“Did he wear them outside his clothing so that they were visible?” Thorndyke asked.
“Yes, outside his waistcoat, so that they were not only visible but very conspicuous when his coat was unbuttoned. It was, of course, very unsuitable to the dress of a lay brother, and I spoke to him about it several times. But he was sometimes rather self-willed, as you may judge by his refusal to settle an endowment on the Society, and, naturally, as he was not professed, I had no authority over him. But I shall return presently to the reliquary. Now I continue about this young man.
“When I had heard his explanation, and decided that he was telling me lies, I made a simple pretext to discover his name and place of abode. With the same effrontery, he gave me his card, which I have here, and which, you will see, is stained with mud, owing, no doubt, to those wallowings in the mire of which I have spoken.” He drew the card from his pocket-book and handed it to Thorndyke, who read it gravely, and, pushing it across the table to me, said, without moving a muscle of his face:
“You had better copy it into your notes, Mr. Howard, so that we may have the record complete.”
I accordingly copied out my own name and address with due solemnity and a growing enjoyment of the situation, and then returned the card to Father Humperdinck, who pocketed it carefully and resumed:
“Having the name and address of this young man, I telegraphed immediately to a private detective bureau in Paris, asking to have sent to me, if possible, a certain M. Foucault, who makes a specialty of following and watching suspected persons. This Foucault is a man of extraordinary talent. His power of disguising himself is beyond belief and his patience is inexhaustible. Fortunately he was disengaged and came to me without delay, and, when I had given him the name and address of this young man, Jardine, and described him from my recollection of him, he set a watch on the house and found that the man was really living there, as he had said, and that he made a daily journey to the hospital of St. Margaret’s, where he seemed to have some business, as he usually stayed there until evening.”
“St. Margaret’s!” exclaimed Marchmont. “Why that is your hospital, Thorndyke. Do you happen to know this man Jardine?”
“There is, or was, a student of that name, who qualified some little time ago, and who is probably the man Father Humperdinck is referring to. A tall man; quite as tall, I should say, as my friend here, Mr. Howard.”
“I should say,” said Father Humperdinck, “that the man, Jardine, is taller, decidedly taller. I watched him as I walked behind him up the platform at Charing Cross, and M. Foucault has shown him to me since. But that matters not. Have you seen the man, Jardine, lately at the hospital?”
“Not very lately,” Thorndyke replied. “I saw him there nearly a fortnight ago, but that, I think, was the last time.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Humperdinck. “Exactly. But I shall continue my story. For some time M. Foucault kept a close watch on this man, but discovered nothing fresh. He went to the hospital daily, he came home, and he stayed indoors the whole evening. But, at last, there came a new discovery.
“One morning M. Foucault saw the man, Jardine, come out of his house, dressed more carefully than usual. From his house, Foucault followed him to a picture gallery in Leicester Square and went in after him; and there he saw him meet a female, evidently by a previous assignation. AND,” Father Humperdinck continued, slapping the table to emphasize the climax of his story, “From—the—neck—of—that—female—was—hanging—Vitalis—Reinhardt’s—Crucifix!”
Having made this thrilling communication, our reverend client leaned back to watch its effect on his audience. I am afraid he must have been a little disappointed, for Thorndyke was habitually impassive in his exterior, and, as for Jervis and me, we were fully occupied in maintaining a decent and befitting gravity. But Marchmont—the only person present who was not already acquainted with the incident—saved the situation by exclaiming:
“Very remarkable! Very remarkable indeed!”
“It is more than remarkable,” said Father Humperdinck. “It is highly suspicious. You observe that the reliquary and the crucifix had been linked together. Now they are separated, and since both the rings of the reliquary were unbroken, it follows that the ring of the crucifix must have been cut through and a new one made, by which to suspend it.”
“I don’t see anything particularly suspicious in that,” said Marchmont. “If Jardine found the two articles fixed together, and—having failed to discover the owner—wished to give the crucifix to his friend, it is not unnatural that he should have separated them.”
“I do not believe that he found them,” Father Humperdinck replied doggedly; “but I shall continue my story and you will see. There is not much more to tell.
“It seems that the man, Jardine, suspected Foucault of watching him, for presently he left the gallery in company with the female, and, after being followed for some distance, he managed to escape. As soon as Foucault found that he had lost him, he went to Jardine’s house and waited about the neighbourhood, and an hour or two later he had the good fortune to see him coming from Hampstead towards Highgate, in company with another female. He followed them until they entered a narrow passage or lane that leads up the hill, and when they had gone up this some distance, he followed, but could not get near enough to hear what they were saying.
“And now he had a most strange and terrible experience. For some time past he had felt a suspicion that some person—some accomplice of Jardine’s perhaps—was following and watching him; and now he had proof of it. At the top of the lane, Jardine stopped to talk to the female, and Foucault crept on tiptoe towards him; and while he was doing so, he heard someone approaching stealthily up the lane, behind him. Suddenly, Jardine began to return down the lane. As it was not convenient for Foucault to meet him there, he also turned and walked back; and then he heard a sound as if someone were climbing the high wooden fence that enclosed the lane. Then Jardine began to run, and Foucault was compelled also to run but he would have been overtaken if it had not happened that Jardine fell down.
“Now, just as he heard Jardine fall, he came to a broken place in the fence, and it occurred to him to creep through the hole and hide while Jardine passed. He accordingly began to do so, but no sooner had he thrust his head through the hole than some unseen ruffian dealt him a violent blow which rendered him instantly insensible. When he recovered his senses, he found himself lying in a churchyard which adjoins the lane, but Jardine and the other ruffian were, of course, nowhere to be seen.
“And now I come to the last incident that I have to relate. The assault took place on a Saturday; on the Sunday M. Foucault was somewhat indisposed and unable to go out, but early on Monday he resumed his watch on Jardine’s house. It was nearly noon when Jardine came out, dressed as if for travelling and carrying a valise. He went first to a house near Piccadilly and from thence to the hospital in a cab. Foucault followed in another cab and saw him go into the hospital and waited for him to come out. But he never came. Foucault waited until midnight, but he did not come out. He had vanished.”
“He had probably come out by a back exit and gone home,” said Marchmont.
“Not so,” replied Humperdinck. “The next day Foucault watched Jardine’s house, but he did not come there. Then he made enquiries; but Jardine is not there, and the landlady does not know where he is. Also the porter at the hospital knows nothing and is not at all polite. The man Jardine has disappeared as if he had never been.”
“That really is rather queer,” said Marchmont. “It is a pity that you did not give me all these particulars at first. However, that can’t be helped now. Is this all that you have to tell us?”
“It is all; unless there is anything that you wish to ask me.”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that it would be well for us to have a description of Mr. Reinhardt; and, as we have to trace him, if possible, a photograph would be exceedingly useful.”
