Читать книгу Riddles Read - James Edward Muddock - Страница 4

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IT is a good many years ago since the case I am about to record caused a sensation in London that has scarcely been equalled since. People who can no longer be considered middle aged will no doubt remember it well, but to the generation that has sprung up since then, it will be fresh, and, as I venture to think, not without considerable interest.

Not only did the position of the parties concerned in the matter raise it above the level of the commonplace, but all the elements of the tragic drama were replete with the mystery, sensationalism, and even weirdness, so beloved of the general public.

It was one of the early cases I was called upon to investigate. I was a young man at the time, and full of zeal and enthusiasm. I had but a short time previously contributed to one of the leading Magazines, an article under the heading of "The Rationale of the Detective's Art."

I was modest enough to withhold my name from that article, and blushed one morning to find that the views I had anonymously expressed, had brought me a certain amount of fame. There was a consensus of opinion amongst the reviewers that my paper was full of "sound logical reasoning, and evidently the emanation of a mind capable of working out the theory of detection with something like the precision of a mathematical problem."

This, of course, was high praise, but it was somewhat qualified by the statement that while in theory my line of argument as to how crime should be brought home was admirable, it was hardly capable of being practically worked out. This somewhat put me on my mettle, because I had aimed at demonstrating that most people who attempted to unravel mysteries failed for the simple reason that they did not give sufficient attention to the "minutiae"—if I may so express it—of a case; and they were unwilling to recognize what I had humbly ventured to enforce as an apothegm, that "the seemingly impossible in all mysteries is often the most highly probable."

I had always been fond of looking upon this as a sort of Golden Text that no detective could afford to ignore. But, as a matter of fact, it was almost universally ignored, save by those men who, with inborn artistic feeling, elevated the detective's calling to a fine art. Now, when the case, which forms the subject of my story, occurred, it afforded me the very opportunity wished for, which was to give practical illustration of the theory I had set forth in "The Rationale of the Detective's Art."

I need scarcely say, perhaps, that a little more than a quarter of a century ago, Hammersmith, now a teeming and populous neighbourhood, was a wilderness of market gardens and waste land. It still retained some aspects of a rural district, and there were even streams of water where watercress could be gathered. Such houses as existed were, with some exceptions, for the most part old-fashioned residences, and one, at least, had been in existence since the first half of the seventeenth century.

Who had originally built it; who had been its tenants, and what it had been called previous to the time that I am dealing with, I know not; but when I became acquainted with it, it was known as "The Observatory," and it had long been in the occupation of a retired military officer, named Arthur Patchford Hulton, known generally in the neighbourhood as Colonel Hulton.

He had seen considerable service in the Crimea, during which he had been twice severely wounded, and in consequence, was compelled to quit the service. He retired on a good pension, which, together with some private means, placed him in very comfortable circumstances. He had two hobbies, gardening and astronomy, in both of which, as an amateur, he excelled.

He had purchased the house I allude to at Hammersmith, as it afforded him the opportunity of indulging in both of his favourite pursuits. The house stood in a little more than an acre of ground, which was laid out with great taste and judgment; and the colonel was proud of his garden, as, indeed, he had every reason to be. At the top of the house he had fitted up a small observatory, where he often spent many hours of the night, when the sky and atmosphere were favourable for astronomical observations. I shall have occasion to speak more in detail of this observatory later on.

In order to add interest to what follows, and make it more intelligible, I must give a few particulars of the colonel's domestic affairs as they existed at the time I was called upon to investigate his tragic fate. He had been married a great many years, but his wife did not live with him. Not that there was any serious disagreement between them, so far as I ever gathered; but it appeared that the lady did not like the seclusion of, as she termed it, "the outlandish neighbourhood of Hammersmith," and so she elected to reside in the heart of the metropolis, and occupied a house in Russell Square.

There she resided, with two grown-up sons and a daughter. The colonel's favourite daughter was Lydia, and she spent the greater part of her time with him at "The Observatory." His household then consisted of Lydia, who was about twenty years of age; a housekeeper, a middle-aged woman named Anna Starkie; a servant-of-all-work, and a parlour-maid; and Mrs. Starkie's husband, John, who helped his master in the garden, and looked after his horse.

The colonel was an unostentatious man, but was fond of comfort, and not averse even to a little luxury. He had a strong dislike, however, to any great exertion. Beyond his gardening, the only recreation he allowed himself was horse riding, and even that he limited to about an hour a day.

