack me, by the narrow watch he kept upon the heavy walking-stick

I still carried in my right hand. He had expected I would attempt to

strike with this, but my constant practice at boxing had made my fists

the more natural weapon. I was so enraged I did not notice he was too

close to use my stick to advantage. I simply acted without any thought

whatever. His attitude was such, as he hissed his venom into my face, as

to enable me to give him a powerful “upper cut” under the jaw. This,

as I was so much lighter than he, was the most effective blow I could

deliver; yet, although it took him off his feet, it did not disable him.

I had not succeeded in placing it as I had intended, and it had only the

effect of rendering him demoniacal. In an instant he was again upon his

feet, and unsheathing a long knife. I knew it meant death for me if he

were able to close with me. It was useless for me to call for help, for

in those days this part of Malabar Hill was as deserted as a wilderness.

Now, the very spot on which we stood is highly cultivated, and forms a

part of the garden of the Blasehek villa. There, early in the eighties,

as the guest of the hospitable Herr Blasehek, Professor Ernst Haeckel

botanised a week, on his way to Ceylon. Now, in response to a cry from

his intended victim, an assassin might be frustrated by assistance from

a dozen bungalows, but at the time of which I write, the victim, if he

were wise, saved his breath for the struggle which he knew he must make

unaided.

Ragobah paused, and coolly bared his right arm to the elbow. There was

a studied deliberation in his movements, which said only too plainly:

“There is no hurry in killing you, for you cannot escape.” I grasped my

stick firmly as my only hope, and awaited his onslaught. My early mili

my life. Without the knowledge which I had derived from the use of

the broadsword, I should have been all but certain to have attempted

to strike him a downward blow upon the head. This is just what he was

expecting, and it would have cost me my life. He would have had only to

throw up his left arm to catch the blow, while with his right hand he

plunged the knife into my heart. My experience had taught me how much

easier it is to protect one’s self from a cutting blow than from a

thrust, and I determined to adopt this latter means of assault. Ragobah

advanced upon me slowly, much as a cat steals upon an unsuspecting bird.

I raised my stick as if to strike him, and he instinctively threw up his

left arm, and advanced upon me. My opportunity had come; I lowered the

point of my cane to the level of his face, and made a vigorous lunge

forward, throwing my whole weight upon the thrust. As nearly as I could

tell, the point of my stick caught him in the socket of the left

eye, just as he sprang forward, and hurled him backward, blinded and

stupefied. Before he had recovered sufficiently to protect himself, I

dealt him a blow upon the head that brought him quickly to the earth.

Without stopping to ascertain whether or not I had killed him, I fled

precipitately to my lodgings, hastily packed my belongings, and set out

for Matheron Station by the same train I had so fondly believed would

convey Lona and me to our nuptial altar. Words cannot describe the

suffering I endured upon that journey. For the first time since my

terrible desertion I had an opportunity to think, and I did think, if

the pulse of an overwhelming pain, perpetually recurring like the beat

of a loaded wheel, can be called thought. Although there is no insanity

in our family nearer than a great-uncle, I marvel that I retained my

wits under this terrible blow. I seriously contemplated suicide, and

probably should have taken my life had not my mental condition gradually

undergone a change. I was no longer conscious of suffering, nor of a

desire to end my life. I was simply indifferent. It was all one to me

whether I lived or died. The power of loving or caring for anything

or anybody had entirely left me, and when I would reflect how utterly

indifferent I was even to my own father and mother, I would regard

myself as an unnatural monster. I tried to conceal my lack of affection

by a greater attention to their wishes, and it was in this way that

I yielded, without remonstrance, to those same views regarding my

marriage, to which, but a little while before, I had made such strenuous

objections as to quite enrage my father. I was an only child, and (as

often happens in such cases) my father never could be brought to realise

that I had many years since attained my majority. It had been his wish,

ever since my boyhood, that I should marry your mother, and he made use,

when I was nearly forty, of the selfsame insistent and coercive methods

with which he had sought to subdue my will when I was but twenty, and at

last he attained his end. I had learned from friends in Bombay that

not only had Rama Ragobah recovered from the blows I had given him, but

that, shortly after my encounter with him, he had married Lona, she whom

I had loved, God only knows how madly! It was all one to me now whether

I was married or single, living or dead. So it was all arranged. I

myself told the lady that, so far as I then understood my feelings, I

had no affection for any person on earth; but it seemed only to pique

her, and I think she determined then and there to make herself an

exception to this universal rule. This is how I came to marry your

mother. There was not the slightest community of thought, sentiment, or

interest between us. The things I liked did not interest her; what she

liked bored me; yet she was pre-eminently a sensible woman, and when she

learned the real state of affairs was the first to suggest a separation,

which was effected. We parted with the kindliest feelings, and, as you

know, remained fast friends up to her death.

It was nearly a year after the affair on Malabar Hill before I had the

heart to return with your mother to Bombay. I had thought all emotion

forever dead within me, but, ah! how little do we understand ourselves.

Twelve months had not passed, and already I was conscious of a vague

ache--a feeling that something, I scarcely knew what, had gone wrong,

so terribly wrong! I told myself that I was now married, and had a duty

both to my wife and society, and I tried hard to ignore the ache, on

the one hand, and not to permit myself to define and analyse it on the

other. But a man does not have to understand anatomy in order to break

his heart, and so my longing defined itself even by itself. The old

fire, built on a virgin hearth, was far from out. Society had heaped

a mouthful of conventional ashes upon it, but they had served only

to preserve it. From the fiat of the human heart there is no court of

appeal.

One night, to my utter amazement, I received a letter from Lona which

you will find filed away among my other valuable documents.

It was addressed in her own quaint little hand, and I trembled violently

as I opened the envelope. It was but a brief note, and ran as follows:

“I am dying, and have much to explain before I go. Be generous, and do

not think too harshly of me. Suspend your judgment until I have spoken.

You must come by stealth, or you will not be permitted to see me. Follow

my directions carefully and you will have no trouble in reaching me. Go

at once to the cave on Malabar Hill, whistle thrice, and one will appear

who will conduct you safely to me. Follow him, and whatever happens,

make no noise. Do not delay--I can last but little longer.

“LONA.”

I did not even pause to re-read the letter, or to ask why it was

necessary to follow such singular directions in order to be led to her.

I simply knew she had written to me; that she was dying; that she

wanted me; that was all, but it was enough. Dazed, filled with a strange

mixture of dread and yearning, I hurried to the cave. It was already

night when I reached it--just such a moonlit night as that on which,

nearly a year before, Lona and I had planned our elopement; and now

that heart, which then had beaten so wildly against mine, was slowly

throbbing itself into eternal silence,--and I--I had been more than dead

ever since.

I looked about on all sides, but no human being was visible. I whistled

thrice, but no sound came in response. Again I whistled, with the same

result. Where was my guide? Perhaps he was in the cave and had not heard

me. I entered it to see, but had barely passed the narrow portal when

a voice said close behind me: “Did you whistle, Sahib?” The suddenness,

the strangeness of this uncanny appearance, so close to me that I felt

the breath of the words upon my neck, sent a chill over me. I shall

never forget that feeling! Many times since then have I dreamt of a hand

that struck me from out the darkness, while the same unspeakable dread

froze up my life, until, by repetition, it has sunk deep into my soul

with the weight of a positive conviction. I know, as I now write, that

this will be my end, and his will be the hand that strikes. The fibre of

our lives is twisted in a certain way, and each has its own fixed mode

of unravelling,--this will be mine.

When I had recovered from the first momentary shock I turned and looked

behind me. There, close upon me, with his huge form blocking the narrow

entrance, stood Rama Ragobah, my rival, his face hideous with malignant

triumph! I was trapped, and that, too, by a man whom my hatred, could

it have worked its will, would have plunged into the uttermost hell of

torment. I felt sure my hour had come, but my assassin should not have

the satisfaction of thinking I feared him. I did not permit myself to

betray the slightest concern as to my position--indeed, after the shock

of the first surprise, I did not care so very much what fate awaited me.

Why should I? Had I not seriously thought of taking my own life? Was it

not clear now that Lona, whose own handwriting had decoyed me, had most

basely betrayed me into her husband’s hands? If I had wished to end my

own life before, surely now, death, at the hands of another, was no very

terrible thing. Could I have dragged that other down with me, I would

have rejoiced at the prospect!

Ragobah broke the silence. “You have left your stick this time, I see,”

he said, as he unsheathed the long knife I had once before escaped, and

ostentatiously felt its edge as if he were about to shave with it.

“You were in haste, Sahib, when you left me last time, or I should not

now have the pleasure of this interview. Be assured I shall do my work

more thoroughly this time. Behind you there is a hole partly filled with

water. If you drop a stone into this well, it is several seconds

before you hear the splash, and there is a saying hereabouts that it is

bottomless. I am curious to know if this be true, and I am going to send

you to see. Of course, if the story is well founded, I shall not expect

you to come back. That would be unreasonable, Sahib.”

All this was said with a refined sarcasm which maddened me, and, as

he concluded, he began to edge stealthily toward me. So strong is the

instinct of self-preservation within us that I doubt not a would-be

suicide, caught in the act of hanging himself, would struggle madly for

his life were someone else to forcibly adjust the noose about his neck.

At all events, I found myself unwilling, at the last moment, to have

someone else launch me into eternity and, as I wished to gain time to

think what I should do to escape, I said to him:

“Why do you bear me such malice? Can you not see that any injury I may

have done you was purely in self-defence? You sought the quarrel, and I

took the only means at hand to protect myself. I did not, as you know,

seek to kill you, a thing I could easily have done, but was content

merely to make good my escape. I--”

“Bah!” he said, interrupting me savagely. “That has nothing to do with

it. Had you only pounded my head you might live, but you have pounded my

heart! It is for that I hate you, and for that you die!”

“What have I done?” I asked.

“What have you done?” he roared, furious with rage. “I will tell you.

You have by magic possessed the mind of my wife. Your name, your cursed

name is ever upon her lips! My entreaties, my supplications are answered

by nothing else. Even in her sleep she starts up and calls for you. You

have cast a spell upon her. Day by day she droops and withers like a

lotus-flower whose root is severed; yet ever and always, is your

cursed name upon her lips, goading me to madness, until at last I have

registered a sacred oath to kill you, and remove the accursed spell you

have thrown upon her.”

Had he advanced upon me at this moment he would have found me as

helpless as a child, so overcome was I by the sudden joy which seized

upon me, and seemed to turn my melancholy inside out. Those words of

hatred had been as a torch illumining the gloom of my despair, for

they had shown me that my existence was not altogether barren and

unproductive. The life which has known the heaven of true love cannot

be called a failure. There is no wall so high, no distance so great, no

separation so complete as to defy the ineffable commerce of two loving

hearts! Lona, then, was still mine, despite all obstacles. What a

change this knowledge made! In an instant life became an inexpressible

benefaction, for it permitted me to realise I was beloved,--and death

was dowered with a new horror--the fear that I should cease to know it.

I was roughly aroused from my reflections by Rama Ragobah.

“Come, Sahib,” he said, as his thick lips curled sneeringly, “suppose

you try your spells upon me? You will never have a better chance than

now to show your power,” and again he made a slight movement toward me

with the gleaming knife. The moon, low down upon the horizon, sent a

broad beam of light into the entrance of the cave and over the head and

shoulders of the Indian. Its cold light shimmered along the blade which

was now held threateningly toward me. The crisis had been reached.

In times of such great urgency one has frequently an

inspiration--instantaneous, disconnected, unbidden--which no amount of

quiet, peaceful thought would suggest. Such extraordinary flashes are

the result of reasoning too rapid for consciousness to note. The Indian

had already laid bare his right arm to the elbow before I had determined

upon the desperate course I would pursue, and upon which I must hazard

all. As he advanced upon me I seized the large, white sola hat from my

head, and hurled it full in his face. It was a schoolboy trick, yet upon

its success depended my life. Instinctively, and in spite of himself,

Ragobah dodged, closed his eyes, and raised his right hand, knife and

all, to shield his face. I sprang upon him at the same instant I threw

my hat, and so was able to reach him before he opened his eyes. I had

well calculated his movements, and had made no mistake. As I reached him

his head was bent downward and forward to let the hat pass over him. His

position could not have been better for my purpose. I “swung on him,” as

we used to say at the gymnasium, catching him under his protruded jaw,

not far from the region of the carotid artery. The blow was well placed,

and desperation lent me phenomenal strength. It raised him bodily

off his feet, and hurled him backward out of the cave, where he lay

motionless. He was now in my power. I seized his knife and bent over

him. Words cannot express the hatred, the loathing I felt for him then

and always. Between me and the light of my happiness he had ever stood,

an impenetrable black mass. Twice had he sought my life, yet now, when

he was in my power, I could not plunge his weapon into his heart. Would

it not be just, I thought, to drag him into the cave, and hurl him down

the abyss he had intended for me? Yes; he certainly merited it; yet I

could not do that either. I wished the snake a thousand times dead, yet

I could not stamp it into the earth.

He was beginning to slightly move now, and something must be done. It

was useless to run, for the way was long, and he could easily overtake

me. You may wonder why I did not take to the thicket, but if you had

ever had any experience with Indian jungles you would know that, without

the use of fire and axe, they are practically impenetrable. Professor

Haeckel, botanising near that same spot, spent an hour in an endeavour

to force his way into one of these jungles, but only succeeded in

advancing a few steps into the thicket, when, stung by mosquitoes,

bitten by ants, his clothing torn from his bleeding arms and legs,

wounded by the thousands of sharp thorns of the calamus, hibiscus,

euphorbias, lantanas, and myriad other jungle plants, he was obliged,

utterly discomfited, to desist. If this were the result of his efforts,

made in broad daylight, and with deliberation, what might I expect

rushing into the thicket at night, as a refuge from a pursuer far my

superior in physical strength and fleetness of foot, and who, moreover,

had known the jungle from his boyhood? Once overtaken by my enemy, the

long knife in my hands would be of no avail against a stick in his.

I saw all this clearly, and realised that he must be prevented from

following me.

There was no time to be lost, for he was rapidly recovering possession

of his powers. I seized a large rock and hurled it with all the force I

could command upon his left foot and ankle. Notwithstanding his immense

strength his hands and feet were scarcely larger than a woman’s, and the

small bones cracked like pipe-stems. Though I had not the will to kill

him, my own safety demanded that I should maim him as the only other

means of making good my escape. As the rock crushed his foot the pain

seemed to bring him immediately into full possession of his faculties,

and he roared like an enraged bull. I turned and looked back as I beat

a hasty retreat down the hill. He had seized one of the air-roots of the

banyan tree, and raised himself upon his right leg. The expression

of his face as the moonlight fell upon it was something never to be

forgotten. It riveted me to the spot with the fascination of horror.

He shook his fist at me fiercely, as he shrieked from the back of his

throat:

“You infidel cur! You may as well try to brush away the Himalyas with

a silk handkerchief as to escape the wrath of Rama Ragobah. Go! Bury

yourself in seclusion at the farthermost corner of the earth, and on one

night Ragobah and the darkness shall be with you!”

These were the last words this fiend incarnate ever spoke to me, but I

know they are prophetic, and that he will keep his oath.

The next day I learned that Lona was dead. She had died with my name

upon her lips, and her secret--the explanation of her strange conduct on

that night--died with her. I shall never know it. Bitterly did I repent

my inability to reach her. The thought that she had waited in vain for

me, that with her last breath she had called upon me, and I had answered

not, was unendurable torture, and I fled India and came to America in

the futile endeavour to forget it all. Out of my black past there shone

but one bright star--her love! All these long years have I oriented my

soul by that sweet, unforgettable radiance, prizing it above a galaxy of

lesser joys.

There is little more to be said. I shall meet death as I have stated--I

am sure of it--and no man will see the blow given. Remember, as I loved

that Indian maiden with a passion which death has not chilled, so I

loathe my rival with a hatred infinite and all-consuming; for, somehow,

I know that demon crushed out the life of my fragile lotus-flower. He

will work his will upon me, but if his cunning enable him to escape the

gallows, my soul, if there be a conscious hereafter, will never rest

in peace. Remember this, my dear child, and your promise, that God may

bless you even as I bless you.

It was some time after Gwen had finished this interesting document

before any of us spoke. The narrative, and the peculiar circumstances

under which it had been read, deeply impressed us. At length Maitland

said in a subdued voice, as if he feared to break some spell:

“The Indian girl’s letter; let us find that, and also the will.”

Gwen went to the drawer in which her father kept his private papers,

and soon produced them both. Maitland glanced hastily at the letter, and

said: “You have already heard its contents”; then turning to Gwen, he

said: “I will keep it with your permission. Now for the will.” It was

handed to him, and his face fell as he read it. In a moment he turned

to us, and said: “The interest on the insurance money is to go to Miss

Darrow, the entire principal to be held in trust and paid to the person

bringing the assassin to justice, unless said person shall wed Miss

Darrow, in which case half of the fund shall go to the husband, and

the other half to the wife in her own right. The balance of the estate,

which, by the way, is considerable, despite the reports given to

Osborne, is to go to Miss Darrow. This is all the will contains having

any bearing upon the case in hand. Let us proceed with the rest of the

papers.” We made a long and diligent search, but nothing of importance

came to light. When we had finished Maitland said:

“Our friend Osborne would say the document we have just perused made

strongly for his theory, and was simply another fabrication to blind the

eyes of the insurance company. That’s what comes of wedding one’s self

to a theory founded on imperfect data.”

“And what do you think?” Gwen inquired.

“That Rama Ragobah has small hands and feet,” he replied. “That his left

foot has met with an injury, and is probably deformed; that most likely

he is lame in the left leg; that he had the motive for which we have

been looking; that he may or may not have the habit of biting his nails;

that he is crafty, and that if he were to do murder it is almost

certain his methods would be novel and surprising, as well as extremely

difficult to fathom--in short, that suspicion points unmistakably to

Rama Ragobah. That is easily said, but to bring the deed home to him

is quite another thing. I shall analyse the poison of the wound and

microscopically examine the nature of the abrasion this afternoon.

To-night I take the midnight train for New York. To-morrow I shall sail

for Bombay, via London and the Continent. I will keep you informed of

my address. While I am away I would ask that you close the house here,

leaving everything just as it is now dismiss the servants, and take up

your abode with the Doctor and his sister.” He rose to go as he said

this, and then continued, as he turned to me: “I shall depend upon you

to look after Miss Darrow’s immediate interests in my absence.” I knew

this meant that I was to guard her health, not permitting her to be much

by herself, and I readily acquiesced.

The look of amazement which had at first overspread Gwen’s face at

the mention of this precipitate departure gave place to one of modest

concern, as she said softly to Maitland: “Is it necessary that you

should encounter the dangers of such a journey, to say nothing, of the

time and inconvenience it will cost?” He looked down at her quickly, and

then said reassuringly: “Do you know one is, by actual statistics, safer

in an English railway carriage than when walking the crowded streets

of London? I am daily subjecting myself to laboratory dangers which,

I believe, are graver than any I am likely to meet between here and

Bombay, or, for that matter, even at Bombay in the presence of our

recent acquaintance Ragobah.”

“I deeply appreciate,” she replied, “the generous sacrifice you would

make in my interests--but Bombay is such a long way--and--”

“If suspicion directed me to the North Pole,” he interrupted, “I should

start with equal alacrity,” and he held out his hand to her to bid her

farewell. She took it in a way that bespoke a world of gratitude, if

nothing more. He retained the small hand, while he said: “Have you

forgotten, my friend, your promise to your father? Do you not see in

what terrible relations it may place you? How important, then, that no

effort should be spared to prevent you from becoming indebted to one

unmanly enough to take advantage of your position. I shall use every

means within my power to myself discover your father’s murderer, and

you may comfort yourself with the assurance that, if successful, I shall

make no demand of any kind whatsoever upon your gratitude. I think you

understand me.”

As he said this Gwen looked him full in the face. A little nervous

tremor seized the corners of her mouth, and the tears sprang to her

eyes. “Good-bye” was all she could say before she was compelled to turn

aside to conceal her emotion.

Maitland, observing her agitation, said to her tenderly: “Your gratitude

for the little that I have already done is reward, more than ample, for

all I shall ever be able to do. Good-bye,” and he left the room.

Oh, man with your microscope! How is it that you find the smallest speck

of dust, yet miss the mountain? Does the time seem too short? It would

not if you realised that events, not clocks, were the real measure

thereof.

