Читать книгу The House on the Island - Arthur Gask - Страница 5

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A QUARTER of an hour later having minutely examined the place where the body had been found in the drive, the Chief Constable and the three detectives were alone together in the laundry with the body of the dead man.

Dr. Shillington had started to return with them as a matter of course, but Carter had told him bluntly and decisively that their deliberations would be private now, and that they must conduct their examination alone.

"But I'm a medical man," the doctor had protested angrily.

"But not a policeman," Carter had replied firmly, "and we shall be dealing now with the criminal side."

So they had shut themselves in the laundry and with the police constable keeping guard outside, they were assured they would not be disturbed.

The sheet was flung back, and for a long minute they stood in silence over the body. Then Stone made an expression of disgust and turned with a scowling face to Larose.

"Your baptism into crime over here, my boy," he said. "A harmless and inoffensive old man scientifically suffocated whilst he was unconscious." His voice shook in anger. "There's the peace of God now on that bloody face, but it calls for bloody war from us on the wretch that placed it there." He turned up his sleeves and subsided instantly to matter-of-fact and businesslike tones. "We'll go through his pockets, first."

But the pockets yielded nothing of much account. Some silver and a few coppers, a short stump of pencil, a half-emptied packet of cheap cigarettes, a box of matches, a penknife, an old silver watch, and that was all.

"Watch stopped at half-past three," checked the big detective curtly. He twisted the winder. "Not been wound up," he went on, "therefore deceased had not got ready to go to bed." He bent over the body. "Now for his clothes. Coat was all buttoned up, every button, before we undid them—therefore deceased was killed when performing his normal duties. If he had been killed when at his leisure, some of the buttons at least would have been undone for the coat is tight-fitting, and it would have soon got out of shape if kept buttoned when he was sitting down. But it isn't out of shape, and yet it isn't new. Man particular about his clothes. See, trousers well worn but not baggy at the knees—remember trouser presser in his bedroom and note collar and cuffs of shirt. No fraying anywhere, and as clean as you would expect after a day's wear. Look at his shoes. Thin, indoor ones. No dust on them—therefore he didn't walk far in the grounds——" the big detective paused thoughtfully, and then added, "if indeed he walked there at all." He turned abruptly to Carter. "Now, Elias, what say you?"

"Look at his hands," said Carter. "See how clean they are. He must have washed them almost the minute before he died, and when he was struck down he must have been struck so suddenly that he never put them out even to protect himself and break his fall. They really appear to have never been brought into contact with anything since he died." The lanky detective bent down and scrutinised the dead man's right hand. "He'd been writing recently, however, I see, and there's a little brown stain on his middle finger, here."

"Cocoa, I think," broke in Larose gently, and then he got rather red. "I understand he always made the doctor a cup of cocoa after the others had gone to bed. Also, the maids tell me that he was writing last night when they went to their rooms." The Australian spoke now with more assurance. "You see, I noticed those marks on the fingers when we were in here a little while ago and I asked indirectly about them when I was talking in the kitchen when you were upstairs just now."

The burly Stone looked frowningly at him. "Oh! you're here, are you?" he said, "I had quite forgotten about you, my friend."

Carter took a small magnifying glass out of his pocket and examined the fingers.

"Yes, you're right, I think," he said after a moment, nodding to Larose. "It looks like cocoa powder certainly." He turned back to Stone. "Well that shows that he practically handled nothing after he had made Dr. Shillington's cocoa for him."

"Unless he'd made some afterwards for himself," growled Stone, "later on in the evening."

"But he never drank cocoa," said Larose. "I thought of that and asked the maids. He was of a bilious nature and never touched it."

The frowning face of Stone relaxed. "You are going to be irrepressible I can see, young man." He smiled grimly. "Now what are your ideas. No, no," he went on with a flash of his old levity as Larose appeared to be hesitating, "don't be afraid of Carter here. I'll hold you safe. You can speak out."

But Larose did not smile back.