“I have not a photograph with me,” said Father Humperdinck, “but I will obtain one and send it to you. Meanwhile I will tell you what my friend Vitalis is like. He is sixty-two years of age, spare, upright, rather tall—his height is a hundred and seventy-three centimetres—”
“Roughly five feet nine,” interposed Thorndyke.
“His hair is nearly white, he is, of course, clean shaven, he has grey eyes, a straight nose, not very prominent, and remarkably good teeth for his age, which he shows somewhat when he talks. I think he is a little vain about his teeth and he well may be, for there are not many men of sixty-two who have not a single false tooth, nor even one that has been stopped by the dentist. As to his clothing, he wears the ordinary dress of a lay brother, which you are probably familiar with, and he nearly always wears gloves, even indoors.”
“Is there any reason for his wearing gloves?” Thorndyke asked.
“Not now. The habit began when he had some affliction of the skin, which made it necessary for him to keep his hands covered with gloves which contained some ointment or dressing, and afterwards for a time to conceal the disagreeable appearance of the skin. The habit having been once formed, he continued it, saying that his hands were more comfortable covered up than when exposed to the air.”
“Was he dressed in this fashion when he called at your office, Marchmont?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes. Even to the gloves. I noticed, with some surprise, that he did not take them off even when he wrote and signed the note of which I told you.”
“Was he then wearing the reliquary and crucifix as Father Humperdinck has described, on the front of his waistcoat?”
“He may have been, but I didn’t notice them, as I fancy I should have done if they had been there.”
“And you have nothing more to tell us, Father Humperdinck, as to your friend’s personal appearance?”
“No. I will send you the photograph and write to you if I think of anything that I have forgotten. And now, perhaps you can tell me if you think that you will be able to answer those questions that Mr. Marchmont put to you.”
“I cannot, of course, answer them now,” replied Thorndyke. “The facts that you have given us will have to be considered and compared, and certain enquiries will have to be made. Are you staying long in England?”
“I shall be here for at least a month; and I may as well leave you my address, although Mr. Marchmont has it.”
“In the course of a month,” Thorndyke said, as he took the proffered card, “I think I may promise you that we shall have settled definitely whether your friend is alive or dead; and if we find that he is alive, we shall, no doubt, be able to ascertain his whereabouts.”
“That is very satisfactory,” said Father Humperdinck. “I hope you shall be able to make good your promise.”
With this he rose, and, having shaken hands stiffly with Thorndyke, bestowed on Jervis and me a ceremonious bow and moved towards the door. I thought that Marchmont looked a little wistful, as if he would have liked to stay and have a few words with us alone; indeed, he lingered for a moment or two after the door was open, but then, apparently altering his mind, he wished us “good-night” and followed his client.
It was getting late when our friends left us, but nevertheless, as soon as they were gone, we all drew our chairs up to the fire with the obvious intention of discussing the situation and began, with one accord, to fill our pipes. Jervis was the first to get his tobacco alight, and, having emitted a voluminous preliminary puff, he proceeded to open the debate.
“That man, Jardine, seems to be a pretty desperate character. Just think of his actually wallowing in the mire—not merely rolling, mind you, but wallowing—and of his repulsive habit of consorting with females; one after the other, too, in rapid succession. It’s a shocking instance of depravity.”
“Our reverend friend,” said Thorndyke, “reaches his conclusions by a rather short route—in some cases, at least; in others, his methods seem a little indirect and roundabout.”
“Yes,” agreed Jervis, “he’s a devil at guessing. But he didn’t get much food for the imagination out of the man, Thorndyke. Why were you so extraordinarily secretive? With what he told you and what you knew before, you could surely have suggested a line of inquiry. Why didn’t you?”
“Principally because of the man’s personality. I could not have answered his questions; I could only have suggested one or two highly probable solutions of the problem that he offered and partial solutions at that. But I am not much addicted to giving partial solutions or to handing over the raw material of a promising inquiry. Certainly, not to a man like this, who seems incapable of a straightforward action.”
“The reverend father,” said Jervis, “does certainly seem to be a rather unnecessarily downy bird. And he doesn’t seem to have got much by his excessive artfulness, after all.”
“No,” agreed Thorndyke; “nothing whatever. Quite the contrary, in fact. Look at his ridiculous conduct in respect of ‘the man Jardine.’ I don’t complain of his having taken the precaution to obtain that malefactor’s address; but, when he had got it, if he had not been so tortuous, so eager to be cunning; if, in short, he had behaved like an ordinary sensible man, he would have got, at once, all the information that Jardine had to give. He could have called on Jardine, written to him, employed a lawyer or applied to the police. Either of these simple and obvious plans would have been successful; instead of which, he must needs go to the trouble and expense of engaging this absurd spy.”
“Who found a mare’s nest and got his head thumped,” remarked Jervis.
“Then,” continued Thorndyke, “look at his behaviour to Marchmont. Evidently he put the case into Marchmont’s hands, but, equally evident, he withheld material facts and secretly tinkered at the case himself. No, Jervis, I give no information to Father Humperdinck until I have this case complete to the last rivet. But, all the same, I am greatly obliged to him, and especially to Marchmont for bringing him here. He has given us a connected story to collate with our rather loose collection of facts and, what is perhaps more important, he has put our investigation on a business footing. That is a great advantage. If I should want to invoke the aid of the powers that be, I can do so now with a definite locus standi as the legal representative of interested parties.”
“I can’t imagine,” said I, “in what direction you are going to push your inquiries. Father Humperdinck has given us, as you say, a connected story, but it is a very unexpected one, to me, at least, and does not fall into line at all with what we know—that is, if you are assuming, as I have been, that the man whom I saw lying in Millfield Lane was Vitalis Reinhardt.”
“It is difficult,” replied Thorndyke, “to avoid that assumption, though we must be on our guard against coincidences; but the man whom you saw agreed with the description that has been given to us, we know that Reinhardt was in the neighbourhood on that day, and you found the reliquary on the following morning in the immediate vicinity. We seem to be committed to the hypothesis that the man was Reinhardt unless we can prove that he was someone else, or that Reinhardt was in some other place at the time; which at present we cannot.”
“Then,” said I, “in that case, the Bobby must have been right, after all. The man couldn’t have been dead, seeing that he called on Marchmont the following day and was afterwards traced to Paris. But I must say that he looked as dead as Queen Anne. It just shows how careful one ought to be in giving opinions.”
“Some authority has said,” remarked Jervis, “that the only conclusive proof of death is decomposition. I believe it was old Taylor who said so, and I am inclined to think that he wasn’t far wrong.”
“But,” said Thorndyke, “assuming that the man whom you saw was Reinhardt, and that he was not dead how do you explain the other circumstances? Was he insensible from the effects of injury or drugs? Or was he deliberately shamming insensibility? Was it he who passed over the fence? and if so, did he climb over unassisted or was he helped over? And what answers do you suggest to the questions that Marchmont propounded? You answer his first question: ‘Is Reinhardt alive?’ in the affirmative. What about the others?”
