"Phew!" I said, "that was a desperate game to play, Dorcas. What did
you want to see in his pocket-book?"
"What I found," said Dorcas quietly. "A pawnticket for a diamond and
ruby bracelet and a diamond and ruby pendant, pawned in the name of
Claude Charrington. I imagined from the description given me at the
pawnbroker's that the man was Rinaldi. Now I know that he pawned
them on his own account, because he still has the ticket."
"How did he get them? Did Claude Charrington give them to him or sell
them to him, or----"
"No. The person who gave them to Rinaldi is the person who put the
new set back in their place."
"Do you know who that is?"
"Yes, now. The fact of Rinaldi having the ticket in his possession
supplied the missing link. You remember my telling you how Mrs.
Charrington discovered just as she was going to tell her husband of
her loss that the jewels were no longer missing."
"Yes; she found them the day after her husband's return."
"Exactly. Directly she told me I asked her to let me examine the
drawer in which the jewel-case was kept. It lay at the bottom of the
left-hand top drawer of a chest of drawers near the bed. It was
locked, and the keys were carried about by Mrs. Charrington and put
on the dressing-table at night after the bedroom door had been
bolted.
"As soon as possible I went with Mrs. Charrington to the bedroom.
Then I took the keys and opened the drawer. The box she told me was
where it was always kept, at the bottom of the drawer underneath
layers of pocket-handkerchiefs and several cardboard boxes of odds
and ends which she kept in the drawer.
"I turned the things over carefully one by one, and on a
handkerchief which lay immediately on the top of the jewel-case
I saw something which instantly attracted my attention. It was a
tiny red spot, which looked like blood. Opening the jewel-case, I
carefully examined the jewellery inside, and I found that the pin
of the diamond lizard extended slightly beyond the brooch and was
very sharp at the point.
"I then examined the keys, and upon the handle of the key of the
jewel-box I found a tiny red smear. What had happened was as clear
as noonday. Whoever had put the jewels back had pricked his or her
finger with the pin of the lizard. The pricked finger had touched
the handkerchief and left the little blood-mark. Still bleeding
slightly, the finger had touched the key in turning it in the lock
of the jewel-case.
"Saying nothing to Mrs. Charrington, who was in the room with me,
I cast my eyes searchingly in every direction. Suddenly I caught
sight of a tiny mark on the sheet which was turned over outside the
counterpane. It was a very minute little speck, and I knew it to be
a blood-stain.
"'Who sleeps on this side near the chest of drawers?' I asked
Mrs. Charrington, and she replied that her husband did.
"'Did he hear no noise in the night?'
"'In the night!' she exclaimed with evident astonishment. 'Good
gracious! no one could have come into the room last night without
our hearing them. Whoever put my jewels back did it in the daytime.'
"I didn't attempt to undeceive her, but I was certain that Mr.
Charrington himself had replaced the jewels. He had probably done
it in the night when his wife was fast asleep. A night-light burnt
all night--she was a heavy sleeper--he had risen cautiously--the
matter was a simple one. Only he had pricked his finger with the
brooch-pin."
"But what was his motive?" I cried.
"His motive! That was what I wanted to make sure to-night, and I did
so when I found the pawnticket in the name of Claude Charrington in
the pocket-book of Carlo Rinaldi--Claude Charrington is the father's
name as well as the sons."
"Then you think Rinaldi pawned the original jewels for Mr.
Charrington? Absurd!"
"It _would_ be absurd to think that," said Dorcas, "but my theory is
not an absurd one. I have ascertained the history of Carlo Rinaldi
from sources at my command. Rinaldi was a valet at the West End. He
married a rich man's cast-off mistress. The rich man gave his
mistress a sum of money as a marriage portion. He gave her up not
only because he had ceased to care for her, but because he had
fallen in love and was about to marry again. He was a widower. He
lost his first wife when their only child, a son, was a few months
old, and he was himself quite a young man. The mistress was Madame
Rinaldi, the rich man was Mr. Claude Charrington."
"Well, where does that lead you?"
