"His hands," I said excitedly, moving my own as I had seen Oglethorpe move his.

"Exactly, Wigan, twisting, and more. You are making the motion correctly, I was careful to ascertain that. It is the action of unscrewing. The will was screwed into something, and the dying man was trying to make them understand that something had to be unscrewed."

"What is that something, dear?" asked Zena.

"They thought it was the light that troubled him," Quarles went on. "We'll go to the Towers to-morrow, Wigan, and I think we shall find some candelabrum, or, more likely, some old silver candlestick which unscrews. If we do not, I think we shall have to get an interview with Frisby Morton somehow. That is why I wanted to know if he were in Boston. You see, there was a riddle to read, and a bare possibility exists that Morton has read it already."

I thought this most unlikely, but the fact that Quarles had conceived the possibility showed how exceedingly careful he was of details. The will, a very short one, leaving everything to Edward Oglethorpe, was found in an old silver candlestick, which stood, as a rule, on a table in Mr. Frisby's dressing-room.

It was a heavy candlestick which unscrewed just below the cup which held the candle, and the will was in the hollow stem.

Christopher Quarles insisted on dividing the reward into three parts. Zena certainly had had a definite conviction about the affair from the first, so perhaps earned her share; but I am very sure I did nothing to deserve mine.

CHAPTER XIV
THE CASE OF THE MURDERED FINANCIER

It was chiefly my desire for companionship in my investigations which made me do so, I think; still, it may be that subconsciously I realized that this was a case for the professor. The force of contrast, too, may have had something to do with my attitude. Two nights ago, the professor, Zena, and I had been to the opera, mainly to see a Hungarian dancer who had recently caused a sensation. She was a very beautiful woman, and her dancing, which was illustrative of abstract ideas, was impressive, if bizarre. Quarles had pointed out a man in a box who seemed literally absorbed in the performance, and said he was a wealthy German named Seligmann, who was financially interested in the opera season.

This morning Seligmann was dead, lying limply in a deep arm-chair in the study of his home in Hampstead. Owing to some misunderstanding I had arrived before the doctor who had been sent for, and, as I have said, the sight nauseated me. Downward, through his neck, a stiletto had been driven, a death-dealing blow delivered from behind, apparently, but besides this his face and throat were torn as though some great bird had attacked him with powerful talons. The description is inadequate, perhaps, but it was too terrible a sight to enlarge upon.

Quarles and the doctor arrived at the same time, and the three of us entered the room together. After looking at the dead man for a few moments, Quarles stood apart while the doctor made his examination, but I noticed that his eyes were particularly alive behind his round goggles.

The doctor was puzzled.

"The stiletto killed him," he said, slowly, looking at me, "but these other wounds—the sudden explosion of some vessel might have caused them, but there are no fragments. It almost looks as if the flesh had been torn by a rake. He has been dead some hours."

"Yesterday was Sunday," I replied, "and this room was not opened."

"That accounts for the time," he said. "The work of a madman, perhaps. Murder, undoubtedly."

When the doctor had gone, after he had superintended the removal of the dead man to a small room off the hall, Quarles moved to the writing-table.

"Glad you sent for me, Wigan. What has the wife to say? He was married, I suppose? There is a feminine note about the house."

"Mrs. Seligmann is away," I answered, "and as yet I have only interviewed the man who found his master. He was inclined to be hysterical. Two women-servants had a day off yesterday, and are not expected back until this morning."

"Dead many hours," said Quarles; "was probably lying here yesterday, and we saw him on Saturday. I don't think he left the house before the fall of the curtain."

"No, I think not."

"He couldn't have got here before midnight, then," said Quarles. "That helps us to the time of the murder. It would be a late hour for a visitor, and I see no card lying about."

"My dear professor, visitors of this sort do not leave their cards."

"Look at this pen on the blotting-pad, Wigan; it might have been just put down—put down, not dropped from paralyzed fingers, nor from a hand raised in self-defense. It was used, probably, to make these meaningless lines and curves upon the pad. A man engaged in a serious conversation might draw them as he talked. That chair there was pushed back by the doctor, but it was close to the table, just where a visitor would sit to talk to a man seated at the table. Now mark, the dead man is found in an arm-chair removed from the table, yet his cigar was put carefully into the ash tray, half smoked, you see, and the ash not knocked off. Oh, yes, Mr. Seligmann had a visitor of whom he had no fear, and who might reasonably have left a card."

"He would be careful not to leave it lying about after the murder," I said.

"It wasn't a man, I fancy, but a woman. Had it been a man, the glasses on the tray yonder would probably have been used. Besides, if criminals were always as careful as you suggest, there are few detectives who would be able to hunt them down. The very essence of your profession is looking for mistakes."

Quarles turned to examine the French window.

"The window was found closed," I said, "but there is little significance in that. If pulled to from the outside it fastens itself.

"And cannot be opened from the outside, I observe," said Quarles. "How about the garden door, yonder?"

The house was a corner one. There was a small square of garden, and in the high wall was a door, an exit into a side road.

"It was locked," I answered.

"So, unless the retreating person had a key, he would have to climb the wall," the professor remarked. "That would require some agility."

"The person who committed so savage a murder would be likely to have sufficient strength for that," I said.

"Quite so," Quarles returned thoughtfully, crossing to a leather-covered sofa and looking at it carefully.

"Shall we interview the servants?" he said, after a pause.

The man who had found his master that morning was calmer now, and told us a coherent story. Mr. Seligmann had arrived home just before midnight on Saturday. They had expected him earlier in the evening. As he entered the study, he said he was returning to Maidenhead as soon as he had looked through his letters. He had a cottage on the river, where he and Mrs. Seligmann had been for the past two or three weeks, and the master had paid these flying visits to Hampstead more than once. The man had gone to bed after taking in the tray with the glasses. It was his custom to put two or three glasses on the tray. There was no one with Mr. Seligmann. The study had not been opened on Sunday. When he entered it this morning his master was dead in the chair, and the man had immediately sent for the police. He had also telegraphed to Mrs. Seligmann.

"Was it usual not to open the room when Mr. Seligmann was away?" I asked.

"On Sundays, yes. Other days it would be opened."

"It wasn't necessary for you to sit up until your master had gone?"