THE EPISODE OF RAMA RAGOBAH

CHAPTER I

Life is but a poor accountant when it leaves the Future to

balance its entries long years after the parties to the

transactions are but a handful of insolvent dust. When, in such

wise, the chiefest item of one side of the sheet fails to explain

itself to the other, the tragic is attained.

On the day following Maitland’s departure for New York, Mr. Darrow was

buried. The Osborne theory seemed to be universally accepted, and

many women who had never seen Mr. Darrow during his life attended his

funeral, curious to see what sort of a person this suicide might be.

Gwen bore the ordeal with a fortitude which spoke volumes for her

strength of character, and I took good care, when it was all over, that

she should not be left alone. In compliance with Maitland’s request,

whose will, since her promise to him, was law to her, she prepared to

close the house and take up her abode with us.

It was on the night of the funeral, just after the lamps were lighted,

that an event occurred which made a deep impression upon Gwen, though

neither she nor I fully appreciated its significance till weeks

afterward.

Gwen, who was to close the house on the morrow, was going from room to

room collecting such little things as she wished to take with her. The

servants had been dismissed and she was entirely alone in the house.

She had gathered the things she had collected in a little heap upon the

sitting-room table, preparatory to doing them up. She could think of but

one thing more which she must take--a cabinet photograph of her father.

This was upon the top of the piano in the room where he had met his

death. She knew its exact location and could have put her hand right

upon it had it been perfectly dark, which it was not. She arose,

therefore, and, without taking a light with her, went into the parlour.

A faint afterglow illumined the windows and suffused the room with an

uncertain, dim, ghostly light which lent to all its objects that vague

flatness from which the imagination carves what shapes it lists. As

Gwen reached for the picture, a sudden conviction possessed her that

her father stood just behind her in the exact spot where he had met

his death,--that if she turned she would see him again with his hand

clutching his throat and his eyes starting from their sockets with that

never-to-be-forgotten look of frenzied helplessness.

It would be difficult to find a woman upon whom superstition has so

slight a hold as it has upon Gwen Darrow, yet, for all that, it required

an effort for her to turn and gaze toward the centre of the room. A dim,

ill-defined stain of light fell momentarily upon the chair in which the

dead man had sat, and then flickered unsteadily across the room and,

as it seemed to her, out through its western side, the while a faint,

rustling sound caught her ear. She was plainly conscious, too, of a

something swishing by her, as if a strong draught had just fallen upon

her. She was not naturally superstitious, as I have said before, yet

there was something in the gloom, the deserted house, and this

fatal room with its untold story of death which, added to her weird

perceptions and that indescribable conviction of an unseen presence,

caused even Gwen to press her hand convulsively upon her throbbing

heart. For the first time in her life the awful possibilities of

darkness were fully borne in upon her and she knew just how her father

had felt.

In a moment, however, she had recovered from her first shock and had

begun to reason. Might not the sound she had heard, and the movement she

had felt, both be explained by an open window? She knew she had closed

and locked all the windows of the room when she had finished airing

it after the funeral, and she was not aware that anyone had been there

since, yet she said to herself that perhaps one of the servants had come

in and opened a window without her knowledge. She turned and looked. The

lower sash of the eastern window--the one through which she felt sure

death had approached her father--was raised to its utmost.

“How fortunate,” she murmured, “that I discovered this before leaving.”

She was all but fully reassured now, as she stepped to the window to

close it. Remembering how the sash stuck in the casing she raised both

hands to forcibly lower it. As she did so a strong arm caught the sash

from the outer side, and a stalwart masculine form arose directly in

front of her. His great height brought his head almost to a level with

her own, despite the fact that he was standing upon the ground outside.

He was so near that she could feel his breath upon her face. His eyes,

like two great coals of fire, blazed into hers with a sinister and

threatening light. His countenance seemed to utterly surpass any

personal malignancy and to exhibit itself as a type of all the hatreds

that ever poisoned human hearts.

Only a moment before Gwen had felt a creepy, sickening sensation

stealing over her as the result of an ill-defined and apparently

causeless dread. Now an actual, imminent, and fearful peril confronted

her. Under such circumstances most women would have fainted, and,

indeed, if Gwen had herself been asked how she would have acted under

such a supreme test, she would have prophesied the same maidenly

course as her own, yet, in the real exigency--how little do we know of

ourselves, save what actual experience has taught us!--this is precisely

what she did not do. When the horrible apparition first rose in her very

face, as it were, a momentary weakness caught her and she clung to the

sash for support. Then the wonderful fire of the malignant eyes, green,

serpentine, opalescent, with the wave-like flux of a glowworm’s light

seen under a glass, riveted her attention. She had ceased to tremble.

Our fear of death varies with our desire for life. Dulled by a great

grief, she did not so very much care what became of her. The future’s

burden was heavy, and if it were necessary she now put it down, there

would still be a sense of relief. As this thought passed like a shadow

over her consciousness she felt herself irresistibly attracted to the

awful face before her. Her assailant’s gaze seemed to have wound itself

about her own till she could not disentangle it. She was dimly conscious

that she was falling under a spell and summoned all her remaining

strength to break it. Quick as the uncoiling of a released spring, and

without the slightest movement of warning, she threw her entire weight

upon the sash in a last endeavour to close the window, but the man’s

upraised arm held both her weight and it, as if its muscles had been

rods of steel. Gwen saw a long knife in his free hand,--saw the light

shimmer along its blade, saw him raise it aloft to plunge it into her

bosom, yet made no movement to withdraw beyond his reach and uttered no

cry for help. It seemed to her that all this was happening to another

and that she herself was only a fascinated spectator. She was wondering

whether or not the victim would try to defend herself when the knife

began its descent. It seemed ages in its downward passage,--so long,

indeed, that it gave her time to think of most of the main experiences

of her life. At last it paused irresolutely within an inch of her bosom.

She wondered that the victim made no attempt to escape, uttered no cry

for help. Suddenly she felt something whirling and buzzing in her

brain, while a wild fluttering filled both her ears; then the swirling,

fluttering torment rose in a swift and awful crescendo which seemed to

involve all creation in its vortex; then a pang like a lightning-thrust

and a crash like the thunder that goes with it, and she saw a tall man

striding rapidly from the window. She was still sure it was no personal

concern of hers, yet an idle curiosity noted his great height, his dark,

mulatto-like skin, and a slight halt in his walk as he passed through a

narrow beam of light and off into the engulfing darkness.

It was many minutes before Gwen regained any considerable command of her

faculties, and she afterwards told me that she was even then more

than half inclined to consider the whole thing as a weird dream of an

overwrought mind. At length, however, she realised that she had had an

actual experience, and that it was of sufficient importance to make it

known at once. She accordingly hastened to lay the whole matter before

me, and I, in my turn, notified the police, who, at once instituted as

thorough a search as Gwen’s description made possible. She had told me

that her assailant was dark-skinned, yet with straight hair, and a cast

of features that gave no hint of any Ethiopian taint. This, and his

halting gait and great stature, were all the police had in the way

of description, and I may as well add that the information was

insufficient, for they never found any trace of Gwen’s assailant.

I had had some hopes of this clue, but they were doomed to

disappointment. It seemed evident to us that if anything were ever done

in bringing Mr. Darrow’s assassin to justice, Maitland would have to

do it, unless, indeed, M. Godin solved the problem. Osborne, Allen, and

their associates were simply out of the question.

We debated for some time as to whether or not we should write Maitland

about Gwen’s strange experience, and finally decided that the knowledge

would be a constant source of worriment without being of the least

assistance to him while he was so far away. We, therefore, decided to

keep our own counsel, for the present at least.

Maitland had written us a few lines from New York telling us the result

of his analysis, and ended by saying:

There is no doubt that Mr. Darrow died of poison injected into the blood

through the slight wound in the throat. This wound was not deep, and

seemed to have been torn rather than cut in the flesh. What sort of

weapon or projectile produced that wound is a question of the utmost

importance, shrouded in the deepest of mysteries. Once this point is

settled, however, its very uniqueness will be greatly in our favour. I

have an idea our friend Ragobah might be able to throw some light

upon this subject, therefore I am starting on my way to visit him this

afternoon, and shall write you en route whenever occasion offers. My

kindest regards to Miss Darrow.

Yours sincerely,

GEORGE MAITLAND.

P. S. I shall have leisure now on shipboard to set tie that question of

atomic pitches, which is still a thorn in my intellectual flesh.

I handed this letter to Gwen, and, after she had read it through very

carefully, she questioned me about this new theory of Maitland’s. I went

through the form of telling her, after the usual practice of amiable

men discoursing to women, feeling sure she would be no wiser when I

had finished, and was dumfounded when she replied: “It looks very

reasonable. Professor Bjerknes, if I remember the name, has produced all

the phenomena of magnetic attraction, repulsion, and polarisation, by

air vibrations corresponding, I suppose, to certain fixed musical notes.

Why might not something similar to this be true of atomic, as well as of

larger, bodies?”

If the roof of my house had fallen in, I should not have been more

surprised than at this quiet remark. How many times had I said: “You can

always count on a young woman, however much she flutter over the surface

of things, being ignorant of all the great underlying verities of

existence”? I promptly decided, on all future occasions, to add to

that--“When not brought up by her father.” I was convinced that of the

attainments of a girl educated by her father absolutely nothing could be

definitely predicted.

We had a short note from Maitland written at Trieste. He excused its

brevity by saying he had been obliged to travel night and day in order

to reach this port in time to catch the Austrian Lloyd steamer Helois,

bound for Aden, Bombay, Ceylon, Singapore, and Hong Kong. From Aden I

received the following:

MY DEAR DOCTOR:

We have just been through the Red Sea, and I know now the real origin of

the Calvinistic hell. Imagine it! A cloudless sky; the sun beating

down with an intolerable fierceness; not a breath stirring, and the

thermometer registering 120 degrees F. in the shade! It seemed as though

reason must desert us. The constant motion of the punkas in the saloons,

and an unlimited supply of ice-water was all that saved us. Sleep was

hardly to be thought of, for at no time during the night did the mercury

drop below 100 deg. F. Apart from the oppressive heat referred to,

the entire voyage has been exceedingly pleasant. I have not solved the

atomic-pitch problems, as attendance at meals has left me little time

for anything else. They seem to eat all the time on these boats. At 8 A.

M. coffee and bread; at ten a hearty breakfast of meat, eggs, curry and

rice, vegetables and fruit; at 1 P. M. a luncheon, called “tiffin,”

of cold meats, bread and butter, potatoes, and tea; at five o’clock

a regular dinner of soups, meats with relishes, farinaceous dishes,

dessert, fruits, and coffee, and lastly, at 8 P. M., the evening meal

of tea, bread and butter, and other light dishes. Five meals a day,

and there are some English people who fill up the gaps between them

by constantly munching nuts and sweets! Verily, if specialisation of

function means anything, some of these people will soon become huge

gastric balloons with a little wart on top representing the atrophied

brain structure. They run their engines of digestion wholly on the

high-pressure system.

After eight days’ voyage on the Indian Ocean we shall be in Bombay. I

must close now, for there is really nothing to say, and, besides, I am

wanted on deck. My engagement is with a Rev. Mr. Barrows, who is bound

as missionary to Hong Kong. This worthy Methodist gentleman is very much

exercised because I insist that potentiality is necessity and rebut his

arguments on free-will. He got quite excited yesterday, and said to me

severely: “Do you mean to say, young man, that I can’t do as I please?”

I must say I don’t think his warmth was much allayed by my replying: “I

certainly mean to say you can’t please as you please. You may eat sugar

because you prefer it to vinegar, but you can’t prefer it just because

you will to do so.” He has probably got some new arguments now and is

anxious to try their effect, so, with kind regards to Miss Darrow--I

trust she is well--I remain,

Cordially your friend,

GEORGE MAITLAND.

P. S. (Like a woman I always write a postscript.) You shall hear again

from me as soon as I reach Bombay.

This last promise was religiously kept, though his letter was short

and merely announced his safe arrival early that morning. He closed by

saying: “I have not yet breakfasted, preferring to do so on land, and

I feel that I can do justice to whatever is set before me. I intend, as

soon as I have taken the edge off my appetite, to set out immediately

for Malabar Hill, as I believe that to be our proper starting-point.

I inclose a little sketch I made of Bombay as we came up its harbour,

thinking it may interest Miss Darrow. Kindly give it to her with

my regards. You will note that there are two tongues of land in the

picture. On the eastern side is the suburb of Calaba, and on the

western our Malabar Hill. Good-bye until I have something of interest to

report.”

I gave the sketch to Gwen, and she seemed greatly pleased with it.

“Are you aware,” she said to me, “that Mr. Maitland draws with rare

precision?”

“I am fully persuaded,” I rejoined, “that he does not do anything which

he cannot do well.”

“I believe there is nothing,” she continued, “which so conduces to the

habit of thoroughness as the experiments of chemistry. When one learns

that even a grain of dust will, in some cases, vitiate everything,

he acquires a new conception of the term ‘clean’ and is likely to be

thorough in washing his apparatus. From this the habit grows upon him

and widens its application until it embraces all his actions.”

This remark did not surprise me as it would have a few weeks before, for

I had come to learn that Gwen was liable at any time to suddenly evince

a very unfeminine depth of observation and firmness of philosophical

grasp.

Maitland had been gone just six weeks to a day when we received from him

the first news having any particular bearing upon the matter which had

taken him abroad. I give this communication in his own words, omitting

only a few personal observations which I do not feel justified in

disclosing, and which, moreover, are not necessary to the completeness

of this narrative:

MY DEAR DOCTOR:

I have at last something to report bearing upon the case that brought

me here, and perhaps I can best relate it by simply telling you what

my movements have been since my arrival. My first errand was to Malabar

Hill. I thought it wise to possess myself, so far as possible, of facts

proving the authenticity of Mr. Darrow’s narrative. I found without

difficulty the banyan tree which had been the trysting-place, and close

by it the little cave with its mysterious well,--everything in fact

precisely as related, even to the “Farsees’” garden or cemetery, with

its “Tower of Silence,” or “Dakhma,” as it is called by the natives. The

cave and the banyan are among the many attractions of what is now Herr

Blaschek’s villa. This gentleman, with true German hospitality, asked

me to spend a few days with him, and I was only too glad to accept his

invitation, as I believed his knowledge of Bombay might be of great

service to me. In this I did not mistake. I told him I wished to

ascertain the whereabouts of a Rama Ragobah, who had been something

between a rishi and a fakir, and he directed me at once to a fakir named

Parinama who, he said, would be able to locate my man, if he were still

alive and in Bombay.

You can imagine how agreeably surprised I was to find that Parinama knew

Ragobah well. I had anticipated some considerable difficulty in learning

the latter’s whereabouts, and here was a man who could--for a sufficient

consideration--tell me much, if not all, about him. I secured an

interpreter, paid Parinama my money, and proceeded to catechise him. I

give you my questions and his answers just as I jotted them down in my

notebook:

Q. What is Ragobah’s full name?

A. Rama Ragobah.

Q. How long have you known him?

A. Thirty-five year.

Q. Has he always lived in Bombay?

A. No, Sahib,

Q. Where else?

A. For a good many year he have travel all the time.

Q. Is he in Bombay now?

A. No, Sahib.

Q. Where is he?

A. Over the sea, Sahib.

Q. Do you know where?

A. He sail for America; New York.

Q. When?

A. About eleven week ago.

Q. Do you know for what he undertook this journey?

A. Some personal affair of long time ago which he wish to settle--the

same which make him so many year travel through India.

Q. Was he in search of someone?

A. Yes, Sahib.

Q. Some Indian woman?

A. No, Sahib.

Q. Some other woman, then?

A. No, Sahib.

Q. A man, then; an Englishman,

A. Yes, Sahib.

Q. What kind of a man is this Ragobah?

A. He very big man.

Q. What is his disposition? Is he generally liked?

A. No. His temper bad. He cruel, revengeful, overbearing, and selfish.

He most hated by those who best know him.

Q. He is a friend of yours, you say?

A. I say no such thing! Do you think I sell secret of friend? I have

great reason for hating him, or I not now be earning your money.

Q. Ah! I see. What did you say he wanted of this Englishman?

A. I no say, Sahib.

Q. You said some personal affair of long standing, I believe.

A. Yes, Sahib.

Q. Do you know its nature?

A. No; I not know it, but I have not much doubt about it, Sahib.

Q. What do you think, then?

A. I think there but one passion strong enough in Ragobah to make plain

his hunt like dog for last twenty year. Such persevere mean strong

motive, and as I have good reason to remember how quick he forget a

kindness, I know he not moved by friendship, Sahib.

Q. His motive then is--

A. Revenge.

Q. Have you any idea why he cherishes this malice?

A. I think it because some old love affair; some rival in his wife’s

love.

Q. Indeed! Then he has been married?

A. Yes, Sahib.

Q. Where shall I find his wife?

A. All that is left of her is in the bottomless well in the cave on

Malabar Hill.

Q. Did Ragobah kill her?

A. No; that is, not with his own hand.

Q. How long ago did she die?

A. More than twenty year, Sahib.

Q. Are any of her relatives living?

A. Her husband, Sahib, and a cousin, that is all.

Q. Is there anyone else who could tell me of this woman?

A. Moro Scindia could, but he not do it.

Q. Why? Is he Ragobah’s friend?

A. Ragobah has no friends, Sahib.

Q. Why, then?

A. He under oath to tell what was told him only to one person. He has

keep his secret out of every year for more as twenty year, and can no be

expect to tell to you, Sahib.

Q. Can you bring this man to me? You will both be well paid for your

time, of course.

A. I bring him, Sahib, but I not make him speak.

Q. Let me see you both, then, to-night at eight, at Herr Blaschek’s

villa on Malabar Hill. Ask for Mr. Maitland.

A. We be there. Anything more, Sahib?

Q. Yes. When is Ragobah expected to return?

A. He write that he think he return on the Dalmatia. She due next day

after to-morrow.

Q. Has Ragobah any physical peculiarities?

A. His hands and feet they very small for man so big and strong.

Q. Anything else?

A. His left leg been hurt. The foot very bad shape, and the whole leg

some bad, and,--what you call--halt when he walk.

Q. Has he the habit of biting his finger nails?

A. I not know he has, Sahib.

This completed the list of questions which I had desired to ask him,

so, after once more receiving his assurance that he would meet me in the

evening with his friend Scindia, I left him. As you know, I am not wont

to draw conclusions until all the evidence is in, but I must confess

that, looking at the whole matter from start to finish, there seems to

have fallen upon Ragobah a net of circumstantial evidence so strong,

and with a mesh of detail so minute, that it does not seem possible a

mosquito could escape from it. Look at it a moment from this standpoint.

Ragobah alone, so far as we know, has a motive for the murder. His

victim has related the feud existing between them and foretold, with an

air of the utmost assurance, just such an outcome thereof. Add to this

that this man leaves India on a mission which those about him do not

hesitate to pronounce one of vengeance, at just such a time as would

enable him to reach Boston just a little before the commission of

the murder; that this mission is the culmination of twenty years of

unremitting search for revenge; that this malignity is supposed to be

directed against some rival in his wife’s affections, and the chain of

circumstantial evidence possesses, so far as it extends, no weak link.

Then, too, Ragobah has very small hands, a deformed left foot, and a

limping gait,--everything almost which we had already predicted of the

assassin. So sure am I that Ragobah is the guilty man that I shall ask

for his arrest upon his arrival day after to-morrow should he return

then, a thing which, I regret to say, does not impress me as altogether

likely. Should he not come I shall cable you to institute a search for

your end of the line. The next thing in order which I have to relate is

my interview with Moro Scindia. I had engaged an interpreter, but was

able to dismiss him as my guest spoke English with more ease and fluency

than he, being an intelligent and well-to-do member of the Vaisya caste.

I thought it wise to see the venerable Scindia alone, and accordingly

sent Parinama out of the room with the interpreter. As before; I give

you what passed between us as I jotted it down in my notebook.

Q. You are a friend of Rama Ragobah, are you not?

A. No, Sahib; he has no friends.

Q. You speak as if you disliked him.

A. It is not Mono Scindia’s habit to play the hypocrite. I have good

reason to hate him.

Q. You would not, then, had he committed a crime, assist him to escape

justice?

A. I would track him like a bloodhound to the ends of the earth.

Q. You knew Ragobah’s wife?

A. She was my cousin, Sahib.

Q. Were your relations friendly?

A. They were more than friendly. I loved her dearly, and would have

tried to win her had I not been so much her senior.