"To this. During the time that Mrs. Charrington is sure that the
jewels were not in her case I trace them. I find the diamond lizard
in the possession of a young lady who lodges in the house of Madame
Rinaldi. I find the pendant and bracelet at Attenborough's, and
to-night I have seen the pawnticket for them in the possession of
Madame Rinaldi's husband. Therefore, there is no doubt in my mind
that whoever took the jewels out of Mrs. Charrington's case gave
them to the Rinaldis. I have proved by the prick of the finger and
the blood-stain that Mr. Charrington put a similar set of jewels to
those abstracted back into the empty cases in his wife's jewel-box,
therefore he must have been aware that they were missing.
Mrs. Charrington has not breathed a word of her loss to anyone but
myself, therefore he must have been privy to their abstraction, and
it is only reasonable to conclude that he abstracted them himself."
"But the lizard in Miss Dolamore's possession must have been given
her by Claude, her sweetheart, and he was suddenly flush of money
just after the theft--remember that!"
"Yes; I have ascertained how he got that money. Johnson, the footman,
told me that the young fellow had given him a tip for the Leger.
'And he gets good information sometimes from a friend of his,' said
Johnson. 'Why, only last week he backed a thirty-three to one chance,
and won a couple of hundred. But don't say anything to the missis,'
said Johnson. 'She might tell the governor, and Mr. Claude isn't in
his good books just at present.'"
I agreed with Dorcas that that would account for the young fellow's
confusion when his step-mother saw the notes, but I urged there was
still the lizard to get over.
"I think that is pretty clear. The Irish housemaid tells me that
Madame is very friendly with Miss Dolamore. I shouldn't be surprised
if she went down to Richmond with her that day to show Claude the
lizard and get him to buy it for more than it was worth. I know the
Rinaldis were pressed at the time for ready money."
I confessed to Dorcas that her theory cleared Claude Charrington of
suspicion, but it in no way explained why Mr. Charrington, senior,
should send his former mistress his present wife's jewels.
At that moment the cab stopped. We were at Oak Tree Road. Dorcas got
out and put out her hand. "I can't tell you why Mr. Charrington
stole his wife's jewellery," she said, "because he hasn't told me."
"And isn't likely to," I replied with a laugh.
"You are mistaken," said Dorcas. "I am going to his chambers
to-morrow to ask him, and then my task will be done. If you want to
know how it ends, come to Eastbourne on Sunday. I am going to spend
the day there with Paul."
* * * * * * *
The sunshine was streaming into the pretty seaside apartments
occupied by the Denes, the midday Sunday meal was over, and Paul and
Dorcas were sitting by the open window.
I had only arrived at one o'clock, and Dorcas had postponed her
story until dinner was over.
"Now," said Dorcas, as she filled Paul's pipe and lighted it for
him, "if you want to know the finish of the 'Romance of the
Charrington Jewels,' smoke and listen."
"Did you go to Mr. Charrington as you said you would?" I asked as
I lit my cigar.
"_Smoke and listen!_" said Dorcas with mock severity in her tone of
command. "Of course I went. I sent up my card to Mr. Charrington.
"Ushered into his room he gave me a searching glance and his face
changed.
"'This card says 'Dorcas Dene, Detective'?' he exclaimed. 'But
surely--you--you are very like someone I have seen lately!'
"'I had the pleasure of being your wife's parlour-maid, Mr.
Charrington,' I replied quietly.
"'You have dared to come spying in my house!' exclaimed the
barrister angrily.
"'I came to your house, Mr. Charrington, at your wife's request. She
had missed some jewellery which you presented to her a day or two
before you went into the country. Circumstances pointed to your
son Claude as the thief, and your wife, anxious to avoid a scandal,
called me in instead of the police.'
"The barrister dropped into his chair and rubbed his hands together
nervously.
"'Indeed--and she said nothing to me. You are probably aware that
you have been investigating a mare's nest--my wife's jewellery is
not missing.'
"'No, it is not missing now, because when you returned from the
country you put a similar set in its place.'
"'Good heavens, madame!' exclaimed Mr. Charrington, leaping to
his feet, 'what do you mean?'
"'Pray be calm, sir. I assure you that I have come here not to make
a scandal but to avoid one. After you gave your wife the jewellery,
you for some reason secretly abstracted it. The jewellery you
abstracted passed into the possession of Mrs. Rinaldi, whose husband
pawned two of the articles at Attenborough's. As your wife is quite
aware that for many days her jewellery was missing, I am bound to
make an explanation of some kind to her. I have come to you to know
what I shall say. You cannot wish her to believe that your son took
the jewellery?'