"No. He constantly left his motor in the side road and went out through the garden. He had a key of the door."

"Was the electric light on in the hall on Sunday morning?"

"No; but I didn't switch it off on Saturday. I left it because two of the servants were finishing some work in the kitchen—hat trimming. They were having the Sunday off. They ought to be back directly."

"You supposed the motor was waiting in the side road ready to take your master to Maidenhead," said Quarles. "Would it be in charge of a chauffeur?"

"Yes, sir."

"When your master left by the garden was it not thought advisable to see that the study window was securely fastened? I see there are shutters."

"Yes, but I have never seen them closed. The master often sat up late after we had all gone to bed, and he never shut them. I suppose he considered the high garden wall sufficient protection."

"Did anyone come to see your master that night?"

"No."

In this particular the man was wrong. When, a few minutes later, the two women servants returned, one of them—the housemaid—said she had answered a ring at the bell after the man servant had gone to bed. It was a young lady. She gave no name, but said that Mr. Seligmann was expecting her. This was true, for the master had had her shown in at once.

"He told me not to wait. He would show her out himself."

"What was the lady like?" I asked.

"Rather tall and well dressed. She wore a veil, so I could not see her face very clearly."

"Was she alone?" asked Quarles.

"Yes."

"Quite alone?" the professor insisted. "She didn't turn to speak to anyone as she entered the house?"

"No."

"Did you switch off the light in the hall?"

"I may have done. I do not remember."

"So late a visitor surprised you, of course?"

"Only because the master was to be in the house so short a time. He has a great deal to do with professional people, so we often get late visitors—after the theaters are over. The mistress——"

She stopped. There was the soft purring of a motor at the front door, and a moment later the sharp ring of a bell.

"That is the mistress," she said.

The door was opened, and a woman came in swiftly, young, beautiful, and, even in her agitated movements, full of grace.

"Tell me! Tell me!" she said, turning toward Quarles and myself, as if a man's strength were necessary to her just then. Quarles told her with a gentleness which I had not often seen in him.

"I must see him," she said.

We tried to dissuade her, but she insisted, so we went with her. The dead man lay on a sofa, a handkerchief over his face. His wife lifted the covering herself and for a moment stood motionless. Then she swayed and would have fallen had I not caught her. My touch seemed to strengthen her, and, with a low cry, she rushed out of the room.

From the moment she had entered the house I had been trying to remember where I had seen her before. Perhaps it was some involuntary movement as she left the room which made me remember. She was the famous Hungarian dancer we had seen on Saturday at the opera.

"Did you know she was Seligmann's wife, professor?"

"No," he answered, almost as if his ignorance annoyed him.

"I'm going back to Chelsea. He had a visitor, you see, Wigan, and a woman. There is nothing more to say at present. I dare say you will be able to see Mrs. Seligmann presently; ask her two things: Did she expect her husband to join her at Maidenhead in the small hours of Sunday morning? Does she know of any woman, a singer possibly, who has been worrying her husband to get her an engagement?"

The importance of finding the woman who had visited Seligmann was obvious, but it seemed impossible that a woman could have accomplished so savage a murder. Seligmann was a powerful man and would not prove an easy victim. Evidently the professor did not believe her solely responsible by the precise way in which he had asked the housemaid whether the woman was alone.

In the afternoon I saw Mrs. Seligmann for a few moments. She told me that she and her husband had come to town together on Saturday. He had arranged to go to Hampstead after the opera, not to keep any particular appointment as far as she knew, and she had expected him to come on to Maidenhead afterward. She had gone back there after the opera. People constantly asked him to help them, but she could not conceive who her husband's visitor that night was.

In answer to my question how her husband intended to get to Maidenhead, she said by taxi. He often did so after sending her off in the motor.

When I left her I visited the nearest cab rank, and had confirmation of her statement. A driver told me he had taken Mr. Seligmann to Maidenhead once or twice. Seligmann would stop and tell him if he were on the rank at a certain time there would be a good job for him. He has also been to the house to call for him sometimes. On Saturday he had not seen him, nor could I find any other driver who had. Of course, he might have engaged a taxi elsewhere, but, as it was not his habit to do so, the presumption was that he had not intended to go to Maidenhead that night.

Quarles had talked about criminals' mistakes, but I did not expect a murderer to be so careless as to hire a cab in the immediate neighborhood. I found, however, that three drivers had been engaged by solitary women that night. The description of the first woman did not correspond with the housemaid's, the second was not late enough to be Seligmann's visitor, but the third seemed worth attention. She had been driven to Chelsea, to a block of flats called River Mansions, and, interviewing the hall-porter later in the afternoon, I found that a Miss Wickham, who shared a flat there with a lady named Ross, had come home early on Sunday morning. She might be a singer, but the man thought she was an actress.

"Is she in now?" I asked.

"No; both ladies went away on Sunday morning. They often go either Saturday or Sunday, and come back some time on Monday. You might find them later in the evening. There's nothing wrong, is there?" he added, as though the respectability of the Mansions was a matter of concern to him.

"Why should you think so?"

"I'm old-fashioned, I suppose, and I expect to hear queer things about theatrical folk; besides, there's a friend of Miss Wickham's been here three times to-day, and he seemed worried at not finding her."

"Oh, you mean Mr. Rowton," I said, and the porter fell into the trap.

"No, I don't know him. This was Mr. Marsh—the Honorable Percival Marsh."

"He's been, has he?" I said, keeping up the deception to allay the man's suspicions. "I must try and see him."

"He lives in Jermyn Street, you know."

"Yes; I shall go there."

But I did not go to Jermyn Street at once; I went to see Quarles.

"I'm perplexed, Wigan," said the professor before I could utter a word. "I've seen a man with a stiletto driven into his neck, yet, as soon as I begin to think of the murderer, something seems to tell me it wasn't murder."

I smiled at his foolishness and told him what I had done.

"What time to-day did this Mr. Marsh first go to River Mansions?" Quarles asked when I had finished.

"The porter didn't say."

"They're not expensive flats, are they?"

"No."

"You've got on the trail cleverly, but you haven't proved it murder yet," he said. "The first question Zena asked me was whether I was certain the stiletto wasn't a hatpin."

"There might be a pair, and so it would be a clew," explained Zena.