Q. Did she live happily with Ragobah?

A. No, Sahib.

Q. Why?

A. I cannot answer. I have sworn to reveal the last experiences of my

cousin to but one person.

Q. And that person is?

A. I must decline to answer that also, Sahib.

Q. If I succeed in naming him will you acknowledge it?

A. You will not succeed, Sahib.

Q. But if I should?

A. I will acknowledge it.

Q. The person is John Hinton Darrow.

The old man started as if he had been stabbed, and looked at me in

amazement. He seemed at first to think I had read his thoughts and

riveted his dark eyes upon me as if, by way of return, he would read my

very soul. I think he did so, for his scrutiny seemed to satisfy him. He

replied, somewhat reassured: “I can speak only to John Hinton Darrow.”

“John Darrow is dead,” I said.

“Dead!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet; “Darrow Sahib dead!” and he

fell back into his chair, covering his face with his hands. “Ah, my poor

Lona!” he muttered feebly; “I have failed to keep my promise. Do not

reproach me, for I have done my best. For twenty years have I searched

in vain for this man that I might fulfil your last request, and the very

first information I receive is the news of his death. I have been no

less vigilant than Ragobah, yet I have failed, even as he has failed.”

I took this opportunity to again question him.

Q. Are you sure Ragobah failed?

A. Yes; had he found Darrow Sahib he would have killed him. His mission

was one of revenge; mine one of love and justice; both have failed

utterly since their object is dead. My pledge is broken!

Q. In its letter, yes; but the chance is still left you to keep the

spirit of your covenant.

A. I do not understand you, Sahib.

Q. I will explain. Lona Ragobah confided to you certain facts

in explanation of her conduct toward John Darrow. She loved him

passionately, and it was her desire to stand acquitted in his sight.

Were she alive now, any wish he had expressed during his life would be

fulfilled by her as a sacred and pleasurable duty. This, then, as one

who lovingly performs her will, should be your attitude also. John

Darrow was the only man she ever loved, and, were she living, every drop

of her loyal blood would rise against anyone who had done him injury. Do

I not speak the truth?

A. Yes; she was loyal unto death and so shall I be. My hand has ever

been against all who have done her harm; Ragobah knows that full well.

Q. Were she alive, you certainly would aid her in bringing to justice

one who has done her the most cruel of wrongs and, at the same time,

fulfilling the dying request of the man who to her was more than life.

A. I should do her bidding, Sahib.

Q. How much more need, then, now that the poor woman is dead, that you

should act for her as she would, were she here.

A. You have not told me all; speak your mind freely, Sahib. You may

depend upon my doing whatever I believe Lona would do were she here.

Q. I ask nothing more, and am now prepared to fully confide in you. As

you doubtless know, Rama Ragobah left Bombay for New York about eleven

weeks ago. He went, I have been told, on an errand of revenge. Six weeks

ago John Darrow was murdered. He left behind him a written statement

describing his wooing of Lona Scindia and his experiences with Rama

Ragobah. He asserted, furthermore, his belief that he would die by

Ragobah’s hand,--the hand which twice before had attempted his life.

Even as he loved your cousin, so he hated her husband, and, confident

that he would ultimately be killed by him, he was haunted by the fear

that he would escape the just penalty for his crime. He bound his heir

by the most solemn of promises to use, in the event of his murder, every

possible means to bring the assassin to justice. There can, of course,

be little doubt that the assassin and Rama Ragobah are one and the same

person. The last request John Darrow ever made--it was after he had

been attacked by the assassin--had for its object the punishment of his

murderer. Were your cousin living, do you think she would be deaf to

that entreaty?

A. No. She would make its fulfilment the one object of her life, and,

acting in her stead, I shall do all in my power to see justice done. If

I can render you any aid in that direction you may command me, Sahib.

Q. You can assist me by telling me all you know of your cousin’s married

life, and, more especially, the message she confided to you.

A. In doing this I shall break the letter of my oath, but, were I not to

do it, I should break the spirit thereof, therefore listen:

You have, I suppose, already learned from the statement of Darrow Sahib

what occurred at his last meeting with my cousin on Malabar Hill. Her

act, in throwing a venomous serpent in his face, was one which doubtless

led him to believe she wished to kill him, although it must have puzzled

him to assign any reason for such a desire. Not long after this incident

my cousin married Ragobah, a man for whom she had always cherished an

ill-concealed hatred. I saw but little of her at this time, yet, for

all that, I could not but observe that she was greatly changed. But one

solution suggested itself to me, and that was that she had discovered

her lover false to her and had, out of spite as it is called, hastily

married Ragobah. I confess that when this conclusion forced itself home

upon me, I felt much dissatisfied with Lona, for I thought such a course

unworthy of her. As I saw more of her I noted still greater changes

in her character. As I had known her from childhood, she had been most

uniform in her temper and her conduct; now all this was changed.

To-day, perhaps, she would be like her old self,--only weaker and more

fragile,--to-morrow a new being entirely, stronger and more restless,

with a demoniac light in her eyes, and a sort of feverish malignancy

dominating her whole personality. When I noticed this I studied to avoid

her. If the Lona I had known were merely an ideal of which no actual

prototype existed, I wished to be allowed to cherish that ideal rather

than to have it cruelly shattered to make room for the real Lona. I had

not seen her for many weeks when one day, to my surprise, I received

a note from her. It was short, and so impressed me that I can remember

every word of it.

“My DEAR COUSIN:

“I send this note to you by Kandia that you may get it before it is too

late for you to do what I wish. I am a caged bird in my husband’s house.

My every movement is watched, and they would not let you come to me

were my husband at home, so, I beseech you, come at once lest he should

return before I have had time to intrust to you my last request. I am

dying, Moro, and it is within your power to say whether my spirit shall

rest in peace, or be torn forever and ever by the fangs of a horrible

regret. My secret is as lead upon my soul and to you only can I tell it.

Come--come at once!

“LONA.”

You can imagine the effect of this revelation upon me better than I can

describe it. I did not even know she was seriously ill, and with her

urgent request for an interview came the sad tidings that she was dying,

and the confirmation of my fear--that she had adopted the religion of

her English lover. I lost no time in going to her. I found her in a

state of feverish expectation, fearful lest I should either not be able

to come at all, or her husband would return before my arrival. She was

worn to a shadow of her former self, and I realised with a pang that she

was indeed dying.

“I knew I could depend upon you, Moro,” she said as I entered, “even

though you think I have lost all claim upon your regard. I said to

myself, ‘He will come because of the respect he once had for me,’ and I

was right. Yes,” she continued, noticing my astonishment at the change

in her condition, “I am almost gone. I should not have lasted so long,

were it not that I could not die till I had spoken. Now I shall be free

to go, and the horrible struggle will be over. You have been much among

the English, Moro, both here and in England, and know they believe they

will meet again in heaven those they have loved on earth.”

She sank back exhausted from excitement and effort, as she said this,

and I feared for a moment she would be unable to proceed. I told her

what I knew about the Christian’s hope of heaven, and suggested to her

that, as her husband might return at any moment, she had best confide

to me at once any trust with which she wished to charge me. For a moment

she made no reply, but said at length:

“Yes, you are right. It is not a very long story, and I suppose I had

better begin at the beginning. You remember well my being rescued by

an English gentleman, a Mr. John Darrow. I afterward became well

acquainted,--in fact we were to be married. To this union my parents

strongly objected. They had promised me to Rama Ragobah, and were

horrified at my seeking to outrage the laws of caste by bestowing my

hand not only outside of my station but upon a foreigner and Christian

as well. This had only the effect of causing me to meet the Sahib

secretly. We chose for our meeting-place the great banyan on the top

of Malabar Hill, where I passed the happiest moments I have ever known.

Everything went well until the night on which we had planned to run

away. We were to meet at the usual place and hour, take the night train

for Matheron Station, and there be married.

“My heart bounded with joy as I climbed Malabar Hill on that fatal

evening, but my delight was of short duration. In my fear lest I should

keep my lover waiting I must have arrived fully fifteen minutes before

the appointed time. I was standing with my back against the banyan

tree, awaiting the first sound of his approach, when my attention was

attracted by what seemed to be two little balls of fire shining from a

clump of bushes almost directly in front of me. They seemed to burn with

a lurid and wicked glare, and, as my gaze became entangled by them,

a tremor ran through my frame and a cold sweat bathed my entire body.

Overcome by an unspeakable dread I made one last frantic effort to

withdraw my eyes, but could not. Then gradually, by slow degrees, my

terror was succeeded by an over-whelming fascination. I felt myself

drawn irresistibly toward the thicket. Then came a vague sense of

falling, falling, falling, and I knew no more, at least for some little

time.

“The next thing I remember is seeing my lover stretch out his arms to

me, while I was inspired with an unaccountable hatred of him so bitter

that it left me mute and transfixed. Then he sought to embrace me, and

I threw a young cobra, which, coiled in a wicker basket, had been placed

in my hand, full in his face. I think, also, that I struck him, and then

ran down the hill and straight to the house of Ragobah. What happened

during the next few months I know not. I seemed to have been in a

continual sleep full of dreams. When I awoke I seemed conscious that I

had dreamt, but could not tell of what. You can imagine my horror, my

despair, when I was first addressed as Ragobah’s wife. I denied the

relation, but everyone told me the same story--I was Ragobah Sahibah.

This shock, coming as it did with the memory of my conduct that terrible

night on Malabar Hill, nearly killed me, and was followed by another

long period of the dream existence. I began to think I was a sufferer

from some terrible brain disease, and to doubt which was my real

existence, the dreams or the waking moments.

“One day when, for the first time in several weeks, I was in possession

of my normal faculties, Ragobah came into my room and sat down beside

me. I arose instantly and fled to the farther corner of the apartment.

He pursued me and sought to conquer my all too apparent aversion for

him by terms of endearment, but the more he pressed his suit the more my

loathing grew until, maddened by references made to Darrow Sahib, I lost

all self-control and permitted him to learn my detestation of him. He

heard me through in silence, his face growing darker with every word,

and when I had finished said with slow and studied malice:

“‘You forget that you are my wife and that I can follow my entreaty by

command. You spurn my love. You are not yet weaned from that English cur

whose life, let me tell you, is in my hands. Fool, can you not see how

powerless you are? I have but to will you to kill him and your first

cursed failure on Malabar Hill will be washed out with his infidel

blood. You will do well to yield peaceably. The thread of your very

existence passes through my hands, to cut or tangle it as I list--yield

you must!’ With this he strode frantically from the room, leaving me

more dead than alive. As he disclosed his fiendish secret something

about my heart kept tightening with every word till, at length, it

seemed as if it must burst, so terrible was the pressure. I could not

breathe. My lungs seemed filled with molten lead. How long this agony

continued I do not know, for the thread of consciousness broke under its

terrible tension and I fell senseless upon the floor.

“When I recovered from my swoon the inexpressible horror of my situation

again descended upon my spirit like a snuffer upon a candle. I was

Ragobah’s wife, his slave, his tool, as powerless to resist his will as

if I were one of his limbs. All was now clear. The long sleep, crowded

with unremembered dreams, represented the period when I was under

Ragobah’s control,--the horrible night on Malabar Hill being one of

them,--and the waking moments, those periods when my feeble, overridden

consciousness flickered back to dimly light for a time the gloom of

this intellectual night. There was no hope for me. Already had I been so

dominated by his will and inspired by his malice as to attempt the life

of my lover. What might I not be made to do in future? As I thought of

this, Ragobah’s last threat rang with a sinister warning upon my ears

till it seemed as if it would drive me into madness. The suspicion

grew to be a certainty from which there was but one means of

escape--death--and I determined at once to embrace it before I could be

made the instrument for the infliction of further injury upon my lover.

I seized a little dagger which in my normal moments I always kept

concealed about me, and was about to plunge it into my bosom when I

was smitten by the thought,--and it cut me as the steel could not have

done,--that Darrow Sahib would never know the truth, and that his love

for me would be forever buried beneath a mass of black misgivings.

The certainty of this conviction paralysed my will, and my arm dropped

nervelessly at my side. It would be a simple matter, I thought, to

find some way of confiding my story to you and pledging you to explain

everything to Darrow Sahib, after which I could die in peace, if not

without regret. But it was not so easy to communicate with you as I had

expected. Days passed before I had a chance to make the attempt, and the

only result of it was to show me how closely I was watched. If Ragobah

were absent, there was always someone in his employ who made it his

business to acquaint himself with my every movement. I dare not take

the time to tell you how I succeeded in obtaining this interview further

than to say that I was able to win to my cause the man who bore my

message to you--a servant in whom Ragobah has the utmost confidence.

When my husband departed this morning Kandia was left in charge of me,

and so your visit was made possible.

“You are now acquainted with the trust I would impose upon you: swear to

me, Moro, that you will make this explanation for me to John Darrow and

to no other human being! Swear it by the love you once said you bore

me!” She sank back exhausted and awaited my response. For a moment I

dared not trust myself to speak, yet something must be said. As I noted

her impatience I replied: “Lona, you have lifted a great weight from

my heart and placed a lesser one upon it. Forgive me that I have ever

doubted you. Even as you have been true to yourself, I swear by the love

I still bear you to deliver your message to Darrow Sahib and to no other

human being. I shall commit your words at once to writing that nothing

may be lost through the failure of my memory.”

She reached her hand out feebly to me, and never shall I forget the look

of gratitude which accompanied its tremulous pressure as she murmured:

“After John, Moro, you are dearest. I shall not try to thank you.

May the ineffable peace which you bring my aching heart return a

thousand-fold into your own. Farewell. Ragobah may return at any moment.

Let us not needlessly imperil your safety. Once more good-bye. The

dew-drop now may freely fall into the shining sea.” Poor distraught

child! She had tried to adopt her lover’s religion without abandoning

her own. I bent over and kissed her. It was my first and last kiss and

she gave it with a sweet sadness, the memory of which, through all

these years, has dwelt in the better part of me, like a fragrance in the

vesture of the soul. One long, lingering look and I departed, never to

see again this woman I had so fondly, so hopelessly loved.

You now know the exact nature of the covenant I have felt constrained

to violate. I have told you her story in her own words. I wrote it out

immediately after my interview with her and have read it so many times,

during the last twenty years, that I have committed it to memory. The

recollection of that last meeting, of her kiss and her grateful look has

been throughout all these long, weary years the one verdant spot in the

desert of my life.

[Moro Scindia paused here, as one who had reached the end of his

narrative, and I continued my interrogations.]

Q. Although you never again saw your cousin you must, I think, have

heard something of her fate.

A I learned of it through Nana Kandia, the servant who had secretly

embraced Lona’s cause, and who had borne her message to me. It seems

that, after my interview with her, my cousin was seized with a consuming

desire to see her English lover once more before her death; so she

devised a plan by which, with Kandia’s help, Darrow Sahib was to be

secretly conducted to her under cover of night. She wrote a letter

asking him, as a last request, to meet her messenger on Malabar Hill,

and instructing him how to make himself known. This she gave to Kandia

to post early in the morning of the day upon which their plan was to be

put into execution. As he was about leaving the house Ragobah called him

into his chamber and demanded to know what was taking him forth so early

in the morning. Kandia saw at once that the purpose of his errand had

been discovered, and determined to meet the issue bravely. “I was going

to post a letter, Sahib,” he replied quietly. “Let me see it!” Ragobah

roared. “I have no right to do so,” Kandia replied, springing toward the

door. But he was not quick enough for the wary Ragobah, who felled him

to the floor with a chair before he had reached the threshold. When

he returned to consciousness he found his assailant, who had skilfully

opened the letter, standing over him perusing it in malicious glee. When

he had finished reading he carefully resealed it and placed it in his

pocket. Then he called two of his servants and gave Kandia into their

charge with orders to gag him, to bind him hand and foot, and, as they

valued their lives, not to permit him to leave the room till he ordered

it.

What occurred between that time and the return of Ragobah, wounded and

furious, late in the evening, we can only surmise. He doubtless posted

the letter, and went himself to meet Darrow Sahib on Malabar Hill. When

he returned home he hobbled into his wife’s apartment and then ordered

Kandia to be sent to him. His left leg was badly crushed and his face,

contorted with pain and fiendish malevolence, was horrible to look upon.

“Our trusty friend here,” he said, addressing his wife and pointing to

Kandia, “could not conveniently post your letter this morning, my dear,

so I did it myself.” Lona’s face turned ashen pale, but she made no

reply.

“I thought,” he continued in his sweetest accents and with the same

demoniac sarcasm, “that you would be anxious to know if the Sahib

received it,--our mail service is so lax of late,--so I went tonight

to Malabar Hill to see, for I felt certain he would come if he got your

note, and, sure enough, he was there even ahead of time. I was obliged

to forego the pleasure of bringing him to you on account of two most

unfortunate accidents. As you see I hurt my foot, and poor Darrow Sahib

slipped and fell headlong into the well in the little cave. As it has no

bottom I could not, of course, get the Sahib out, and so was obliged

to return, as best I could, alone.” As he finished this heartless lie,

every word of which he knew was a poisoned dart, Lona fell fainting upon

the floor. Kandia raised her gently, expecting to find her dead, but was

able at length to revive her. The first words she said were directed to

Ragobah in a voice devoid of passion or reproach,--of everything in fact

save an unutterable weariness.

“I am ill,” she said; “will you permit Nana to get me some medicine

which has helped me in similar attacks?” Ragobah’s reply was directed to

Kandia.

“You may do as the Sahibah bids you,” was all he said.

Kandia turned to Lona for instructions and she said to him, “Get me half

an ounce of--stay, there are several ingredients--I had better write

them down.” She wrote upon a little slip of paper, naming aloud the

ingredients and quantities as she did so, and then asked Kandia to move

her chair to an open window before he left. When he had done so, she

passed him the note, saying, “Please get it as quickly as possible.”

As he took the paper she seized his hand for a moment and pressed it

firmly. He noticed this at the time, but its significance did not dawn

upon him until he had nearly reached his destination, when, all at once,

he realised with a pang that the momentary pressure of the hand and the

mute gratitude which shone from the eyes were meant as a farewell. His

first impulse was to hurriedly retrace his steps, but before he had

acted upon it, the thought occurred to him that she intended to poison

herself with the drugs he was about to procure. If this were the case,

there was no great need of hurry. Then he began to recall to mind the

names of the drugs she had mentioned as she wrote and to reflect that

not one of them was poisonous. With this new light all his former

uneasiness returned. He strove to reassure himself with the thought

that she might, in order to mislead Ragobah, have spoken the name of a

harmless drug while she wrote down that of a poisonous one. It was easy

to settle this question, and he determined to do so at the next light.

He unfolded the paper, expecting to see a prescription, but read instead

these words:

“To MORO SCINDIA;

“My Dear Cousin: Death has relieved you of the task I imposed upon you.

John Darrow’s body is in the well in the cave on Malabar Hill, where,

before this reaches you, my body will have also gone to meet it. To this

fragment of paper, then, must I confide the debt of gratitude I owe to

you and to him who will bear it to you, Nana Kandia. Good-bye. If I had

had two hearts, I should have given you one. Do not mourn me, but

rather rejoice that my struggle and its agony are over. John has already

gone--one tomb shall inclose both our bodies--how could it have been

better?

“LONA.”

No sooner had Kandia grasped the import of this letter than he rushed

with all speed to Malabar Hill, but he was too late, for scarcely had

he left the house upon Lona’s errand before she had sprung out of

the window by which he had placed her. Ragobah’s wound prevented his

following her, and when he had summoned others to pursue her, the

darkness had closed about her form and none knew the way she had taken.

At the edge of the fatal well Kandia found a piece of paper beneath a

stone and on it these words:

“Farewell, Moro and Nana, the only beings on earth I regret to leave!

--Lona.”

The body was never recovered. The news of his wife’s death, and the

knowledge that he was the cause of it, produced an effect upon Ragobah

from which he never recovered. More than twenty years have passed since

then, yet from that day to this he has never been known to smile. Long

before his mangled limb had healed it became evident to all who knew

him that he had henceforth but one purpose in life,--revenge, and that

nothing save death could turn him from his purpose, so long as his rival

lived. The knowledge of this made my search for Darrow Sahib more than

ever difficult from the fact that it must be prosecuted secretly. I

could only learn that he had left Bombay for the interior, nothing more.