"'Of course Claude must be cleared--but what makes you believe
that I put the jewellery back?'
"'On the night you did it you pricked your finger with the pin of
the lizard. You left a small bloodstain on the linen that was in
the drawer, and when you turned down the sheet to get back into bed
again your finger was still bleeding, and left its mark as evidence
against you. Come Mr. Charrington, explain the circumstances under
which you committed this rob-- well, let us say, made this exchange,
and I will do my best to find a means of explaining matters to
your wife.'
"Mr. Charrington hesitated a moment, and then, having probably made
up his mind that it was better to have me on his side than against
him, told me his story.
"At the time that he kept up an irregular establishment he made the
lady who is now Mrs. Rinaldi many valuable presents of jewellery.
Among them were the articles which had resulted in my becoming
temporarily a parlour-maid under his roof. When the lady married
Rinaldi, he provided for her. But the man turned out a rascal,
squandered and gambled away his wife's money, and forced her to pawn
her jewellery for him. He then by threats compelled her to forward
the tickets to her former protector, and implore him to redeem them
for her as she was without ready money to do so herself. The dodge
succeeded two or three times, but Mr. Charrington grew tired, and
on the last occasion redeemed the jewellery and put it in a drawer
in his desk, and replied that he could not return it, as it would
only be pawned again. He would keep it until the Rinaldis sent the
money to redeem it, and then they could have it.
"Then came his wife's birthday, and he wished to make her a present
of some jewellery. He selected a bracelet and a pendant in diamonds
and sapphires and a true-lovers'-knot brooch in diamonds, and ordered
them to be sent to his chambers.
"He was busy when they came, and put them away for safety in a
drawer immediately below the one in which he had some weeks
previously placed the jewellery belonging to Mrs. Rinaldi.
Mrs. Rinaldi's jewellery, each article in its case, he had wrapped
up in brown paper and marked outside 'jewellery,' to distinguish it
from other packets which he kept there, and which contained various
articles belonging to his late wife.
"On the eve of his wife's birthday he found he would have to leave
town for the day without going to his office. He had to appear in a
case at Kingston-on-Thames, which had come on much sooner than he
had expected. Knowing he would not be back till late at night, he
sent a note and his keys to his clerk, telling him to open his desk,
take out the jewellery which had recently been forwarded from
Streeter's, and send it up to him at his house. He wished his wife
many happy returns of the day, apologised for not having his present
ready, but said it would be sent up, and she should have it that
evening.
"The clerk went to the desk and opened the wrong drawer first. Seeing
a neatly tied-up parcel labelled 'jewellery,' he jumped to the
conclusion that it was the jewellery wanted. Not caring to trust it
to a messenger, he went straight up to the house with it, and handed
it to Mrs. Charrington herself, who concluded it was her husband's
present. When she opened the parcel she noticed that the cases were
not new, and supposed that her husband had bought the things
privately. She was delighted with the jewellery--a bracelet and
pendant in diamonds and rubies and a diamond lizard.
"When her husband returned to dinner he was horrified to find his
wife wearing his former mistress's jewellery. But before he could
say a word she kissed him and told him that these things were just
what she wanted.
"He hesitated after that to say a mistake had been made, and thought
that silence was best. The next day Mrs. Charrington received news
of her brother's death, and had to go into deep mourning. The new
jewellery was put away, as she would not be able to wear it for
many months.
"That afternoon at Mr. Charrington's chambers Rinaldi called upon
him. Desperately hard up, he had determined to try and bully
Mr. Charrington out of the jewellery. He shouted and swore, and
talked of an action at law and exposure, and was delighted to find
that his victim was nervous. Mr. Charrington declared that he could
not give him the jewellery back. Whereupon Mr. Rinaldi informed him
that if by twelve o'clock the next day it was not in his possession
he should summon him for detaining it.
"Mr. Charrington rushed off to his jewellers. How long would it take
them to find the exact counterpart of certain jewellery if he
brought them the things they had to match? And how long would they
want the originals? The jewellers said if they had them for an hour
and made a coloured drawing of them they could make up or find a set
within ten days.