Of company he kept very little. He had two or three old cronies in the district, and occasionally they dropped in for a chat, a pipe, and a glass. As may be inferred from what has been said, the colonel was necessarily a methodical man. He did everything in a systematic way. He rose at a fixed hour, spent a fixed time at his breakfast, and in reading his correspondence and papers; and then he sallied forth into his garden at a stated time, and at the same hour every day took his ride, while the greater part of each evening was spent in his tower, where he had mounted an excellent telescope. When once he had gone upstairs to his observatory, not even his daughter Lydia ventured to disturb him. He hated to be intruded upon when absorbed in his astronomical studies, and this being well understood, he was allowed to enjoy his solitude.

One night during the first week of January, Lydia Hulton had gone in company with her mother, her sister, and one of her brothers, to Drury Lane Theatre, to witness the pantomime. Lydia had exhausted all her powers of persuasion in trying to induce her father to accompany the party, but he had resolutely declined, and had betaken himself early to his "Den," as he termed it. The weather had been exceptionally fine and frosty for some time, with brilliant nights, during which the stars shone with a clearness and splendour not often witnessed in the British metropolis; and it was not to be supposed that the colonel—enthusiast as he was—would abandon the study of the stars for the sake of witnessing a pantomime.

Of his servants, only two remained at home that evening, namely, Mrs. Starkie and her husband. The other two, Jane Farwig, the parlour-maid, and Mary Kavanagh, the maid-of-all-work, had leave to remain out until half-past eleven. Miss Lydia Hulton had arranged to spend the night with her mother, and return to Hammersmith in time for luncheon on the following day. Before that time, however, strange things were to happen.

Immediately beneath the floor of the observatory the two servants slept—Jane Farwig and Mary Kavanagh. It was a fairly large room, and each girl had a separate bed. They both retired to rest on this particular night soon after twelve. It was close on midnight when they arrived home. Then they had "a mouthful of supper," and hurried off to their room.

Being very tired, they soon tumbled into bed and went to sleep. They did not get up until seven o'clock next morning. As they were dressing themselves, they discovered that the square of carpet covering the centre of the room, was in part saturated with moisture. Mary Kavanagh stepped on to this wet patch with her bare feet, and stooping to investigate the cause of the wet, she suddenly exclaimed—

"My God, it's blood!"

Her feet, she found, were wet with what seemed uncommonly like blood; and, glancing up to the ceiling, she found there was a large irregular stain just over the wet patch on the carpet, and moisture was still dripping from it; even as she looked, a large drop fell upon her face, and, wiping it off with her handkerchief, she found that it imparted to the handkerchief a blood-like mark.

Naturally, very much alarmed, the two young women hastily dressed themselves, and, hurrying downstairs, imparted their discovery to Mrs. Starkie, who had only just risen. Her husband was still snoring in bed. He had taken "a drop too much" the night previous, and was sleeping off the effects of it. On hearing what the girls had to say, Mrs. Starkie went up to her master's bedroom, and knocked at the door. It was her habit to convey to him every morning a cup of coffee at a quarter to nine, and he did not like to be disturbed before then.

His observatory was a sanctum sanctorum, and the only person privileged to enter it was his daughter Lydia; hence, the reason Mrs. Starkie went to his bedroom first. Having knocked several times and got no response, she cautiously turned the handle and opened the door. Usually, he locked his door on retiring. Peeping in, she found the bed unoccupied. Then, afraid to go to the top of the house alone, she went and punched the ribs of her lord and master until she had aroused him to a sense of understanding. And having briefly explained what the servants had told her, he proceeded to the observatory, and she followed.

They found the door locked. Starkie, having knocked several times without eliciting a reply, came to the conclusion that something was decidedly wrong, and this opinion was strengthened when, having examined the servants' bedroom, he found that what looked like blood was still dripping from the ceiling, and the carpet beneath was saturated. When he had held a consultation with his wife and the other two servants, it was unanimously agreed that the best thing to do was to see a policeman.

So forth sallied Mr. Starkie, and after some searching he found a constable, who, having heard what the gardener had to tell, returned with him to the house, and, mounting to the top, the door of the observatory was forced. Then a ghastly sight met their view. Colonel Hulton was lying on the floor on his back. His arms were stretched out; one leg was drawn up, and from a wound in the neck blood still oozed.