My inquiries in all the Indian cities proved fruitless, and in many

instances, I was informed that Ragobah had instituted a search for

the same man. I think, in spite of my precautions, some of my agents

ultimately told Ragobah of my efforts, for I found myself so closely

watched by men in his interests that I was at length compelled to give

up the personal conduct of the search, and to continue it through a

deputy, unknown to him. All my endeavours to find the Sahib were, as

you are already aware, fruitless, and, until I met you, I had no doubt

Ragobah’s efforts were equally unproductive. You have now all the

information I can offer upon the subject. If I can be of any further

service to you, you need not hesitate to command me.

As he said this he rose to depart and I promised to keep him informed of

what occurred. I have nothing now to do but to await, with such patience

as I can command, the arrival of the Dalmatia. It does not seem to me

altogether probable that Ragobah will return upon this boat, but if he

should I shall have him arrested the moment he sets foot on shore. If

he escape the net that has been woven about him, I shall be a convert

to Eastern occultism and no mistake. I trust Miss Darrow is well and

hopeful. I know she will religiously keep the promise she made, for she

is one of those women who fully understand the nature of a covenant,

and I am easier, therefore, than I otherwise could be regarding her

condition. Give her my kind regards and tell her that she may expect

news of importance by my next communication. It is very late, so

good-bye, until the arrival of the Dalmatia.

Your friend,

GEORGE MAITLAND.

This letter was delivered one morning when Gwen, my sister Alice, and

I were at breakfast. As I broke the seal I noticed that both ladies put

down their knives and forks and ceased to eat. A glance at Gwen’s eager

face convinced me that she had no appetite for anything but my letter,

and I accordingly read it aloud. When I came to the last part of it,

where Maitland referred to her, a flush, of pride I thought at the time,

overspread her face, and when I had finished she said with some show of

excitement, “If Mr. Maitland succeed in bringing Ragobah to justice I--I

shall owe him a debt of gratitude I can never repay! It all seems like a

romance, only so frightfully real. We may expect another letter in a few

days, may we not? And Mr. Maitland, when may we expect him?”

I replied that I thought we might reasonably expect news of importance

within five or six days, and that, so far as Maitland’s return was

concerned, I did not look for it for as many weeks, as he would

doubtless have to cope with the law’s delay there, as he would if here,

and to comply with many tedious formalities before the government would

allow Ragobah to be brought to this country for trial. The only reply

Gwen vouchsafed to this statement was a long-drawn unconscious sigh,

which I interpreted as meaning, “Will it never end!”

CHAPTER II

He who shakes the tree of Vengeance but harvests apples of Sodom

in whose fruit of ashes he becomes buried, for the wage of the

sinner is death.

There was no doubt of Ragobah’s guilt in any of our minds, so that

action at our end of the line seemed entirely useless, and nothing

was left us but to quietly await whatever developments Maitland should

disclose. We were not kept long in suspense, for in less than a week

his next letter arrived. I broke its seal in the presence of Gwen and my

sister who, if possible, were even more excited than I myself. Is it to

be wondered at? Here was the letter which was to tell us whether or not

the murderer of John Darrow had been caught. We felt that if Ragobah had

returned to India, according to his expressed intention, there could be

no doubt upon this point. But had he so returned? I read as follows:

MY DEAR DOCTOR:

The Dalmatia arrived as expected on Thursday, and on her came Ragobah.

I had him arrested as he stepped from the boat. When examined he did not

seem in the least disconcerted at the charges I preferred against him.

This did not surprise me, however, as I had expected that a man who

could roll his naked body over the burning sands from Mabajan to

the Ganges, and who could rise from the Vaisyan to the Brahman

caste,--albeit he fell again,--would not be likely to betray his

cause by exhibiting either fear or excitement. He acknowledged his

acquaintance with Mr. Darrow and the ill-feeling existing between them.

When charged with his murder at Dorchester on the night of the 22d of

April he coolly asked if I were aware when and how he had left India. I

had not neglected to look this matter up and told him he had left on the

same steamer which had brought him back--the Dalmatia--which should have

arrived at New York on the 21st of April, thus leaving him ample time to

get to Boston before the night of the 22d. To this he replied with the

utmost assurance. (I give you the exact gist of what he said. Since I

was not able to immediately commit his language to writing, you will,

of course, hardly expect me to remember those peculiar Oriental idioms

which an Indian, however great his command of English, never drops. What

I say here is, of course, true of all conversations I put before you

except such as I practically reported.)--But to return to our muttons.

As I was saying, he replied with the utmost assurance:

“The Sahib is right. I did sail upon the Dalmatia, due at New York on

the 21st of April. This steamer, as you are perhaps aware, is propelled

by twin screws. On the trip in question she broke one of her propellers

in mid-Atlantic and in consequence, arrived in New York on the 24th

of April, three days late, without the transference of any of her

passengers to other boats. If you will take the trouble to at once

verify this statement at the steamship office, you will be able to

relieve me of the annoyance of further detention.”

All this was said with a rare command of language and a cold, cynical

politeness which cut like a knife. I at first thought it was merely a

ruse to gain time, but the steamship officials substantiated every word

uttered by Ragobah relative to their vessel. The Dalmatia had steamed

into New York at eleven o’clock on the morning of the 24th day of April

with a broken screw!

Imagine my amazement! The net of circumstantial evidence wound around

Ragobah seemed to be such as to leave no possibility of escape, and yet,

the very first effort made to draw it tighter about him had resulted in

his walking, with the utmost ease, right through its meshes! There is

no gainsaying such an alibi, and I am, therefore, forced to acknowledge

that Rama Ragobah could not, by any possibility, have murdered John

Darrow. That he may have planned the deed and that he may have intended

to be present at its execution is quite possible, but we may at once

dismiss the idea of his having personally committed the act. You will

immediately appreciate that nearly all of the evidence which we secured

against Ragobah was directed against him as the assassin, and is of

little or no use to prove his complicity in an affair committed by

another. In his hatred of Mr. Darrow we have, I believe, a sufficient

motive for the act, but what evidence have we to support the theory

that the murder was committed by anyone acting in his interests? I

must confess my inability to detect, at present writing, the slightest

evidence that Ragobah acted through an accomplice. So, here the matter

rests.

I may state in closing that Ragobah has requested the “pleasure” (sic)

of a private interview with me on Malabar Hill to-morrow night. As there

is a bare possibility he may let fall something which may shed some

light upon the accomplice hypothesis, I have agreed to meet him at the

entrance to the little cave at nine o’clock. He has requested that I

come alone and I shall do so, but, lest you fear for my safety, let me

assure you that I know very well the unscrupulous nature of the man with

whom I am to deal and that I shall take good care not to afford him any

opportunity to catch me unawares. You will hear from me again after I

meet Ragobah.

Remember me kindly to Miss Darrow. The failure of my enterprise will,

I know, be a bitter disappointment to her, and you must temper this

acknowledgment of it with such a hope of ultimate success as you may

enjoy. Tell her I shall never cease my efforts to solve this mystery so

long as I am able to find a clue, however slight, to follow. At present

I am all at sea, and it looks as if I should have to go clear back and

start all over again. Ragobah, as a point of departure, has not proved a

success. With my kind regards to you all,

I remain, cordially yours,

GEORGE MAITLAND.

I read this through aloud, despite the fact that I knew some parts of it

were intended only for my perusal. Gwen did not speak until some minutes

after I had finished, and then only to express a fear that, despite his

caution, harm might come to Maitland at his interview with Ragobah.

She seemed to be far less disappointed at Maitland’s failure to convict

Ragobah than she was fearful for her friend’s personal safety. She was

restless and ill at ease for the next two or three days--in fact, until

the arrival of Maitland’s next letter. This came during my absence on

a professional call, and when I returned home she met me with it at the

door with an expression of relief upon her countenance so plain as not

to be misconstrued. We went into the sitting-room, where my sister was

awaiting the news, and I read as follows:

MY DEAR DOCTOR:

I kept my appointment last night with Rama Ragobah and, although nothing

transpired at all likely to assist me in locating Mr. Darrow’s assassin,

yet the interview, though short, was interesting and worth narrating.

Promptly at nine o’clock I was at my post by the little cave. I am still

staying with Herr Blaschek and, as I had but a few rods to travel, I did

not quit the house until within five minutes of the time appointed for

our meeting. As I stepped out into the darkness I noticed a tall form

glide behind a tree, about a rod away from the door. I could not be sure

it was Ragobah, yet I had little doubt of it. I was a trifle taken aback

at the moment, and instinctively placed my hand upon my revolver and

grasped my cane more firmly. Should occasion require it, I counted

upon this cane quite as much as upon my revolver, for, innocent and

inoffensive as it looked, it was capable of most deadly execution. I had

chosen it in preference to many other more pretentious weapons which had

suggested themselves to me. It consisted of a small, flexible steel wire

hardly bigger than the blade of a foil, surmounted by a good-sized lead

ball, and the whole covered with a closely woven fabric. By grasping the

cane by its lower end a tremendously heavy blow could be struck with the

ball, and, if an attempt were made to shield the head by throwing up the

arm, it was almost certain to fail of its object since the flexibility

of the wire permitted it to bend about an obstruction until its loaded

end was brought home. You will perhaps think that, since I did not make

use of this weapon, I need not have troubled myself to describe it.

Perhaps that is so, but, let me assure you, when I saw Ragobah, for

it was he, glide behind that tree, and reflected how capable he was of

every kind of treachery, I wouldn’t have parted with that cane for its

weight in gold. The Indian had pledged me to come alone and had promised

to do likewise, but I felt any tree might conceal one of his minions,

hired to assassinate me while he engaged my attention. All this, of

course, did not in the least affect my decision. I had promised to

go alone, and Miss Darrow’s interests required that I should keep my

covenant. I should have done so, even though I had known Ragobah

meant to betray me. I may as well, however, tell you at once that my

suspicions wronged the fellow. He had evidently taken his station behind

a tree to satisfy himself, without exposure, that I meant to keep my

promise and come alone.

When I reached the cave I found him awaiting me. How he was able to get

there before me passes my comprehension, but there he was. He did not

waste time, but addressed me at once, and, as my memory is excellent

and our interview was short, I am able to give you an accurate report

of what passed between us. I copy it here just as I entered it in my

notebook, immediately upon my return to the house.

“You naturally wish to know,” Ragobah began, “why I have sought this

interview. That is easily explained. You have done me the honour, Sahib,

for I feel it is such, to suspect me of the murder of John Darrow. You

have come here from America to fasten the crime upon me, and, from

the bottom of my heart, I regret your failure to do so. I would give

everything I possess on earth, and would gladly suffer a life of

torment, to be able truthfully to say: ‘I, Rama Ragobah, killed John

Darrow.’ But despite all my efforts, I, wretch that I am, am

innocent! For more than twenty years I have had but one purpose,--one

thought,--and that was to track down and slay John Darrow. This desire

consumed me. It led me all over India in vain search for him. For

nineteen years I laboured incessantly, without discovering so much as a

trace of him. When he fled Bombay his belongings went inland, so I was

told. I believed the story and felt sure I should one day find him

on Indian soil. Years passed and I did not find him. It was but a few

months ago that I discovered his ruse and learned his whereabouts. I

could scarcely contain myself for joy. My life-work was at last to

be completed. Nothing now remained but to plan his destruction. This,

however, was not so easy a thing to do, since, in order to make my

revenge complete, I must disclose my identity before killing him. At

length I decided upon a plan. I would come upon him at night, when

asleep, gag him and bind him to his bed. Then he should learn the name

of his doomsman, and the horrible nature of the death that awaited him.”

Ragobah paused here as if overcome by his disappointment, and I said,

“And how did you intend to kill him?” He gave a throaty chuckle, as

he replied: “It was all so very pretty! I had only to saturate the

bedclothes with oil and set fire to them. I should have lighted them at

his feet and watched the flames creep upward toward his head till safety

compelled my retreat. It was for this purpose I went to New York. You

already know the fatal delay I incurred. When I landed I made all haste

to the home of Darrow Sahib, in Dorchester, only to learn that he had

killed himself a few days before my arrival. The morsel for which I had

striven and hungered for twenty long years was whipped from my hand,

even as I raised it to my mouth. My enemy was dead, beyond the power of

injury, and my hands were unstained by his blood.

“I then determined to kill his daughter. It was the night of my enemy’s

burial. The Sahibah was alone in the house and was intending to leave it

that night. I knew she would see that everything was securely fastened

before she went away, and so, when I opened one of the windows, I was

sure she would come to close it. Crouching down outside I awaited her

approach, intending to spring up and stab her while she was pulling the

window down. Everything happened as I planned--what ails the Sahib?

I did not kill her! No, at the last moment something--never mind

what--stayed my arm! The death of an innocent girl did not promise me

any lasting satisfaction and I gave up the idea, returned to New York,

and re-embarked for Bombay as innocent in act as when I left it. My life

had been a failure and I had no desire to prolong it. When you arrested

me on the charge of murder, nothing would have given me greater pleasure

than to have been able to plead guilty.

“You already know why I so hated Darrow. He robbed me of the only woman

I ever loved. Maddened by jealousy, I told her I had thrown him into the

well in the cave here. It was a lie, but she believed it, and fled from

me, and in a few minutes had thrown herself into that bottomless hole.

See, Sahib,” he said, entering the cave and pointing down the dark

shaft,--“that is the road she took in order that her bones might rest

with his, and, after all, they are thousands of miles apart. It’s not

the triumph I planned, but it’s all I have! And this is why I brought

you here; that you may take back to my enemy’s family the knowledge

that in death I am triumphant. Tell them,” he said, rising to his full

height, “that while the carcass of the English cur rots in a foreign

land, Rama Ragobah’s bones lie mingled with those of his beautiful

Lona!”--My blood was up, and I rushed fiercely at him. With the

quickness of a cat he dodged me, spat in my face as I turned, and, with

a horrible laugh, sprang headlong into the well. Down deeper and deeper

sank the laugh--then it died away--then a faint plash--and all was

silent. Rama Ragobah was gone! For fully ten minutes I stood dazed

and irresolute and then returned mechanically to the house. I at first

thought of informing the authorities of the whole affair, but, when

I realised how hard it would be for me to prove my innocence were I

charged with Ragobah’s murder, I decided to keep the secret of the well.

I shudder when I think of Miss Darrow’s narrow escape. Did you suspect

who her assailant really was? I wonder you have written me nothing about

it, but suppose you thought it would only needlessly alarm me. If you

had known it was our friend Ragobah, you would doubtless have felt it

imperative that I should know of it,--so I conclude from your silence

that you did not discover his identity.

I need not, of course, tell you, my dear Doctor, that we have reached

the end of our Indian clue, and that I deem it wise, all things

considered, for me to get out of India just as soon as possible. If this

letter is in any way delayed, you need not be surprised if I have the

pleasure of relating its contents in person. Remember me to Miss Darrow

and tell her how sorry I am that, thus far, I have been unable to be of

any real service to her. As I shall see you so soon I need write nothing

further. Kind regards to Miss Alice.

Ever yours,

GEORGE MAITLAND.

When I had finished reading this letter I looked up at Gwen, expecting

to see that its news had depressed her. I must confess, however, that I

could not detect any such effect. On the contrary, she seemed to be

in much better spirits than when I began reading. “According to this

letter, then,” she said, addressing me somewhat excitedly, “we may--”

but she let fall her eyes and did not complete her sentence. My sister

bestowed upon her one of those glances described in the vernacular of

woman as “knowing” and then said to me: “We may expect Mr. Maitland at

any time, it seems.” “Yes,” I replied; “he will lose no time in getting

here. He undoubtedly feels much chagrined at his failure and will now

be more than ever determined to see the affair through to a successful

conclusion. He is in the position of a hound that has lost its scent,

and is eager to return to its point of departure for a fresh start. I

fancy it will be no easy task to discover a new clue, and I shall watch

Maitland’s work in this direction with a great deal of curiosity.”

Gwen did not speak, but she listened to our conversation with a nearer

approach to a healthy interest than I had known her to display on any

other occasion since her father’s death. I regarded this as a good omen.

Her condition, since that sad occurrence, had worried me a good deal.

She seemed to have lost her hold on life and to exist in a state of

wearied listlessness. Nothing seemed to impress her and she would at

times forget, in the midst of a sentence, what she had intended to say

when she began it! Her elasticity was gone and every effort a visible

burden to her. I knew the consciousness of her loss was as a dull, heavy

weight bearing her down, and I knew, too, that she could not marshal her

will to resist it,--that, in fact, she really didn’t care, so tired was

she of it all. Experience had taught me how the dull, heavy ache of

a great loss will press upon the consciousness with the regular,

persistent, relentless throb of a loaded wheel and eat out one’s life

with the slow certainty of a cancer. This I knew to have been Gwen’s

state since her father’s death, and all my attempts to bring about a

healthful reaction had hitherto been futile. It is not to be wondered

at, therefore, that even the transient interest she had evinced was

hailed by me with delight as the beginning of that healthful reaction

for which I had so long sought. When a human bark in the full tide of

life is suddenly dashed upon the rocks of despair the wreckage is strewn

far and wide, and it is with no little difficulty that enough can be

rescued to serve in the rebuilding of even the smallest of craft. The

thought, therefore, that Gwen’s intellectual flotsam was beginning

at length to swirl about a definite object in a way to facilitate the

rescue of her faculties was to me a decidedly reassuring one, and I

noted with pleasure that the state of excited expectancy which she had

tried in vain to conceal did not wane, but waxed stronger as the days

went by.

THE EPISODE OF THE PARALLEL READERS

CHAPTER I

The events of the present are all strung upon the thread of the

past, and in telling over this chronological rosary, it not

infrequently happens that strange, unlike beads follow each other

between our questioning fingers.

It was nearly a week after his letter before Maitland arrived. He sent

us no further word, but walked in one evening as we were talking about

him. He came upon us so suddenly that we were all taken aback and, for

a moment, I felt somewhat alarmed about Gwen. She had started up quickly

when the servant had mentioned Maitland’s name and pressed her hand

convulsively upon her heart, while her face and neck became of a deep

crimson colour. I was saying to myself that this was a common effect of

sudden surprise, when I saw her clutch quickly at the back of her chair,

as if to steady herself. A moment later she sank into her seat. Her face

was now as pale as ashes, and I felt I had good reason to be alarmed. I

think she was conscious of my scrutiny, for she turned her face from me

and remained motionless. The movement told me she was trying to regain

command of her faculties and I forbore to interfere in the struggle,

though I watched her with some solicitude. My fears were at once

dispelled, however, when Maitland entered, for Gwen was the first to

welcome him. She extended her hand with much of her old impulsiveness,

saying: “I have so much for which to thank you--” but Maitland

interrupted her. “Indeed, I regret to say,” he rejoined, “that I have

been unable thus far to be of any real service to you. The Ragobah clue

was a miserable failure, though we may do ourselves the justice to admit

that we had no alternative but to follow it to the end. I confess I have

never been more disappointed than in the outcome of this affair.” “My

dear fellow,” I said, “we all have much to be thankful for in your safe

return, let us not forget that.” Maitland laughed: “That reminds me,”

he said, “of the man who passed the hat at a coloured camp-meeting. When

asked how much he had collected, he replied: ‘I didn’t get no money, but

I’se done got de hat back.’ You’ve got your hat back, and that’s about

all. However, with Miss Darrow’s permission, I shall go back to the

starting point and begin all over again.”

“You are making me your debtor,” Gwen replied slowly, “beyond my power

ever to repay you.”

“It is in the hope that no payment may ever be demanded of you,” he

rejoined, “that I am busying myself in your affairs.” The colour sprang

to Gwen’s cheeks, but she only replied by a grateful glance. I knew what

was passing through her mind. She was thinking of her promise--of her

father’s last words, and of the terrible possibilities thereof from

which Maitland was seeking to rescue her. She felt that she could safely

owe him any debt of gratitude, however great, while he, on his part,

took what I fancied, both then and afterward, were unnecessary pains to

assure her that, in the event of his finding the assassin, she need have

no fear of his making any claim whatsoever upon her. And so the whole

affair was dropped for the time being and the rest of the evening

devoted to listening to Maitland’s account of his experiences while

abroad.

The next morning I called upon our detective at his laboratory and asked

him what he intended to do next. He replied that he had no plans as yet,

but that he wished to review with me all the evidence at hand.

“You see,” he said, “the thing that renders the solution of this mystery

so difficult is the fact that all our clues, while they would be of the

utmost service in the conviction of the assassin had we found him, are

almost destitute of any value until he has been located. Add to this

that we are now unable to find any motive for the crime and you can

see how slight are our hopes of success. If ever we chance to find the

man,--for I feel that such a consummation would result more from chance

than from anything else,--I think we can convict him.