“As to where he is,” I replied, “I can only say, the Lord knows; probably skulking somewhere on the Continent. As to his state of mind, the facts seem to suggest that, in vulgar parlance, he has gone off his onion. He must be as mad as a hatter to have behaved in the way that he has. For, even assuming that he wanted to get clear of the Poor Brothers of Saint Jeremiah Diddler without explicitly saying so, he adopted a fool’s plan. There is no sense in masquerading as a corpse one day and turning up smiling at your lawyer’s office the next. If he meant to be dead, he should have stuck to it and remained dead.”
“The objection to that,” said Jervis, “is that Marchmont would have proceeded to get permission to presume death and administer the will.”
“I see. Then I can only suppose that he had got infected by Father Humperdinck and resolved to be artful at all costs and hang the consequences.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “I understand your view to be that Reinhardt is at present hiding somewhere on the Continent and that his mind is more or less affected.”
“Yes. Though as to his being unfit to control his own affairs, I am not so clear. I fancy there was more evidence in that direction when he was forking out the bulk of his income to maintain the poverty of the Poor Brothers. But the truth is, I haven’t any opinions on the case at all. I am in a complete fog about the whole affair.”
“And no wonder,” said Jervis. “One set of facts seems to suggest most strongly that Reinhardt must certainly be dead. Another set of facts seems to prove beyond doubt that he was alive, at least after that affair in Millfield Lane. He may be perpetrating an elephantine practical joke on the Poor Brothers; but that doesn’t seem to be particularly probable. The whole case is a tangle of contradictions which one might regard as beyond unravelment if it were not for a single clear and intelligible fact.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“That my revered senior has undertaken to furnish a solution in the course of a month; from which I gather that my revered senior has something up his sleeve.”
“There is nothing up my sleeve,” said Thorndyke, “that might not equally well be up yours. I have made no separate investigations. The actual data which I possess were acquired in the presence of one or both of you, and are now the common property of us all. I am referring, of course, to the original data, not to fresh matter obtained by inference from, or further examination of those data.”
Jervis smiled sardonically. “It is the old story,” said he. “The magician offers you his hat to inspect.
“You observe, ladies and gentlemen, that there is no deception. You can look inside it and examine the lining, and you can also inspect the top of my head. I now put on my hat. I now take it off again and you notice that there is a guinea pig sitting in it. There was no deception, ladies and gentlemen, you had all the data.”
Thorndyke laughed and shook his head.
“That’s all nonsense, Jervis,” he said. “It is a false analogy. I have done nothing to divert your attention. The guinea pig has been staring you in the face all the time.”
“Very rude of him,” murmured Jervis.
“I have even drawn your attention to him once or twice. But, seriously, I don’t think that this case is so very obscure, though mind you, it is a mere hypothesis so far as I am concerned, and may break down completely when I come to apply the tests that I have in view. But what I mean is, that the facts known to us suggested a very obvious hypothesis and that the suggestion was offered equally to us all. The verification may fail, but that is another matter.”
“Are you going to work at the case immediately?” I asked.
“No,” Thorndyke replied. “Jervis and I have to attend at the Maidstone Assizes for the next few days. We are retained on a case which involves some very important issues in relation to life assurance, and that will take up most of our time. So this other affair will have to wait.”
“And meanwhile,” said Jervis, “you will stay at home like a good boy and mind the shop; and I suppose we shall have to find you something to do, to keep you out of mischief. What do you say to making a longhand transcript of Father Humperdinck’s statement?”
“Yes, you had better do that,” said Thorndyke; “and attach it to the original shorthand copy. And now we must really turn in or we shall never be ready for our start in the morning.”
The transcription of Father Humperdinck’s statement gave me abundant occupation for the whole of the following morning. But when that was finished, I was without any definite employment, and, though I was not in the least dull—for I was accustomed to a solitary life—I suppose I was in that state of susceptibility to mischief that is proverbially associated with unemployment. And in these untoward circumstances I was suddenly exposed to a great temptation; and after some feeble efforts at resistance, succumbed ignominiously.
I shall offer no excuses for my conduct nor seek in any way to mitigate the judgment that all discreet persons will pass upon my folly. I make no claims to discretion or to the caution and foresight of a man like Thorndyke. At this time I was an impulsive and rather heedless young man, and my actions were pretty much those which might have been expected from a person of such temperament.
The voice of the tempter issued in the first place from our letter-box, and assumed the sound of the falling of letters thereinto. I hastened to extract the catch, and sorting out the envelopes, selected one, the superscription of which was in Sylvia’s now familiar handwriting. It was actually addressed to Dr. Thorndyke, but a private mark, on which we had agreed, exposed that naïvely pious fraud and gave me the right to open it; which I did, and seated myself in the armchair to enjoy its perusal at my ease.
It was a delightful letter; bright, gossipy and full of frank and intimate friendliness. As I read it, the trim, graceful figure and pretty face of the writer rose before me and made me wonder a little discontentedly how long it would be before I should look on her and hear her voice again. It was now getting into the third week since I had last seen her, and, as the time passed, I was feeling more and more how great a blank in my life the separation from her had caused. Our friendship had grown up in a quiet and unsensational fashion and I suppose I had not realized all that it meant; but I was realizing it now; and, as I conned over her letter, with its little personal notes and familiar turns of expression, I began to be consumed with a desire to see her, to hear her speak, to tell her that she was not as other women to me, and to claim a like special place in her thoughts.
It was towards the end of the letter that the tempter spoke out in clear and unmistakable language, and these were the words that he used, through the medium of the innocent and unconscious Sylvia:
“You remember those sketches that you stole for me—‘pinched,’ I think was your own expression. Well, I have cleaned off the daubs of paint with which they had been disfigured and put them in rough frames in my studio. All but one; and I began on that yesterday with a scraper and a rag dipped in chloroform. But I took off, not only the defacing marks but part of the surface as well; and then I got such a surprise! I shan’t tell you what the surprise was, because you’ll see, when you come out of the house of bondage. I am going to work on it again to-morrow, and perhaps I shall get the transformation finished. How I wish you could come and see it done! It takes away more than half the joy of exploration not to be able to share the discovery with you; in fact, I have a good mind to leave it unfinished so that we can complete the transformation together.”
Now, I need not say that, as to the precious sketches, I cared not a fig what was under the top coat of paint. What I did care for was that this dear maid was missing me as I missed her; was wanting my sympathy with her little interests and pleasures and was telling me, half unconsciously, perhaps, that my absence had created a blank in her life, as her absence had in mine. And forthwith I began to ask myself whether there was really any good reason why I should not, just for this once, break out of my prison and snatch a few brief hours of sunshine. The spy had been exploded. He was not likely to pick up my tracks after all this time and now that my appearance was so altered; and I did not care much if he did, seeing that he had been shown to be perfectly harmless. The only circumstance that tended to restrain me from this folly was the one that mitigated its rashness—the change in my appearance; and even that, now that I was used to it and knew that my aspect was neither grotesque nor ridiculous, had little weight, for Sylvia would be prepared for the change and we could enjoy the joke together.
