THE MYSTERY OF THE MAN AT WARBURTON'S
Two days later Zena went to visit friends in the country, and for some
weeks I did not go near Chelsea. Quarles was busy with some Psychological
Society which was holding a series of meetings in London, and was quite
pleased, no doubt, to be without my society for a while.
Except when I have a regular holiday, my leisure hours are limited, but I
was taking a night off. It was not because I had nothing to do, but
because I had so many things to think of that my brain had become
hopelessly muddled in the process, and a few blank hours seemed to be
advisable. When this kind of retreat becomes necessary, I invariably find
my way to Holborn, to a very plain-fronted establishment there over which
is the name Warburton. If you are a gastronomic connoisseur in any way
you may know it, for Warburton's is a restaurant where you can get an
old-fashioned dinner cooked as nowhere else in London, I believe, and
enjoy an old port afterwards which those delightful sinners, our
grandfathers, would have sat over half the night, and been pulled out
from under the table in the morning perchance. I am not abnormally
partial to the pleasures of the table, but I have found a good dinner in
combination with first-rate port, rationally dealt with, an excellent
tonic for the brain.
I do not suppose any one knew my name at Warburton's, and I have always
prided myself on not carrying my profession in my face. The man who
dined opposite to me that night possibly began by taking me for a
prosperous city man, to whom success had come somewhat early, or perhaps
for a barrister, not of the brilliant kind, but of the steady plodders
who get there in the end by sheer force of sticking power. I was not in
the least interested in him until he spoke to me--asked me to pass the
Worcester sauce, in fact. His voice attracted me, and his hands. It was a
voice which sounded out of practise, as if it were seldom used, and his
hands were those of an artist. I made some casual remark, complimentary
to Warburton's, and we began to talk. He seemed glad to do so, but he
spoke with hesitation, not as one who has overcome an impediment in his
speech, but as one who had forgotten part of his vocabulary. The reason
leaked out presently.
"I wonder whether there is something--how shall I put it?--_simpatica_
between us?" he said suddenly.
"Why the speculation?" I asked.
"Otherwise I cannot think why I am talking so much," he said with a
nervous laugh. "I live alone, I hardly know a soul, and all I say in the
course of a week could be repeated in two minutes, I suppose."
"Not a healthy existence," I returned.
"It suits me. I dine here most nights; the journey to and fro forms my
daily constitutional. You are not a regular customer here?"
"No, an occasional one only. I should guess that you are engaged in
artistic work of some kind."
"Right!" he said with a show of excitement. "And when I tell you I live
in Gray's Inn do you think you could guess what kind of work it is?"
"That is beyond me," I laughed. "Gray's Inn sounds a curious place for
an artist."
"I am an illuminator, not for money, but for my own pleasure. Do you
know Italy?"
"No."
"At least you know that some of the old monks spent their hours in
wonderful work of this kind, carefully illuminating the texts of works
with marvelous design and color. Now and then some special genius arose
and became a great fresco painter. Fra Angelico painted pictures for the
world to marvel over, while some humbler brother pored over his
illuminating. You will find some of this work in the British Museum."
Evidently my newly acquired friend was an eccentric, I thought.
"Pictures have no particular interest for me," he went on; "these
illuminated texts have. I am an expert worker myself. First in Italy, now
in Gray's Inn."
"And there is no market for such work?" I enquired.
"I believe not. I have never troubled to find out. I have no need of
money, and if I had I could not bring myself to part with my work."
"You interest me. I should like to see some of your work."
"Why not? It is a short walk to Gray's Inn. To me you are rather
wonderful. I have not felt inclined to talk to a stranger for years, and
now I am anxious to show you what I have done. We will go when you like."
I had not bargained for this. Had I foreseen that I should have a
conversation forced upon me to-night I should have avoided Warburton's;
even now I was inclined to excuse myself, but curiosity got the upper
hand. I finished my wine and we went to Gray's Inn.
On the way, I told him my name, but, apparently, he had never heard it,
nor did he immediately tell me his. I purposely called him Mr. ---- and
paused for the information.
"Parrish," he said. "Bather a curious name," and then he went on talking
about illuminating, evidently convinced that I was intensely interested.