“Here, for example,” he said, taking up a small slip of glass which

he had cut from the eastern parlour window of the Darrow house, “is

something I have never shown either you or Miss Darrow. It is utterly

worthless, so far as assisting us to track the assassin is concerned,

but, if ever we suspect the right man, the evidence on that glass would

probably convict him, though there were ten thousand other suspects.”

I took the glass from him and, examining it with the utmost care,

I detected a smutch of yellowish paint upon it, nothing more. “For

Heaven’s sake, Maitland!” I said in astonishment, “of what possible use

can that formless daub of paint be, or is there something else on the

glass that has escaped me?” He laughed at my excitement as he replied:

“There is nothing there but the paint spot. Regarding that, however,

you have come to a very natural though erroneous conclusion. It is not

formless”; and he passed me a jeweller’s eye-glass to assist me in a

closer examination. He was right. The paint lay upon the glass in little

irregular furrows which arranged themselves concentrically about a

central oval groove somewhat imperfect in shape. “Well,” continued.

Maitland, as I returned him the magnifying glass, “what do you make of

it?” “If you hadn’t already attached so much importance to the thing,” I

said, “I should pronounce it a daub of paint transferred to the glass by

somebody’s thumb, but, as such a thing would be clearly useless, I am at

a loss to know what it is.”

“Well,” he rejoined, “you’ve hit the nail on the head,--that’s just what

it is, but you are entirely wrong in your assumption that the thumb-mark

can have no value as evidence. Do you not know that there are no two

thumbs in the world which are capable of making indistinguishable

marks?” I was not aware of this. “How do you know,” I asked, “that this

mark was made by the assassin? It seems to me there can hardly be a

doubt that one of the painters, while priming the sill, accidentally

pressed his thumb against the glass. His hands would naturally have been

painty, and this impression would as naturally have resulted.”

“What you say,” replied Maitland, “is very good, so far as it goes.

My reasons for believing this thumb-mark was made by the assassin are

easily understood. First: there was another impression of a thumb in the

moist paint of the sill directly under that upon the glass. Both marks

were made by the same thumb and, in the lower one, the microscope

revealed minute traces of gravel dust, not elsewhere discernible upon

the sill. The thumb carried the dust there, and was the thumb of the

hand pressed into the gravel,--the hand of which I have a cast. You see

how this shows how the thumb came to have paint upon it when pressed

upon the glass. Second: the two men engaged in priming the house, James

Cogan and Charles Rice, were the only persons save the assassin known to

have been upon that side of the house the day of the murder. “Here,”

he said, carefully removing two strips of glass from a box, “are the

thumb-marks of Cogan and Rice made with the same paint. You see that

neither of these men could, by any possibility, have made the mark upon

the glass. So there you are. But we are missing the question before us.

What line of procedure can you suggest, Doc? I’m all at sea.”

“We must find someone,” I said, “who could have had a motive. This

someone ought to have a particularly good reason for concealing his

footprints, and is evidently lame besides. I can’t for the life of me

see anything else we have to go by, unless it be the long nail of the

little finger, and I don’t see how that is going to help us find the

assassin--unless we can find out why it was worn long. If we knew that

it might assist us. As I have already suggested, a Chinaman might have

a long nail on the little finger, but he would also have the other nails

long, wouldn’t he? Furthermore, he might use the boards to conceal the

prints of his telltale foot-gear; but why should he not have put on

shoes of the ordinary type? If he had time to prepare the boards,--the

whole affair shows premeditation,--clearly he had time to change his

boots. The Chinese are usually small, and this might easily account for

the smallness of the hand as shown by your cast. These are the pros and

cons of the only clue that suggests itself to me. By the way, Maitland,

it’s a shame we did not try, before it was too late, to track this

fellow down with a dog.”

“Ah,” he replied, “there is another little thing I have not told you.

After you had left the house with Miss Darrow on the night of the

murder, and all the servants had retired, I locked the parlour securely

and quietly slipped out to look about a bit. As you know, the moon was

very bright and any object moderately near was plainly visible. I went

around to the eastern side of the house where the prints of the hand

and boards were found, and examined them with extreme care. What I

particularly wished to learn was the direction taken by the assassin as

he left the house and the point at which he had removed the boards from

his feet. The imprints of the boards were clearly discernible so far as

the loose gravel extended, but beyond that nothing could be discovered.

I sat down and pondered over the matter. I had about concluded to drive

two nails into the heels of my boots to enable me to distinguish my own

footprints from any other trail I might intersect, and then, starting

with the house as a centre, to describe an involute about it in the hope

of being able to detect some one or more points where my course crossed

that of the assassin, when I remembered that my friend Burwell, whose

Uncle Tom’s Cabin Combination recently stranded at Brockton was at home.

As you are perhaps aware an Uncle Tom Company consists of a ‘Legree,’

one or two ‘Markses,’ one or two ‘Topsies,’ ‘Uncle Tom,’ a ‘Little Eva,’

who should not be over fifty years old,--or at least should not appear

to be,--two bloodhounds, and anybody else that happens to be available.

It really doesn’t make the least difference how many or how few people

are in the cast. I have heard that an Uncle Tom manager on a Western

circuit, most of whose company deserted him because the ‘ghost’ never

walked, succeeded in cutting and rewriting the piece so as to double

‘George Harris’ and ‘Legree,’ ‘Marks’ and ‘Topsy,’ ‘Uncle Tom’ and

‘Little Eva.’ As for the rest he had it so arranged that he could

himself ‘get off the door’ in time to ‘do,’ with the aid of the dogs,

all the other characters. You see the dogs held the stage while he

changed, say, from ‘Eliza’ to Eva’s father. ‘George Harris’ would look

off left second entrance and say that ‘Legree’ was after him. Then he

would discharge a revolver, rush off right first entrance, where he

would pass his weapon to ‘Eva’ and ‘Uncle Tom,’ and this bisexual

individual would discharge it in the wings at the imaginary pursuer,

while ‘Harris’ would put on a wire beard, slouch hat, black melodramatic

cape, and, rushing behind the flat, enter left as ‘Legree.’

“The hardest thing to manage was the death of ‘Little Eva’ with ‘Uncle

Tom’ by the bedside, but managerial genius overcame the difficulty

after the style of Mantell’s ‘Corsican Brothers.’ You see it is all easy

enough when you know how. ‘Little Eva’ is discovered, sitting up in bed

with the curtains drawn back. She says what she has to say to her father

and the rest. Then her father has a line in which he informs ‘Eva’ that

she is tired and had better try to sleep. She says she will try, just to

please him, and he gently lowers her back upon the pillows and draws the

curtains in front of the bed. But instead of utilising this seclusion

for a refreshing sleep ‘Eva’ rolls out at the back side of the bed.

‘Legree’ snatches off ‘Eva’s’ wig and ‘Topsy’ deftly removes the white

nightdress concealing his--‘Eva’s’--‘Uncle Tom’ make-up, while the

erstwhile little girl hastily blackens his face and hands, puts on a

negro wig, and in less than a minute is changed in colour, race, and

sex. He ‘gets round’ left and enters the sick room as ‘Uncle Tom’ with

‘Topsy.’ They are both told that ‘Little Eva’ is asleep, and ‘Topsy’

peeps cautiously between the curtains and remarks that the child’s

eyes are open and staring. The father looks in and, overcome by grief,

informs the audience that his child is dead. ‘Topsy,’ tearful and

grief-stricken, ‘gets off’ right and washes up to ‘do’ ‘Little Eva’

climbing the golden stair in the last tableau. Meanwhile ‘Uncle Tom,’

in a paroxysm of grief, throws himself upon the bed and holds the stage

till he smells the red fire for the vision; then he staggers down stage,

strikes an attitude; the others do likewise; picture of ‘Little Eva,’

curtain. Talk about doubling ‘Marcellus,’ ‘Polonius,’ ‘Osric,’ and

the ‘First Grave Digger’! Why, that’s nothing to these ‘Uncle Tom’

productions. But hold on, where did I get side-tracked? Oh, yes, the

dogs.

“Well, as I was saying, as soon as I thought of Burwell I made up my

mind at once to borrow one of his hounds. It was late when I got to his

house. When I knocked at the door both Pompey and Caesar began sub-bass

solos of growls, and Burwell was awake in a minute. I told him I wanted

a dog for private business and took Caesar off with me. He found the

trail with no difficulty, and followed it in a bee-line down to the

water, where he raised his big muzzle and howled in dismal impotency.

The assassin had taken to the water. I took the dog up and down the

shore to see if he had returned to land, but all I found of interest was

a clump of alders from which a pole had been cut. I knew by the dog’s

actions that the assassin had been there, for Caesar immediately took

a new trail back to the house. Try as I might I could learn nothing

further, and I at once returned the dog. There is no doubt that the

murderer made his escape in a boat and took with him the pole he had

cut, the boards he had worn, and everything else, I dare say, connected

with his crime. One thing seems clear, and that is that we are dealing

with no ordinary criminal. I would wager a good deal that this fellow,

if ever he is caught, will be found to be a man of brains. I don’t place

much confidence in the Chinese theory, Doc, but as I have nothing better

to offer, let us go see Miss Darrow. If her father has ever had any

dealings with Chinamen, we shall probably deem it wise to look the

Orientals up a bit.”

We immediately acted upon this suggestion, waiting upon Gwen at my

house. She said she and her father had spent a year in San Francisco

when she was about seven years of age. While there their household was

looked after by two Chinese servants, named Wah Sing and Sam Lee. The

latter had been discharged by her father because of his refusal to

perform certain minor duties which, through oversight, had not been

set down as part of his work when he was engaged. So far as she knew no

altercation had taken place and there were no hard feelings on either

side. Sam Lee had bade her good-bye and had seemed sorry to leave,

notwithstanding which, however, he refused, with true Chinese

pertinacity, to assume the new duties. She did not think it likely that

either of these Chinamen had been instrumental in her father’s death,

yet she agreed with Maitland that it would be a point gained to be

assured of this fact. Maitland accordingly determined to depart at once

for San Francisco, and the next day he was off.

We received no letters from him during his absence and were,

accordingly, unable to tell when he expected to get back. Since his

return from India Gwen had given evidence of a reviving interest in

life, but now that he was again away, she relapsed into her old listless

condition, from which we found it impossible to arouse her. Alice, who

did her utmost to please her, was at her wit’s end. She could never tell

which of two alternatives Gwen preferred, since that young lady would

invariably express herself satisfied with either and did not seem to

realise why she should be expected to have any choice in the matter.

Alice was quite at a loss to understand this state of affairs, until I

told her that Gwen was in a condition of semi-torpor in which even the

effort of choice seemed an unwarrantable outlay. She simply did not care

what happened. She felt nothing, save a sense of fatigue, and even what

she saw was viewed as from afar,--and seemed to her a drama in which she

took no other part than that of an idle, tired, and listless spectator.

Clearly she was losing her hold on life. I told Alice we must do our

utmost to arouse her, to stimulate her will, to awaken her interest, and

we tried many things in vain.

Maitland had been gone, I think, about three weeks when my sister and

I hit upon a plan which we thought might have the desired effect upon

Gwen. Before her father’s death she had been one of the most active

members of a Young People’s Club which devoted every Wednesday evening

to the study of Shakespeare. She had attended none of its meetings since

her bereavement, but Alice and I soon persuaded her to accompany us on

the following week and I succeeded, by a little quiet wire-pulling, in

getting her appointed to take charge of the following meeting, which was

to be devoted to the study of “Antony and Cleopatra.” When informed

of the task which had been imposed upon her Gwen was for declining the

honour at once, and the most Alice and I were able to do was to get her

to promise to think it over a day or so before she refused.

The next morning Maitland walked in upon us. He had found both of Mr.

Darrow’s former servants and satisfied himself that they were in San

Francisco on the night of the murder. So that ended my Chinese clue.

While Alice and Gwen were discussing the matter, I took occasion to draw

Maitland aside, and told him of Gwen’s appointment to take charge of the

Cleopatra night, and how necessary it was to her health that she should

be aroused from her torpor. It doesn’t take long for Maitland to see a

thing, and before I had whispered a dozen sentences he had completely

grasped the situation. He crossed the room, drew a chair up beside Gwen,

and sat down. “Miss Darrow,” he began, “I am afraid you will have a poor

opinion of me as a detective. This is the second time I have failed. I

feel that I should remind you again of our compact, at least, that part

of it which permits you to dispense with my services whenever you

shall see fit to do so, and, at the same time, to relieve you from your

obligation to let me order your actions. I tell you frankly it will

be necessary for you to discharge me, if you would be rid of me, for,

unless you do so, or I find the assassin, I shall never cease my search

so long as I have the strength and means to conduct it. What do you

say? Have I not proved my uselessness?” This was said in a tentative,

half-jesting tone. Gwen answered it very seriously.

“You have done for me,” she said, in the deep, vibrating tones of her

rich contralto voice, “all that human intelligence could suggest.

You have examined the evidence and conducted the whole affair with a

thoroughness which I never could have obtained elsewhere. That your

search has been unavailing is due, not to any fault of yours, but rather

to the consummate skill of the assassin, who, I think, we may conclude,

is no ordinary criminal. I do not know much of the abilities of Messrs.

Osborne and Allen, but I understand that M. Godin has the reputation

of being the cleverest detective in America. I cannot learn that he has

made any progress whatsoever in the solution of this terrible mystery.

I do not feel, therefore, that you have any right to reproach yourself.

Such hope as I have that my father’s murderer may ever be brought to

justice rests in your efforts; else I should feel bound to relieve you

of a task, which, though self-imposed, is, none the less, onerous and

ill-paid. Do not consider me altogether selfish if I ask that you still

continue the search, and that I--that I still be held to my covenant. I

am aware that I can never fully repay the kindness I am asking of you,

but--”

Maitland did not wait for her to finish. “Let us not speak of that,” he

said. “It is enough to know that you are still satisfied with my, thus

far, unsuccessful efforts in your behalf. There is nothing affords me

keener pleasure than to struggle with and solve an intricate problem,

whether it be in algebra, geometry, or the mathematics of crime; and

then--well, even if I succeed, I shall quit the work your debtor.”

He had spoken this last impulsively, and when he had finished he

remained silent, as if surprised and a bit nettled at his own failure

to control himself. Gwen made no reply, not even raising her eyes; but

I noticed that her fingers at once busied themselves with the entirely

uncalled-for labour of readjusting the tidy upon the arm of her chair,

and I thought that, if appearances were to be trusted, she was very

happy and contented at the change she had made in the bit of lacework

beneath her hands. With singular good sense, with which she was always

surprising me, Alice now introduced the subject of the Young People’s

Club, and mentioned incidentally that Gwen was to have charge of the

next meeting. Before Gwen had time to inform Maitland that she intended

to decline this honour, he congratulated her upon it, and rendered her

withdrawal difficult by saying: “I feel that I should thank you, Miss

Darrow, for the faithful way in which you fulfil the spirit of your

agreement to permit me to order your actions. I know, if you consulted

your own desires, you would probably decline the honour conferred upon

you, and that in accepting it, you are influenced by the knowledge that

you are pursuing just the course I most wish you to follow. Verily, you

make my office of tyrant over you a perfect sinecure. I had expected you

to chafe a little under restraint, but, instead, I find you voluntarily

yielding to my unexpressed desires.”

Gwen made no reply, but we heard no more of her resignation. She

applied herself at once to the preparation of her paper upon “Antony

and Cleopatra.” Maitland, who, like all vigorous, healthy, and informed

intellects, was an ardent admirer of Shakespeare, found time to call on

Gwen and to discuss the play with her. This seemed to please her very

much, and I am sure his interest in the play was abnormal. He confessed

to me that every morning, as he awoke, the first thing which flashed

into his mind, even before he had full possession of his senses, was

these words of Antony:

“I am dying, Egypt, dying.”

He professed himself utterly unable to account for this, and asked me

what I thought was the cause of it. He furthermore suddenly decided that

he would ask Gwen to propose his name for membership at the next meeting

of the Young People’s Club. I hastily indorsed this resolution, for I

had a vague sort of feeling that it would please Gwen.

The “Antony and Cleopatra” night at length arrived. We all attended the

meeting and listened to a very able paper upon the play. One of the most

marked traits of Gwen’s character is that whatever she does she does

thoroughly, and this was fully exemplified on the night in question.

Maitland was very much impressed by some verse Gwen had written for

the occasion, and a copy of which he succeeded in procuring from her. I

think, from certain remarks he made, that it was the broad and somewhat

unfeminine charity expressed in the verse which most astonished and

attracted him, but of this, after what I have said, you will, when you

have perused it, be as good a judge as I:

CLEOPATRA

In Egypt, where the lotus sips the waters

Of ever-fruitful Nile, and the huge Sphinx

In awful silence,--mystic converse with

The stars,--doth see the pale moon hang her crescent on

The pyramid’s sharp peak,--e’en there, well in

The straits of Time’s perspective,

Went out, by Caesarean gusts from Rome,

The low-burned candle of the Ptolemies:

Went out without a flicker in full glare

Of noon-day glory. When her flame lacked oil

Too proud was Egypt’s queen to be

The snuff of Roman spirits; so she said,

“Good-night,” and closed the book of life half read

And little understood; perchance misread

The greater part,--yet, who shall say? Are we

An ermined bench to call her culprit failings up

And make them plead for mercy? Or can we,

Upon whom soon shall fall the awful shadow of

The Judgment Seat, stand in her light and throw

Ourselves that shadow? Rather let fall upon

Her memory the softening gauze of Time,

As mantle of a charity which else

We might not serve. She was a woman,

And as a woman loved! What though the fierce

Simoom blew ever hot within the sail

Of her desire? What if it shifted with

Direction of her breath? Or if the rudder of

Her will did lean as many ways as trampled straws,

And own as little worth? She was a woman still,

And queen. They do best understand themselves

Who trust themselves the least; as they are wisest

Who, for their safety, thank more the open sea

Than pilot will. Oh, Egypt’s self-born Isis!

Ought we to fasten in thy memory the fangs

Of unalloyed distrust? We know how little

Better is History’s page than leaf whereat the ink

Is thrown. Nor yet should we forget how much

The nearer thou than we didst come to

The rough-hewn corner-stone of Time. We know

Thy practised love enfolded Antony;

And that around the heart of Hercules’

Descendant, threading through and through,

Like the red rivers of its life, in tangled mesh

No circumstance could e’er unravel, thou

Didst coil,--the dreamy, dazzling “Serpent of

The Nile!” Thy sins stick jagged out

From history’s page, and bleeding tear

Fair Judgment from thy merits. We perchance

Do wrong thee, Isis; for that coward, History,

Who binds in death his object’s jaw and then

Besmuts her name, hath crossed his focus in

Another age, and paled his spreading figment from

Our sight. Thou art so far back toward

The primal autocrat whose wish, hyena-like,

Was his religion, that, appearing as thou dost

On an horizon new flushed in the first

Uncertain ray of Altruism, thou seem’st

More ghost than human. Yet thou lovest, loving ghost,

And thy fierce parent flame thyself snuffed out

Scarce later than the dark’ning of the fire

Thou gav’st to be eternal vestal of

Thine Antony’s spirit. Thou didst love and die

Of love; let, therefore, no light tongue, brazen

In censure, say that nothing in thy life

Became thee like the leaving it. The cloth

From which humanity is cut is woven of

The warp and woof of circumstance, and all

Are much alike. We spring from out the mantle, Earth,

And hide at last beneath it; in the interim

Our acts are less of us than it. We are

No judge, then, of thy sins, thou ending link

Of Ptolemy’s chain. Forsooth, we are too much

O’erfilled with wondering how like to thee

We all had been, inclipt and dressed in thine

Own age and circumstance.

The exercises of the evening concluded with the reading of the familiar

poem, beginning:

“I am dying, Egypt, dying;

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast.”

It was about noon the next day when Maitland called upon me. “See here,

Doc,” he began at once, “do you believe in coincidences?” I informed

him that his question was not altogether easy to understand. “Wait a

moment,” he said, “while I explain. For at least two years prior to my

recent return from California the name ‘Cleopatra’ has not entered my

mind. You were the first to mention it to me, and from you I learned

that Miss Darrow was to have charge of the ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ night.

That is all natural enough. But why should I, on every morning since

you first mentioned the subject to me, awake with Antony’s words upon my

lips? Why should every book or paper I pick up contain some reference to

Cleopatra? Why, man, if I were superstitious, it would seem positively

spookish. I am getting to believe that I shall be confronted either by

Cleopatra’s name, or some allusion to her, every time I pick up a book.