"Well," he said slowly, "we should learn something from those blood smears and the way they're smudged upon his neck." He pointed to a black blotch below one of the dead man's ears. "See—the cloth that suffocated him was used afterwards for another purpose when he was dead. It was wrapped round the whole head then and where it smeared some of the blood clots over the face, it left a pattern on them when they stuck in another place. And it's a pretty coarse pattern too, so the cloth must have been thick." He pointed again. "There's blood too on the hair almost to the back of the head on that side, and as it's only on the surface, and where there's no wound, then it must have been smeared there too when the head was wrapped up."

"But what the devil should his head have been wrapped up for?" asked Carter, frowning.

"To protect whoever carried him out into the drive to that bush," replied Larose, "from bloodying his own clothes. We are all agreed," he added, "that the killing was not done there."

"Ah!" ejaculated Carter—and Stone just glared as if his eyes would drop out of his head.

"Yes," went on Larose pensively, "and last night on the two tables in Dr. Shillington's study there were two small tablecloths." He sighed as if he were very puzzled. "And this morning there is only one."

"How do you know that?" rapped out Stone.

"I saw there was only one there when we went in the study just now," replied Larose, looking innocently at the big detective, "and, mentioning it to the housemaid, she said the second cloth was gone when she did the study before breakfast. She noticed its absence, and couldn't understand it then, but she thought afterwards, when it was known that the silver had been taken, that the thieves must have taken the cloth, too, to wrap the silver in."

"And why the devil didn't she tell that to us?" growled Carter savagely, "when we were questioning her? She said then she knew nothing at all."

"She didn't think of it then, she told me," said Larose. He sighed again. "And the cook didn't mention, either, to you that she thought she smelt burning cloth when she woke up in the night." He went on meditatively, "And the housemaid says Dr. Shillington burnt a lot of coal in the study last night, and yet she hadn't put a match to the fire until after dinner. He used up all the coal there was in the coal scuttle, and so, if he was in bed and asleep before eleven, as he told us, then he must have stoked up pretty well before he went to his room."

There was a long silence, and then the chief constable broke in, speaking for the first time.

"But it's incredible that Dr. Shillington had anything to do with the murder," he gasped. "What should he kill his butler for?"

Larose shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows?" he replied softly. "At any rate, they were not on good terms. The butler had given notice and was leaving in a fortnight."

"What for?" snapped Carter with a frown.

Larose shook his head. "No one knows," he said. "The man would not even tell his master why, and the maids say the doctor was furious in consequence."

"Now, why did Shillington keep that back?" scowled Stone. He squared his jaw threateningly. "We'll have to talk to him again."

"But the butler kept a diary," said Larose, "and the girls say he was writing in it last night, so if only we could get hold of that we might learn something without letting the doctor suspect that the maids have been talking behind his back."

"A diary!" ejaculated Carter incredulously. "The butler kept a diary, they said?"

"Yes," replied Larose, "and as they told me, he'd been worried and had seemed very upset lately, so if he put his thoughts down, we should find out why he was leaving."

"But look here!" said Carter, addressing himself frowningly to Larose. "If Shillington did the murder in his study, as you seem to want to make out——" he pointed to the body on the table—"then there must be blood about, for the man bled profusely from that broken nose."

"I noticed a large bottle of peroxide as we were passing through the bathroom just now," said Larose gently, and then he added contemplatively, "And hydrogen peroxide's a wonderful thing to get bloodmarks out with, particularly if they're fresh. The bottle was nearly empty, too, and yet from the look of the label on it, it doesn't seem to me as if it had been opened long."

Carter smiled grimly. "You've a wonderful imagination, young man," he said, "and you travel pretty fast."

"But I believe he's right," broke in Stone vehemently. "Yes, by Jove, I do. This Shillington was only playing with us just now, and when you think a moment, he can't possibly be the pompous ass he was trying to make out he was. He's well known as a shrewd and clever man, Shillington. Why, in his own line he's got one of the biggest reputations in the medical world, and he's loaded up with all sorts of university degrees. The Lunacy Commission even call him into consultation sometimes." The stout detective shook his head vigorously. "No, no, he was play-acting with us to hide his real feelings, which are probably those of fear. That's what I believe, at all events."