I was aware, even at the time, that I was not being quite candid with myself, for, if I had been, I should obviously have consulted Thorndyke. Instead of which I answered the letter by return, announcing my intention of coming to tea on the following day; and having sent Polton out to post it, spent the remainder of the afternoon in gleeful anticipation of my little holiday, tempered by some nervousness as to what Thorndyke would have to say on the matter, and as to what “my pretty friend,” as Mrs. Samway had very appropriately called her, would think of my having begun my letter with the words, “My dear Sylvia.”
Nothing happened to interfere with my nefarious plans.
On the following morning, Thorndyke and Jervis went off after an early breakfast, leaving me in possession of the premises and master of my actions. I elected to anticipate the usual luncheon time by half an hour, and, when this meal was disposed of, I crept to my room and thoroughly cleansed my hair of the grease which Polton still persisted in applying to it; for, since my hat would conceal it while I was out of doors, the added disfigurement was unnecessary. I was even tempted to tamper slightly with my eyebrows, but this impulse I nobly resisted; and, having dried my hair and combed it in its normal fashion, I descended on tip-toe to the sitting-room and wrote a short, explanatory note to Polton, which I left conspicuously on the table. Then I switched the door-bell on to the laboratory, and, letting myself out like a retreating burglar, closed the door silently and sneaked away down the dark staircase.
Once fairly outside, I went off like a lamplighter, and, shooting out through the Tudor Street gate, made my way eastward to Broad Street Station, where I was fortunate enough to catch a train that was just on the point of starting. At Hampstead Heath Station I got out, and, snuffing the air joyfully, set forth at my best pace up the slope that leads to the summit; and in little over twenty minutes found myself at the gate of “The Hawthorns.”
There was no need to knock or ring. My approach had been observed from the window, and, as I strode up the garden path, the door opened and Sylvia ran out to meet me.
“It was nice of you to come!” she exclaimed, as I took her hand and held it in mine. “I don’t believe you ought to have ventured out, but I am most delighted all the same. Don’t make a noise; Mopsy is having a little doze in the drawing room. Come into the morning room and let me have a good look at you.”
I followed her meekly into the front room, where, in the large bay window, she inspected me critically, her cheeks dimpling with a mischievous smile.
“There’s something radically wrong about your eyebrows,” she said, “but, really, you are not in the least the fright that you made out. As to the beard and moustache, I am not sure that I don’t rather like them.”
“I hope you don’t,” I replied, “because, off they come at the first opportunity—unless, of course, you forbid it.”
“Does my opinion of your appearance matter so much then?”
“It matters entirely. I don’t care what I look like to anyone else.”
“Oh! what a fib!” exclaimed Sylvia. “Don’t I remember how very neatly turned out you always were when you used to pass me in the lane before we knew one another?”
“Exactly,” I retorted. “We didn’t know one another then. That makes all the difference in the world—to me, at any rate.”
“Does it?” she said, colouring a little and looking at me thoughtfully. “It’s very—very flattering of you to say so, Dr. Jardine.”
“I hope you don’t mean that as a snub,” I said, rather uneasy at the form of her reply and thinking of my letter.
“A snub!” she exclaimed. “No, I certainly don’t. What did I say?”
“You called me Dr. Jardine. I addressed you in my letter as ‘Sylvia’—‘My dear Sylvia.’ ”
“And what ought I to have said?” she asked, blushing warmly and casting down her eyes.
“Well, Sylvia, if you liked me as well as I like you, I don’t see why you shouldn’t call me Humphrey. We are quite old friends now.”
“So we are,” she agreed; “and perhaps it would be less formal. So Humphrey it shall be in future, since that is your royal command. But tell me, how did you prevail on Dr. Thorndyke to let you come here? Is there any change in the situation?”
“There’s a change in my situation, and a mighty agreeable change, too. I’m here.”
“Now don’t be silly. How did you persuade Dr. Thorndyke to let you come?”
“Ha—that, my dear Sylvia, is a rather embarrassing question. Shall we change the subject?”
“No, we won’t.” She looked at me suspiciously for a moment and then exclaimed in low, tragical tones:
“Humphrey! You don’t mean to tell me that you came away without his knowledge!”
“I’m afraid that is what it amounts to. I saw a loop-hole and I popped through it; and here I am, as I remarked before.”
“But how dreadful of you! Perfectly shocking! And whatever will he say to you when you go back?”
“That is a question that I am not proposing to present vividly to my consciousness until I arrive on the doorstep. I’ve broken out of choky and I’m going to have a good time—to go on having a good time, I should say.”
“Then you consider that you are having a good time now?”
“I don’t consider. I am sure of it. Am I not, at this very moment looking at you? And what more could a man desire?”
She tried to look severe, though the attempt was not strikingly successful, and retorted in an admonishing tone:
“You needn’t try to wheedle me with compliments. You are a very wicked person and most indiscreet. But it seems to me that some sort of change has come over you since you retired from the world. Don’t you think I’m right?”
“You’re perfectly right. I’ve improved. That’s what it is. Matured and mellowed, you know, like a bottle of claret that has been left in a cellar and forgotten. Say you think I’ve improved, Sylvia.”
“I won’t,” she replied, and then, changing her mind, she added: “Yes, I will. I’ll say that you are more insinuating than ever, if that will do. And now, as you are clearly quite incorrigible, I won’t scold you any more, especially as you ‘broke out of choky’ to come and see me. You shall tell me all about your adventures.”
“I didn’t come here to talk about myself, Sylvia. I came to tell you something—well, about myself, perhaps, but—er—not my adventures you know or—or that sort of thing—but, I have been thinking a good deal, since I have been alone so much—about you, I mean, Sylvia—and—er— Oh! the deuce!”
The latter exclamation was evoked by the warning voice of the gong, evidently announcing tea, and the subsequent appearance of the housemaid; who was certainly not such a goose as she was supposed to be, for she tapped discreetly at the door and waited three full seconds before entering; and even then she appeared demurely unconscious of my existence.
“If you please, Miss Sylvia, Miss Vyne has woke up and I’ve taken in the tea.”
Such was the paltry interruption that arrested the flow of my eloquence and scattered my flowers of rhetoric to the winds. I murmured inwardly, “Blow the tea!” for the opportunity was gone; but I comforted myself with the reflection that it didn’t matter very much, since Sylvia and I seemed to have arrived at a pretty clear understanding; which understanding was further clarified by a momentary contact of our hands as we followed the maid to the drawing-room. Miss Vyne was on this occasion, as on the last, seated in the exact centre of the room, and with the same monumental effect; so that my thoughts were borne irresistibly to the ethnographical section of the British Museum and especially to that part of it wherein the deities of Polynesia look out from their cases in perennial surprise at the degenerate European visitors. If she had been asleep previously, she was wide enough awake now; but the glittering eyes were not directed at me. From the moment of our entering the room they focussed themselves on Sylvia’s face and there remained rivetted, whereby the heightening of that young lady’s complexion, which our interview had produced, became markedly accentuated. It was to no purpose that I placed myself before the rigid figure and offered my hand. A paw was lifted automatically to mine, but the eyes remained fixed on Sylvia.