It’s getting to be decidedly interesting.”

“I have had,” I replied, “similar, though less remarkable, experiences.

It is quite a common occurrence to learn of a thing, say, this morning

for the first time in one’s life, and then to find, in the course of the

day’s reading, three or four independent references to the same thing.

Suppose we step into the library, and pick out a few books haphazard,

just to see if we chance upon any reference to Cleopatra.”

To this Maitland agreed, and, entering the library, I pushed the Morning

Herald across the table to him, saying: “One thing’s as good as another;

try that.” He started a little, but did not touch the paper. “You will

have to find something harder than that,” he said, pointing to the

outspread paper.

I followed the direction of his finger, and read:

“Boston Theatre. Special engagement of Miss Fanny Davenport.

For one week. Beginning Monday, the 12th of December, Sardou’s

‘Cleopatra.’”

I was indeed surprised, but I said nothing. The next thing I handed

him was a copy of Godey’s Magazine, several years old. He opened it

carelessly, and in a moment read the following line: “I am dying,

sweetheart, dying.” “Doesn’t that sound familiar? It reminds me at once

of the poetic alarm clock that wakens me every morning,--‘I am dying,

Egypt, dying.’ There is no doubt that Higginson’s poem suggested this

one. Here is the whole of the thing as it is printed here,” he said, and

read the following:

LOVE’S TWILIGHT

I am dreaming, loved one, dreaming

Of the sweet and beauteous past

When the world was as its seeming,

Ere the fatal shaft was cast.

I am sobbing, sad-eyed, sobbing,

At the darkly sullen west,

Of the smile of ignorance robbing

The pale face against the breast.

I am smiling, tear-stained, smiling,

As the sun glints on the crest

Of the troubled wave, beguiling

Shipwrecked Hope to its long rest.

I am parting, broken, parting,

From a soul that I hold dear,

And the music of whose beauty

Fades a dead strain on my ear.

I am dying, sweetheart, dying,

Drips life’s gold through palsied hands,--

See; the dead’ning Sun is sighing

His last note in red’ning bands.

So I’m sighing, sinking, sighing,

Flows life’s river to the sea.

Death my throbbing heart is tying

With the strings that ache for thee.

“Yes,” I said, when he had finished. “I shall have to admit that

immediately suggests Higginson’s poem and Cleopatra’s name. But here,

try this,” and I threw an old copy of the Atlantic Monthly upon the

table. Maitland opened it and laughed. “This may be mere chance, Doc,”

he said, “but it is remarkable, none the less. See here!” He held

the magazine toward me, and I read: “Cleopatra’s Needle. The Historic

Significance of Central Park’s New Monument. Some of the Difficulties

that Attended its Transportation and Erection. By James Theodore Wright,

Ph. D.” I was dumfounded. Things were indeed getting interesting.

“Magazines and newspapers,” I said, “seem to be altogether too much in

your line. We’ll try a book this time. Here,” and I pulled the first

one that came to hand, “is a copy of Tennyson’s Poems I fancy it

will trouble you to find your reference in that.” Maitland took it in

silence, and, opening it at random, began to read. The result surprised

him even more than it did me. He had chanced upon these verses from “A

Dream of Fair Women”:

“‘We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit

Lamps which outburn’d Canopus. O my life

In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit,

The flattery and the strife.

“‘And the wild kiss when fresh from war’s alarms,

My Hercules, my Roman Antony,

My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms,

Contented there to die!

“‘And there he died! And when I heard my name

Sigh’d forth with life, I would not brook my fear

Of the other! With a worm I balked his fame.

What else was left? look here!’

“With that she tore her robe apart and half

The polished argent of her breast to sight

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh,

Showing the aspic’s bite.”

“There is no doubt about that,” I said, as he laid the book upon the

table. “I want to try this thing once more. Here is Pascal; if you can

find any reference to the ‘Serpent of the Nile’ in that, you needn’t

go any farther, I shall be satisfied,” and I passed the book to him.

He turned the pages over in silence for half a minute, or so, and then

said: “I guess this counts as a failure,--no, though, by Jove! Look

here!” His face was of almost deathly pallor, and his finger trembled

upon the passage it indicated as he held the book toward me. I glanced

with some anxiety from his face to the book, and read, as nearly as I

now can remember: “If Cleopatra’s nose had been shorter, the entire face

of the world would have been changed.”

It was some minutes before Maitland fully regained his composure, and

during that time neither of us spoke. “Well, Doc,” he said at length,

and his manner was decidedly grave, even for him:

“What do you make of it?” I didn’t know what to make of it, and

I admitted my ignorance with a frankness at which, considering my

profession, I have often since had occasion to marvel. I told him that

I could scarcely account for it on the ground of mere coincidence, and I

called his attention to that part of “The Mystery of Marie Roget,” where

Poe figures out the mathematical likelihood of a certain combination of

peculiarities of clothing being found to obtain in the case of two

young women who were unknown to each other. If the finding of a single

reference to Cleopatra had been a thing of so infrequent occurrence as

to at once challenge Maitland’s attention, what was to be said when, all

of a sudden, her name, or some reference to her, seemed to stare at him

from every page he read?

“‘There is something in this more than natural,

If philosophy could find it out,’”

murmured Maitland, more to himself than to me. “Come, what do you

say?” and he turned abruptly to me with one of those searching looks so

peculiar to him in moments of excitement. “I see,” I replied, “that you

are determined I shall give my opinion now and here, without a moment’s

reflection. Very well; you have just quoted ‘Hamlet’; I will do

likewise:

“‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy!’

“You seem in some strange way to be dominated by the shade of Cleopatra.

Now, if I believed in metempsychosis, I should think you were Mark

Antony brought down to date. There, with that present sober air of

yours, you’d pass anywhere for such an anachronism. But to be serious,

and to give you advice which is positively bilious with gravity, I

should say, investigate this thing fully; make a study of this ancient

charmer. By the way, why not begin by going to see Davenport in Sardou’s

‘Cleopatra’? You have never seen her in it, have you?”

In this way, I succeeded in getting him out of his depressed state. We

got into an argument concerning the merits of Miss Davenport’s work. I

know of nothing Maitland would sooner do than argue, and, if attacked

on a subject upon which he feels strongly, he is, for the time being,

totally oblivious of everything else. For this reason I trapped him into

this argument. I abominate what is now known as “realism” just as much

as he does, but you don’t have much of an argument without some apparent

difference of opinion, so, for the nonce, I became a realist of whom

Zola himself would have been proud. “Why, man,” I said, “realism is

truth. You certainly can’t have any quarrel with that.” I knew this

would have the effect of a red rag flaunted in the face of a bull.

“Truth! Bah!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I have no patience with such

aesthetic hod-carriers! Truth, indeed! Is there no other truth in art

but that coarse verisimilitude, that vulgar trickery, which appeals to

the eyes and the ears of the rabble? Are there not psychological truths

of immensely greater importance? What sane man imagines for a

moment that the pleasure he derives from seeing that greatest of all

tragedians, Edwin Booth, in one of Shakespeare’s matchless tragedies,

is dependent upon his believing that this or that character is actually

killed? Why, even the day of the cranberry-juice dagger is long

since passed. When Miss Davenport shrieks in ‘Fedora,’ the shriek is

literal--‘real,’ you would call it--and you find yourself instinctively

saying, ‘Don’t!---don’t!’ and wishing you were out of the house. When

Mr. Booth, as ‘Shylock’ shrieks at ‘Tubal’s’ news, the cry is not real,

is not literal, but is suggestive, and you see at once the fiendish glee

of which it is the expression. The difference between the two is the

difference between vocal cords and grey matter.”

“But surely,” I rejoined, “one doesn’t want untruth; one wants--” but he

did not let me finish.

“Always that cry of truth!” he retorted. “Do you not see how absurd it

is, as used by your exponents of realism? With a bit of charcoal some

Raphael draws a face with five lines, and some photographer snaps a

camera at the same face. Which would any sane man choose as the best

work of art? The five-line face, of course. Why? Is the work of the

camera unreal? Is it not more accurate in drawing, more subtle in

gradation than the less mechanical picture? To be sure. What, then,

makes the superiority of the few lines of our Raphael? That which makes

the superiority of all noble art--its truth, not on a low, but on a

high, plane: its power of interpreting. See!” he said, fairly aglow

with excitement. “What does your realist do, even assuming that he has

reached that never-to--be-attained perfection which is the lifelong

Mecca of his desires? He gives you, by his absolutely realistic goes

with you, and interprets its grandeur to you. Stand before his canvas

and enjoy it as you would Nature herself if there. Surely, you say,

nothing more could be desired, and you clap your hands, and shout,

‘Bravo!’ But wait a bit; the other side is yet to be heard from. What

does the true artist do for you by his picture of Yosemite Valley? He

not only gives you a free conveyance to it, but he goes with you, and

interprets its grandeur to you. He translates into the language of your

consciousness beauties which, without him, you would entirely miss. It

is this very capability of seeing more in Nature than is ever perceived

by the common throng that constitutes the especial genius of the

artist, and a work that is not aglow with its creator’s

personality--personality, mind you, not coarse realism--can never rank

as a masterpiece. But, come, this won’t do. Why did you want to get me

astride my hobby?”

I thought it advisable to answer this question by asking another, so I

said: “But how about Davenport? Will you go?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Anything with a Cleopatra to it interests me. I’ll

go now and see about the tickets,” and he left me.

I have related Maitland’s aesthetic views as expressed to me upon this

occasion, not because they have any particular bearing upon the mystery

I am narrating, but because they cast a strong side-light upon the young

man’s character, and also for the reason that I believe his personality

to be sufficiently strong and unique to be of general interest.

We went that same night to see Sardou’s “Cleopatra.” I asked Maitland

how he liked the piece, and the only reply he vouchsafed was: “I have

recently read Shakespeare’s treatment of the same theme.”

CHAPTER II

If events spread themselves out fanwise from the past into the

future, then must the occurrences of the present exhibit

convergence toward some historical burning-point,--some focal

centre whereat the potential was warmed into the kinetic.

It was nearly a week after the events last narrated before I saw

Maitland again, and then only by chance. We happened to meet in the

Parker House, and, as he had some business pertaining to a case he was

on, to transact at the Court House, I walked up Beacon Street with him.

There is a book or stationery store, on Somerset Street, just before

you turn down toward Pemberton Square. As we were passing this store,

Maitland espied a large photographic reproduction of some picture.

“Let us cross over and see what it is,” he said. We did so. It was

a photograph of L. Alma-Tadema’s painting of Antony and Cleopatra.

Maitland started a little as he read the title, and then said lightly:

“Do you suppose, Doc, that woman’s mummy is in existence? I should like

to find it. I’ve an idea she left some hieroglyphic message for me on

her mummy-case, and doesn’t propose to let me rest easy until I find and

translate it. Now, if I believed in transmigration of souls--do you see

any mark of Antony about me? Say, though, just imagine the spirit of

Marcus Antonius in a rubber apron, making an analysis of oleomargarine!

But here we are; good-bye,” and he left me without awaiting any reply.

He seemed to me to be in decidedly better spirits than formerly, and I

was at the time at a loss to account for it. The cause of his levity,

however, was soon explained, for that night, as Gwen, my sister, and I

were sitting cosily in the study according to our usual custom, Maitland

walked in, unannounced. He had come now to be a regular visitor, and I

invented not a few subterfuges to get him to call even oftener than he

otherwise would, for I perceived that his coming gave pleasure to Gwen.

She exhibited less depression when in his presence than at any other

time. I had learned that hers was one of those deep natures in which

grief crystallises slowly, but with an unconquerable persistence.

Instead of her forgetting her bereavement, or the sense thereof waxing

weaker by time, she seemed to be drifting toward that ever-present

consciousness of loss in which the soul feels itself gradually, but

surely, sinking under an insupportable burden--a burden so long borne,

so well known, that the mind no longer thinks of it. The heart beats

stolidly under its load, and seems to forget the time when it was not

so oppressed. No one knows better than we physicians the danger of this

autocracy of grief, and I watched Gwen with a solicitude at times almost

bordering on despair. But, as I said before, she always seemed to show

more interest in affairs when Maitland was present, and, on the night

in question, his abrupt and unexpected entrance surprised her into the

betrayal of more pleasure than she would have wished us to note, and,

indeed, so quickly did she conceal her confusion that I was the only one

who noticed it. Maitland was too busy with the news he brought.

“Well, Miss Darrow,” he began at once, “at last your detective has got

a clue--not much of a one--but still a clue. I can pick the man for

whom we are looking from among a million of his fellows--if I am ever

fortunate enough to get the chance.”

Somebody has already called attention to the fact that women are more

or less curious, and there are well-authenticated cases on record

where this inquisitiveness has even extended to things which did not

immediately concern themselves; so I have little doubt I shall be

believed when I say the women folk were in a fever of expectancy, and

besought Maitland with an earnestness quite unnecessary--(it would have

required a great deal to have prevented his telling it)--to begin at

the beginning, and relate the whole thing. He readily acceded to this

request, and began by telling them the experiences which I have just

narrated. It was, he said, during the last act of Sardou’s “Cleopatra”

that the idea had suddenly come to him to change the plan of search from

the analytical to the synthetical.

“You see,” he continued, “I had from the first been trying to find the

assassin without knowing the exact way in which the crime was committed.

I now determined to ascertain how, under the same circumstances, I could

commit such a crime, and leave behind no other evidences of the deed

than those which are in our possession. I began to read detective

stories, with all the avidity of a Western Union Telegraph messenger,

and, of course, read those by Conan Doyle. The assertion of ‘Sherlock

Holmes’ that there is no novelty in crime; that crimes, like history,

repeat themselves; and that criminals read and copy each other’s

methods, deeply impressed me, and I at once said to myself: ‘If our

assassin was not original, whom did he copy?’

“It was while reading ‘The Sign of the Four,’ which I had procured at

the Public Library, that I made the first discovery. The crime therein

narrated had been committed in such a singular manner that it at once

attracted my attention. The victim had apparently been murdered without

anyone having either entered or left the room. In this respect it was

like the problem we are trying to solve. Might not this book, I said to

myself, have suggested to your father’s assassin the course he pursued.

I concluded to go to the library and ask for a list of the names of

persons who had taken out this book for a few months prior to your

father’s death. I was fully aware that the chance of my learning

anything in this way was very slight, In the first place; I reasoned

that it was not especially likely your father’s murderer had read

‘The Sign of the Four,’ and, in the second place, even if he had,

what assurance had I that he had read this particular copy of it?

Notwithstanding this, however, I felt impelled to give my synthetical

theory a fair experimental trial. I was informed by the Library

attendants that the book had been much read, and given the list of some

twenty names of persons who had borrowed the book during the time I had

specified. With these twenty-odd names before me, I sat down to think

what my next step should be. I went carefully over this chain of

reasoning link by link. ‘I wish to find a certain murderer, and have

adopted this method in the hope that it may help me. If I derive any

assistance at all from it, it will be because my man has read this

particular copy of this work; therefore, I may as well assume at the

start that among these twenty-odd names is that of the man I want. Is

there any possibility of this crime having been committed by a woman?’

was my next question, and my answer was, ‘Yes, a possibility, but it

is so decidedly improbable that I may count it out for the time being.’

Accordingly, I set aside all the female names, which cut my list down

to eighteen. Several of the applicants had only signed the initials of

their given names, and the attendant, copying them from the slips,

had done likewise; so I was obliged to go to the registration clerk to

determine this question of sex, and, while there, I also ascertained the

age of each applicant--that is, of all but two. The registrar could give

me no information regarding J. Z. Weltz, or B. W. Rizzi. When I told

him that one of the clerks had copied the names for me from application

slips, he informed me that if I would go back to her I would undoubtedly

find she had taken the two last-mentioned names from the green slips

used in applying for books for hall use, as neither J. Z. Weltz nor B.

W. Rizzi was a card-holder.

“I decided to let these two names rest a while, and to give my attention

to the others. After careful deliberation I felt reasonably sure your

father’s assassin could not fail to be a man of mature judgment and

extraordinary cunning, probably a man past middle life--at all events,

I could safely say he was over twenty-one years of age. Proceeding

upon this assumption my list was reduced to ten names. But how should I

further continue this process of exclusion? This was the question which

now confronted me. I could think of but one way, apart from personally

making the gentlemen’s acquaintance, which I did not then wish to do,

and that was to ascertain what other books they had borrowed immediately

before and after they had read ‘The Sign of the Four.’ This was the

course I determined to pursue.

“If you ask me why I so persistently followed an investigation, a

successful outcome of which anyone must recognise would be little short

of miraculous, I can only say that I felt impelled to do so. Perhaps the

impulse was due to my habit of testing patiently and thoroughly each

new theory which impresses me as having any degree of probability, and

perhaps it was due to something else--Cleopatra, perhaps, eh, Doctor?--I

don’t know. I determined, however, to thoroughly satisfy myself

regarding these ten men. I made a careful list, with the assistance of

an attendant, of ten books taken by each man, five taken just prior to

‘The Sign of the Four,’ and the other five just following it. I made no

deductions until the list was completed, although I began to see certain

things of interest as we worked upon it. At length the whole hundred

titles were spread before me, and I sat down to see what I could make of

them. I purposely reserved consideration of the books borrowed by Weltz

and Rizzi until the last, because I had been able to learn nothing

of them, and considered, therefore, that they were the most difficult

persons in the list about whom to satisfy myself. I found the other

eight exhibited no system in their reading. One had read--I think I can

remember the books in the order in which they were borrowed--‘Thelma,’

‘Under Two Flags,’ ‘David Copperfield,’ ‘The Story of an African Farm,’

‘A Study in Scarlet,’ ‘The Sign of the Four,’ ‘The Prisoner of Zenda,’

‘The Dolly Dialogues,’ ‘The Yellow Aster,’ ‘The Superfluous Woman,’ and

‘Ideala.’ This is a fair sample of the other seven. Not so, however,

with Messrs. Weltz and Rizzi. The reading of these men at once impressed

me as having a purpose behind it.

“I will read you a list of the books taken by Weltz and Rizzi, just to

see what you will make out of it:

WELTZ RIZZI

I. “Lecons de Toxicologic,” 1. “Traite de Toxicologic,”

par M. Orifia. par C. P. Galtier.

2. “The Poisons of Asps and 2. “The Poisons of Asps and

Other Stories,” by Florence Other Stories,” by Florence

Marryat. Marryat.

3. “A Practical Essay on 3. “A Practical Essay on

Cancer,” by C. T. Johnson. Cancer,” by C. T. Johnson.

4. “The Sharper Detected 4. “The Sharper Detected

and Exposed,” by R. Houdin. and Exposed,” by R. Houdin.

5. “The Sign of the Four,” 5. “The Sign of the Four,”

by A. Conan Doyle. by A. Conan Doyle.

6. “Cancer, a New Method of 6. “Legal Chemistry: A

Treatment,” by W. H. Guide to the Detection of

Broadbent. Poisons, Examinations of

Stains, etc., as Applied to

Chemical Jurisprudence.”

From the French of A. Naquet

by J. P. Battershall, Nat.Sc.D.

7. “Reports of Trials for 7. “Traite Pratique des

Murder by Poisoning,” Maladies Cancerences,”

by G. L. Browne and C. par H. Lebert.

G. Stewart.

8. “A Practical Treatise on 8. “A Practical Treatise on

Poisons,” by O. H. Costill. Poisons,” by O. H. Costill.

9. “Poisons, Their Effects 9. “A Treatise on Poisons in

and Detection,” by Alexander Relation to Medical

Wynter Blyth. Jurisprudence, Physiology,

and the Practice of Physic,”

by R. Christison,M.D., F.R.S.E.

10. “Poisons, Their Effects 10. “Poisons, Their Effects

and Detection,” by Alexander and Detection,” by Alexander

Wynter Blyth. Wynter Blyth.

“There, do you wonder that the perusal of that list excited me? Come,

now, before I go any further, tell me what you make of it, Doc,” and he

passed it to me.

“There seems to me to be a singular unanimity of purpose existing

between these two men,” I said; “not only as regards the subject-matter

of their reading, but in no less than six cases they have both perused

the same volume. This never happened by chance. Clearly, they are

acquaintances, and are working together toward some common end. I

should think it very likely, judging from their interest in cancers and

toxicology, that they were medical students. Numbers four and five don’t

exactly seem to strengthen my medical hypothesis, but they are only two

out of the ten. That’s about all I can make out of it;” and I returned

the list to him.