A doctor was next summoned, but all he could do was to pronounce life extinct, and to express his opinion that the colonel had been shot. The bullet had cut clean through the left carotid artery, and penetrated deeply into the neck. The room was searched for a weapon, but no weapon could be found. So information was sent at once to the police-station, and soon afterwards a telegram was despatched to me with a request that I would go out immediately.

I arrived only a few minutes after Miss Lydia, who, finding the house in a state of confusion, with policemen about, had been informed at once of what had occurred. The sudden announcement had brought on a fit of hysterics, and she was being attended by the servants in the dining-room.

The chief superintendent of the police of that district was Inspector Melville, and I found him waiting for me, together with the doctor who had been called. Accompanied by a constable, the three of us went to the observatory, and the medical man proceeded to make a minute examination of the deceased gentleman. The first opinion he had expressed was fully confirmed.

The colonel had met his death by a bullet wound in the throat. The bullet had passed through the left carotid artery, death must have ensued within a few minutes, and of course the flow of blood had been very great.

As there was no carpet on the floor, it had oozed rapidly through the interstices of the floor boards, so to the ceiling underneath; thence dripped on to the carpet in the servants' room. As there was no singeing about the wound, it could not have been self-inflicted, because for any one to shoot himself in the neck in that way, it would have been necessary for him to have held the weapon pretty close. But, as a matter of fact, no weapon was to be found, although the most careful search was made.

The testimony of the gardener and policeman was conclusive that the door was locked on the inside when they burst it open; so the question was, how had the crime been committed? That it was a crime there was little room to doubt, and the whole case was shrouded in mystery.

The medical opinion was that the unfortunate gentleman had been dead for some hours; so that he must have been shot some time during the night, and probably soon after the two girls returned home.

Now, what could have been the motive of the crime? The criminal had evidently gone very much out of his way to commit it, and it was pretty evident that robbery had not been his object.

But there was another singular element, that at first certainly seemed puzzling. Where had the murderer concealed himself in order to carry out his diabolical purpose?

The chamber was circular in shape, with no angle or piece of furniture that would have afforded a hiding-place. From the testimony of Mrs. Starkie, and Jane Farwig, the parlour-maid, the colonel sat down to his frugal dinner at seven; and soon after half-past seven he retired to his observatory.

Almost immediately afterwards, Jane Farwig and Mary Kavanagh went out in accordance with a prearrangement, and Mrs. Starkie undertook to make the colonel's bed ready for him when he retired, and put in the hot-water bottle that he always had for his feet in cold weather.

He was also in the habit of partaking of a glass of whisky and water before retiring, together with some biscuits, and it was the parlour-maid's duty always to place these things on a little table in his room before she went to bed. On the night of the murder, Mrs. Starkie performed the duty, and went to his room soon after the clock struck ten. While engaged in turning down the bed-clothes and putting the hot bottle in, the colonel entered the room to procure a book from a book-case in which he kept a number of scientific works.

On going out again he wished the housekeeper good night, and told her she could go to bed as soon as she liked, as he would not require anything more.

Now, let it be noted, the time was then between ten and half-past. Now arose the question, was the murderer in the observatory when the colonel returned to it? If so, he and his victim must have come face to face at once, for as I have already pointed out, there was no place where a man could have concealed himself. Unless the colonel had been instantly shot down, it was reasonable to suppose some disturbance would have taken place on the colonel's discovering an intruder in his sanctum.

But, as a matter of fact, I was convinced that nothing of the kind could have happened. No one was in the room when Colonel Hulton returned to it, and he locked his door as usual, more from the force of habit than as a precautionary measure, for he knew that the two servants were out, and there was no one in the house likely to intrude upon him.

He then took up his position on the cushioned platform, on which he reclined when using his telescope; and while lying there engaged in making his observations, he was shot in the neck. He had then probably leapt up, and fallen on the floor, and the blood had flowed like a stream from the wound in his neck.

With a view to determining from whence the shot had been fired, I proceeded to make a minute inspection of the place. The observatory had formerly been a. large garret, but it had been entirely rebuilt in circular form, and a dome-shaped roof added, the roof being of glass, shaded with blinds. Adjoining the observatory was a small storeroom, or lumber-closet, and it was lighted by a sliding glass panel in the wall of the main apartment. This room was used principally for storing old boxes, papers, and general lumber, and was seldom entered by any one.