“What did you say this gentleman’s name was?” the waxwork asked frigidly.
“This is Dr. Jardine,” was the reply.
“Oh, indeed. And who was the gentleman who called some three weeks ago?”
“Why, that was Dr. Jardine; you know it was.”
“So I thought, but my memory is not very reliable. And this is a Dr. Jardine, too? Very interesting. A medical family, apparently. But not much alike.”
I was beginning to explain my identity and the cause of my altered appearance, when Sylvia approached with a cup of tea and a carefully dissected muffin, which latter she thrust under the nose of the elder lady; who regarded it attentively and with a slight squint, owing to its nearness.
“It’s of no use, you know,” said Sylvia, “for you to pretend that you don’t know him, because I’ve told you all about the transformation—that is, all I know myself. Don’t you think it’s rather a clever make-up?”
“If,” said Miss Vyne, “by ‘make-up’ you mean a disguise, I think it is highly successful. The beard is a most admirable imitation.”
“Oh, the beard is his own; at least, I think it is.”
I confirmed this statement, ignoring Polton’s slight additions.
“Indeed,” said Miss Vyne. “Then the wig—it is a wig, I suppose?”
“No, of course it isn’t,” Sylvia replied.
“Then,” said Miss Vyne, majestically, “perhaps you will explain to me what the disguise consists of.”
“Well,” said Sylvia, “there are the eyebrows. You can see that they have been completely altered in shape.”
“If I had committed the former shape of the eyebrows to memory, as you appear to have done,” said Miss Vyne, “I should, no doubt, observe the change. But I did not. It seems to me that the disguise which you told me about with such a flourish of trumpets just amounts to this; that Dr. Jardine has allowed his beard to grow. I find the reality quite disappointing.”
“Do you?” said Sylvia. “But, at any rate, you didn’t recognize him; so your disappointment doesn’t count for much.”
The old lady, being thus hoist with her own petard, relapsed into majestic silence; and Sylvia then renewed her demand for an account of my adventures.
“We want to hear all about that objectionable person who has been shadowing you, and how you finally got rid of him. Your letters were rather sketchy and wanting in detail, so you have got to make up the deficiency now.”
Thus commanded, I plunged into an exhaustive account of those events which I have already chronicled at length and which I need not refer to again, nor need I record the cross-examination to which I was subjected, since it elicited nothing that is not set forth in the preceding pages. When I had finished my recital, however, Miss Vyne, who had listened to it in silence, hitherto, put a question which I had some doubts about answering.
“Have you or Dr. Thorndyke been able to discover who this inquisitive person is and what is his object in following you about?”
I hesitated. As to my own experiences, I had no secrets from these friends of mine, excepting those that related to the subjects of Thorndyke’s investigations, but I must not come here and babble about what took place in the sacred precincts of my principal’s chambers.
“I think I may tell you,” said I, “that Dr. Thorndyke has discovered the identity of this man and that he is not the person whom we suspected him to be. But I mustn’t say any more, as the information came through professional channels and consequently is not mine to give.”
“Of course you mustn’t,” said Sylvia; “though I don’t mind admitting that you have put me on tenterhooks of curiosity. But I daresay you will be able to tell us everything later.”
I agreed that I probably should; and the talk then turned into fresh channels.
The short winter day was running out apace. The daylight had long since gone, and I began, with infinite reluctance, to think of returning to my cage. Indeed, when I looked at my watch, I was horrified to see how the time had fled.
“My word!” I exclaimed. “I must be off, or Thorndyke will be putting the sleuth-hounds of the law on my track. And I don’t know what you will think of me for having stayed such an unconscionable time.”
“It isn’t a ceremonial visit,” said Sylvia, as I rose and made my adieux to her aunt. “We should have liked you to stay much longer.”
Here she paused suddenly, and, clasping her hands, gazed at me with an expression of dismay.
“Good Heavens! Humphrey!” she exclaimed.
“Eh?” said Miss Vyne.
“I was addressing Dr. Jardine,” Sylvia explained, in some confusion.
“I didn’t suppose you were addressing me,” was the withering reply.
“Do you know,” said Sylvia, “that I haven’t shown you those sketches, after all. You must see them. They were the special object of your visit.”
This was perfectly untrue, and she knew it; but I did not think it worth while to contest the statement in Miss Vyne’s presence. Accordingly I expressed the utmost eagerness to see the trumpery sketches, and the more so since I had understood that they were on view in the studio; which turned out to be the case.
“It won’t take a minute for you to see them,” said Sylvia. “I’ll just run up and light the gas; and you are not to come in until I tell you.”
She preceded me up the stairs to the little room on the first floor in which she worked, and, when I had waited a few moments on the landing she summoned me to enter.
“These are the sketches,” said she, “that I have finished. You see, they are quite presentable now. I cleaned off the rough daubs of paint with a scraper and finished up with a soft rag dipped in chloroform.”
I ran my eye over the framed sketches, which, now that the canvases were strained on stretchers and the disfiguring brush-strokes removed, were, as she had said, quite presentable, though too rough and unfinished to be attractive.
“I daresay they are very interesting,” said I, “but they are only bare beginnings. I shouldn’t have thought them worth framing.”
“Not as pictures,” she agreed; “but as examples of a very curious technique, I find them most instructive. However, you haven’t seen the real gem of the collection. This is it, on the easel. Sit down, on the chair and say when you are ready. I’m going to give you a surprise.”
I seated myself on the chair opposite the easel, on which was a canvas with its back towards me.
“Now,” said Sylvia. “Are you ready? One, two, three!”
She picked up the canvas, and, turning it round quickly, presented its face to me. I don’t know what I had expected—if I had expected anything; but certainly I was not in the least prepared for what I saw. The sketch had originally represented, very roughly, a dark mass of trees which occupied nearly the whole of the canvas; but of this the middle had been cleaned away, exposing an under painting. And this it was that filled me with such amazement that, after a first startled exclamation, I could do nothing but stare open-mouthed at the canvas; for, from the opening in the dark mass of foliage there looked out at me, distinct and unmistakable, the face of Mrs. Samway.
It was no illusion or chance resemblance. Rough as the painting was, the likeness was excellent. All the well-known features which made her so different from other women were there, though expressed by a mere dextrous turn of the knife; the jet-black, formally-parted hair, the clear, bright complexion, the pale, inscrutable eyes; all were there, even to the steady, penetrating expression that looked out at me from the canvas as if in silent recognition. As I sat staring at the picture with a surprise that almost amounted to awe, Sylvia looked at me a little blankly.
“Well!” she exclaimed, at length, “I meant to give you a surprise, but—what is it, Humphrey? Do you know her?”