It was the man who interested me, not his work, and the interest was
heightened when I entered his rooms. He occupied two rooms at the top of
a dreary building devoted to men of law. The rooms were well enough in
themselves, but the furniture was in the last stage of dilapidation,
there were holes in the carpet, and everything looked forlorn and
poverty-stricken. I glanced at my companion. Certainly, his clothes were
a little shabby, but quite good, and he was oblivious to the decayed
atmosphere of his surroundings. He drew me at once to a large table,
where lay the work he was engaged upon. Of its kind, it was marvelous
both in design and execution, reproducing the color effects of the old
illuminators so exactly that it was almost impossible to tell it from
that of the old monks. This is not my opinion, but that of the expert
from the British Museum when he pronounced upon the work later.
"Wonderful," I said. "And there is no sale for it?"
He shrugged his shoulders. Environment seemed to have an effect upon
him, for his conversation was mostly by signs after we entered his room.
Without a word he took finished work from various drawers and put it on
the table for my inspection. I praised it, asked questions to draw him
out, but failed to get more than a lift of the eyebrows, or an
occasional monosyllable. It was not exhilarating, and as soon as I could
I took my leave.
"Come and see me again soon," he said, parting with me at the top of
the stairs.
"Thanks," I answered, as I went down, but I made no promise as I looked
up at him silhouetted against the light from his open door. Little did I
guess how soon I was to climb those stairs again.
Next morning I was conscious that the night off, although not spent
exactly as I had intended, had done me good. Some knotty points in a case
I was engaged upon had begun to unravel themselves in my mind, and I
reached the office early to find that the chief was already there and
wanted to see me.
"Here is a case you must look after at once, Wigan," he said, passing me
the report of the murder of a man named Parrish, in Gray's Inn.
Now, one of the essentials in my profession is the ability to put the
finger on the small mistakes a criminal makes when he endeavors to cover
up his tracks. I suppose nine cases out of ten are solved in this way,
and more often than not the thing left undone, unthought of, is the very
one, you would imagine, which the criminal would have thought of first. I
fancy the reason lies in the fact that the criminal does not believe he
will be suspected. I said nothing to my chief about my visit to Gray's
Inn last night. Experience has shown me the wisdom of a still tongue, and
knowledge I have picked up casually has often led to a solution which has
startled the Yard. The Yard was destined to be startled now, but not
quite in the way I hoped.
When I arrived at Gray's Inn, a small crowd had collected before the
entrance door of the house, as if momentarily expecting some
information from the constable who stood on duty there--a man I did not
happen to know.
"That's him! That's him!"
A boy pointed me out excitedly to the constable, who looked at me
quickly. I smiled to find myself recognized, but I was laboring under
a mistake.
"Yes, that's the man," said a woman standing on the edge of the crowd.
The explanation came when the constable understood who I was.
"Both of them declare they saw the dead man in company with another man
last night, described him, and now--"
"I saw you with him," said the boy. "I never saw him with any one before,
that's why I took particular notice."
The woman nodded her agreement.
"Better take the names and addresses, constable."
"I've already done that, sir."
I entered the house inclined to smile, but the inclination vanished as I
went upstairs. No doubt these two had seen me last night, and it was
fortunate, perhaps, that I was a detective, and not an ordinary
individual. And yet a detective might commit murder. It was an unpleasant
thought, unpleasant enough to make me wish I had mentioned last night's
adventure to the chief.
A constable I knew was on the top landing, and entered the rooms with me.
Parrish had not been moved. He was lying by the table; had probably
fallen forward out of his chair.
A thin-bladed knife had been driven downwards, at the base of the neck,
apparently by some one who had stood behind him. I judged, and a doctor
presently confirmed my judgment, that he had been dead some hours; must
have met his death soon after I had left him. As far as I could tell,
the papers on the table were in exactly the same position as I had seen
them, and the finished work which he had taken out of his drawers to
show me had not been replaced. The fact seemed to add to the awkwardness
of my position.
The first thing I did was to telegraph to Christopher Quarles. I do not
remember ever being more keen for his help. I occupied the time of
waiting in a careful examination of the rooms and the stairs, and in
making enquiries in the offices in the building.
The first thing I told Quarles, on his arrival, was my adventure
last night, and the awkward fact that two people had recognized me
this morning.
"Then we mustn't fail this time, Wigan," he said gravely. "It is a pity
you did not mention the adventure to your chief."
"Yes, but--"
"You'd suspect a man with less evidence against him," Quarles answered
quickly. "We'll look at the rooms, and the dead man, then you had better
go back to the Yard and tell your chief all about it."