"It was too much of a weapon for a hatpin," I said.

"Exactly my answer," said Quarles, "and Zena went and fetched that thing lying on the writing-table. That came from Norway and is a hatpin, though you might not think it."

It was indeed a fearsome looking weapon, and a deadly stroke might be dealt with it.

"I'm perplexed, Wigan," the professor went on. "I'm a man in a wood and can't find my way out. That is literal rather than a figure of speech. In my endeavor to get out and look for a murderer I seem to keep on hurting myself against the trunks and branches of trees, and out of the darkness about me wild animals seem to roar with laughter at my idea of murder. What do you make of it?"

"You have been reading some ancient mythology, dear," said Zena, "and I expect the great god Pan has got on your nerves. Didn't a solemn voice from the Ionian Sea proclaim him to be dead? Perhaps he isn't."

Quarles looked at her and nodded.

"Come out of the wood, professor," I said, "and we'll go and interview Marsh in Jermyn Street."

Knowing him as I did, I had no doubt that he had formed a theory, and, until he had found whether there were any facts to support it, was pleased to play the fool. I was rather angry, but showing annoyance served no useful purpose with him. He was keen enough when we found Percival Marsh at home.

There are scores like Percival Marsh in London; no great harm in them, certainly no great good; chiefly idlers, always spendthrifts, who may end by settling down into decent citizens or may go completely to the devil. It was quite evident he took us for duns when we entered, but there was no mistaking his concern when I told him we had come to talk about Miss Wickham.

"I called upon her this afternoon," I said. "She was not at home. You will not be surprised, since I hear you have been there several times to-day."

"Why did you call upon her?"

"To ask why she went to see Mr. Seligmann, of Hampstead, on Saturday night."

"Did she go there?"

"Your manner tells me that you know she did, and your anxiety about her to-day convinces me that you have seen some account of the Hampstead tragedy."

"I do not know that she went there, but she knew Seligmann. I think that accounts for my anxiety."

"And for some reason you think it within the bounds of possibility that Miss Wickham may have attacked him. I may tell you that I do not believe she is responsible for the murder."

He did not answer.

Quarles, who had been gazing round the room, apparently uninterested in the conversation, turned suddenly.

"Evidently you don't agree with my friend, Mr. Marsh. You are not quite sure that Miss Wickham is innocent. It is a painful subject. May I ask if you are engaged to Miss Wickham?"

"Really, you——"

"I quite understand," said Quarles. "I am man of the world enough to understand the desirability of keeping such things secret. Family reasons. Her position and yours are so different. It would be awkward if such an engagement were to mean the stoppage of supplies. The head of the family has to be thought of. Peers do not always go to the stage for their wives."

"Sir, you overstep the limits of our short acquaintance," said Marsh with some dignity.

"Let me tell you, sir, that you treat the affair far too cavalierly. It looks as if Mr. Seligmann had been killed by a man rather than by a woman. You couldn't have read of the murder till this afternoon, yet you went to River Mansions this morning."

"What are you attempting to suggest?" Marsh asked, his face pale, either with fear or anger.

"I suggest that you know why Miss Wickham went to Mr. Seligmann and that it was upon some matter which concerned yourself."

"Do you know Seligmann?" Marsh asked.

"I know a great deal about him."

"Then you know that he was a different man, according to his company. You may only have seen the decent side of him, but he was a blood-sucker of the worst description."

"So he had you in his money-lending hands, had he?"

"He had. Morally, I had paid my debt, but a legal quibble kept me in his power, and he refused to give up certain papers of mine."

"Which you had no right to part with, I presume," said Quarles.

"Miss Wickham said she had some influence with Seligmann," Marsh went on, taking no notice of the professor's remark, "and said she would try and get the papers back."

"What price was she to pay for them?"

"Price!"

"You didn't expect Seligmann to give them up for nothing?"

"He wanted her to go on tour, I believe, instead of bringing her out in town, as he had half promised to do."

"It was natural perhaps that your future wife should be willing to make a sacrifice for your sake."

"It was hardly a sacrifice. She is not good enough for the London stage. Besides, I am not engaged to her. Friendship is——"

"I warrant she considers herself engaged to you."

"I cannot help that."

"Of course not," said the professor, "but you were glad enough to get the papers. May I look at the envelope they came in?"

"I destroyed it," Marsh replied to my utter astonishment.

"That is a pity. If Miss Wickham says she did not get those papers, it will be awkward for you. Could you swear the writing on the envelope was hers?"

"They could have come from no one else."

"And you think she murdered Seligmann to get them?"

"I am not to be trapped into admitting anything of the sort."

"As you will, Mr. Marsh. For my part, I expect this affair will open Miss Wickham's eyes to your—your true worth."

And Quarles took up his hat and walked out of the room. I followed him. In the street he took off his glasses and put them in his pocket. They were the same he had worn that morning—a pair he did not often use.

"The Honorable Percival Marsh is a worm," he remarked.

"Now for Miss Wickham," said I.

"There is no necessity to see her," said Quarles. "I dare say it is true what this worm says. She went to offer her talent cheap to Seligmann on condition that he would give her the papers. I can guess what happened. They talked over the bargain, but Seligmann refused to do what she wanted, and was able, probably, to show her that Marsh was a worthless scoundrel. Unless something of this sort had happened she would have written to Marsh to tell him she had been unsuccessful. I have little doubt Seligmann treated her in a fatherly manner, and then let her out through the garden, perhaps because he found the light in the hall was out. He returned to find—I am not sure yet what it was he found in his study, but nothing to alarm him, I am sure. To-morrow we will go to Maidenhead, Wigan, and see what servants are at the cottage."

At noon next day we were in Maidenhead.

There was a yard and coach house somewhat removed from the house, and a chauffeur was cleaning a car. In the corner of the yard lay a large dog of the boar-hound type, but I have never seen one quite like it before.

"Is that dog savage?" Quarles asked.

"He doesn't like strangers, as a rule," said the man, "but he's ill."

"Foreign breed of dog, eh?" said Quarles, entering the yard.

"Came from Russia."

The professor looked puzzled. It was evident that something interfered with his theory.

"Sorry to disturb you," he went on, "but we've come to ask a few questions about the awful circumstances of your master's death."