“Yes,” I replied; “and so do you. Don’t you remember a woman who looked in at you through the glass door of Robinson’s shop?”
“Do you mean that black and scarlet creature? I didn’t recognize her. I had no idea she was so handsome; for this is really a very beautiful face, though there is something about it that I don’t understand. Something—well eerie; rather uncanny and almost sinister. Don’t you think so?”
“I have always thought her a rather weird woman, but this is the weirdest appearance she has made. How on earth came her face on that canvas?”
“It is an odd coincidence. And yet I don’t know that it is. She may have been some relative of that rather eccentric artist, or even his wife. I don’t know why it shouldn’t be so.”
Neither did I. But the coincidence remained a very striking one, to me, at least; much more so than Sylvia realized; though what its significance might be—if it had any—I could not guess. Nor was there any opportunity to discuss it at the moment, for it was high time for me to be gone.
“You will send me a telegram when you get back, to say that you have arrived home safely, won’t you,” said Sylvia, as we descended the stairs with our arms linked together. “Of course nothing is going to happen to you, but I can’t help feeling a little nervous. And you’ll go down to the station by the High Street, and keep to the main roads. That is a promise, isn’t it?”
I made the promise readily having decided previously to take every possible precaution, and, when I had wished Sylvia “good-bye” at some length, I proceeded to execute it; making my way down the well-populated High Street and keeping a bright look-out both there and at the station. Once more I was fortunate in the matter of trains, and, having taken a hansom from Broad Street to the Temple, was set down in King’s Bench Walk soon after half-past six.
As I approached our building, I looked up with some anxiety at the sitting-room windows; and when I saw them brightly lighted, a suspicion that Thorndyke had returned earlier than usual filled me with foreboding. I had had my dance and now I was going to pay the piper, and I did not much enjoy the prospect; in fact, as I ascended the stairs and took my latch-key from my pocket, I was as nervous as a school-boy who has been playing truant. However, there was no escape unless I sneaked up to my bed-room, so, inserting the key into the lock, I turned it as boldly as I could, and entered.
As I pushed open the inner door and entered the room I conceived the momentary hope of a reprieve from the wrath to come, for I found my two friends in what was evidently a business consultation with a stranger, and was on the point of backing out when Thorndyke stopped me.
“Don’t run away, Howard,” said he. “There are no secrets being disclosed—at least, I think not. We have finished with your affairs, Mr. O’Donnell, haven’t we?”
“Yes, doctor,” was the answer; “you’ve run me dry with the exception of your own little business.”
“Then, come in and sit down, Howard, and let me present you to Mr. O’Donnell who is a famous American detective and has been telling us all sorts of wonderful things.”
Mr. O’Donnell paused in the act of returning a quantity of papers to a large attaché case and offered his hand.
“The doctor,” he remarked, “is blowing his trumpet at the wrong end. I haven’t come here to give information but to get advice. But I guess I needn’t tell you that.”
“I hope that isn’t quite true,” said Thorndyke. “You spoke just now of my little business; haven’t you anything to tell me?”
“I have; but I fancy it isn’t what you wanted to hear. However, we’ll just have a look at your letter to Curtis and take your questions one by one. By the way, what made you write to Curtis?”
“I saw, when I inspected Maddock’s will at Somerset House, that he had left a small legacy to Curtis. Naturally, I inferred that Curtis knew him and could give me some account of him.”
“It struck you as a bit queer, I reckon, that he should be leaving a legacy to the head of an American detective agency.”
“The circumstance suggested possibilities,” Thorndyke admitted.
O’Donnell laughed. “I can guess what possibilities suggested themselves to you, if you knew Maddock. Your letter and the lawyer’s, announcing the legacy, came within a mail or two of one another. Curtis showed them both to me and we grinned. We took it for granted that the worthy testator was foxing. But we were wrong. And so are you, if that is what you thought.”
“You assumed that the will was not a genuine one?”
“Yes; we thought it was a fake, put up with the aid of some shyster to bluff us into giving up Mr. Maddock as deceased. So, as I had to come across about these other affairs, Curtis suggested that I should look into the matter. And a considerable surprise I got when I did; for the will is perfectly regular and so is everything else. That legacy was a sort of posthumous joke, I guess.”
“Then do I understand that Mr. Curtis was not really a friend of Maddock’s?”
O’Donnell chuckled. “Not exactly a friend, doctor,” said he. “He felt the warmest interest in Maddock’s welfare, but they weren’t what you might call bosom friends. The position was this: Curtis was the chief of our detective agency; Maddock was a gentleman whom he had been looking for and not finding for a matter of ten years. At last he found him; and then he lost him again; and this legacy, I take it, was a sort of playful hint to show which hole he’d gone down.”
“Was Maddock in hiding all that time?” asked Thorndyke.
“In hiding!” repeated O’Donnell. “Bless your innocent heart, doctor, he had a nice convenient studio in one of the best blocks in New York a couple of doors from our agency, and he used to send us cards for his private views. No, sir, our dear departed friend wasn’t the kind that lurks out of sight in cellars or garrets. It was Maddock, sure enough, that Curtis wanted, only he didn’t know it. But I guess I’m fogging you. I’d better answer the questions that you put to Curtis.
“First, do we know anything about Maddock? Yes, we do. But we didn’t know that his name was Maddock until a few months ago. Isaac Vandamme was the name we knew him by, and it seems that he had one or two other names that he used on occasion. We now know that the gay Isaac was a particularly versatile kind of crook, and a mighty uncommon kind, too, the Lord be praised; for, if there were many more like him we should have to raise our prices some. He wasn’t the kind of fool that makes a million dollar coup and then goes on the razzle and drops it all. That sort of man is easy enough to deal with. When he’s loaded up with dollars everybody knows it, and he’s sure to be back in a week or two with empty pockets, ready for another scoop. Isaac wasn’t that sort. When he made a little pile, he invested his winnings like a sensible man and didn’t live beyond his means; and the only mystery to me is that, when he died, he didn’t leave more pickings. I see from his will—which I’ve had a look at—that the whole estate couldn’t have been above five thousand dollars. He had a lot more than that at one time.”
“He may have disposed of the bulk of his property by gift just before his death,” Jervis suggested.
“That’s possible,” agreed O’Donnell. “He’d escape the death dues that way. However, to return to his engaging little ways. His leading line was penmanship—forgery—and he did it to an absolute finish. He was the most expert penman that I have ever known. But where he had us all was that he didn’t only know how to write another man’s name; he knew when to write it. I reckon that the great bulk of his forgeries were never spotted at all, and, of the remainder very few got beyond the bare suspicion that they were forgeries. In the case of the few that were actually spotted as forgeries, his tracks were covered up so cleverly that no one could guess who the forger was.”
“And how did you come to suspect him eventually?” Thorndyke asked.