"But if he killed him, what's the motive, Stone?" asked Carter coldly.

"We've got to find out," replied Stone with some heat, "and maybe it'll turn out to be a pretty sinister motive when we do." He turned to the Australian. "What do you say, Larose?"

"I'm puzzled," said Larose slowly. "Very puzzled." He spoke with more confidence. "But one thing stands out clearly, very clearly. Whoever did the murder, did it deliberately, knowing quite well what he was about. He might certainly have struck down the man in a fit of passion, but the suffocating was done in cold blood, and done undoubtedly to prevent the butler telling something that he knew." The voice of Larose hardened sternly. "Yes, he took two secrets with him, that butler, when he died. One, the secret of who killed him, and the other, the secret of why he was killed."

Carter frowned and smiled at the same time. "Excellent," he commented, thoughtfully. "As I remarked before, you've a great imagination, Mr. Larose." The smile died from his face. "But I'm not certain that some imagination is not exactly what we are wanting here."

"The murderer was no ordinary thief," went on Larose persuasively, "or he wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of carrying out the body to behind the bush. No, he carried it there because if it had been found on the exact spot where the murder had been done, suspicion would have pointed definitely to one person. A murderer from outside would surely have left the body just where he had murdered the man. With him——" Larose shrugged his shoulders again, "it would have been, just 'kill and run.'"

"And he was killed somewhere indoors," added Stone emphatically, "or there'd have been more dirt in his wounds and about his head."

Carter sighed as if he were very troubled.

"But to come down to bedrock now," he said rather irritably, "what scrap of direct evidence have you, Mr. Larose, against Dr. Shillington that he committed this murder?"

"Not one scrap whatever," replied Larose instantly, "but all the same—he's suspect." The Australian spoke rapidly. "He's hiding something, he's got a secret, and for some reason he's trying to throw dust in our eyes. He never told us, for instance, that the butler was leaving in a fortnight, and he implied at this very table that the murderer had robbed him of a good servant. He's lying to us, too. He told us he was in bed, and asleep, before 11 last night, but as the housemaid says he used a large scuttleful of coal in his study, therefore he must have been up very late. The man looks dead tired, too, and I don't believe he took his clothes off or slept a wink." Larose shook his head. "No, no, his actions are peculiar, and as I say—he's suspect."

"Well, we'll go up to the butler's room again," said Carter, "and get that diary at once. We may learn something from it."

"But we'll not find it, I'm very much afraid," commented Larose sadly. "Dr. Shillington knew about it, and if there was damning evidence in it, he'll have taken it away."

Filing out of the laundry, the burly Stone sidled up to Larose.

"Any of your people come from Leeds by any chance, young man?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Not that I know of," replied Larose very puzzled. "Why?"

The stout man looked disappointed. "Because I thought perhaps we might be related." He nodded his head emphatically. "You've got a brain like mine."

Passing out through the kitchen into the hall, there was no sign anywhere of Dr. Shillington, and for a moment they stood listening.

"Knock on his door," said Larose sharply. "Perhaps he's not here, and, suiting the action to the word, he darted up and tapped twice.

"He's out!" he ejaculated, and in an instant he had opened the door and was in the room. The others followed; Carter frowning, the Chief Constable looking uncomfortable, and Stone breathing heavily.

Larose flung himself down upon his knees.

"It'll be here between his desk and the door," he whispered. "The butler would have been turning to walk out when he was knocked over," and he began to pass his hands over the surface of the carpet.

"Here, here it is!" he exclaimed almost instantly, "feel, it's quite damp," and he whipped an envelope out of the breast pocket of his coat and rubbed it vigorously over the carpet. "See, the moist smear," he went on. "No, unfortunately, it's not blood. The stains would have been washed out too thoroughly for that, but still——" he nodded swiftly to Carter, "it supports what I said."

He jumped to his feet. "See, there's the other tablecloth—a thick serge one, and note the second table's bare. Now, for the fireplace, but I'm afraid——Quick, quick!" he called out, and he pointed to the window; "there's Shillington coming across from the Asylum, we mustn't be found here," and he almost pushed the bewildered Chief Constable, who happened to be nearest to him, out of the room.