"You're right, it is awful," said the man. "The mistress will go mad, that's what she'll do. I shouldn't have been surprised if she'd chucked herself out of the car as we came down this morning."

"She has returned to the cottage, then? I suppose it was you who drove her up yesterday?"

"Yes, and on Saturday I drove them both up as far as Colnbrook, and then something went wrong with the car. They had to go on by train."

"How did she arrive home on Sunday morning, then?"

"In a taxi."

"And what did she do on Sunday?"

"Had out the punt and went up to Boulter's, where she would be certain to meet a lot of friends. I dare say you know the mistress is a famous dancer. That kind of people are a bit unconventional."

"Do you happen to know the Honorable Percival Marsh?" asked Quarles.

"Yes. He's been here, but not lately. The mistress lunches with him in town sometimes. She seems to think more of him than I do. There's nothing in it. I've heard her laugh at him with the master."

"Is that the only dog about the place?" said Quarles.

"Yes. He's a pet; usually goes up to the opera with the mistress. He went on Saturday, and came back like that on Sunday. He snapped at her in a frightened way when she came in here in the morning and got a hiding for it. I was afraid he'd go for her."

Quarles gave a short exclamation underneath his breath, and then he said in rather an agitated way: "Well go in and see Mrs. Seligmann, Wigan." And as we left the yard he went on: "You must make the servant show us in to her mistress without announcing us. We must take Mrs. Seligmann unawares."

The servant proved difficult to persuade, and I had to explain who I was before she yielded. Mrs. Seligmann sprang from the sofa as we entered. She looked wild, almost mad, as the chauffeur had said, but she recognized us and forced herself to welcome us.

"What are you here for?" she said, and I started. There was the suggestion of a snarl in her voice.

"We believe your husband was murdered by Percival Marsh," said Quarles quietly.

"It's a lie!" she shrieked.

"How comes it, then, that he has those papers which were in your husband's possession?"

In a moment she had hurled herself upon the professor, and had snapped at the hand which he threw out to protect himself. Her strength was awful, and all the time we were struggling with her she fought with her nails and teeth, and growled like an infuriated animal. Her clothes were partly torn from her in the struggle, and—but it was too ghastly to enlarge upon. She was an animal in the form of a beautiful woman. The house was quickly roused, and we had to have the chauffeur's help before we could bind her securely. Then I telephoned to Maidenhead for the police.

"I thought a dog had helped, Wigan; that was my theory," said Quarles as we went back to town. "I noted that a dog had trodden on the polished skirting near the study sofa. Miss Wickham might have had a dog, that is why I questioned the housemaid so closely to make sure she entered the house quite alone. When we were brought in contact with Marsh I suspected Mrs. Seligmann. Those glasses I wear sometimes are curious, acting like opera-glasses, and they enabled me to see a portrait of Mrs. Seligmann standing back on a corner table, and, moreover, that it was signed. Marsh evidently knew her well; was in love with her, perhaps, and she with him. My saying that he had first been to River Mansions in the morning was guesswork, but by his not denying it, the fact was established that the papers must have come into his possession, or why should he have gone there? He must have known that Miss Wickham usually went away on Saturday or Sunday and did not return till late on Monday. I argued that Mrs. Seligmann might have sent them, and that Marsh suspected this, hence his visit to Miss Wickham to make certain. It may be true that he did not know she was going to Seligmann on Saturday night, and if he heard from the porter that she had left town on Saturday afternoon he would know that the papers could not have come from her. He would hear from the porter that she had returned in the small hours of Sunday morning, and when, later in the day, he read of the murder he would not know what to think. It is also possible, Wigan, that Seligmann expected his wife to call for him that night. That their motor had broken down on the way up to town makes it even probable. I went to Maidenhead to see if Mrs. Seligmann had a dog, a savage brute who would attack at her command, savage but small. The great brute in the yard did not fit my theory. God knows I didn't suspect the real truth. Strange that I should have felt that I was in a forest, stranger still that Zena should speak of Pan. I don't explain, Wigan, I can't, but it has happened—a return of the human to wild and awful atavism. She meant to kill, to rid herself of the man who was in her way. The human in her used the stiletto or hatpin, the animal in her used claws. She will be called mad, and so she is in one sense, but not in another; nor was it murder in the true sense of the word. The wild wolf does not murder; he kills because he must. Even the dog recognized an enemy of whom he was afraid. The beast was not ill, but cowed, and snapped at her as you heard the chauffeur say. Had she had her way with me to-day, I should have looked like poor Seligmann."

Arriving in town I found that Miss Wickham had communicated with the police and had given an account of her visit to Hampstead, which closely corresponded with Quarles's idea. She had gone at that hour because she was anxious on Marsh's account, and it was the only time Seligmann could see her unless she waited another week. He was very kind, and had told her that Marsh was a scoundrel. He was attempting to make love to his wife, he declared, who laughed at him, and was quite in agreement with her husband when he said he would presently punish him by using the papers he held. He was expecting his wife to call for him that night in a taxi. She came, and killed him.

I am thankful to say that a fortnight after her arrest Mrs. Seligmann died.

CHAPTER XV
THE STRANGE AFFAIR OF THE FLORENTINE CHEST

The room on the right of the hall was the living room. On the left was a small apartment, with windows of frosted glass, which was occupied during certain hours of the day by his only clerk, a cadaverous and unintellectual looking youth, whose chief work in life seemed to be the cutting of his initials into various parts of the cheap furniture which the room contained. Behind this office, but not connected with it, was Mr. Portman's business room, to which no one penetrated unless conducted thither by the cadaverous youth. Behind the living room, down a passage, was the kitchen, where Mrs. Eccles, the housekeeper, passed her days. A girl occasionally came in to help her, otherwise she was solely responsible for her master's comfort.

One November afternoon Mr. Portman returned to his house shortly after four o'clock. He stood in the doorway of the small room for a few moments, giving instructions to his clerk, and then went to his own room, closing the door after him. A little later Mrs. Eccles took him some tea on a tray, which she did every afternoon when he was at home. He talked to her for some minutes about a friend who was coming to dinner with him on the following evening, giving her such particular orders that he evidently wished to entertain this friend particularly well. Soon after five Mrs. Eccles returned to fetch the tray. The door was locked then, and Mr. Portman called out to her that he was busy, but was going out shortly, when she could have the tray.