I turned my attention to this lumber-closet. I found that some of the boxes had recently been disturbed, while broken cobwebs on the window panel showed that the panel had been opened lately. I had no hesitation, therefore, in determining that the fatal shot had been fired from the closet. The panel had been drawn back sufficiently to admit of the protrusion of the muzzle of the gun or pistol. My own impression at that time was that the weapon used was an air-gun; and this was subsequently confirmed when the post-mortem examination revealed the fact that the fatal wound had been inflicted with a long, thin slug, such as is used for an air-gun.

It was now clear that the assassin had obtained entrance to the house, had concealed himself in the closet, and carried out his fell purpose without attracting any attention. Now, how did he get in, and how did he get out again? There wasn't a doubt that he must have been well acquainted with the premises, and he was enabled to make his escape before the house was finally shut up for the night, after the two servants came home, assuming that he had gone out by one of the doors.

But in studying the problem I came to the conclusion that he did not enter or quit the house by the usual mode of ingress and egress. Mrs. Starkie averred that she was always very particular to see that the place was well secured, particularly when the other servants were absent. She and her husband had sat that night in the kitchen. He smoked his pipe, and making the festive season an excuse for a little extra indulgence, had taken more beer than was good for him; about eleven o'clock his wife bundled him off to bed, while she remained up waiting for the girls to return. At half-past ten, or thereabouts, her master was all right, because she had seen him in his bedroom. And my opinion was that he was not killed until a considerable time after that.

The assassin waited until every one had retired before carrying out his fell purpose. The doctor said that when he first saw the deceased at eight o'clock, he had been dead four or five hours. If that was so, the crime must have been committed about three o'clock. If the assassin had been concealed in the closet in the early part of the evening, why did he wait so long before he put his wicked intention into execution? The situation of the house was lonely, and as an air gun had been used, he had no occasion to concern himself about the probabilities of raising an alarm.

When Miss Hulton had recovered somewhat from the terrible shock she had suffered, I sought an interview with her. She had been passionately attached to her father, and her distress may therefore be imagined. She was a very intelligent, thoughtful sort of girl, but she could suggest no theory for the crime at all. She said her father was a very quiet, peaceable, reserved man, and so far as she knew, he had no enemies. She had never heard him speak ill of any one, and knew of no one who could have any object in taking his life.

In spite of this opinion, it was very evident that the poor gentleman must have had an enemy, and when I examined the crime in the light of logical and analytical reasoning, I felt sure that the act was an act of vengeance. The criminal had nursed a sense of real or imaginary wrong, and watching for his opportunity, had seized upon that night as peculiarly favourable for his fiendish purpose. Therefore, I settled two points to my own satisfaction: firstly, the assassin was well acquainted with the premises, and had watched the movements of the household; secondly, he had been actuated by a desire for vengeance.

My next step in the process of trying to unravel the mystery, was to determine how he had gained access to the closet. From the observatory landing a straight flight of stairs led down to a corridor. In the corridor was a window that looked on to the grounds.

A few feet beneath the outside sill of the window was a covered-in cistern, which was the stored water supply of the house. At one end of the cistern was a short permanently fixed wooden ladder, placed there for the convenience of examining the cistern. The foot of the ladder rested on the flat roof—also supporting the cistern—of a block of buildings which the colonel himself had added after he purchased the property. The basement of this block was a wash-house; above that was a bath-room, and above that again a spare bedroom.

Now, any one being on that part of the roof, would be able easily to mount the short permanent ladder I have spoken of, get on to the top of the cistern, and from thence it was a matter of extreme ease to get into the house by the corridor window. But then the question had to be answered, how was the roof reached in the first instance? It was thirty-five feet at least from the ground. A ladder of something like forty feet in length would therefore have been required. And for one man to raise a ladder of that length would have been a physical impossibility, even supposing there had been such a ladder about the premises, which there was not.

These things considered, it might have seemed absurd to suppose that the assassin had entered and quitted the house by means of the corridor window. In fact, when I suggested it to Chief Superintendent Melville, he laughed at me, and said it was absurd. But that did not affect me. I was proving, or at any rate, endeavouring to prove to the best of my ability, that the theories I had set forth in my paper, "The Rationale of Detection," were not mere vapourings.