"Upstairs!" said Stone curtly, when they were all back in the hall. "And old Shillington will think we're still in the laundry, and we'll be left alone."

Hurriedly running up the stairs, they tip-toed into the dead man's room, and Carter swiftly pushed to the door.

"Now," he said sharply, "this is going to be quite a different look-over from the one we made a little while ago. Then, we were only trying to find out if entrance into the house could have been effected this way, but this time,"—he smiled grimly—"we are going to elaborate some of the theories of our young friend here." He turned to Larose. "Now, sir, take a good look round on your own before we begin."

And Larose certainly was taking a good look round. He stood with half-closed eyes and stared from one thing to another, over everything in the room. The room was sparsely but neatly furnished. A narrow bed in one corner, a hanging wardrobe in another, a table in front of the window with some papers and half-a-dozen or so of neatly-arranged small boxes on it, a small chest of drawers, a comfortable-looking armchair, an old-fashioned washstand, a mirror and two pictures on the wall, two shelves of books, a biggish leather trunk, and the inventory was complete.

Larose strode to the table and began opening the boxes.

"Shells!" he exclaimed. "He collected shells—and he pressed flowers, too; wild flowers they look to me. Then he was a botanist, and look—he's got a little microscope. Quite a good one, too. It must have cost him something." He ran through the boxes. "Painstaking, methodical, everything neat and precise. One moment," and he smiled at Carter, "let us look at his books." He addressed the company generally. "I'm always very great on a man's books; they point so well to his tastes and the inclinations of his mind." He tip-toed softly to the book-shelf. "The Wildflowers of England," I thought so. "Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress,' Ingersoll's 'Mistakes of Moses.' 'Sermons' by Charles Haddon Spurgeon, Winwood Reade's 'Martyrdom of Man.' Dear me! Dear me! A real seeker after truth. 'Crossword Puzzles,' 'Two Thousand Riddles,' 'The Riddle of the Sands.' Ah! He slipped there. 'Tales of Mystery and Imagination,' by Edgar Allan Poe. 'Famous Trials of the Nineteenth Century,' 'Crime and the Criminal.' Come, come; surely he was getting out of his depth. 'Pepys Diary,' and 'Memoirs of a Physician.'"

Larose rubbed his hands together delightedly. "Really, now, we have the whole epitome of the man's life here, and his whole character and temperament stand out before us. A lover of wild flowers, a man of principle, and—probably of piety. An analytical mind, in its cramped and simple way. He liked mystery and puzzles, and doubtless, then, he would look for them about him and devote his energies to their solution when they came along. For he was imitative—note 'Pepys Diary.' Probably that gave him the idea of writing a diary of his own. His memoirs, the memoirs of his life down here, his thoughts——" The Australian frowned suddenly. "Ah! That reminds me. Well, where is that diary, now?"

Stone winked at Carter. "A dreamer, Elias," he whispered, "and he works in a different way to you and me."

Carter returned a slow grim smile, and then, bending down, dragged the big leather trunk into the centre of the room.

"It's locked," he said, after a moment, "and where'll we find the key?"

"Shillington's got it," growled Stone, "if it was he whom the girls heard prowling about up here during the night." He strode over to the hanging wardrobe. "But well go through his other clothes."

"Try the chest of drawers first," suggested Carter quickly. "Shillington's not subtle enough to have thought of putting it in another pocket. He's too hasty, and besides"—the lanky detective smiled drily—"I imagine he wouldn't fancy touching any of his butler's garments."

Stone instantly changed his direction, and, pulling open the top drawer of the piece of furniture indicated, thrust his hand down inside and immediately produced a bunch of keys.

"Very simple," he sneered sarcastically, "and just the very place where anyone would hide his keys if he didn't want them to be found. Right on the very top of everything, too, and where no one would ever think of looking, of course." He checked off the keys. "His own trunk, front door key, and,"—he hesitated & moment—"probably the key of the gate in the drive. It's bigger, and has an outdoor look."