"That night Charrington abstracted the birthday present he had given
his wife from her jewel-box. The next morning at ten o'clock it was
in the hands of the jewellers, and at mid-day when Rinaldi called to
make his final demand the jewellery was handed over to him.
"Then Mr. Charrington went out of town. On his return the new
jewellery was ready and was delivered to him. In the dead of the
night while his wife was asleep he put it back in the empty cases.
And that," said Dorcas, "is--as Dr. Lynn, at the Egyptian Hall, used
to say--'how it was done.'"
"And the wife?" asked Paul, turning his blind eyes towards Dorcas;
"you did not make her unhappy by telling her the truth?"
"No, dear," said Dorcas. "I arranged the story with Mr. Charrington.
He went home and asked his wife for her birthday present. She
brought the jewels out nervously, wondering if he had heard or
suspected anything. He took the bracelet and the pendant from the
cases.
"'Very pretty, indeed, my dear,' he said. 'And so you've never
noticed the difference?'
"'Difference?' she exclaimed. 'Why--why--what do you mean?'
"'Why, that I made a dreadful mistake when I bought them and only
found it out afterwards. The first that I gave you, my dear, were
imitation. I wouldn't confess to you that I had been done, so I took
them without your knowing and had real ones made. The real ones I
put back the other night while you were fast asleep.'
"Oh, Claude, Claude,' she cried, 'I am so glad. I did miss them,
dear, and I was afraid there was a thief in the house, and I dared
not tell you I'd lost them. And now--oh, how happy you've made me!'"
* * * * * * *
Two months later Dorcas told me that young Claude Charrington was
engaged to Miss Dolamore with his father's consent, but he had
insisted that she should leave Fitzroy Street at once, and acting
on private information which Dorcas had given him, he assured
Claude that diamond lizards were unlucky, and as he had seen
Miss Dolamore with one on he begged to offer her as his first
present to his son's intended a very beautiful diamond
true-lovers'-knot in its place. At the same time he induced his
wife to let him have her diamond lizard for a much more valuable
diamond poodle with ruby eyes.
So those two lizards never met under Mrs. Charrington's roof, and
perhaps, all things considered, it was just as well.
_VII. THE MYSTERIOUS MILLIONAIRE_
I had received an invitation to spend the evening at Oak Tree Road,
but I had been detained by business, and it was past nine o'clock
when my cabman, making a mistake in the number, pulled up at a house
short of the Denes'. While I was feeling in all my pockets for the
odd sixpence to make up the cabman's fare--as usual with the
fraternity he had no change--the door opened, and an
elegantly-dressed lady came hurriedly out.
She started back nervously as she saw me, and I at once jumped to
the conclusion that it was a lady who was paying her first visit
to a private detective, and was fearful that someone might see her
and recognise her.
She seemed to hesitate for a moment, till she saw me hand the fare
to the cabman, then she hailed him and got in, lifted the trap door,
and said, "Drive to St. John's Wood Chapel."
"She'll tell him where to drive her when she gets to the chapel," I
said to myself, as I stood and watched the cab out of sight.
The lady, in her agitation, had forgotten to pull the door to, so I
entered without ringing, walked up the little garden path, and found
Dorcas waiting for me in the hall with the house door wide open.
"You've been having a good look at my lady visitor, Mr. Saxon," she
said with a smile. "Well, she will probably think you are
another client."
"And pray how do you know that I have been having 'a good look,'
as you call it, at your visitor?" I said laughingly.
"I heard your cab drive up just as I was letting her out; she left
the door ajar, and you would have come in at once if you had not
been otherwise engaged. You didn't even come in, you know, when the
cab drove away, so I conclude that you looked after it for some time,
probably making a mental note of the number."
"You have guessed exactly what passed in my mind. I saw you had an
aristocratic visitor, and a nervous one, and I wondered if there was
anything for me to do this time."
"I don't know yet," said Dorcas, "but come into the drawing-room.
Mother is spending the evening with some friends of hers, and Paul
has been alone for nearly an hour. My new client's first visit has
been rather a long one."