I descended from the window sill to the cistern covering, and by carefully examining it, I discovered unmistakable traces of footmarks. By means of the ladder I went down to the roof. There again were footmarks, and in these footmarks, faint traces of a reddish, powdery dirt. I collected some of this dirt, put it under the microscope, and found it to be the scrapings of bricks; it had been brought there by the feet of the miscreant. The roof was covered with zinc, and was flush with the wall.

At the angle formed by the corner of the building was a strong iron drain pipe, which went down to the ground, and with singular uniformity projected at least an inch from the wall, being held in position by iron clips; there was one of these clips every four or five feet.

Going back to the house, I descended to the garden, stood at the foot of the iron drain pipe, and came to the conclusion that by means of that pipe the assassin had mounted and descended. It was not a feat that an ordinary man could have performed; but a sailor, for instance, or an acrobat, would have found no difficulty in it. Assuming this surmise of mine was right, it suggested that few crimes had been more deliberately planned, or carried out with more cold-blooded determination than this one.

I was satisfied in my own mind it was something more than mere theorizing on my part. I had determined the means of ingress and egress used by the assassin, and had thus forged an important link in the chain of evidence. Firstly, the fatal shot had been fired by means of an air gun from the closet adjoining the observatory. Secondly, the person who fired the shot had reached the closet by mounting up the iron pipe, thus reaching the water cistern, and from thence the corridor window. Moreover he had escaped by the same means.

These two points placed beyond doubt another, which was, that the criminal was well acquainted with the premises; and that in turn suggested that he might have been a discharged servant.

My inquiries were next directed to discover if this was so, and I had another interview with Miss Hulton. To my questions she said that her father had not discharged any man-servant to her knowledge. The Starkies, man and wife, had been with him for a long time; and the two girls, three and a half years, and a year and nine months respectively.

"Do you know, Miss Lydia," I next asked. "Do you know of any one who was likely to have cherished a grudge against your father?"

"Absolutely no one," she exclaimed, with a passionate outburst of weeping.

"Has he had any suspicious visitor lately?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Your father was a reticent man, I think?"

"Yes, in many respects he was."

"I suppose it is quite possible, and even probable, that there might have been incidents in his life, even of late, that you knew nothing at all about?"

"Yes, it is possible," she answered, still sobbing.

"He might have had secrets which he would withhold even from you, his well-loved daughter?"

"I think it likely," she murmured, with a display of almost uncontrollable emotion.

I did not ply her with any further questions then. But what I had learnt seemed to me to have advanced the matter another stage. Colonel Hulton had been a very reticent man, and it was likely enough that in his life's history was some page he would have wished to blot out for ever. But our acts oft become our masters; and when we most desire that the dead past should bury its dead it allows the sheeted ghosts to haunt us and sometimes drive us mad or into our graves. I was sure now that Colonel Hulton had had a secret, and if that secret could be learnt the clue to the whole mystery would be found.

For the next few days the crime was the talk of London. It was so mysterious and to the general public so purposeless. Of course the enterprising reporters of the daily papers exhausted their wits in the endeavour to get hold of every shred of information likely to be of interest to their hungering readers; and equally of course it became known that the colonel lived apart from his wife and family, his youngest daughter excepted. The curiosity of the curious was thereby greatly excited, and the spite of the spiteful found vent in the most unfounded and abominable assertions and innuendoes.

The coroner's inquiry, beyond proving that Colonel Hulton had been wilfully slain, and leading to a verdict of "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown," brought out nothing in evidence likely to be of use. The police were befogged. They had nothing to suggest, and nothing to say. As for myself, I had only got together a few links, and as so many more were wanted to make anything like a reliable chain of evidence, I was not disposed to even hint at what I suspected. It would only have served to warn the criminal, and put him on his guard.

When the unfortunate gentleman had been consigned to his last resting-place, I called upon his widow. She did not strike me as being a particularly bright or intelligent woman. Nor did she speak altogether kindly of her husband. She informed me that during four years they had lived apart, owing, as she termed it, "to incompatibility of temper," which really meant, I inferred, that she was light-headed and frivolous, while he was a deep-thinking, studious man, with an ingrained love for science.

Two such temperaments were hardly likely to weld, and the result was friction. There did not seem, however, to have been any serious quarrel, and now and again Mrs. Hulton had been out to see her husband. This was about the sum and substance of what I could learn from her. Beyond saying that her husband had never made a confidante of her—and she said that with a good deal of bitterness—she could suggest or hint at nothing likely to aid me or give me a clue. One thing that I was sure of, absolutely sure, was that the assassin was well acquainted with the colonel's house.