Our search revealed very little. It was evident that Parrish had lived a
lonely life, as he had told me. His evening dinner at Warburton's
appeared to have been his only real meal of the day. There was a
half-empty tin of biscuits in the cupboard, and some coffee and tea, but
no other food whatever, nor evidence that it was ever kept there. I have
said the clothes he was wearing were shabby, but there was a shabbier
suit still lying at the bottom of a drawer, and his stock of shirts and
underclothing reached the minimum. Practically, there were no papers,
only a few receipted bills for material for his work, a few
advertisements still in their wrappers, and two letters which had not
been opened.
"We will examine these later, Wigan," said Quarles. "I want to get an
impression before anything definite puts me on the wrong road. What
about his work?" and the professor examined it with his lens. "Good, of
its kind, I should imagine, and what is more to the point, requiring
expensive materials. These bills show a good many pounds spent in less
than four months. He was not poverty-stricken, in spite of shabby
clothes, and holes in the carpet. Where did he get his money from? There
is no check book here, no money except a few shillings in his pocket.
That is a point to remember."
"The murderers may have taken it," I said.
"This doesn't look like a place ordinary thieves would come to."
There was a shelf in one corner, with books on it, perhaps a score in
all. Quarles took down every one of them, and opened them.
"John Parrish. Did you know his name was John?"
"No. He didn't mention his Christian name."
"Here it is, written in every book," said Quarles as he deliberately tore
a fly-leaf out of one and began to put down on it the titles of some of
the books. "Evidently he did not read much, the dust here is thick. Did
he open his door with a key when you came in with him last night?"
"I couldn't swear to it."
"You see it does not lock of itself. He might have left it merely closed.
Did he go into the bedroom while you were here?"
"No."
"Then the murderer may have been there while you were with him. You have
made enquiries about him in this building, of course?"
"Yes."
"About his personal appearance and habits, I mean. You see, Wigan, your
own idea of him is not sufficient. He may have deceived you entirely
regarding his character, assuming eccentricity for some purpose. Think
the affair out from that point of view, and when you have been to the
Yard, come to Chelsea. If you do not mind I will take these two unopened
letters. We will look at them together presently."
As a matter of fact, Quarles had opened them before I saw him; indeed,
their contents took him out of town, and I did not see him for three
days. They were very trying days for me, for the chief took me off the
case when he had heard my story. He could not understand why I had not
mentioned at once that I had been with the dead man on the previous
night, and his manner suggested that my being the criminal was well
within the bounds of possibility. I suppose every one likes to have a cut
at a successful man occasionally, but I am bound to admit he had some
reason for his action. He showed me a halfpenny paper in which an
enterprising scribbler, under the headline "Murder in Gray's Inn," had
heightened the sensation by another headline, "Strange recognition of a
well-known detective by a woman and a boy."
"We mustn't give the press any reason to suppose that we want to
thwart justice for the purpose of shielding an officer," the chief
said. "Cochran will take charge of the case, and I am letting the
press know this."
There was nothing to be said, and I left him feeling very much like a
criminal, and very conscious of being in an awkward position. Unless the
case were satisfactorily cleared up there would be plenty of people to
suspect me.
Quarles, when at last we foregathered in the empty room, was sympathetic
but not surprised; Zena, who had come back to town immediately on
receiving a letter from me, was furious that I should be suspected.
"I have been busy," said the professor. "I opened those letters, Wigan.
Of course Zena's first question on her arrival was why Mr. Parrish had
not opened them. Her second question was: Why did he live the life of a
recluse in Gray's Inn? How would you answer those questions?"
"I see no reason why a recluse should not live in Gray's Inn," I
answered, "and an eccentric person, obsessed with one idea in life, might
throw letters aside without opening them."
"Quite a good answer," said Quarles. "Now, here are the letters. This one
is dated eighteen months ago, postmark Liverpool, written at Thorn's
Hotel, Liverpool. 'Dear Jack,--Back again like the proverbial bad penny.
Health first class; luck medium. Pocket full enough to have a rollick
with you. Shall be with you the day after to-morrow.--Yours, C.M.' Your
friend Parrish was not a man you would expect to rollick, I imagine?''
"No."
"So either he entirely deceived you or had changed considerably since
'C.M.' had seen him. Here is the other letter. Postmark Rome, dated three
years ago, but no address. Just a message in indifferent English: 'Once
more you do me good and I repay in interest. B. knows and comes to you.