It was nearly six when she went to the room again. Mr. Portman had gone out, but evidently did not expect to be long, as he had left the gas burning, only turning it low. She had not heard him go, but the clerk said Mr. Portman had come out of his room at a quarter to six, had paused in the passage outside to say, "I shall not be long, but you needn't wait, good night," and had then gone out, closing the front door quietly behind him.

He did not return that night. For five days Mrs. Eccles waited, and then, growing alarmed, gave information to the police.

These were the bare facts of the case when it came into my hands, but I was told that my investigations might possibly throw some light on two or three cases which had puzzled the authorities in recent years.

Mr. Portman was a money-lender, and had so long called himself Portman for business purposes that possibly he had almost forgotten his real name himself. Since for years he had transacted his business unmolested, it was probable that the evil reports which had been circulated concerning him from time to time were grossly exaggerated; but the fact remained that the police authorities had taken considerable trouble to collect items concerning Portman's career, and had kept an eye upon him. Complaints about him had reached them, but those who borrow money are easily critical of those who lend, and there had never been sufficient warrant for taking any action. If, as happened at intervals, Portman had to appear in the witness-box, he came through the ordeal fairly well. He might show that he was bent on getting his pound of flesh, but he was always careful to have the law on his side. He was legally honest—that was his attitude; he could not afford to be generous when a large percentage of his clients would certainly cheat him if they had the chance.

Portman's business room at the back of the house was large, but dark and depressing, its two windows, which were heavily barred, looking on to the blank wall of a warehouse. A large desk and a safe gave it a business aspect, but the room was crowded with costly furniture which fancy might suppose had once belonged to some unfortunate debtor who had been unable to satisfy Mr. Portman's demands. Some good pictures hung upon the walls, and in a recess opposite the door stood an old chest heavily clamped with iron. The key, which might have hung at the waist of a medieval jailer, so huge was it, was in the lock, which was evidently out of order. When I turned the key the lid would not open. Looking through the drawers in the desk, I found several letters which showed that Mr. Portman's business was often with well-known people—men one would not expect to find associated with him in any way—and the sums involved were often so large that only a rich man could deal with them.

Mrs. Eccles answered my questions without any hesitation. Whatever the world might think of Mr. Portman, she appeared to have a genuine affection for him. She had noticed no change in him recently; he had appeared to her to be in his usual health and spirits.

"When you went for the tray and found the door locked, did you think he had anyone with him?" I asked.

"I didn't hear anyone, but I can't say I listened. It was not the first time I had found the door locked and been told to go back presently for the tray."

"A friend was to dine with him on the following night. Did the friend come?"

"No."

"What was his name?"

"Mr. Portman did not mention it."

"Did you prepare the dinner?"

"No."

"Why not?" I asked. "You did not communicate with the police until five days later, so you must have been expecting your master to return."

"It's difficult to say exactly what I expected," Mrs. Eccles answered, "but I never thought about preparing the dinner. When he didn't return I began to think something was wrong, because I've never known him to be away even for a night without letting me know."

"Why didn't you give information sooner?"

"Sooner? Why, I keep on asking myself whether I've done right in giving it at all. The master might walk in at any moment, and I don't know what he'd say if he did."

The clerk seemed to think that Mr. Portman had been worried recently. He had had several pieces of business which the youth said had not progressed too smoothly. He knew practically nothing about these various items of business, but he gave me the names of half a dozen people who had called upon Mr. Portman during the past week or two.

"He was close, you know," the youth went on; "didn't give much away about his doings."

"Then why do you think he has been worried recently?" I asked.

"He's been snappy with me," was the answer; "but by the way he spoke the other night when he went out I thought everything must have come right."

A further investigation of Mr. Portman's room resulted in a curious find. Under a bookcase, which was raised a few inches from the floor, I discovered a key—the key of the safe. How it had come there, whether it was a duplicate or the one Mr. Portman carried, it was impossible to decide.

Apparently the safe had not been opened, for a drawer therein contained a large sum in gold and notes, and there was not the slightest indication that any of the papers had been touched. It was quite evident, however, that a number of people would profit by Portman's death, especially if he should die suddenly and leave no one to carry on his business; and this was precisely what had happened. Not a relative or friend had come forward to lay claim to anything, and many of his debtors were likely to go free. Among these was Lord Stanford, one of the names the clerk had given me as recent visitors, and I went to see him, only to find that he had left England the day after Portman's disappearance. He had gone to Africa, and that was all I could discover.

Another man who had called upon Portman recently, and whom I went to see, was a Mr. Isaacson. From him I obtained an interesting piece of information. He had seen Portman in Finsbury Pavement on the evening of his disappearance. He must have met him some ten minutes after he had left his house.

"I stopped to speak to him, but he was in a hurry, and did not stop," said Isaacson.

"I suppose you were not due to dine with him on the following evening?" I said.

"Dine with him? No, I have never had that honor. I do not think you quite appreciate Mr. Portman's position. I lend money in a small way, there are many like me, and if, as occasionally happens, business comes to us which is too large for us to deal with, we go to Mr. Portman. The business is carried through in our names, but Mr. Portman is the real creditor."

In his own way Mr. Portman was a man of importance, and a man of mystery. There was nothing to suggest he was dead, and it was quite possible that some crooked business had kept him from home unexpectedly.

I chanced to go and see Christopher Quarles one evening when I got to this point in my investigations, and he at once began to ask questions about the Finsbury affair. I had not intended to enlist his help. I was quite satisfied with the progress I had made, but he was so keen about the mystery that I told the whole story to him and Zena.

"You seem very interested," I said, when I had finished.

"I am. Mr. Portman has been talked about before now, and I remember I once had a theory about him."

"Does the present affair help to confirm that theory?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"It might be interesting to know why Lord Stanford has gone abroad," he said.

"That is exactly the line I am following," I returned.

"I should like to know something about the man who was coming to dinner and did not come," said Zena. "It is curious that he should have heard so quickly of Mr. Portman's death, and more curious still that he should make no inquiries."

"Lord Stanford may be able to tell us something about him," I said.