“Your views in the matter,” replied Maitland, “are precisely those which

first occurred to me, and I am not sure but I should still hold them,

had I been obliged to decide solely from the evidence I have submitted

to you. It was clear to my mind from the first that some common purpose

actuated both Weltz and Rizzi. With a view to ascertaining where they

lived as a preparatory step toward learning more of them, I consulted a

Boston directory, only to learn that it contained no such names. I was

about to examine some of the directories of neighbouring towns when it

occurred to me that the easiest way to find their places of residence

would be to consult the green slips upon which they had procured their

books, and I accordingly asked the attendant to kindly let me look at

them. While she was collecting the slips I re-examined the list of books

taken by Weltz and Rizzi, especially those which had been taken by both

men. One thing at once struck my attention, and that was that most of

these latter were large books which would take a long time to peruse and

would require to be borrowed several times for hall use, were they to

be examined with any care. I put this fact down for future reference

and gave my attention to the green slips, the whole twenty of which the

attendant now placed before me. The residence of Weltz was given as No.

15 Staniford Place, Boston, while that of Rizzi was No. 5 Oak Street,

Boston. I was about to walk over to Oak Street to see if Rizzi were

still there when, in returning the slips to the attendant, I noticed

a peculiarity in Weltz’s ‘z’ which I had thought I had seen in Rizzi’s

signature. I immediately compared the slips. There was the same oddly

shaped ‘z’ in both. It was made like this”--and he handed us a slip of

paper with this z* upon it.

“You see,” he continued, “it is so unusual a way of making the letter

that it at once attracted my attention, notwithstanding the fact that

Rizzi wrote with his left hand. Closer examination revealed other

peculiarities, as in the r*’s, common to both hands. Well, to make a

long story short, I satisfied myself that the same person wrote the

whole twenty slips and was, moreover, ambidextrous. This I considered

as a very promising discovery, so much so, indeed, that I gave up an

engagement I had for the evening and decided to camp right there until

the Library closed. Happily the books I had been consulting were still

on the table. I picked out those borrowed under the names of Weltz and

Rizzi, and began a most careful examination of them. I had been working

about two hours when I discovered something that fairly took my breath

away. I was not sure that I was right, but I knew that, if my microscope

bore me out, I would be able to stake my life that the murderer of John

Darrow had read that book. I was aware, however, that even then I should

not be able to name the man who had put his mark upon the book, but I

could take oath that the record was made by the same hand that committed

the murder.

***** Transcriber’s note: the symbols designated z* and r* are shown as

script which is not reproducible here. *****

“I was too excited to do more till this had been settled, so I besought

the official in charge to let me take all the books home with me, if

only for a day, explaining to him the vital importance of my request.

He readily consented and I hastened home with the whole lot. You may

imagine with what interest I put the page I wished to examine under my

microscope and laid beside it the piece of glass which, you will perhaps

remember, I cut from a window of the room in which the murder was

committed. I believe I have never yet explained to Miss Darrow why I

preserved that bit of glass. There were two reasons for it. The house

had been primed that day and there were two smutches of paint upon the

glass and two almost identical smutches upon the sill. One was a sinuous

line, as if the glass had been struck with a short bit of rope,--or

possibly rubber tubing since no rope-like texture was visible,--which

had previously been soiled with the paint from the sill. The other mark

was that of a human thumb. I had seen at the World’s Fair an exhibit

of these thumbmarks collected by a Frenchman who has made an exhaustive

study of the subject, and had learned there for the first time that no

two thumbs in the world can make the same mark. I knew, therefore, that

this slip of glass would at any time tell me whether or not a suspected

man were guilty. I had not failed to get the thumb-marks of the men who

painted the house on that day, as well as those of every other person

known to be about the place. The marks upon the glass could not, by

any possibility, have been made by any of them. The deduction was

inevitable. They were made by the man who stood by the window when the

murder was committed.

“You will be surprised when I tell you it was some moments before I

could summon up courage to look through my microscope upon the page

beneath it. You see, I had been seized by an unaccountable conviction

that I had at last found a real clue to the murderer, and I dreaded

lest the first glance should show this to have been an idle delusion. At

length I looked. The thumb that had pressed the paper was the thumb that

had pressed the glass! There was not a doubt of it. My suspicions were

confirmed. Everything now regarding this book was of immense importance.

The page upon which the mark was found--well, I think you would open

your eyes if I were to read it to you. I will defer this pleasure,

however, till I see if my suspicions are correct. The thumb-mark is upon

page 469 of ‘Poisons, Their Effects and Detection,’ by Alexander Wynter

Blyth.

“No sooner had I made sure of my discovery than I set out for No. 5 Oak

Street, the address given by Rizzi. There was no such person there, nor

had there been anyone of that name in the house during the three years

of the present tenant’s occupancy. I went to 15 Staniford Place with the

same result. A young woman about twenty-five years of age came to the

door. She informed me that she had been born in the house and had always

lived there. She had never known anyone by the name of Weltz. This was

just what I had expected. The man for whom we are searching is shrewd

almost beyond belief, and if we succeed in finding him it will not, we

may be assured, be the result of any bungling on his part.

“I have now told you all I have learned, or rather all that is

sufficiently definite to communicate--it is not much, yet it is a clue

and may serve to give our hope a new lease of life. What do you think of

it, Miss Darrow?”

“I think what you have learned,” Gwen replied, “will be of the utmost

importance. You have now something definite to guide you. I am most

fortunate in having the services of such a detective,--indeed, I am at

a loss to know how to thank you for all you have done,--for all you are

doing, I--”

“My dear Miss Darrow,” Maitland interrupted, “I need no thanks. Be

assured I am selfish in all I do. It is a pleasure to me, therefore I

do it. You see I deserve no credit. If I am able to free you from the

danger of sacrificing yourself, I shall be more than repaid.”

Gwen made no reply, but I, sitting as I did close beside her, saw the

moisture gather between her drooping lids. Maitland took his leave

almost immediately, having, he said, a long evening’s work before him;

while Gwen, Alice, and I discussed the news he had brought us, until far

into the night. I did not see him the next day, which was Tuesday, and

I believe not on Wednesday. It was Thursday afternoon, if I do not

mistake, that he sent me a note asking me to call on him at his office.

I went at once, thinking it might be something very important. I found

him alone and waiting for me.

“I wanted,” he began as soon as I was seated, “to talk this matter over

with you. You see the great difficulty which besets me in this case is

that nearly all our evidence, while it is of a nature to enable us to

convict our man once we have him, is yet of almost no assistance to us

in finding him. What do we know of him up to date; or at least of what

do we feel reasonably assured? Let us see. John Darrow was poisoned in

some mysterious way by a man who was stationed just outside the partly

opened window. The weapon, or whatever was used as such, was taken away

by the murderer. Nothing in the nature of a projectile could have been

employed, since the wound was upon a part of the victim’s throat known

to have been turned away from the window and to have been completely

shielded upon that side by the high and massive back of the chair in

which the victim sat.

“He was fully eight feet from the casement, so that the assassin could

not have reached in and struck him. There were no footprints by the

window, as the assassin had strapped small boards upon his feet. It

is most likely, therefore, that he has some peculiarity about his feet

which he thought best to conceal. He is about five feet five inches

tall, weighs about one hundred and thirty-five pounds, and steps three

or four inches longer when the right foot is thrown forward than he does

when the left foot leads. We have a cast of the assassin’s hand showing

unmistakable evidence of the habit of biting the nails, with the

exception of that of the little finger, which nail, by the way, is

abnormally long, and could only have been spared for some special

reason. The murderer is most likely a foreigner. His handwriting would

indicate this even if we did not know, from the books he read, how

conversant he is with at least one foreign tongue. Again, he has some

decided interest in the subject of cancers and, perhaps, some interest

in legerdemain, if we may judge from his perusal of Robert Houdin’s

book.

“There are one or two other things I have learned, but this, so far as

any present effect is concerned, is about all we know, and it doesn’t

seem to make the conduct of our search a very easy matter. We have

clearly to deal with a man who is possessed not merely of low criminal

cunning, but, I have reason to believe, with one who has education and

culture, and, if anything can be judged from handwriting, rare strength

of character as well. If we could only find some motive! No one but a

maniac would do such a deed without a motive, yet we can’t find one.

A maniac! By Jove! I hadn’t thought of that. What do you think of the

idea? ‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t,’ eh?”

I told him that the maniac theory did not appeal to me very strongly.

“Madness, to be sure, is often exceedingly cunning,” I said, “but it

is hardly capable of such sustained masterfulness as our criminal has

evinced.”

“Look here, Doc,” Maitland said, breaking out suddenly, “I’ve an idea.

Might not this fellow’s interest in cancers be due to his having one

himself? Suppose you make a canvass of the specialists on cancer in

Boston and vicinity, and see if any of them remember being consulted by

a patient answering the description with which I will provide you. In

addition to this I will insert an ad in the papers calling attention to

a new method for the cure of cancer, and asking all interested to call

at your office for further particulars. The plan does not promise much,

still it may bring him. What do you say?”

I expressed my willingness to do all in my power to aid him, and he

left me. The next morning’s papers contained the advertisement and I

had several calls in answer to it. These would have caused me much

inconvenience had I not explained the whole ruse in confidence to a

medical friend who made a specialty of the treatment of cancers, and

persuaded him to come to my office during the hours specified in the

advertisement. When a patient would call I would satisfy myself that it

was neither the person we were searching for, nor anyone sent by him to

make inquiries, and then turn him over to my colleague, Dr. Rhodes. It

would never have occurred to me to interest myself in any patient

who did not answer the description given me by Maitland, had he not

especially cautioned me in this regard.

“We have,” he said, “to deal with a man possessed of ability of no

common order. We have already seen that he never runs a risk, however

slight, which he can avoid. It is more than likely, therefore, if our

advertisement meets his eye and interests him, he will inquire into it

through some second party. Again, we are by no means certain that his

interest in cancers is a purely personal one. Perhaps it is a wife, a

sister, or some other relative who is afflicted. In this case we could

hardly expect him to come himself. Let me caution you, therefore,

to closely scrutinise all applicants and question them until you are

satisfied they are in nowise connected with the man for whom we are

searching.”

I followed this advice most carefully and had no difficulty in

convincing myself that none of my callers had any relation whatsoever

with the murderer of John Darrow. This order of things was continued for

several days with the same result. In the meantime Maitland was working

upon a new clue he had discovered. He would tell me all about it, he

said, when he had followed it to the end. This was on Tuesday. On Friday

he came to the house and informed us that he had met a man who had

known a M. Henri Cazot, a Frenchman whose description seemed to tally

perfectly with nearly all we knew of Mr. Darrow’s murderer.

“It came about in this way,” Maitland began in response to Gwen’s

request that he should tell us all about it: “I determined to thoroughly

search every book on the ‘Weltz-Rizzi’ list, to see if I might not get

some additional clue. In the work by Robert Houdin entitled ‘The

Sharper Detected and Exposed’ I found the statement that gamblers often

neutralised a cut in a pack of cards by a rapid and dexterous sleight.

This, the book went on to say, was accomplished in the following manner:

When the cards are cut and left in two packets upon the table, the

sharper picks up with his right hand the parcel of cards which was

originally at the bottom of the pack. This is brought above the other

packet, as in an honest cut, but, just before releasing the cards, the

lower parcel is deftly tilted up by inserting the right little finger

under it, and the upper packet quickly slid beneath it, leaving the

cards in precisely the position they occupied before cutting; For this

purpose, the book continued, the nail of the right little finger is

worn very long, so as to facilitate its being thrust beneath a packet of

cards. Here, I said to myself, is a possible explanation of one of

the peculiarities of my plaster cast. The long nail on the left little

finger may have served its function at the gaming table. If so, however,

it would seem to indicate that our man is left-handed, while, as we have

already seen, the writing upon the library slips would indicate that he

is ambidextrous. We need not, therefore, I reasoned, be surprised if

we find that both little fingers have long nails. I at once acted upon

these thoughts and began a search of the gambling resorts of this

city. In order not to excite suspicion I played a little in each place,

watching my opportunity to engage the proprietor in conversation. In

every case I followed the same formula. Did he remember the gentleman

who used to come there? Foreigner,--spoke French, a little under medium

height; had a sort of halt in his walk; bit his finger nails, etc.,

etc. I met with no encouragement in the down-town places, though the

proprietor of one of the Hayward Place ‘dives’ had an idea such a man

had been there, but only once or twice and he was not sure he could

place him. I then went up to the South End and on Decatur Street found

a man who promptly responded to my inquiries: ‘Gad! that’s Henri Cazot

fast enough, in all but the height and gait. Dick there, he’ll tell you

all about him. He owes him a little debt of honour of about a hundred

plunks. He gave him his note for it, and Dick carries it around with

him, not because he thinks he’ll ever get it, but he likes the writing.

M. Henri Cazot! eh, Dick?’ and he burst into a coarse laugh. I turned

to Dick for further information. He had already produced a much-crumpled

paper and was smoothing it out upon the table.

“‘There’s the article,’ he said, bringing his hand down emphatically

upon it. ‘The cuss was hard up. Luck had gone agin him and he had lost

every cent he had. Jem Macey was a-dealin’ and Cazot didn’t seem to

grasp that fact, but kept bettin’ heavy. You see, young feller, ye ain’t

over likely to win at cards when yer playin’ agin the dealer. Cazot

didn’t know this and I wouldn’t tell him, for he was rather fly with the

cards himself when he wan’t watched too close. Well, he struck me for a

loan; said his little girl was hungry and he hadn’t a cent to buy bread.

Gad, but he looked wild though! I always thought he was more’n half

loony. Well, as I had helped to fleece him I lent him a hundred and took

this here note. That’s the last I ever see of M. Henri Cazot,’ and he

handed the paper to me. I glanced at the signature. It was the same hand

that had written ‘Weltz’ and ‘Rizzi’ upon the library slips. There

was that unmistakable z and the peculiar r which had just attracted my

attention! It required considerable effort on my part to so restrain my

feelings as not to appear especially interested in what I had learned.

I think, however, I succeeded, as they freely answered my questions

regarding Cazot and the daughter of whom he had spoken. They knew

nothing further, they said, than what they had told me.

“‘It was a year ago come next month that I lent him the money,’ my

informant continued. He pocketed it, hurried out, and that is the last

I have ever seen or heard of him. Shouldn’t wonder if he’d blown his

brains out long ago. He used to have a mighty desperate look at times.

He was one of them Monte Carlo fellers, I reckon.’

“That’s all I have been able to learn thus far. It isn’t very much, but

it shows we are on the right track. By the way, Doc, I’m going to change

that ad to-morrow, offering treatment by letter. Perhaps our man is

too shy to apply in person. At all events we’ll give the other method a

trial.”

CHAPTER III

When we least expect it the Ideal meets us in the street of the

Commonplace and locks arms with us. Nevermore shall we choose

our paths uninfluenced. A new leaven has entered our personality

to dominate and direct it.

The new advertisement duly appeared and on the next day, which was

Wednesday--I remember it because it was my hospital day--I received

several written answers, and among them, one in which I felt confident I

recognised the peculiar z*’s and r*’s of Weltz and Rizzi.

I took it at once to Maitland. He glanced at it a moment and then

impulsively grasped my hand. “By Jove, Doc!” he exclaimed, “if this

crafty fox doesn’t scent the hound, we shall soon run him to earth. You

see he has given no address and signs a new name. We are to write to

Carl Cazenove, General Delivery, Boston. Good! we will do so at once,

and I will then arrange with the postal authorities to notify me when

they deliver the letter. Of course this will necessitate a continuous

watch, perhaps for several days, of the general delivery window. It is

hardly likely our crafty friend will himself call for the letter, so

it will be imperative that someone be constantly on hand to shadow

whomsoever he may send as a substitute. May I depend on your assistance

in this matter?”

“I will stand by you till we see the thing through,” I said, “though I

have to live in the Post Office a month.”

Well, I wrote and mailed the decoy letter and Maitland explained the

situation to the postal authorities, who furnished us a comfortable

place inside and near the general delivery window. They promised to

notify us when anyone called for our letter. Our vigil was not a very

long one. On Thursday afternoon the postal clerk signalled to us that

Carl Cazenove’s mail had been asked for, and, while he was consuming

as much time as possible in finding our letter, Maitland and I quietly

stepped out into the corridor. The sight that met our gaze was one

for which we had not been at all prepared. There at the window stood a

beautiful young girl just on the verge of womanhood. Her frank blue eyes

met mine with the utmost candour as I passed by her so that she should

be between Maitland and me, and thus unable to elude us, whichever way

she turned upon leaving the window. We had previously planned how we

should shadow our quarry, one on each side of the street in order not to

attract attention, but these tactics seemed to be entirely unnecessary,

for the young lady did not have the slightest suspicion that anyone

could be in the least interested in her movements. She walked leisurely

along, stopping now occasionally to gaze at the shop windows and never

once turning to look back. She did not even conceal the letter, but held

it in her hand with her porte-monnaie, and I could see that the address

was uppermost. A strange sensation came over me as I dogged her steps.

I felt as an assassin must feel who tracks his victim into some lonely

spot where he may dare to strike him. It was useless for me to tell

myself that I was on the side of justice and engaged in an honourable

errand. A single glance at the girl’s delicate face, as frank and open

as the morning light, brought the hot blush of shame to my cheek. In

following her I dimly felt that, in some way, I was seeking to associate

her with evil, which seemed little less than sacrilege. I could do

nothing, however, but keep on, so I followed her through Devonshire

Street, to New Washington and thence down Hanover Street almost to the

ferry. Here she turned into an alleyway and, waiting for Maitland to

come up, we both saw her enter a house at its farther end.

George glanced hastily up at the house and then said, as he seized me

impatiently by the arm: “It’s a tenement house; come on, the chase is

not up yet; we, too, must go in!”

So in we went. The young lady had disappeared, but as we entered we

heard a door close on the floor above, and felt sure we knew where she

had gone. We mounted the stairs as noiselessly as possible and listened

in the hall. We could distinguish a woman’s voice and occasionally that

of a man, but we could not hear what passed between them. On our right

there was a door partly ajar. Maitland pushed it open, and looked in.

The room was empty and unfurnished, with the exception of a dilapidated

stove which stood against the partition separating this room from the

one the young lady had entered. Maitland beckoned to me and I followed

him into the room. There was a key on the inside of the door which

he noiselessly turned in the lock. He then began to investigate the

premises. Three other rooms communicated with the one of which we had

taken possession, forming, evidently, a suite which had been let for

housekeeping. Everything was in ill-repair, as is the case with most

of the cheap tenements in this locality. The previous tenant had not

thought it necessary to clean the apartments when quitting them,--for

altruism does not flourish at the North End,--but had been content to

leave all the dirt for the next occupant.

When we had finished reconnoitering we returned to the room we first

entered, which apparently was the kitchen. We could still hear the

voices, but not distinctly. “Do you stay here, Doc,” whispered Maitland,

“while I get into some old clothes and hunt up the landlord of this

place. I’m going to rent these rooms long enough to acquaint myself with

my neighbours on the other side of the wall. I’ll be back soon. Don’t

let any man leave that room without your knowing where he goes.” With

this he left me and I soon found a way to busy myself in his absence.

In the wall above the stove, where the pipe passed through the partition

into our neighbour’s apartment, there was a chink large enough to permit

me, when mounted upon the stove, to overlook the greater part of the

adjacent room. I availed myself of this privilege, though not without

those same twinges of conscience which I had felt some minutes before

when following the young lady. The apartment was poorly furnished, and

yet, despite this scantiness of appointment, there was unmistakable

evidence of refinement. Everything visible in the room was scrupulously

neat and the few pictures that adorned the walls, while they were

inexpensive half-tones, were yet reproductions of masterpieces. In the

centre of the room stood a small, deal table, on the opposite side of

which sat the man who had answered my letter.