“Ah!” said O’Donnell. “There you are. Every crook—even the cleverest—has a strain of the fool in him. Isaac’s folly took the form of suspicion. He suspected us of suspecting him. We didn’t; but he thought we did, and then he started to dodge and make some false clues for us. That drew our attention to him. We looked into his record, traced his little wanderings and then we began to find things out. A nice collection there was, too, by the time we had worked a month or two at his biography; forgeries, false notes, and, at least, two murders that had been a complete mystery to us all. We made ready to drop on Isaac, but, at that psychological moment, he disappeared. It looked as if he had left the States, and, as we have no great affection for extradition cases, we let the matter rest, more or less, expecting that he would turn up again, sooner or later. And then came this lawyer’s letter and yours, announcing his decease. Of course Curtis and I thought he was at the old game; that it was a bit of that sort of extra caution that won’t let well alone. So, as I was coming over, I thought I’d just look into the affair as I told you; and, to my astonishment, I found everything perfectly regular; the will properly proved, the death certificate made out correctly and a second certificate signed by two doctors.”
“Did you go into the question of identity?” asked Thorndyke.
“Oh, yes. I called on one of the doctors, a man named Batson, and ascertained that it was all correct. Batson’s eyesight seemed to be none of the best, but he made it quite clear to me that his late patient was certainly our friend Isaac, or Maddock. So that’s the end of the case. And if you want to go into it any further you’ve got to deal with a little pile of bone ash, for our friend is not only dead; he’s cremated. That’s enough for us. We don’t follow our clients to the next world. We are not so thorough as you seem to be.”
“You are flattering me unduly,” said Thorndyke. “I’m not so thorough as that; but our clients, when they betake themselves to the happy hunting-ground, usually leave a few of their friends behind to continue their activities. Do you happen to know what Maddock’s original occupation was? Had he any profession?”
“He was originally an engraver, and a very skilful engraver, too, I understand. That was what made him so handy in working the flash note racket. Then he went on the stage for a time, and didn’t do badly at that; but I fancy he was more clever at making-up and mimicry than at acting in the dramatic sense. For the last ten years or so he was practising as a painter—chiefly of landscape, though he could do a figure subject or a portrait at a pinch. I don’t fancy he sold much, or made any great efforts to sell his work. He liked painting and the art covered his real industries, for he used to tour about in search of subjects and so open up fresh ground for the little operations that actually produced his income.”
“Was his work of any considerable merit?” Thorndyke asked.
“Well, in a way, yes. It was rather in the American taste, though Maddock was really an Englishman. Our taste, as you know, runs to technical smartness and novelty of handling; and Maddock’s work was very peculiar and remarkably smart and slick in handling. He used the knife more than the brush and he used it uncommonly cleverly. In fact, he was unusually skilful in many ways; and that’s the really surprising thing about him, when one considers his extraordinary-looking paws.”
“What was there peculiar about his hands?” asked Thorndyke. “Were they noticeably clumsy in appearance?”
“Clumsy!” exclaimed O’Donnell. “They were more than that. They were positively deformed. A monkey’s hands would be delicate compared with Maddock’s. They were short and thick like the paws of an animal. There’s some jaw-twisting name for the deformity that he suffered from; bronchodactilious, or something like that.”
“Brachydactylous,” suggested Thorndyke.
“That’s the word; and I daresay you know the sort of paw I mean. It didn’t look a very likely hand for a first-class penman and engraver of flash notes, but you can’t always judge by appearances. And now as to your other questions: You ask what Maddock was like in appearance. I can only give you the description which I gave to Batson and which he recognized at once.”
“Had he noticed the peculiarity of the hands?” enquired Thorndyke.
“Yes. I asked him about it and he remembered having observed it when he was attending Maddock. Well, then, our friend was about five feet nine in height, fairly broad and decidedly strong, of a medium complexion with grey eyes and darkish brown hair. That’s all I can tell you about him.”
“You haven’t got his finger-prints, I suppose?”
“No. He was never in prison, so we had no chance of getting them.”
“Was he married?”
“He had been; but some years ago his wife divorced him, or he divorced her. Latterly he has lived as a bachelor.”
“There is nothing else that you can think of as throwing light on his personality or explaining his actions?”
“Nothing at all, doctor. I’ve told you all I know about him, and I only hope the information may be more useful than it looks to me.”
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke; “your information is not only useful; I expect to find it quite valuable. Reasoning, you know, Mr. O’Donnell,” he continued, “is somewhat like building an arch. On a supporting mould, the builder lays a number of shaped stones, or voussoirs; but until all the voussoirs are there, it is a mere collection of stones, incapable of bearing its own weight. Then you drop the last voussoir—the keystone—into its place, and the arch is complete; and now you may take away the supports, for it will not only bear its own weight, but carry a heavy superstructure.”
“That’s so, doctor,” said O’Donnell. “But, if I may ask, is this all gratuitous wisdom or has it any particular bearing?”
“It has this bearing,” replied Thorndyke. “I have myself been, for some time past, engaged, metaphorically, in the building of an arch. When you came here to-night, it was but a collection of shaped and adjusted stones, supported from without. With your kind aid, I have just dropped the keystone into its place. That is what I mean.”
The American thoughtfully arranged the papers in his case, casting an occasional speculative glance at Thorndyke.
“I’d like to know,” he said presently, “what it was that I told you. It doesn’t seem to me that I have produced any startling novelties. However, I know it’s no use trying to squeeze you, so I’ll get back to my hotel and have a chew at what you’ve told me.”
He shook hands with us all round, and, when Thorndyke had let him out, we heard him bustling downstairs and away up King’s Bench Walk towards Mitre Court.
For a minute or more after his departure none of us spoke. Thorndyke was apparently ruminating on his newly-acquired information, and Jervis and I on the statement that had so naturally aroused the detective’s curiosity.
At length Jervis opened the inevitable debate.
“I begin to see a glimmer of daylight through the case of Septimus Maddock, deceased,” said he; “but it is only a glimmer. Whereas, from what you said to O’Donnell, I gather that you have the case quite complete.”
“Hardly that, Jervis,” was the reply. “I spoke metaphorically, and metaphors are sometimes misleading. Perhaps I overstated the case; so we will drop metaphor and state the position literally in terms of good, plain, schoolboy logic. It is this: we had certain facts presented to us in connection with Maddock’s death. For instance, we observed that the cause of death was obscure, that the body was utterly destroyed by cremation and that Jardine, who was an unofficial witness to some of the formalities, was subsequently pursued by some unknown person with the unmistakable purpose of murdering him. Those were some of the observed facts; and the explanation of those facts was the problem submitted to us; that is to say, we had to connect those facts and supply others by deduction and research, so that they should form a coherent and intelligible sequence, of which the motive for murdering Jardine should form a part.