"Zena makes a point, Wigan," said Quarles. "It is rather a complicated puzzle. Of course, Portman may not be dead, but if he is alive why should he run the risk of a police search among his papers? He would know that such an investigation would be likely to do him harm. He would hardly run such a risk. Since Mr. Isaacson saw him in Finsbury Pavement he has vanished completely. He left the gas burning in his room, therefore he did not expect to be out long. He was hurrying, according to Mr. Isaacson, presumably to keep an appointment. Now, if he is dead, it looks like a premeditated thing, because there is no body. It is easy enough to murder; it is the most difficult thing in the world to hide the victim successfully. If a sudden crime is committed, and the murderer has his wits about him, the body will probably be found under circumstances likely to throw suspicion on anyone but the right man; but a premeditated crime usually means the disappearance of the body if in any way it can be managed. So we get a kind of theory which may carry us a long way, and the further we go we shall be the more convinced, I fancy, that many other theories are just as likely to be right."

"Portman may not be dead," I said.

"For the reasons I have given I think we may presume that he is," Quarles answered. "The difficulty of the case arises from the fact that so many people stand to profit by his death."

"Stanford, for instance," said I.

"And Isaacson, perhaps," he returned, "and a score of others. As far as Stanford is concerned, he is a young man with expectations, but with little money at present. He is probably in the hands of other money-lenders besides Portman; he is a fool no doubt, but one would not expect him to be a murderer."

"Given certain conditions, you cannot tell what a man will do."

"True, Wigan, but I do not find the required conditions. Don't let me influence you. Something may be learned from Stanford, but that would not be my line of attack."

"What would yours be?"

"I should like to talk to Mrs. Eccles and the clerk."

When Quarles solved a case his explanation was usually so clear that one could only marvel that the salient points had not been apparent to everybody from the first; when he was considering the difficulties it seemed impossible that the mystery could ever be solved. As I listened to him I felt that his help was necessary in this affair.

"Why not come with me to Finsbury?" I said.

"I will to-morrow," he answered. "By the way, Wigan, wasn't it foggy on the night of Portman's disappearance?"

"It was, dear," said Zena. "Don't you remember, I went to see some people at Highgate that day and was late for dinner?"

Quarles nodded and changed the conversation; he had done with the affair until to-morrow.

When I met him next morning, wrapped in a heavy cloak, for it was cold, I could not help thinking that he looked the very last man in the world to solve an intricate mystery. He was the kind of old gentleman who would annoy everybody by asking foolish questions and telling stories which had grown hoary with age.

"I'm a simple old fool, Wigan, that's my character," he said, guessing my thoughts; "and, if you can look annoyed with me and show irritability, so much the better. Where does Isaacson live? I should like to see him first."

I found it quite easy to be irritable. When we called on Isaacson, Quarles asked him the most ridiculous questions which certainly had nothing whatever to do with Portman, but in a vague way concerned the theory and honesty of money-lending.

"Was Mr. Portman a Jew?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes."

"I seem to remember seeing him without glasses," said Quarles. "I thought Jews always wore glasses."

"We are usually short-sighted," said Isaacson, touching his spectacles, "I am myself. Mr. Portman worked in glasses always, but if you met him in the street you would probably see him without them."

"Ah, you are remembering that he did not wear them the night you met him in Finsbury Pavement," said Quarles, "that is probably why he did not see you."

"He happened to be wearing them that night," Isaacson returned. "I believe he did see me, but was in too much of a hurry to stop."

"Rude, very rude," remarked Quarles.

"Small men have to put up with many things from big ones," said Isaacson humbly.

The professor treated him to a short dissertation on the equality of man, and then we left.

"Honest, I think, so far as he goes," said Quarles, "but he is desperately afraid of being drawn too deeply into this affair. He couldn't afford to be questioned too closely about his business, Wigan."

It had been thought advisable to keep the clerk at his post for the present, and he was quite ignorant of the fact that he was watched both during his business and leisure hours. His own importance rather impressed him at this time, and Quarles soon succeeded in making him talkative, but, as far as I could see, very little of what he said was worth particular note.

"I think Mr. Portman would have been wise if he had confided more in you," said Quarles, after talking to him for some time.

"I think so, too," the youth answered.

"He never did, I suppose?"

"No—no, I cannot say he ever did."

"When he came in that afternoon he stood in the doorway there and talked to you?"

"He was telling me about some papers he would want in the morning. Very snappy he was, I can tell you."

"The weather, possibly. It was foggy and unpleasant."

"He was usually unpleasant, no matter what the weather was. He paid me fairly well, or I shouldn't have stayed with him as I have done."

"Yet, when he went out later that evening, he stopped in the doorway to say good night."

"He did, and you might have knocked me down with a feather," said the youth. "I don't remember his ever doing such a thing before. I'd put some letters which had come during the afternoon on his table, and the news in them must have been good. He'd had some worrying business on hand, I know."

"That would certainly account for his cordiality," said Quarles. "Really, I sympathize with you. Practically, I suppose, you have little to do but answer the door when the bell rings."

"If the office bell rings I pull this catch," the youth said, "and the client walks in. The front door has a spring on it and closes itself. Sometimes a fool will ring the office bell when it's Mrs. Eccles he wants, and that's annoying."

"Very," laughed the professor. "Did any clients call that day?"

"No. A chap wanting to sell some patent office files came and wasted my time for a quarter of an hour; swore that the governor had seen him two or three months ago and told him to call. A rotten patent it was, too."

"He showed them to you?"

"Had a bag full of them. Wanted me to buy the beastly things. I had to be rude to him to get rid of him."

"Did you go to the door with him?"

"Not much!" the youth answered. "I just pulled this catch and told him he would find the door open, and the sooner he got out of it the better. He would have liked to borrow a bob or two, I fancy, but I wasn't parting."

"Did you tell Mr. Portman he had called?"

"I never worried him with callers of that sort."

Then Quarles became impressive.

"I suppose you have no idea where Mr. Portman is? To your knowledge nothing has happened which would account for his absence?"

"Nothing. If you want my opinion—I should say he's dead, had an accident, most likely, and no papers on him to say who he was."

"One more question," said Quarles, "in strict confidence, mind. Is Mrs. Eccles honest?"

"As daylight," was the prompt reply. "Would she have put the police on this business if she hadn't been?"