Dorcas led the way to the drawing-room, where Paul was sitting on
the sofa with Toddlekins, the bulldog, stretched out across his
knees.
Paul put the dog gently down, and rising as I entered, held out his
hand. "We expected you two hours ago," he said, "but better late
than not at all. I thought Dorcas's visitor was going to stay for
hours, and that you weren't coming, and that I should really begin
to recognise the value of Mrs. Lester as a conversationalist in my
solitary condition."
"I'm awfully sorry, dear," said Dorcas, taking her husband's arm,
and drawing him gently down on the sofa beside her, "but it's always
the way. Directly I've made up my mind to have a quiet evening with
you, somebody is sure to call."
"Is it a case?" asked Paul.
"Yes, and I'm afraid it will be rather a difficult one; but it won't
take me away from home altogether, thank goodness. At least, I hope
not. But I'll tell you all about it, and see what you think. I
haven't made up my mind yet how to start on my task."
"Oh, it isn't a pressing case, then?" I said. "I was hoping that I'd
arrived just in the nick of time for an 'engagement.'"
"It isn't particularly pressing _now,_" replied Dorcas, looking at
the clock on the mantelpiece, "but it will be at midnight, for at
that hour I have to be under a lamp-post in Berkeley Square."
"Under a lamp-post in Berkeley Square at midnight! Then I'm sure
Paul will agree with me that it _is_ a case for my assistance. I'm
to be under that lamp-post with Dorcas, am I not, Paul?"
Paul smiled. "That's for Dorcas to say, old fellow. She knows her
business better than we do. But we'll leave the lamp-post for
further consideration. Let us have the case, Dorcas."
"It is simple so far," said the famous lady detective, "but none
the less mysterious for that. The lady who has just left me is the
wife of Mr. Judkins Barraclough."
"What--the mysterious millionaire, who three years ago fell
apparently from the clouds and descended on London in a shower of
gold?--the Crœsus who seems to have discovered the royal road to the
perpetual paragraph?"
"The same."
"Then the lady I met at the gate was Lady Anna Barraclough. He
married her about a year ago. She was a young widow. Her first
husband ran through all his money on the turf and left her very
badly off when he died at the age of seven-and-twenty of--let me
see, what did they call it?--typhoid, I think."
"Quite right," said Dorcas, "your account agrees with the short
sketch of her career Lady Anna Barraclough has already given me."
"What could she have married a man like Judkins Barraclough
for?--his money, I suppose. He must be five-and-forty, and he has
all the worst qualities of the ostentatious parvenu. Is it about him
that she has come to you?"
"Yes, poor girl--for she is only five-and-twenty now--she made me
feel quite sorry for her when she told me her story. She has had a
terrible experience of marriage. Her first husband she loved, and
he spent every shilling of her money as well as his own. When
Mr. Judkins Barraclough met her she was dependent on a married
brother, the Earl of Dashton, whose wife detested her. When the
millionaire proposed to her, the poor girl, worried and embittered
by the constant humiliation of her dependent position, accepted his
offer in the recklessness of despair. She didn't expect to be happy
with a man whom she felt it was impossible she could ever love, but
at least she hoped for peace. And now--guess why she has come to me
to-night."
"To get a divorce, I should think. It would be about the best thing
you _could_ get for her, if all I hear of Mr. Judkins Barraclough's
manners and habits is correct. I suppose he married her because he
thought a wife who was a lady of title would be a good advertisement
for him. _Is_ it to get a divorce she has come to you?"
"No, Lady Anna has a haunting suspicion that the man she married
is not her legal husband--that he had a wife living when he
married her."
"Then if she thinks that why doesn't she go to the police?"
Dorcas shook her head. "You forget the man is a millionaire living
in Berkeley Square--the police would hardly take up a charge
against him made by his wife merely because she _suspects._ 'If I am
really this man's wife,' said Lady Anna, 'I have no right to go to
the police, for he is my husband. I have come to you to find out
everything for me first. Oh, if you can only tell me that I am a
free woman, that I owe no further allegiance to this wretch whom I
despise--whom I loathe--you will have done me the greatest service
one woman can do for another!' Poor girl! It was a cry from the
heart. I felt sorry for her, and I promised that I would do anything
I could to ease her mind, or, at any rate, to put an end to the
dreadful state of suspicion and uncertainty in which she is at
present living. Oh!" said Dorcas, with a shudder, "how horrible it
must be, to have to go about before the world with a smiling face
bearing the name of a man you detest--to have to submit alike to the
curses and the caresses of a man whom in your heart you believe to
be the husband of another woman!"