How did he gain his knowledge? With a view to discovering this, I very closely questioned Mrs. Starkie. From her I learnt piecemeal that about the beginning of August preceding the colonel's death Lydia was away from home. She had gone with her mother, brothers, and sisters to the seaside for a week or two.

One morning during that time Mrs. Starkie went into the breakfast-room, where her master was having his breakfast. She found him in moody reverie, with his chin resting on his hands, and his elbows on the table, while before him was an open letter. Her entrance disturbed him, and jumping up he exclaimed with most unusual temper—

"Why did you come in without knocking?" But he added quickly, "Pardon me, Mrs. Starkie, I am rather put out, and my nerves are disturbed this morning." Then, as he deliberately tore the letter into minute fragments and tossed them into the fireless grate, he said, "By the way, I want you to get the spare bedroom on the second landing ready. I expect a gentleman coming here to-morrow or the next day, and he may stay a few days."

The morrow and the day after that came, but not the expected guest. Three or four evenings later, however, the colonel, who had been strolling about in his grounds, entered the house in company with a strange man. Mrs. Starkie met them in the passage, but as it was dusk she could not see the man well enough to be able to describe him. The master spoke no word, but he and his visitor went into the dining-room. A few minutes later they passed upstairs, and went to the observatory. About half-past ten Colonel Hulton came down to the dining-room, and told the parlour-maid to leave the things on the table and go to bed. The next morning there was evidence that two persons had supped, and a bottle of champagne had been consumed, besides whisky. The spare bed had also been slept in, but the mysterious guest was gone.

Mrs. Starkie thought the circumstance singular, and her master's behaviour altogether unusual; but in a few days she had ceased to attach any importance to the incident, and she did not even mention it to Lydia when she returned from her holiday.

To my mind there was something very significant indeed in this story, and I felt that if the mystery of the murder was to be solved, the strange visitor must be discovered. According to the housekeeper's statement the visitor had arrived in the dusk of the evening, and in the early morning had departed. Why had he come late and gone early? The fact of his remaining in the house only a few hours, and those hours being of the night, did not weigh against my theory that the murderer knew the place. The remarkable visitor was there long enough to have made himself thoroughly acquainted with the run of the house—if he had been desirous of doing so.

Although I was averse to add in the slightest degree to Miss Lydia Hulton's sorrow, I felt constrained to ask her if she had been informed by her father that he had had a visitor in the summer during her absence. She assured me that he had not mentioned a word to her about it. This strengthened the significance of the incident, and showed that he must have had some powerful motive for concealing the matter.

So far as Mrs. Starkie could describe the man, he was about six or seven and twenty. He might even have been a little older. He was fair-complexioned, and of light build; and she believed, as far as she could judge, that he was very shabbily dressed. It was obvious now from all this that Colonel Hulton, as I suspected, had had some dark page in his life, and between that dark page and the mysterious stranger there was a close connection.

With a view to try and get at the bottom of this, I, with the permission of Lydia and Mrs. Hulton, examined the colonel's papers and letters. But nothing helped me until, going over a bundle of cancelled cheques, I alighted on one that had been left uncrossed, and made payable to George Lehon. The name was French, and the cheque was drawn on a city bank. But what seemed to me of greater import was that the date of the cheque was the fifth of August. That was about the time of the strange man's visit to Colonel Hulton. The amount of the cheque was £200.

Without saying anything to any one, I put that cheque in my pocket, and proceeded at once to the bank. There inquiries elicited that the cashier who cashed the cheque remembered the transaction quite well. The cheque was presented on the day it was dated, and almost immediately after the bank opened. The person who presented it was a fair man, about seven or eight and twenty, with a lithe, spare figure, and a peculiar, furtive expression in his eyes. He was shabbily dressed, and spoke with a very pronounced foreign accent. The clerk was induced to take particular notice of him because he insisted that the money should be paid him in sovereigns. Some of these he put loose into his trousers pocket. The rest he tied up in a cotton pocket-handkerchief he carried, and thrust that into the side pocket of his coat.

I was now convinced I had got a clue, and a very important one. The man who had visited Colonel Hulton in such an unusual way had gone to the house to get money, and that was proof that between him and the colonel was some dark secret, and that the secret was used as a means to extort the money.