"I never thought of that," said Quarles humbly. "Your brain is young and mine is old."

"Makes a difference, no doubt," said the youth.

"And my memory is like a sieve," the professor went on. "I've already forgotten whether this file seller was a clean-shaven chap or wore a beard."

"Don't worry about that," said the youth, "because I didn't describe him. He was an old chap with a gray beard, and had lost most of his teeth, I should think, by the way he talked."

"Poor fellow. Poor fellow! I expect I should have been fool enough to give him a bob."

"I expect you would," laughed the youth, in his superior wisdom.

With Mrs. Eccles Quarles's method was still foolish. For some time he did not mention Mr. Portman, and so silly was he that I should not have been surprised had the woman been less respectful in her manner. But he set her talking as he had set the clerk talking, and she was presently explaining that the guest her master was expecting to dine with him must have been of considerable importance, because the preparations were elaborate.

"He's never given such a dinner before," said Mrs. Eccles, "and I suggested that with such preparation he might have asked other guests."

"And the wine?" asked Quarles.

"He said he would look after that himself."

"Very natural," answered the professor. "You've been with Mr. Portman many years, haven't you?"

"Fourteen or more."

"So long! I wonder if you remember a young friend of mine who used to come here, I think. Ten or eleven years ago it must be. He squinted and had red hair."

"I do remember him," said Mrs. Eccles. "He came here to dine once, I recollect. I believe Mr. Portman said he was going abroad. I know he dined here, and I do not think I saw him again."

Quarles nodded.

"I believe he did leave the country; some said in disgrace. I wonder who it was that was going to dine with Mr. Portman that night."

"The master didn't say. All he said was an old friend."

"A young man might be called an old friend," said Quarles.

"Oh, he couldn't be young," said Mrs. Eccles, "because the master said he had known him when he was a young man."

"That is interesting," said Quarles. "Shall we go and look at Mr. Portman's room, Wigan?"

When we closed the door Quarles stood in the center of the room and looked slowly round it.

"Was that screen standing there when you first entered the room, Wigan?"

"Yes."

"Where did you find the safe key?"

"Under that bookshelf."

He went to the safe and walked slowly from it to the door, flicking his hand as he went. Then he looked out of the windows.

"No exit or entrance that way," he said. "There is only the door. Is that the chest that won't open?"

He turned the key and tried the lid. He could not lift it. He locked the chest, then unlocked it again, and hammered upon the lid with his fist.

"The bolts sound as if they worked properly," he said. "I think it's only that the lid has caught somehow."

We tackled it together, and, after several efforts, we succeeded in raising the lid. The chest was empty. Quarles examined it very closely without and within. We could not move it, it was too heavy, but the professor produced a magnifying glass and studied the marks on the wood. He measured the length and depth of the chest, and shut it and opened it several times.

"Opens quite easily now, Wigan," he remarked.

Very carefully he had put two newspapers into it, and some odd bits of paper, which he took from his pocket.

"You see how I have placed them, Wigan, which way up the newspapers are, and the scraps of writing on this piece of paper? We'll set a trap," and he closed the chest and locked it. "This is an old house, and there may be a way into this room which we know nothing about. We shall see."

We left the room, but Quarles told me not to lock the door. He beckoned me to follow him to the kitchen.

"Mrs. Eccles, how long has your master had that oaken chest in his room?" he asked the housekeeper.

"It's been there all my time, sir."

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised if it is connected with your master's disappearance."

Mrs. Eccles's mouth slowly opened in astonishment.

"We shall be back in two hours, and then—then we shall know."

We left her and went to the office. The youth was cutting an initial on the corner of the table.

"Busy, I see," said Quarles. "I fancy Mr. Portman's disappearance has something to do with that old chest in his room."

"How can that be?"

"I don't know yet. We are going to make an important inquiry and shall be back in a couple of hours. We'll be careful to ring the office bell, not the house one."

As we turned to the front door Quarles caught my arm. He opened the door, letting it go so that it would close itself. For a few moments we remained motionless, then, creeping toward the office door, watched until the clerk's back was turned, and went quickly to Portman's room.

"It is very easy, Wigan," whispered the professor; "if for us, then also for others. You see why I did not want you to lock the door of this room? Now we are in, we will lock it on the inside, and that screen will hide us."

"There is no question that Mr. Portman left the house," I said.

"Oh, no. Isaacson was quite definite, but I am trying to fit facts to my theory. I said we should be back in two hours, so we have about two hours to wait."

There was plenty of room behind the screen, but those two hours went slowly. I could not decide what theory the professor had got in his mind, but concluded that he was not so satisfied with the honesty of Mrs. Eccles and the cadaverous youth as I was. He had looked at his watch when we went behind the screen, and he allowed a full two hours to elapse before he would leave our hiding-place.

He walked straight to the chest and opened it. It was empty. All the papers had gone.

"Well, Wigan?"

I stared into the chest and did not answer.

"It looks like another way into this room, doesn't it"—and then he started—"or out of it. I hadn't thought of that. Wait."

He took an old envelope from his pocket, dropped it into the chest, and locked it. He waited a moment, then opened the chest again. The envelope had gone.

"I confess, Wigan, that this is a surprise," said Quarles. "I must go home and think. I believe—yes, I believe we have the clew. You must search Portman's papers for some reference to a business acquaintance, probably a foreigner. Perhaps Portman knows Italy—Florence. It might very likely be Florence. I fancy this chest had its home there. If you find any reference to a friend who is a Florentine, and can lay hands on him, you might question him closely about his movements on the day of Portman's disappearance."

"The first thing is to get this chest moved," I said.

"Let that wait for forty-eight hours," said Quarles. "We may have a more complete story by then. Give me until to-morrow night, then come and see me."

When I went to Chelsea the following night I was taken at once to the empty room. Zena was there. Quarles was standing by his table, on which was a rough plan, evidently a production of his own, and quite unintelligible without an explanation.

"Of course you have not discovered anything yet, Wigan?"

"There has not been time," I answered.