"And what is your idea?" I said, looking scrutinisingly at
Dorcas's face.
"To-night I shall start on my voyage of discovery. I shall see Mr.
Judkins Barraclough, the famous millionaire, and then I shall begin
to trace him back and back until I find out----"
"What?"
"Who he was before he arrived in London from South America and
set up as a millionaire."
"But you say Lady Anna Barraclough suspects her husband of being a
bigamist--what has put such an unpleasant idea into her head?"
"Something that has occurred lately. Mr. Judkins Barraclough, who
has been coarse and cruel for some time past, has suddenly altered
his demeanour. He has lost all his old over-bearing brutality. He
is nervous, and has evidently something on his mind. One night her
ladyship retired late to her own apartment, which is separated from
her husband's by his dressing-room. At two in the morning she heard
the front door close, and a few minutes later she heard her husband
enter the dressing-room. It seemed to her that he must be in pain,
for she distinctly heard him every now and then utter a low groan.
"She rose and went quietly into the dressing-room and found
Mr. Judkins Barraclough washing a wound in his right arm with Condy.
Lady Anna Barraclough saw at once that the wound looked like a
bite--the marks of teeth were distinctly visible.
"Mr. Judkins Barraclough stammered out an explanation. A savage dog
had attacked him as he was coming through a back street on his way
home. He had raised his umbrella to beat it off, and it had flown at
him and fastened its teeth in his arm. Then, somewhat angrily, he
told his wife to go back to her own room; he was all right.
"Instantly Lady Anna Barraclough's suspicions were aroused. If a dog
had bitten him her husband would have gone to a doctor's at once and
had the wound dressed. Why should he come home and attend to it
himself? There was only one solution--that the bite had been received
under circumstances which he would be unable to explain
satisfactorily."
"Ah," said Paul, "it is a woman who bites as a rule, not a man."
"Yes," replied Dorcas, "that was her ladyship's idea. Her husband
had been bitten by a woman, and a woman only bites when she is mad
with rage and her hands are being held.
"Since that night Mr. Judkins Barraclough had been out nearly all
day and has not returned till late. But he has not ordered his
carriage to take or fetch him on one single occasion. These
circumstances aroused her ladyship's suspicions that something was
wrong, and that there was trouble in which a woman was concerned.
Her husband had evidently quarrelled with one who had attacked him.
"The attack--and what else could the bitten arm suggest?--would
hardly be that of a mistress. A millionaire is not so shabbily
treated in his gallantries, because a millionaire of the Judkins
Barraclough type is only attractive on account of his wealth, and
to bite a millionaire's arm is not exactly the way to retain his
good graces. The man's altered demeanour, his evident fear of
_something,_ the bitten arm, the long absences from home, and the
non-employment of the carriages and horses all point, in Lady Anna's
idea, to one thing--the power of some woman to interfere with him,
perhaps to ruin him. Supposing in the old days, before he became
wealthy, this man had a wife whom he had left in poverty, and she
had discovered him, a wealthy bigamist, that would account for
everything. But," said Dorcas, quietly, "supper's ready, and after
supper I must be off."
Paul lifted his sightless eyes to his wife's face.
"There's a little invitation I should like you to give our guest
to-night," he said, "I'm sure he'd like it, and I'm sure he
deserves it."
"And what is that, dear?"
"Mrs. Dorcas Dene requests the pleasure of Mr. Saxon's company at
11.45 for midnight, underneath the lamp-post immediately opposite
the residence of Mr. Judkins Barraclough, in Berkeley Square."
Dorcas laughed quite a ringing little laugh.
"Of course, if _you_ wish it, dear," she said.
Then turning to me with a quick resumption of her former seriousness
of expression, she added:
"Honestly I shall be glad of your company. From what her ladyship
has told me I don't think this South American millionaire is exactly
the sort of wild animal for a woman to hunt alone."