Beware.--Emanuele.'"
"Parrish told me he was in Italy for some time," I said.
"The first letter took me to Liverpool," Quarles went on. "Thorn's Hotel
is third-rate, but quite good enough for a man who does not want to burn
money. 'C.M.' stands for Claude Milne. That was the only name with those
initials in the hotel books on that date. He had come from New York, and
he left an address to which letters were to be forwarded, an hotel in
Craven Street. I traced him there. He stayed a week, and, I gather, spent
a rollicking time, mostly returning to bed in the early hours not too
sober. No friends seem to have looked him up. He appears to have gone
abroad again."
"And it is eighteen months ago," I said.
"Exactly. We will remember that," said Quarles. "The other letter is
older still. It is evidently a warning. The writer believed Parrish to be
in danger from this 'B.' who was coming to England. Now, was it B. who
found him the other night after three years' search?"
"The name is on the door and in the directory," I answered.
"That is another point to remember, Wigan. Now, I daresay you have learnt
from your inquiries in the building that very little was known about
Parrish. Some of the tenants did not remember there was such a name on
the door. I have interviewed the agents who receive the rent, and they
tell me that until about three years ago they received Parrish's rent by
check, always sent from Windsor, and on a bank at Windsor; but since then
they have received it in cash, promptly, and sent by messenger boy, the
receipt always being waited for. They inform me that at one time, at any
rate, Parrish did not use his chambers much, was a river man in the
summer, and in the winter was abroad a great deal. The letter sent with
the cash was merely a typed memorandum. There was no typewriter in
Parrish's chambers, I think?"
"No."
Quarles took from some papers the fly-leaf he had torn from one of
the books.
"That is Parish's signature," said Quarles. "The agents recognize it, the
bank confirms it; the account is not closed, but has not been used for
three years. The rooms he occupied in Windsor are now in other hands, and
nothing is known of him there. Inspector Cockran made these inquiries at
Windsor. You see, as you are off the case I am helping him. Having no
official position in the matter I must attach myself to some one to
facilitate my investigation. Cockran thinks I am an old fool with lucid
moments, during which I may possibly say something which is worth
listening to."
"He is generally looked upon as a smart man," I said.
"Oh, perhaps he is right in his opinion of me, also in his
judgment of you."
"What has he got to say about me?"
"He says very little, but as far as I can gather his investigations are
based on the assumption that you killed Parrish. Don't get angry, Wigan.
It is really not such an outrageous point of view, and for the present I
am shaking my head with him and am inclined to his opinion."
"It is a disgraceful suspicion," said Zena.
"Those who plead not guilty always say that, but it really does not count
for much with the judge," Quarles answered. "We will get on with the
evidence. I jotted down on this fly-leaf the names of some of the books
on that shelf, Wigan. Nothing there, you see, bears any reference to his
illuminating work."
"Are you suggesting it was a blind?"
"No, I haven't got as far as that yet, but it is curious that none of his
books should relate to his hobby in any way. I have ascertained that he
always bought his materials personally, never wrote for them. From the
postman I discover that it was seldom they had to go to the top floor;
the advertisements and letters we have found may be taken to be all the
communications he has received through the post. At the same time we have
evidence that he had command of money, since he paid his rent promptly,
bought expensive materials, and dined every night at Warburton's. Since
he did not sell his work, where did the money come from?"
"Some annuity," I suggested.
"Exactly, which he must have collected himself, since he received no
letters, and taken away in cash, since he had given up using a banking
account. Cockran has made inquiries at the insurance offices, and in the
name of Parrish there exists no such annuity, apparently. It was,
therefore, either in another name or came from a private source."
"So we draw blank," I said.
"In one sense we do, in another we do not," returned Quarles. "We come
back to the letters and to Zena's questions. First, why did he live the
life of a recluse in Gray's Inn? The answer does not seem very difficult
to me. He had something to hide, something which made him cut himself
off from the world, and that something had its beginning about three
years ago, when he ceased paying his rent by check, when he gave up his
rooms at Windsor; in short, when he entirely became a changed character.
We may take 'C.M.'s' letter, with its talk of rollicking, as confirming
this view."
"But he did not open either letter. He did not see Emanuele's
warning," I said.
"True, but I believe, Wigan, the first two words in Emanuele's letter
should stand by themselves; that the letter should read thus: 'Once
more. You do me good, I repay, etc,' I think there was a previous letter
which Parrish did see."