In a few seconds the lid of the trunk had been thrown back and they were gazing on the dead butler's effects.

The contents were in some confusion, but four books of a uniform size immediately caught their eyes.

"The diaries!" ejaculated Carter, and instantly he bent down and lifted them out. They were just ordinary diaries with black cloth covers, and ones that could be bought anywhere at any good-class stationers' shop. They were interleaved with blotting paper, and there was a page for each day.

"But there's one missing," exclaimed Carter. "This year's is not here."

He rummaged among the other things in the trunk, and then straightened himself up and looked at Larose.

"You're right, sir," he said, frowning, "unless—" he looked round the room—"unless he left it downstairs."

"Oh, no," said Larose, shaking his head, "the girls say he was most secretive about his writing lately, and they have never, any of them, had a chance of reading what he wrote. He was very careful, and indeed never wrote in the kitchen at all, except when it was too cold for him to write up here."

"Well, what's he got here?" said Stone, and he picked up a small sheaf of newspaper cuttings, held together with a large pin. "Hullo! all about the Iron Man." He turned them over rapidly. "Yes, all of them about him. He's been filing the accounts of the raids, one by one. Here, Elias, have a look."

Carter made a quick scrutiny.

"There are not half of them there," he said, frowning. "He's got nothing about any of the first six. This earliest one is about Benfield Towers—raid number seven, on June 28th." He sighed heavily. "It'll be a deuced long time before I'm able to forget any of those dates." He passed the cuttings over to Larose. "Your turn, young man."

Larose, too, regarded them with a frown. "There's a reason always for everything," he said thoughtfully, "and it might interest us quite a lot perhaps if we knew why he only began to collect them when he did."

They went through the other things in the trunk and then Carter took out a hard object wrapped round in what was apparently, from its thickness, the entire issue of a newspaper.

"Binoculars," he said, when he had unrolled the paper, "and they look quite new," and he undid the strap of the little leather case and held up a pair of small aluminium glasses. After a moment's inspection, he was returning them to the trunk when Larose stretched out his hand.

"Let's have a look," he said, and he took the newspaper as well. "Yes, they are almost new," he went on, "but not quite, for from the markings there, made by the brass stud in the strap, the case had been fastened and unfastened a good many times." He looked at the newspaper. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "now this tells us surely when he bought the binoculars. 'Colchester Evening News,' Tuesday, July 2nd." He turned over the newspaper and examined it carefully. "Yes, they've been wrapped and unwrapped in it so often that the paper's got quite a natural bend in it and the lettering is worn off at the bends." He frowned. "Now, why did he wrap up these binoculars so carefully every time in newspaper when they would have been quite all right in their leather case, and why did he keep them locked up at all and tuck them right at the bottom of the trunk?" Larose waved his hand round the room. "Look, he's the kind of man who was proud of all his little belongings and liked to have them about him before his eyes. Look at those nickel backed brushes, look at that chess board and box of men, look at his microscope, look at his little camera—all lying out for anyone to see, and then——" he frowned again, "look at these binoculars, wrapped up in newspaper every time and locked away at the bottom of his trunk." The Australian shook his head. "I tell you, I don't understand it. I'm puzzled in some way."

"But Mr. Larose," said the Chief Constable politely, "surely it's a matter of no importance at all where the man kept his glasses. It can have no significance for us in any way."

"Sir," replied Larose quickly, "there is nothing in this room that may not be without its significance if we can but pick it out." His tone was very solemn. "This is no ordinary house now, we must remember. It is a house of blood, for murder has been done and we are groping for the murderer. We are trying to get him by uncovering the motive for the crime, and any moment, then, the apparently most trivial observation may lead us to some clue we want. That poor wretch in the laundry will certainly speak no more, but any one of these inanimate things in his room here may suddenly shout out their secret to us if only we can so attune our senses that we may understand." He smiled as if he would apologise for his earnestness. "But please pardon me, if I seem to be too insistent. I am new to your ways over here. I am——"

"Not at all, not at all," broke in the Chief Constable protestingly. "Everything you have brought up, directly you have explained it, has seemed most reasonable to me, and it has been most educational, I assure you, to follow your deductions." He smiled in the most friendly way. "So go on, please, Mr. Larose, and don't think I am criticising you because I am asking questions."