* * * * * * *
It was half-past twelve when a hansom drove up to the door of
No. --, Berkeley Square, and a gentleman with a long, loose summer
overcoat got out and paid the cabman and ran up the steps.
Dorcas had told me that Mr. Barraclough would probably arrive in a
cab, as for several nights recently he had not ordered the carriage
to meet him anywhere, so Lady Anna had informed her.
Mr. Barraclough had let himself in with the latchkey before the
cabman had pocketed his fare and picked up his reins to drive away.
"Now," said Dorcas, "we must find out where that man took
Mr. Barraclough up. It is somewhere he doesn't want known. That is
the reason he doesn't order his carriage to fetch him. It may be
only a street corner. But wherever it is, it is the first step
backwards towards the goal that lies far away in the past."
"But we can't tell the cabman to take us to where he picked his
fare up, can we?" I said, hesitatingly.
"Leave that to me," replied Dorcas. "You call the cabman."
I obeyed, and the cabman turned his horse round and drew up to the
kerb. Dorcas got half way in and then got out again and looked at
the horse.
"You've been driving too fast, cabman," she said; "why, your poor
horse is breathing quite hard."
"Lor' bless you, ma'am!" said the cabman, "that's nothing--that's
his natural breathing! Why, he only come out of the yard half an
hour ago, and I've only had one fare."
"One fare? It must have been a good journey by the look of
the horse."
Then turning to me, she said:
"Don't let us take this cab--we'll get another--the horse is
done up."
"Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed the cabman. "That's a good one. Why,
how far do you think the horse has come?"
"Oh," said Dorcas, "perhaps from Hampstead or Brixton."
"Hampstead or Brixton!" exclaimed the driver, wrathfully. "This
here horse came out of the yard in St. Pancras just afore twelve
o'clock, and a gent hailed me as was coming out of a house in
Burton Crescent, and I drove him here, and that's all the work my
horse has done to-night."
"Oh, very well," said Dorcas. Then turning to me, she said:
"Give the man a shilling and let him go. I'm not going to ride
behind that horse."
The man took the shilling and drove off, muttering to himself,
and Dorcas and I strolled a little way along.
"He came out of a house in Burton Crescent," she muttered;
"that's something."
"Why didn't you ask him which house?"
"Too risky. The man might think something was up and find
Barraclough to-morrow and tell him, in hope of a reward. But I took
the man's number in case I want him later."
"Very well. What are you going to do now?" I asked. "Are you going
home?"
"No--let us go to Burton Crescent."
"What on earth's the good of that? You can't find out the house
Mr. Barraclough came out of to-night. There's not the
slightest clue."
"There may be. Did you notice that when he put his umbrella up to
stop the cabman he held it in his left hand?"
"Well?"
"When he got out he shifted his umbrella to his right hand, and
felt with his left hand in his left pocket for the silver.
Mr. Judkins Barraclough is still feeling the effects of that bitten
right arm."
"Possibly--probably. But how on earth can his being temporarily
left-handed guide us to the particular house he came out of in
Burton Crescent?"
"I don't say it will--but it may. Let us go."
We took a cab, and got out at the end of Burton Crescent. We walked
entirely round it, Dorcas Dene going up the steps of each house in
turn, and examining them carefully.
Suddenly she uttered a little cry of delight.
"This is the house," she exclaimed. "Look!"
She pointed to three or four rose leaves lying on the steps of
No. ---.
I looked at them bewildered, remembering that when Mr. Barraclough
got out of the cab he had a large rose in the button-hole of his
overcoat.
"I see the leaves," I said. "But what on earth made you imagine
they would be there, and--and where does the left hand come in?"