At one end of the table, poised upon the back of a chair, sat a small

Capucin monkey of the Weeper or Sai species. He watched the man with

that sober, judicial air which is by no means confined exclusively to

supreme benches. I, too, observed the man carefully. He was tall and

spare. He must have measured nearly six feet in height and could not,

I think, have weighed over one hundred and fifty pounds. His face was

pinched and careworn, but this effect was more than redeemed by a pair

of full, black eyes having a depth and penetration I have never seen

equalled, albeit there was, ever and anon, a suggestion of wildness

which somewhat marred their deep, contemplative beauty. The brows and

the carriage of the head at once bespoke the scholar. While thus I

watched him, the young girl came from a corner of the room I could not

overlook and laid my letter before him. She stood behind his chair as

he opened it, smoothing his hair caressingly and, every now and then,

kissing him gently. He paused with the open letter before him, reached

up both arms, drew her down to him, kissed her passionately, sighed,

and picked up the letter again. I took pains that no act, word, or look

should escape me. This show of affection surprised me, and I remember

the thought flashed through my mind, “What inconsistent beings we all

are! Here is a man apparently capable of a causeless and cold-blooded

assassination of a harmless old man. You would say such a murderer

must be hopelessly selfish and brutal, amenable to none of the better

sentiments of mankind, and yet it needs but a casual glance to see how

his whole life is bound up in the young girl before him.”

While this was passing through my mind the man had glanced through my

letter and thrown it upon the table with an exclamation of disgust.

“Bah! he has had the effrontery,” he said petulantly, “to send me what

he calls a new mode of treatment and it is in every essential that of

Broadbent, well known for more than a quarter of a century. New indeed!

I shall never find a doctor who has any scientific acumen. I may as

well abandon the search now. Mon Dieu! and they call medicine a science!

Bah!” and with a frown he dropped his head despondently upon his hand.

The young girl passed her hand gently, soothingly, over his forehead and

did not speak for nearly a minute.

“You are not feeling well to-night, father,” she said at length. “M.

Godin has been here during my absence.”

“M. Godin!” I exclaimed half aloud, catching at the stovepipe lest

I should fall from the stove. “So our rival is hot upon the

scent,--probably even ahead of us. How on earth--” But I did not finish

the exclamation. My seizure of the pipe upon my side of the partition

had produced an audible vibration of that portion extending over the

heads of my neighbours. The young girl’s quick ear had detected the

sound and she had ceased speaking and fastened her eyes suspiciously

upon the aperture through which I was gazing. It seemed to me as if she

must see me, yet I dared not move. After a little she seemed reassured

and continued: “I knew he had been here. You are always this way after

his visits. Why, of late, does he always come when I am away?” The

question seemed innocent enough, yet the man to whom it was addressed

turned crimson and then as pale as ashes. When he spoke the effort his

self-control cost him was terribly apparent.

“We have private business, dear,” he said, “private business.” He

hesitated a moment and again his eyes wore the wild look I had first

noticed. “I am selling him something,” he continued, “very dear to

me--as dear as my heart’s blood, and I expect to get enough for it to

guard you from want.”

“And you, father?” the young girl questioned fervently. I thought I

noticed a tremor run through his frame, as drawing her face down to his,

he said, kissing her, “Me? Never mind me, Puss; this cancer here will

take care of me.”

She made no reply, but turned away to hide the tears that sprang to her

eyes. As she did so she raised her face toward me. I have never

been considered particularly sympathetic,--that is, no more than the

average,--but there was something in the expression of her face that

went to my heart like a knife. I felt as if I were about to sob with

her. I do not know what it was that so aroused my sympathies. We are, I

fancy, more apt to feel for those whose beauty is like to the ideals we

have learned to love, than we are to be moved by the suffering of those

whose looks repel us,--and this may have had something to do with my

condition,--for the young girl was radiantly beautiful,--yet it could

hardly have been the real cause of it.

So rapt was I in the sympathetic contemplation of her that I did not see

Maitland’s entrance or realise I was observed till he plucked me by the

coat and motioned me to get down. I did so and he told me he had rented

the rooms, and laid before me the plan he meant to pursue.

As soon as he had ceased speaking I said to him: “George, you are

undoubtedly on the right track. The man in there is the one we are

looking for, fast enough, but I am afraid we are a bit too late.”

“Too late!” he exclaimed in a tone that I feared might be overheard.

“What the mischief do you mean?”

“I mean,” I replied, “that M. Godin is already upon the scene.”

In the next ten seconds Maitland turned all colours and I edged nearer

to him, expecting him to fall, but he did not.

“M. Godin!” he ejaculated at length. “How in the name of all the gods

at once--Doc, he’s all they claim for him, and as fascinating as he is

clever;” at which last remark a heavy cloud passed over Maitland’s face.

“Come,” he continued listlessly, “you may as well tell me all you know

about it.”

I then confided to him what I had heard and ended by asking him what he

proposed to do.

“Do?” he replied. “There is but one thing I can do, which makes the

choice decidedly easy,” and he set his jaws together with a determined

expression, the meaning of which I knew full well.

“I shall camp right here,” he said, “till I learn all I wish to know of

our neighbours yonder. I have already provided myself with instruments

which will enable me to note every movement they make, indeed to

photograph them, if necessary, and to hear and record every word they

utter. You look surprised, but it is easily done. I will place my lenses

there at the chink through which you were gazing and bring the image

down into my camera obscura by a prism arranged for total internal

reflection. As for the hearing, that is easier yet. I will carefully

work away the plaster on this side to-night till I get through to

the paper covering their wall. This I will leave intact to use as a

diaphragm. I have then only to fasten my carbon to it, and, behold, we

have a microphone or telephone--whichever you choose to call it. All I

have to look out for is that I get it high enough to avoid the danger of

the paper being accidentally broken from the other side, and that I work

quietly while removing the plaster. I shall, of course, cover it with a

bit of black felt to prevent our light from showing, and to deaden any

sounds from this side. This will enable us to hear all that goes on in

the other room, but this may not be enough. We may need a phonographic

record of what transpires.

“The device whereby I secure this at such a distance is an invention

of my own which, for patent reasons--I might almost say ‘patent patent

reasons’--I will ask you to kindly keep to yourself. To the diaphragm

there I fasten this bit of burnished silver. Upon this I concentrate

a pencil of light which, when reflected, acts photographically upon a

sensitised moving tape in this little box, and perfectly registers the

minutest movement of the receiving diaphragm. How I develop, etch, and

reproduce this record, and transform it into a record of the ordinary

type, you will see in due time--and will kindly keep secret for the

present. You had better go now and send me the things on this list, as

soon as possible,” and he passed me a paper, continuing:

“We will not despair yet. Our clever rival may not be ready to prove his

case so quickly as we. At all events, when he comes again I shall be in

a condition to ascertain how far he has progressed. I have some things

I must settle before I can ask for an arrest, and I am not at all sure

that M. Godin is in any better condition in this regard than I am.

By Jove! I’d give something to know how that wizard has gotten so far

without so much as a single sign to indicate that he had even moved in

the matter. I say, Doc, it beats me, blessed if it doesn’t! Please say

to Miss Darrow that I am at work upon a promising clue-promising for

someone, anyway--and may not see her for some time yet.”

I did as he requested, and, if I am any judge of feminine indications,

my message did not yield Gwen unmixed pleasure; still, she said nothing

to warrant such a supposition on my part. I visited Maitland every day

to learn what he might wish me to bring him, and also to carry him his

mail, for he had determined to remain constantly on the watch at his new

quarters.

I have thus far, in the narration of these incidents been perfectly

candid both as regards my friends and myself, and, therefore, that I

may continue in like manner to the end, I shall suppress certain qualms

which are urging me to silence, and confess myself guilty of some things

of which you will, perhaps, think I may well be ashamed. Be that as it

may, you shall have the whole truth, however it may affect your opinion

of me. One reason why I went to Maitland’s new quarters so often, and

stayed there so long, was because I was always permitted to relieve him

of his watch. With a telephone receiver strapped to my right ear, and my

eyes fastened upon the screen of the camera obscura, I would sit by the

hour prying into the affairs of the two people in the next room. I tried

for a number of days to ease my conscience by telling myself that I was

labouring in the cause of justice, and was not a common eavesdropper.

This permitted me to retain a sort of quasi self-respect for a day or

two till my honesty rallied itself, and forced me to realise and to

admit that I was, to all intents and purposes, a common Paul Pry,

performing a disreputable act for the gratification it gave me. I

determined I would at least be honest with myself--and this was my

verdict. You will, perhaps, fancy that when I arrived at this decision I

at once mended my ways and resigned my seat of observation to Maitland’s

entirely professional care. This, doubtless, I should have done, if we

fallible human beings governed our conduct by our knowledge of what is

right and proper. Inasmuch, however, as desires and emotions are the

determining factors of human conduct, I did nothing of the sort. I

simply watched there day after day, with ever-increasing avidity, until

at length I got to be impatient of the duties that took me away, and

more than half inclined to neglect them.

I shall gain nothing by attempting to make you believe it was the man

in the neighbouring room that interested me, so I shall not essay it.

I confess, with a feeling of guilt because I am not more ashamed of

it--that it was the young lady who attracted me. You will, I trust,

assume I had enough interest in her father to palliate my conduct in a

measure. Be generous in your judgment. How do you know you will not be

in the same predicament? Think of it! A young woman beautiful beyond my

feeble powers of description; her eyes of a heavenly blue; her luxuriant

hair like a mass of spun gold; her complexion matched to the tint and

transparency of the blush rose--and such a throat! From it came a voice

as musical as the unguided waters when Winter rushes down the hills in

search of Spring. Never you mind, that’s the way I felt about it, and,

if you had been in my place, you’d have been just as bad as I; come,

now, you know you would. Suppose I was a bachelor, and almost old enough

to be her father. Does that help matters any? Is the heart less hungry

because it has been starved? Just look at your history. When nuns have

relapsed from other-worldliness to this-worldliness how have they been?

I’ll tell you. They have been just a round baker’s dozen times worse

than they would have been if they had never undertaken to cheat Nature.

Look at the thing fairly. I don’t expect to dodge any blame that I

deserve, yet I do want all the palliating circumstances duly noted. Many

months have passed since then, and yet the thought of that sweet girl

sends a thrill all over me. I wonder where she is now? I feel that we

shall meet again some time, and perhaps you will see her yourself.

If so, you will see that I couldn’t be expected to withstand any such

temptation.

On these visits Maitland and I talked but very little, and while I

was spying nothing of interest occurred--i. e., nothing of interest to

him--or, if it did, things of interest to me prevented my observing it.

On several occasions he alluded vaguely to things he had learned which

he said he should not divulge even to me until the proper time came.

Things went on in this way for about two weeks. I visited Maitland

daily, and daily the little lady in the next room wove her spell around

me. If, as I am inclined to believe, thinking a great deal of a person

is much the same thing as thinking of a person a great deal, I must have

adored her.

One night, about a fortnight after Maitland’s change of abode, I found

Alice in a terrible state of excitement upon my arrival home. She met me

at the door, and said Gwen needed my attention at once. I did not stop

to hear further particulars, but hastened to the sitting-room, where

Gwen lay upon the lounge. She was in a stupor from which it seemed

impossible to arouse her. In vain I tried to attract her attention. Her

fixed, staring eyes looked through me as if I had been glass. I saw she

had received a severe shock, and so, after giving her some medicine, I

took Alice aside and asked her what had happened. She said that Gwen and

she had been sitting sewing by the window all the afternoon, and talking

about Maitland’s recent discoveries. At about five o’clock the Evening

Herald was brought in as usual. She, Alice, had picked it up to glance

over the news, when, in the column headed “Latest,” she had seen the

heading: “The Darrow Mystery Solved!” This she had read aloud, without

thinking of the shock the unexpected announcement might give Gwen, when

the sudden pallor that had overspread the young woman’s face had brought

her to her senses, and she had paused. Her companion, however, had

seized the paper when she had hesitated and, in a fever of excitement,

had read in a half-audible voice:

John Darrow was murdered.--The assassin’s inability to pay a

gambling debt the motive for the crime.--Extraordinary work

of a French detective!--The net--

But at this juncture the paper had dropped from Gwen’s hands, and she

had fallen upon the floor before Alice could reach her.

THE EPISODE OF THE TELLTALE THUMB

CHAPTER I

When Disaster is bigger than its victim its bolt o’erlaps the

innocent.

It was some time after Gwen had fallen before Alice had succeeded in

getting her upon the lounge, and then all her efforts to revive her had

failed. She had remained in the same nerveless stupor as that in which

I had found her. I asked Alice if she knew why this announcement had

produced such an effect upon Gwen, and she returned my question with a

look of amazement.

“Have you forgotten Gwen’s promise to her father in this matter?”

she replied. “Has she not already told you that she should keep that

promise, whatever the sacrifice cost her? She is, therefore, entirely

at the mercy of this M. Godin, and she is also obliged to advise him of

this fact, if she would carry out her father’s wishes. Is this nothing

for a sensitive nature like hers? If she has any love for anyone else

she must crush it out of her heart, for she is M. Godin’s now. Surely,

Ned, you are not so stupid as your question would indicate.”

“We won’t discuss that,” I rejoined. “Let us go to Gwen and get her to

bed.”

This done, and the sufferer made easy for the night, I glanced at the

article which had so upset her, and read its sensational “scare-head.”

In full it ran as follows:

THE DARROW MYSTERY SOLVED!

JOHN DARROW WAS MURDERED!

The Assassin’s Inability to Pay a Gambling Debt the

Motive for the Crime.

EXTRAORDINARY WORK OF A FRENCH DETECTIVE!

The Net so Completely Woven About the Alleged

Assassin That it is Thought He Will Confess.

The Arrest Entirely Due to the Unassisted Efforts of

M. LOUIS GODIN!

I did not stop to read the article, but seized my hat and hastened at

once to Maitland.

A copy of the Herald lay upon his table, advising me that he was already

acquainted with the strange turn affairs had taken. He told me that he

had heard the newsboys in the street calling out “The Darrow Mystery

Solved!” and had at once rushed out and bought a paper.

I informed him of Gwen’s condition and he wished to go to her at

once, but I told him he must wait until the morrow, as she had already

retired, and was, I had reason to hope, fast asleep. I reassured him

with the information that a night’s sleep and the medicine I had given

her would probably put Gwen in full possession of her faculties. Having

thus satisfied his fears, I thought it fitting he should satisfy mine.

I asked him what had become of the young woman in the next room. He did

not reply, but quietly led me into his camera obscura that I might see

for myself. She was sitting at the table in the centre of the room, with

her face buried in her hands. I watched her for a long time, and the

only movement I could discern was that occasioned ever and anon by a

convulsive catching of her breath. The pet monkey was nowhere to be

seen.

“They took her father away early this morning,” Maitland said, “and,

after the first shock, she sank into this condition. She has not moved

since. When I see the despair her father’s arrest has occasioned I

am almost tempted to rejoice that I had no hand in it, and yet--well,

there’s no great harm without some small good--no one will say now

that John Darrow took his own life, eh? What do you think our friends,

Osborne and Allen, will say now? They were so sure their theory was the

only tenable one. Ah, well! we should ever hold ourselves in readiness

for surprises.”

“And for emergencies too,” I continued; “and this strikes me as being

very like one. That young woman needs attention, if I am any judge of

appearances, and I’m going in there.” “No use, Doc,” Maitland replied,

“the door is locked, and she either cannot or will not open it. I

knocked there for an hour, hoping to be able to comfort her. It’s no

use for you to try, she won’t open the door.” “Won’t, eh! then I’ll

go through it!” I exclaimed, in a tone that so amazed Maitland that he

seized me by the shoulders and gazed fixedly into my face. “It’s all

right, George,” I said, answering his look. “I’m going in there, and I’m

not going to be at all delicate about my entrance either.”

He looked at me a little doubtfully, but I could see that, on the whole,

he was pleased with my decision. I went into the hall and knocked loudly

on the door. There was no response. I kicked it till I must have been

heard all over the house, but still there was no response. It was now

clear I should not enter by invitation, so I went up four or five stairs

of the flight opposite the door and from that position sprang against

it. I am not, if you remember, a heavy man, but momentum is MV and I

made up in the ‘V’ what I lacked in the ‘M.’ The door opened inwardly,

and I tore it from its hinges and precipitated both myself and it into

the centre of the apartment. As I look back upon this incident I regard

it as the most precipitous thing I ever did in the way of a professional

visit. If the young lady started at all, she did so before I had

gathered myself together sufficiently to notice it. I spoke to her, but

she gave no evidence of hearing me. I raised her head. Her eyes were

wide open and stared full at me, yet in such a blank way that I knew she

did not hear me. The contraction of the brows, the knotted appearance

of the forehead, and the rigor of the face told me she was under an

all-but-breaking tension. There were tear-stains from tears which

long since had ceased to flow. The fire of fever had dried them up. I

regarded her case as far more desperate than Gwen’s and determined to

lose no time in taking charge of it. It seemed to me so like sacrilege

to touch her without an explanation that, though I knew she could not

understand me, I said to her, as I took her in my arms. “You are ill,

and I must take you away from here.”

She was just blossoming into womanhood and her form had that exquisite

roundness and grace which it is the particular function of fashion to

annihilate. If I held her closely, I think all bachelors will agree that

it was because this very roundness made her heavy; if I did not put her

down immediately I reached Maitland’s room, it is because, as a doctor

of medicine, I have my own ideas as to how a couch should be fixed

before a patient is laid upon it. Maitland may say what he pleases, but

I know how important these things are in sickness, and you know, quick

as he is in most things, George has moments when his head is so much

in the clouds that he doesn’t know what he is doing, and moves as if he

were in a dream set to dirge music. He kept telling me to “put her on

the couch!--put her on the couch!” To this day, he fondly believes that

when I finally did release her, it was as the result of his advice,

rather than because he had at last made a suitable bed for her.

I sent Maitland for some medicine, which I knew would relax the

tension she was under and make it possible for her to sleep. When I had

administered this, Maitland and I talked the matter over and we decided

to take her at once to my house, where, with Gwen, she could share the

watchful care of my sister Alice. This we did, though I was not without

some misgivings as to Gwen’s attitude in the matter when she should

recover sufficiently to know of it. I expressed my doubts to Maitland

and he replied: “Give yourself no uneasiness on that score; Miss Darrow

is too womanly to visit the sins of a guilty father upon an unoffending

daughter, and, besides, this man,--it seems that his real name is

Latour, not Cazenove,--has a right to be judged innocent until his guilt

is proved.”

I found this to be sage counsel, for, when Gwen was able to understand

what I had done, she exhibited no antipathy toward the new member of our

household, but, on the contrary, became exceedingly interested in her.

I was especially glad of this, not only on account of Miss Latour, the

suspect’s daughter, but also because the one thing Gwen needed above all

others was something to challenge her interest. She had again relapsed

into the old, state of passive endurance, wherein nothing seemed to

reach her consciousness. Her actions appeared to flow more from her

nerve-centres than from her mind. She moved like an automaton. There is

scarcely any condition of which I am more fearful than this. The patient

becomes wax in one’s hands. She will do anything without a murmur, or as

willingly refrain from anything. She simply is indifferent to life and

all that therein is. Is it any wonder, then, that I rejoiced to see Gwen

interest herself in poor Jeannette? It was a long time, however, before

Jeannette repaid this interest with anything more than a dreamy, far-off

gaze, that refused to focus itself upon anything. As time wore on,

however, I noticed with relief that there was a faint expression of

wonder in her look, and, as this daily grew stronger, I knew she was

beginning to realise her novel surroundings and to ask herself if she

were still dreaming. Yet she did not speak; she seemed to fear the

sound of her own voice and to determine to solve, unaided, the mystery

confronting her. I requested that no one question her or make any

attempt to induce her to break silence, for I knew the time would come

when she would do so of her own free will. As it happened, her first

words were spoken to me, and, as my writing this recalls the event,

a thrill of pleasurable pain passes through me. You may think this

foolish, the more so, indeed, when you learn that nothing was said

to warrant such a feeling, but I must urge upon you not to let your

satisfied heart set itself up as judge in bachelor regions.

I had been mixing some medicine for her and was holding the cup to her

lips that she might drink the draught. She laid her hand upon my wrist

and gently put the cup aside, saying, as she gazed thoughtfully at me:

“Did you not bring me here?” “Yes,” I replied. She reached for the

cup, and drinking its contents, sank back upon the pillows with a

half-satisfied look upon her face, as if my reply had cleared up one

mystery, but left many more to be solved.

From this day Jeannette steadily improved, and within two weeks she and

Gwen had come to a very good understanding. It was plainly evident that

Alice, too, came in for a very good share of the little French girl’s

love. They did not exchange confidences to any great degree, for, as

Maitland used to say, Alice was one of those rare, sweet women who say

but little, but seem to act upon all around them by a sort of catalysis,

sweetening the atmosphere by their very presence.