"A far-fetched theory," I returned.
"The key to it is in Zena's question: Why didn't Parrish open his
letters?"
"Why, indeed?" I said. "He might throw 'C.M.'s' letter aside, but if
there had been a previous letter warning him that danger threatened him
from Italy, do you imagine he would have failed to open one with the Rome
postmark on it?"
"That does seem to knock the bottom out of my argument," said Quarles.
"I am afraid the theory is too elaborate altogether," I went on. "Parrish
was an eccentric. I was not deceived. I am astonished there should ever
have been an episode in his life which should necessitate a warning from
Emanuele. Probably the Italian exaggerated the position. That B. is
stated to have come to England three years ago, and the murder has only
just occurred, would certainly confirm this view."
"It does, but you throw no light on the mystery, and the fact remains
that Parrish was murdered. You have not knocked the bottom out of my
theory, and with Cockran's help I am going to put it to the test. For
the moment there is nothing more to be done. I must wait until I hear
from Cockran. I will wire you some time to-morrow. You must meet me
without fail wherever I appoint. I think Cockran is fully persuaded
that I am helping him to snap the handcuffs on to your wrists. The
capture of a brother detective would be a fine case to have to his
credit, wouldn't it?"
"I hope you are not doing anything risky, dear," said Zena.
"What! Is your faith in Murray growing weak, too?" laughed Quarles.
I was not in the mood to enjoy a joke of this kind--my position was far
too serious--and I left Chelsea in a depressed condition. Perhaps it was
being so personally concerned in the matter which made me especially
critical of Quarles's methods, but it certainly did not seem to me that
his arguments had helped me in the least. They only served to emphasize
how poor our chance was of finding the criminal.
Next afternoon I received a wire from the professor telling me to meet
him at the Yorkshire Grey. I found him waiting there and thought he
looked a little anxious.
"We are going to have a tea-party at a quiet place round the corner in
Gray's Inn Road," he said; "at least Cockran and I are, while you are
going to look on. You are going to be conspicuous by your absence, and
under no circumstances must you attempt to join us. When it is all
over and we have gone, then you can leave your hiding-place and come
to Chelsea."
He would answer no questions as we went to the third-rate tea-rooms, but
he was certainly excited. The woman greeted him as an old friend. He had
evidently been there before.
"This is the gentleman I spoke of," said Quarles, and then the woman led
us into a back room.
"Ah, you've put the screen in that corner, I see. An excellent
arrangement; couldn't be better. You quite understand that this room is
reserved for me and my guests for as long as I may require it. Good. Now,
Wigan, your place is behind this screen. There is a chair, so you can be
seated, and there is also a convenient hole in the screen which will
afford you a view of our table yonder. It is rather a theatrical
arrangement, but I have a score to settle with Cockran if I can. He
thinks I am an old fool, and when it does not suit my purpose I object to
any one having that idea."
When Cockran arrived it so happened that I had some little difficulty in
finding the slit in the screen; when I did I saw that he had a woman
with him. By the time I had got a view of the room she had seated
herself at the tea-table and her back was toward me. It did not seem to
me the kind of back that would make a man hurry to overtake to see what
the face was like.
Quarles talked commonplaces while the tea was being brought in, and then,
when the proprietress had gone out, he said, leaning toward the woman:
"Do you constantly suffer from the result of your accident?"
"Accident!" she repeated.
"I notice that you limp slightly."
"Oh, it was a long time ago. I don't feel anything of it now."
Quarles handed her some cake.
"It is very good of you to come," he went on, "and I hope you are going
to let us persuade you to be definite."
She nodded at Cockran.
"I have told him that I am not sure. I am going to stick to that."
"The fact is, we are especially anxious to solve this mystery," Quarles
went on, "and I believe you are the only person who can help us. Now,
from certain inquiries which I have been making I have come to the
conclusion that Mr. Parrish is not dead."
"Not dead!" the woman exclaimed.
I saw Cockran look enquiringly at Quarles, but he did not say anything.
The professor had evidently persuaded the inspector to let him carry out
this investigation in his own way.
"Of course, a man has been killed," he went on, "but it wasn't Parrish, I
fancy. He lived in Parrish's chambers; was a lonely man with a hobby, and
if the people who saw him about liked to think his name was Parrish,
well, it didn't trouble him. You didn't happen to know the real Parrish,
I suppose?"
"Of course not."