"Well," said Larose, "what I meant to lead up to was this. Here, all around us, this countryside is being smitten as with a pestilence, with a series of dreadful crimes. They have been occurring now during a period of time longer than six months, and the solving of their mystery, at the moment, seems as far away as ever. Now, with the stage set in exactly the same surroundings, comes this murder here, and we are suspicious—" the Australian detective dropped his voice to an intense whisper, "that it was not mere burglary that has occasioned it. We are becoming convinced with every step that what happened last night was only the culminating act of the drama, and that the murder was not an isolated happening on its own, due to the chance encounter of the butler with the robbers, but was a happening that followed as a natural corollary upon certain definite events that had preceded it." Larose raised his voice again. "Here we have a servant who has been in the same situation for over twenty years and who has been undoubtedly, up to a certain time, content with his life in his own simple way. He was happy in his hobbies, in his books, in his botanising and his collection of shells, and he was of an age, too, when routine begins to count for everything, and when one is strongly disinclined to summarily alter all one's habits and surroundings. But what happened? Suddenly the man's whole disposition seemed to alter. From being open and free and happy, he became all at once secretive and morose and ill at ease. He was worried and disturbed, his fellow-servants say. He kept his affairs to himself until strung up by something to some point, he at last made known his intention of breaking with the associations of more than a third of the duration of his life. But he refused to say why, and he refused even to the extent of making his employer angry." Larose frowned as if he were very puzzled. "Now when a man has been murdered in surroundings of mystery we are always bound to be intensely curious about him and to want to learn as much as possible about everything that went before. There is nothing that would not be interesting to us and nothing as I say, that would be so trivial and insignificant that it might not help us in some way. So now, amongst other things—" and his face relaxed to a sad smile, "we want to know why this poor man started to collect cuttings about these raids on Saturday, June the 29th last, why he bought a pair of binoculars upon the following Tuesday, and why every time apparently after he had used them, he wrapped them up in newspaper and hid them at the bottom of his trunk."

"But if he kept them locked away in his trunk," said the Chief Constable frowning, "wrapping them in a newspaper wouldn't keep them any safer from prying eyes. The wrapping was quite unnecessary, wasn't it?"

"Quite," agreed Larose instantly, "and that's what makes the action the more significant. No, the man was obsessed evidently that he must take all precautions that no one should know he possessed glasses, and he probably argued to himself that if anyone did get at his keys and open his trunk, then the binoculars might still escape observation wrapped up in newspaper as they were—unless, of course, anybody was actually looking for them." The Australian walked to the window. "Well, so much for that. Now I wonder if he bought them to use up here."

He raised the glasses to his eyes and swept them slowly round. The window was well above the height of the asylum walls and faced seawards. The country on every side was flat and almost treeless, and about a mile or so away two arms of the sea curled in and made a small island. The island was separated from the mainland by only about 50 yards of mud and water, and there was one solitary house upon it. The land everywhere looked green and marshy. A narrow winding road led down to the island.

"A deary-looking prospect," remarked Stone, "and if he saw much there to interest him, then he must have been easily pleased."

"But we'll go downstairs now," said Carter suddenly, "and have a talk outside. We've seen all we can here."

Passing again through the hall the sound of a voice, slightly raised, came to them from Dr. Shillington's study.

"Hark!" whispered Larose. "He's in there, and he's telephoning," and they all stood still to listen.

"Yes, yes—of course," came the doctor's voice clearly, and he spoke in sharp and businesslike tones. "I tell you I'm prepared to wait for him if his lordship won't spare him before.... But I can't go three weeks without anyone... No, quite impossible. Well, can you do it?... But, mind, I don't want anyone who's no good sent down, and I'm very particular about my clothes ... Yes, he must be able to valet me as well. Sure he's all right?... Well, by the mid-day train to-morrow. Leaves Liverpool-street at a quarter past 12.... He shall be met at Colchester then by my car.... Tell him to wait by the bookstall.... Yes, my chauffeur's in livery, of course ... What name did you say?... Mason, Frederick Mason. All right, good morning," and the talking ceased, and they heard the doctor hang up the receiver.