The man's name was George Lehon, or at any rate he passed under that name. To him the cheque was given, and he presented it at the bank and drew payment. Lehon was a Frenchman, and it was by no means straining a point to suppose that he resided in France; that by some means he had discovered Hulton's address; had written to him; a few days later had turned up; had passed the night in the colonel's house; disappeared the next morning; had drawn his two hundred pounds, and gone—where? Deductively, I answered, back to France; and the reason that he had preferred gold was that English sovereigns were sterling, and that by changing them into French money in France he would gain on them.

This was a small point, but it was a part of the minutia which I have always insisted must be taken into consideration by any one who would successfully follow up a clue. If I had struck the right trail, then it was no less clear to me that I must seek my man in France and not in England. George Lehon—or the man who went by that name—had killed Colonel Hulton as an act of spite or in revenge, and having committed the deed he fled to France again. So to France I went, and the following night found me in Paris.

I lost no time in placing myself in communication with the police, and in a few hours I had learnt the following extraordinary fact. In the course of the preceding August an acrobat connected with a travelling circus, and known in his profession as Paul Pouchet, although his name was understood to be George Lehon, was arrested for a brutal assault on a companion, another acrobat named Jacques Mercier, whom he accused of having robbed him of some English gold.

As the money was traced to the possession of Mercier, who had changed some of it into francs at a "bureau de change," Lehon was let off with a light imprisonment and a fine.

After his release it was believed he went south, and nothing more had been heard of him. But by my request, inquiries were made by telegraph in different centres for Paul Pouchet, supposed to be travelling with a circus.

As is pretty generally known, every itinerant showman in France must be provided with a licence, and before he can exhibit in any town or village, he must present his licence, together with a list of his company, to the Prefect, the Maire, a magistrate, or the chief of police, as the case may be. Consequently, to trace a man like Pouchet in France, is an infinitely simpler matter to what it would be in England.

And as a matter of fact, before the day was over, we received an intimation from the police of a little town called Istres, in the Bouche du Rhone, and not very far from Marseilles, that a travelling circus was showing there, and in the company was an acrobat named Paul Pouchet.

By that night's mail train I started, in company with a French detective, for Marseilles, and the following day went on to Istres. We at once sought out an interview with the proprietor of the show, and learnt that between Christmas and the fortnight succeeding it, Pouchet had been absent. It was understood that he had gone to Paris on some business of his own. He was described as exceedingly clever as a tumbler and acrobat; but of a sullen, revengeful disposition. He had a wife and family in Lyons, and he had frequently been summoned for not contributing to their support. Since his return after his absence at Christmas time, he had been unusually moody, and had drank a great deal, the result being the proprietor had given him notice to quit next week, although he had been with him for some months, and was one of the most prominent members of the company.

Armed with these particulars, we made an application to the Maire to have Pouchet arrested. This was done, and his effects were seized. Amongst his things were found an air gun, in the form of a short walking-stick, and a box of slugs which were identical with the one which the doctors had extracted from Colonel Hulton's body. Also a packet of letters from Colonel Hulton. An examination of these letters left no doubt that we had found the colonel's murderer. He was subsequently removed to Paris, and I hurried off to London to obtain the necessary papers for his extradition. But before the formalities were completed, Pouchet, or Lehon, anticipated his doom by poisoning himself in prison.

He must have had the poison in his possession when first arrested, and believing that he had nothing to hope for, he had put an end to his wretched existence. Evidence was forthcoming that he had been a reprobate and wastrel nearly all his life, and from certain documents amongst his effects, and other sources of information, it was revealed that his mother had been a cook in Colonel Hulton's employ soon after he returned from the Crimea, and that the colonel was Lehon's father, who had cast him off, owing to his disreputable conduct.

The letters showed that he had recently been making applications to his father for money, that these applications had been resolutely refused, and he was told that he might do whatever he liked, but he would be defied, and that if he went to England the law would be appealed to.

'With his heart full of burning, revengeful feeling, the miscreant had crossed the Channel, stealthily made his way to Hulton's house, mounted to the top of the cistern by means of the water-pipe, with which he had no doubt previously made himself acquainted, reached the closet adjoining the observatory, and, having carried out his deed of blood, fled back to France—thinking no doubt that he could never possibly be traced. But the curse of Cain was upon him, and he had gone forth into the world pursued by the sleepless Demon of Remorse, who scourges to madness and death.