"No, I didn't expect you would," said Quarles, "but tell me how it was
you so promptly recognized the man we are after."
"I am not sure it was the same man."
"But you were when the boy recognized him."
"I say now I am not sure."
"Oh, but you are," returned Quarles. "You could not possibly be mistaken.
From the inner room of Parrish's chambers you must have watched both the
men for the best part of an hour."
A teaspoon clattered in a saucer as the woman sprang to her feet, and I
saw she was the woman who had pointed me out to the constable when I
had entered Gray's Inn on the morning after the murder. Cockran's face
was a study.
"You made a mistake," Quarles went on quietly. "I have worked it all out
in my own mind and I daresay there are some details missing. I will tell
you how I explain the mystery. Parrish, when in Italy, wronged some one
dear to you. You only heard of it afterwards. Personally you did not know
Parrish, but you found out what you could about him: that he was
connected with the law, that he lived in London, in one of the places
where lawyers do live. You determined to come to England for revenge. I
do not say you were not justified. I do not know the circumstances. That
was three years ago. An accident--was it the one at Basle, which occurred
about that time?--detained you, laid you aside for some months, perhaps.
You had not much money, you had to live, so your arrival in England was
delayed. When you got here, you took a post as waitress in Soho. Only in
your leisure time could you look for Mr. Parrish. At first, probably, you
knew nothing about the London Directory, and when you did, looked for the
name in the wrong part of it, and, of course, you would not ask questions
of any one. That might implicate you later on. At last you found him; saw
the name on the door. Possibly you have been waiting your opportunity for
some little time, but the other night it came. Of course, you could not
know there was a mistake. You heard Parrish speak of Italy, and when the
other man had departed you crept from your hiding place and struck your
blow; but you did not kill Parrish. Three years ago he was warned of his
danger, and got out of your way. He was warned that you had started for
England by Emanuele. Do you know him?"
The woman had stood tense and rigid, listening to this story of the
crime; now she collapsed.
"Emanuele!" she cried.
"I see you do know him," Quarles said. "You have my sympathy. It is
possible that the man Parrish deserved his fate, only it happens that
another has suffered in his place."
"It was my sister he wronged," said the woman.
"Was it fear that some evidence might be found against you which made you
point out a man whom you knew was innocent?" said Quarles.
She nodded, still sobbing.
"The rest is for you to manage," said Quarles, turning to the
inspector. "I suppose you are not likely to make any further mistakes.
This would all have been cleared up days ago if Wigan had not been
taken off the job."
I suppose Cockran felt a fool, as the professor intended he should.
There was little to be explained when I went to Chelsea later. Quarles's
reconstruction of the crime had showed me the lines along which he had
worked. The unopened letter from Rome had set him speculating with a view
to proving that the dead man was not Parrish; and whilst I had only
considered the change in character, he had had before him the possibility
of a separate identity.
"Still, I do not understand how you came to suspect the woman," I said.
"Her recognition of you was too prompt to carry conviction under the
circumstances," he answered. "The boy, who is in an office in Gray's Inn,
might have met you together. I have no doubt he did; but since the woman
had no business there, and if my theory were right, was concealed in
Parrish's chambers at the time, she could not have seen you, except in
the way I explained to her. Poor soul! I feel rather a cur for trapping
her, but you were in a tight hole, Wigan, and I had to get you out."
Evidence showing that Parrish was a heartless scoundrel, the jury found
extenuating circumstances for the woman, in spite of the fact that she
had murdered an innocent man, so she escaped the extreme penalty. I was
glad, although the strict justice of the verdict may be questioned. From
Italy, from Emanuele, who was the woman's cousin, we learnt that when
Parrish was in Italy he had a friend with him, an eccentric artist named
Langford. We found that an insurance company had an annuity in this name
which was not afterwards claimed. This fact, and the officials'
description of the man, left no doubt that the murdered man was Langford.
Emanuele had written two letters, as Quarles had surmised, and the first
had caused Parrish to get out of harm's way. Wishing to keep up his
chambers, he allowed Langford to occupy them; had perhaps left him the
money to pay the rent, the idea of danger to his friend probably never
occurring to him.
Naturally, Langford had not opened his letters, and, being an eccentric
and a recluse, had allowed people to call him Parrish without denying the
name when it happened that any one had to call him anything.
Since Parrish has never returned, even though the danger is past, it is
probable, I think, that he died abroad.