"It's very simple," replied Dorcas. "I looked at Mr. Judkins
Barraclough very carefully when he got out of the cab, and I noticed
that the rose in his buttonhole was rather dilapidated. It had
evidently been in contact with something, and several of the leaves
were gone. Of course they might have dropped accidentally, but I
instantly evolved a theory to account for the missing leaves. I
glanced inside the cab while I was looking the horse up and down,
there weren't any leaves there, so he hadn't crushed his rose in
getting into it. If he had, some of the leaves would have fallen
on the matting. I noticed that he used his left hand. The
probability was that he hailed the cab with the umbrella in his
left hand. The cabman said he was coming out of the house when he
hailed him, so he would be on the steps at the time. Now, if you
lifted your left hand hurriedly, as if hailing a cab that was
passing, you would probably bring your arm up against the left side
of your overcoat. Your arm would probably brush against a flower if
you had one as large as a rose, and particularly if it projected as
far forward as Mr. Barraclough's did. I said to myself, 'He might
have knocked the leaves off that rose when he hailed the cab on a
door-step in Burton Crescent.' My surmise fortunately turns out to be
correct. Here are the rose leaves, and therefore this is the house."
"It's wonderful!" I said, "but after all, it's just one chance in
a thousand."
"It is that one chance," replied Dorcas, quietly, "that in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred brings the criminal into the hands
of justice. Chance is the most successful detective the world has
ever known."
Dorcas stepped back and looked up at the house.
"There are no lights anywhere," she said, "but we'll see what the
inhabitants are like."
She seized the bell and rang it violently, and then gave a loud
double knock. There was no sound inside the house. We waited a few
minutes, then Dorcas knocked again, this time loud enough to wake up
everybody in the Crescent. Still no one came, and the house remained
in darkness.
"I'll try again," she said. "I'm sure to wake the people up on one
side or other, and they'll think, perhaps, it's their knocker, and
look out of the window."
Dorcas knocked this time for fully a couple of minutes, and at last
she produced the desired effect.
A third floor window in the next house opened, and a woman put her
head out.
"What's the good of your knocking there, a-frightening people out
of their seven senses;" she called out angrily. "What do you want?"
"Mr. Robinson," replied Dorcas. "A relative of his is dying, and I've
come to fetch him."
"You've come to the wrong house, then," said the woman, snappishly.
"There ain't no Mr. Robinson there, 'cos the house is empty.
Leastways, there ain't nobody sleepin' there."
"But Mr. Robinson was here this evening," replied Dorcas, unabashed.
"Oh, you mean the gent as has taken the place and ain't moved in yet,
perhaps--I don't know his name. He ain't there now, I tell you. He
only comes there now and then, and nobody's living there, and the
tradespeople don't call. If you can't believe me, ask a policeman,
only for goodness' sake leave off knocking. You're making yourself
a noosance to the neighbourhood."
Dorcas thanked her informant, and we moved away. "Good-night," said
Dorcas, as we got to the corner. "I'll take a cab and go home now.
Mr. Barraclough is renting an empty house. I must find out why
he does so."
"When shall we do that?"
"The day after to-morrow. I must have a couple of days to myself
now. If you've nothing to do, come to Oak Tree Road in the evening
the day after to-morrow, at ten o'clock."
I assured Dorcas that I should be delighted. I saw her into a cab,
and wished her good-night, and went home, wondering to myself what
on earth a millionaire with a magnificent establishment in Berkeley
Square could want with an empty house in Burton Crescent.
* * * * * * *
During the afternoon of the appointed day I received a telegram--
"Come evening dress. Dorcas."
When I arrived at Oak Tree Road at ten o'clock in the evening, I
found Dorcas busily engaged in trying the wick of a dark lantern,
and on the floor beside her lay an open brown paper parcel filled
with goloshes.
"Good gracious," I exclaimed, "are you going burgling?"
"Something very like it," she replied, lighting the lantern to
satisfy herself that it was all right. "Just try on those goloshes
and see if any of them will fit over your boots."
"But what do I want with goloshes? It's a perfectly dry night."
"You are going burgling with me--that is, of course, if you are not
afraid."
"Burgling in evening dress!" I exclaimed. "I'm not afraid to do
anything that you tell me is right, but I haven't been brought up to
the profession, you know."
I selected a pair of goloshes which I thought likely to suit, and
found they fitted over my boots perfectly.
"That's all right--put them in that bag," said Dorcas, pointing to a
black bag on the sofa. Then she blew the lamp out, and fastening it
to a leather belt, fitted it round her waist.
"You look like a female policeman," I exclaimed, "but you're not
going through the streets with that on!"
"Nobody will see it under my long cloak. Here is a box of silent
matches, put that in the bag too."