"Quick, quick," said Larose, "outside before he learns we have been listening. He's been engaging a temporary butler,"—his eyes gleamed—"and I'll take on the job."

They walked out into the drive to almost run into the parlor-maid, who was bringing in some freshly cut flowers. She singled out Larose directly she saw them and smiled slightly.

"Oh, by the by," said the Australian, smiling back, "do you happen to know where we can borrow a pair of field-glasses, now? We shall have to examine all the top of the wall to try and see where they got over, and it will save a lot of climbing if we can get some glasses somewhere."

The girl shook her head. "No," she said thoughtfully, "I'm sorry; I don't know anyone who's got any. I've never seen any here."

"Thank you," said Larose, and he made no further comment.

The girl was passing on, when Stone said, laughingly. "But, look here, young lady, this young man's not going to get all the smiles. What about us old fogies, now? We're much better looking too." His voice became more serious. "But I want to ask you something myself."

"Yes, sir," said the girl, and in spite of the big detective's friendly manner she looked disturbed.

"Now," said Stone, "about this poor Mr. Jakes. Was he of a happy and contented disposition, should you say?"

"Oh, yes, sir," replied the girl, "he was always bright and joking—" she hesitated, "until recently, when he's not been well."

"What's been the matter with him?" asked Stone, smiling.

"We don't know. He would never tell us," said the girl.

"Well, what were his symptoms?" went on the detective. "Had he any pain anywhere, or did he get faint or anything like that?"

"Oh! no," replied the girl at once. "He wasn't ill like that. But we could see he was worried about something. He had become so quiet and he didn't talk, and he spent such a lot of his time alone in his room."

"Didn't he go out at all then," went on Stone, "when he had his time off?" He smiled. "I suppose he had time off?"

"Yes," the girl replied. "Every day he was free from just after lunch until five. He used to go for walks sometimes, but not so much lately. Instead, as I've told you, he's stopped up in his room."

"Was he ever away the whole day?"

"Yes, he had every other Tuesday off, and then sometimes he'd go by the bus into Colchester."

The detective was silent for a moment, and then he asked. "And about this famous diary of his; did he ever show you girls any of it?"

The girl nodded. "He used to, quite a lot once," she replied, "but he hasn't lately, since he's not been well. We've hardly seen it the last few weeks."

"But what did he write in it?" asked the detective, frowning, "only about all your lives here?"

For the first time the girl laughed. "Oh! no, he used to put in bits about things that were happening everywhere," she replied. "About cricket and football and Parliament and when people died," she made a little grimace, "and about murders and robberies, too."

"Oh!" exclaimed Stone, smiling again, "and was he interested in the Iron Man, for instance?"

The girl seemed to shudder. "Yes, he talked a lot about him at one time," she replied, "but he's said nothing lately." Her voice shook a little. "We thought he was getting afraid."

"Why?" snapped Stone.

She hesitated. "Because at night when he went to bed he'd taken to locking his door. He never used to do that at one time."

Stone looked very thoughtful. "Did he do his own room?" he asked. "Make the bed and tidy it and all that, I mean?"

"Yes; he did everything except scrub the floor, and one of us girls did that once a week."

"One more question," said Stone, "and then I've done. Did you ever see his keys lying about?"

The girl shook her head. "No, never; he always had them in his pocket."

"Sure?" asked Stone.

"Certain," she replied. "He was very particular about them always."

"Well, that's all," said Stone. He looked at her confidingly. "And you be a good girl and oblige us by not mentioning to a soul the things that I've been asking you. Not even to the other girls. You promise?"

"Yes, sir," replied the girl, and with a flash of her eyes towards Larose she went into the house.

"Damn you, young man," frowned Stone, as they got back into their car, "you've been trying to mash that girl, Gilbert Larose."

But Larose only smiled sadly.