“Having observed and examined our facts, we next propose a hypothesis which shall explain them. In this case it would naturally take the form of a hypothetical reconstruction of the circumstances of Maddock’s death. That hypothesis must, of course, be in complete agreement with all the facts known to us, including the attempts to murder Jardine. Then, having invented a hypothesis which fits our facts completely, the next stage is to verify it. If the circumstances of Maddock’s death were such as we have assumed, certain antecedent events must have occurred and certain conditions must have existed. We make the necessary inquiries and investigations, and we find that those events had actually occurred and those conditions had actually existed. Then it is probable that our hypothesis is correct, particularly if our researches have brought to light nothing that disagrees with it.
“With our new facts we can probably amplify our hypothesis; reconstruct it in greater detail; and then we have to test and verify it afresh in its amplified and detailed form. And if such new tests still yield an affirmative result, the confirmation of the hypothesis becomes overwhelmingly strong. It is, however, still only hypothesis. But perhaps we light on some final test which is capable of yielding a definite answer, yes or no. If we apply that test—the ‘Crucial Experiment’ of the logicians—and obtain an affirmative result, our inquiry is at an end. It has passed out of the region of hypothesis into that of demonstrative proof.”
“And are we to understand,” asked Jervis, “that you have brought Maddock’s case to the stage of complete demonstration?”
“No,” answered Thorndyke. “I am still in the stage of hypothesis; and when O’Donnell came here to-night there were two points which I had been unable to verify. But with his aid I have been able to verify them both, and I now have a complete hypothesis of the case which has been tested exhaustively and has answered to every test. All that remains to be done is to apply the touchstone of the final experiment.”
“I suppose,” said Jervis, “you have obtained a good many new facts in the course of your investigations?”
“Not a great many,” replied Thorndyke; “and what new data I have obtained, I have, for the most part, communicated to you and Jardine. I assure you, Jervis, that if you would only concentrate your attention on the case, you have ample material for a most convincing and complete elucidation of it.”
Jervis looked at me with a wry smile.
“Now, Jardine-Howard,” said he; “why don’t you brush up your wits and tell us exactly what happened to the late Mr. Maddock and why some person unknown is so keen on your vile body. You have all the facts, you know.”
“So you tell me,” I retorted; “but this case of yours reminds me of those elaborate picture puzzles that used to weary my juvenile brain. You had a hatful of irregular-shaped pieces which, if you fitted them together, made a picture. Only the beggars wouldn’t fit together.”
“A very apt comparison,” said Thorndyke. “You put the pieces together, and, if they made no intelligible part of a picture, you knew you were wrong, no matter how well they seemed to fit. On the other hand, if they seemed to make parts of a picture you had to verify the result by finding pieces of the exact shape and size of the empty spaces. That is what I have been doing in this case; trying the data together and watching to see if they made the expected picture. As I have told you, O’Donnell’s visit found me with the picture entire save for two empty spaces of a particular shape and size; and from him I obtained two pieces that dropped neatly into those spaces and made the picture complete. All I have to do now is to see if the picture is a true representation or only a consistent work of imagination.”
“I take it that you have worked the case out in pretty full detail,” said Jervis.
“Yes. If the final verification is successful I shall be able to tell you exactly what happened in Maddock’s house, what was the cause of death—and I may say that it was not that given in the certificates—who the person is who has been pursuing Jardine and what is his motive, together with a number of other very curious items of information. And the mention of that person reminds me that our friend has been disporting himself in public, contrary to advice and to what I thought was a definite understanding.”
“But surely,” I said, “it doesn’t matter now. We have given that spy chappie the slip, and, even if he hasn’t given up the chase as hopeless, we know that he is quite harmless.”
“Harmless!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Why, my dear fellow, he was your guardian angel. Didn’t you realize that from Father Humperdinck’s statement? He shadowed you so closely that no attack on you was possible; in fact, he actually caught a rap on the head that was apparently meant for you. You were infinitely safer with him at your heels than alone.”
“But we’ve given the other fellow the slip, too,” I urged.
“We mustn’t take that for granted,” said Thorndyke. “The French detective, you remember, came on the scene quite recently, whereas the other man has been with us from the beginning. He probably saw Jervis and me enter the mineral water works on the night of the fire, for he was certainly there; and he may even have followed us home to ascertain who we were. There are several ways in which he could have connected you with us and traced you here; so I must urge you most strongly not to venture out of the precincts of the Temple for the next few days, in fact, it would be much wiser to keep indoors altogether. It will be only a matter of days unless I get a quite unexpected set back, for I hope to have the case finally completed in less than a week; and when I do, I shall take such action as will give your friend some occupation other than shadowing you.”
“Very well,” I said. “I will promise not to attempt again to escape from custody. But, all the same, my little jaunt to-day has not been entirely without result. I have picked up a new fact, and a rather curious one, I think. What should you say if I suggested that Mrs. Samway was the wife of that eccentric artist who used to paint on the Heath? The man, I mean, who always worked in gloves?”
“I have assumed that she was in some such relation to him,” replied Thorndyke, “but I should like to hear the evidence.”
“Mrs. Samway,” Jervis said in a reflective tone: “isn’t that the handsome, uncanny-looking lady with the mongoose eyes, who reminded me of Lucrezia Borgia?”
“That is the lady. Well, I met with a portrait of her to-day which was evidently the work of the man with the gloves;” and here I gave them a description of the portrait and an account of the odd way in which it had been disinterred from the landscape that had been painted over it, to which they both listened with close attention.
“It’s a queer incident,” said Thorndyke, “and quite dramatic. If one were inclined to be superstitious one might imagine some invisible agency uncovering the tracks that have been so carefully hidden and working unseen in the interests of justice. But haven’t you rather jumped to your conclusion? The existence of the portrait establishes a connection, but not necessarily that of husband and wife.”
“I only suggested the relationship; but it seemed a likely one as the portrait had been painted over and thrown into the rubbish box.”
Jervis laughed sardonically; and even Thorndyke’s impassive face relaxed into a smile.
“Our young friend,” said the former, “doesn’t take as favourable a view of the married state as one might expect from a gay Lothario who breaks out of his cage to go a-philandering. But we’ll overlook that, in consideration of the very interesting information that he has brought back with him. Not that it conveys very much to me. It is obviously a new piece to fit into our puzzle, but I’m hanged if I see, at the moment, any suitable space to drop it into.”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that if you consider the picture as a whole, you will soon find a vacant space. And while you are considering it, I will just send off a letter, and then we had better adjourn this discussion. We have to catch the early train to Maidstone to-morrow, and that, I hope, will be the last time. Our case ought to be disposed of by the afternoon.”
He seated himself at the writing-table and wrote his letter, while Jervis stared into the fire with a cogitative frown. When the letter was sealed and addressed, Thorndyke laid it on the table while he went to the lobby to put on his hat and coat, and, glancing at it almost unconsciously, I noted that the envelope was of foolscap size and was addressed to the Home Office, Whitehall. The name of the addressee escaped me, for, suddenly realizing the impropriety of thus inspecting another man’s letter, I looked away hastily; but even then, when Thorndyke had taken it away to the post, I found myself speculating vaguely on the nature of the communication and wondering if it had any relation to the mysterious and intricate case of Septimus Maddock.