"No, quite so," he said, motioning me to a seat. "But we have a fairly clear story, I think. Zena said, you remember, that she would like to know something about the man who was coming to dine with Portman that night. It was an important point, particularly so since the guest did not put in an appearance. You saw the importance of it, Wigan, because you asked Isaacson whether he was the expected guest. Now, Isaacson had seen Portman after he had left his house that night, but had not spoken to him. This fact suggested a question to my mind: was Isaacson telling the truth? There were two possibilities. Isaacson might have seen him, gone with him, and be responsible for his disappearance; or he might have been mistaken. The man he saw might not have been Portman. The second possibility was the one which appealed to me. The fact remained, however, that Isaacson knew him well, therefore the man he took to be Portman must have wished to be taken for Portman, I argued. This would account for his hurrying on without speaking, since a closer investigation might have betrayed him. I looked for some fact to support this theory. I found it in Isaacson's statement that Portman wore glasses in the street on this occasion, which was unusual, so unusual, mark you, that Isaacson noticed it. Now, if my theory were right, it seemed possible that after Mr. Portman entered his room that afternoon he never left it. That he was there when Mrs. Eccles took in the tea-tray there could be no doubt; but that it was Mr. Portman who answered through the locked door was another matter.

"Such a fantastic theory required strong support," the professor went on. "The clerk helped me. When he came into the house that afternoon and gave his clerk instructions about certain papers Mr. Portman was snappy, his usual self, in fact, and, incidentally, he proved that he had no intention of being away from the office on the following day; when he left the house he was quite different, genially wishing the clerk good night. Wigan, a man slightly overplaying his part would be likely to do that, especially as he wanted the clerk to be in a position to say that his master had gone out at a certain hour. He was bound to draw the clerk's attention to himself, so he did it with a cordial good night. Knowing that Mr. Portman wore glasses, he would also wear them, even in the street."

"But the clerk would have seen it was not Mr. Portman," I objected.

"That was a difficulty," said Quarles. "It was a foggy afternoon, we know, and would be dark in the passage, but hardly dark enough to deceive the clerk. Another difficulty was how a stranger could get into the house without being seen. Both difficulties vanished when the clerk told us of the man who called selling patent files. He had a bag, Wigan, containing more than samples of files, I warrant—means of disguise as well. We know how easy it is to let the front door slam and remain in the house. I think the file seller practiced the same trick we did. Even to going to Portman's room and hiding behind the screen. You see, the office windows are frosted, so the clerk cannot see whether anyone leaving the office passes into the street or not. If there is something fantastic in this theory, let me pursue it to the end. If I am right, one thing is certain: this file seller knew Portman well. He must have come prepared to make himself up like him. He was able to answer Mrs. Eccles when she knocked at the door and deceive her. Granted that he knew Mr. Portman well, we may assume that he was in some way associated with him in business. Only one man left that room, therefore, as things stand, we may assume that these two men were enemies who had once been friends. Here let me be imaginative for a moment. Mr. Portman was expecting a friend to dine with him on the following night, an important person, since the feast to be prepared was, according to Mrs. Eccles, somewhat elaborate. The sumptuousness of a feast may mean great friendship, but it may be used to hide intense enmity. You read such things in the history of the Medici of Florence. I believe, Wigan, that the feast was prepared for this same file seller, that the wine, which Mr. Portman was looking after himself, remember, would have proved unwholesome for the guest, who, distrusting Portman, came a day earlier and removed his enemy."

"A little imaginative," I said.

"Imagination bridges the intervals between facts," Quarles answered. "We get again to a fact—the iron-bound chest. It links the two men together. I have no doubt the file seller knew of its peculiar mechanism as well as Portman did. You could not open it, and, since the key was in the lock, no mystery about it, you naturally did not think it of much importance. When together we succeeded in opening it I found on the floor of it a tiny stain. I thought it was a blood stain, but I was not sure. At any rate, the measurements of the chest were such that a body might be pressed in it. Frankly, I admit I expected to see Portman's body when we raised the lid. For the sake of some documents—it is impossible to say what they were—I believed this file seller had murdered Portman, taken his key, opened the safe, taken the papers he wanted, thrust the body into the chest, and had then departed in the character of his victim, flinging the safe key under the bookcase as he went. As there was no body I wondered whether Mrs. Eccles or the clerk, or both, were accomplices of the murderer; whether that chest might not conceal a secret entrance to the room. The idea did not fit my theory very well, but I laid a trap, and you know the result, Wigan. The action of shutting that chest opens the bottom of it, so that whatever is placed in it falls out as soon as the lid is closed and locked. I believe the body of Portman was in it and had got caught somehow—that was why you could not open it, why we could not open it until we had hammered it about, and by constant working upon the lid had released the body. I feel certain that chest had its home in Florence; that is why I suggest an Italian may be the criminal. He may have been long resident in England, of course; certainly he is a man who speaks English perfectly, or the clerk would have described him as a foreigner."

"But the body—where is it?" I asked.

"I've been to the British Museum to-day," said Quarles, taking up the rough sketch from his desk. "This is a copy of an old map of the Finsbury district, and here I find was one of the old plague pits. I believe Portman's house stands on this plot."

It was a very rough sketch, but, as I compared the place the professor had indicated with the old landmarks and their modern equivalents which he had marked, there could be little doubt that Quarles was right.

"I do not suppose that Portman's is the first body that has passed through that chest and slid down into some hole which was once a part of this pit," he went on. "I asked Mrs. Eccles about a squinting youth. He was a young fool with expectations, just such another as Lord Stanford. He was robbed right and left, and it is quite certain Portman, among others, made money out of him. He disappeared suddenly. It is possible Lord Stanford might have disappeared in a similar way had not his friends got him out of the country. Portman didn't have that chest fixed to the floor of his room for nothing. You may find the solution to more than one mystery, Wigan, when you move that chest."

Portman's body and the remains of at least three other bodies were found in the deep hole under the old house in Finsbury. How the hole had come there, or how Portman had discovered it, it was impossible to guess, but there could be little doubt that he had only been treated as he had treated others. And some six months afterward a man named Postini was knifed in Milan, and the inquiry into his murder brought to light the fact that he had been closely connected with Portman. They had worked together in London, in Paris, and in Rome. At the time of Portman's death they had quarreled, and at that time Postini was in London. Among Portman's papers I found none relating to Postini; no doubt the Italian had taken them, for Portman's letter, asking him to dine and to become true friends again, was found among the Italian's papers.