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THE RED THUMB MARK (1907) [part 1]

PREFACE

In writing the following story, the author has had in view no purpose other than that of affording entertainment to such read­ers as are interested in problems of crime and their solutions; and the story itself differs in no respect from others of its class, ex­cepting in that an effort has been made to keep within the probabilities of ordinary life, both in the characters and in the incidents.

Nevertheless it may happen that the book may serve a useful purpose in drawing attention to certain popular misapprehensions on the subject of fingerprints and their evidential value; misapprehensions the extent of which may be judged when we learn from the newspapers that several Continental commercial houses have actually substituted fingerprints for signed initials.

The facts and figures contained in Mr. Singleton’s evidence, including the very liberal estimate of the population of the globe, are, of course, taken from Mr. Galton’s great and important work on fingerprints; to which the reader who is interested in the subject is referred for much curious and valuable information.

In conclusion, the author desires to express his thanks to his friend Mr. Bernard E. Bishop for the assistance rendered to him in certain photographic experiments, and to those officers of the Central Criminal Court who very kindly furnished him with de­tails of the procedure in criminal trials.

CHAPTER I

MY LEARNED BROTHER

“Conflagratam An° 1677. Fabricatam An° 1698. Richardo Powell Armiger Thesaurar.”

The words, set in four panels, which formed a frieze beneath the pediment of a fine brick portico, summarised the history of one of the tall houses at the upper end of King’s Bench Walk and as I, somewhat absently, read over the inscription, my attention was divided between admiration of the exquisitely finished carved brickwork and the quiet dignity of the building, and an effort to reconstitute the dead and gone Richard Powell, and the stirring times in which he played his part.

I was about to turn away when the empty frame of the portico became occupied by a figure, and one so appropriate, in its wig and obsolete habiliments, to the old-world surroundings that it seemed to complete the picture, and I lingered idly to look at it. The barrister had halted in the doorway to turn over a sheaf of papers that he held in his hand, and, as he replaced the red tape which bound them together, he looked up and our eyes met. For a moment we regarded one another with the incurious gaze that casual strangers bestow on one another; then there was a flash of mutual recognition; the impassive and rather severe face of the lawyer softened into a genial smile, and the figure, detaching itself from its frame, came down the steps with a hand extended in cordial greeting.

“My dear Jervis,” he exclaimed, as we clasped hands warmly, “this is a great and delightful surprise. How often have I thought of my old comrade and wondered if I should ever see him again, and lo! Here he is, thrown up on the sounding beach of the Inner Temple, like the proverbial bread cast upon the waters.”

“Your surprise, Thorndyke, is nothing to mine,” I replied, “for your bread has at least returned as bread; whereas I am in the position of a man who, having cast his bread upon the waters, sees it return in the form of a buttered muffin or a Bath bun. I left a respectable medical practitioner and I find him transformed into a bewigged and begowned limb of the law.”

Thorndyke laughed at the comparison.

“Liken not your old friend unto a Bath bun,” said he. “Say, rather, that you left him a chrysalis and come back to find him a butterfly. But the change is not so great as you think. Hippocrates is only hiding under the gown of Solon, as you will understand when I explain my metamorphosis; and that I will do this very evening, if you have no engagement.”

“I am one of the unemployed at present,” I said, “and quite at your service.”

“Then come round to my chambers at seven,” said Thorn­dyke, “and we will have a chop and a pint of claret together and exchange autobiographies. I am due in court in a few minutes.”

“Do you reside within that noble old portico?” I asked.

“No,” replied Thorndyke. “I often wish I did. It would add several inches to one’s stature to feel that the mouth of one’s burrow was graced with a Latin inscription for admiring strang­ers to ponder over. No; my chambers are some doors further down—number 6A”—and he turned to point out the house as we crossed towards Crown Office Row.

At the top of Middle Temple Lane we parted, Thorndyke taking his way with fluttering gown towards the Law Courts, while I directed my steps westward towards Adam Street, the chosen haunt of the medical agent.

The soft-voiced bell of the Temple clock was telling out the hour of seven in muffled accents (as though it apologised for breaking the studious silence) as I emerged from the archway of Mitre Court and turned into King’s Bench Walk.

The paved footway was empty save for a single figure, pacing slowly before the doorway of number 6A, in which, though the wig had now given place to a felt hat and the gown to a jacket, I had no difficulty in recognising my friend.

“Punctual to the moment, as of old,” said he, meeting me half-way. “What a blessed virtue is punctuality, even in small things. I have just been taking the air in Fountain Court, and will now introduce you to my chambers. Here is my humble retreat.”

We passed in through the common entrance and ascended the stone stairs to the first floor, where we were confronted by a massive door, above which my friend’s name was written in white letters.

“Rather a forbidding exterior,” remarked Thorndyke, as he inserted the latchkey, “but it is homely enough inside.”

The heavy door swung outwards and disclosed a baize-covered inner door, which Thorndyke pushed open and held for me to pass in.

“You will find my chambers an odd mixture,” said Thorn­dyke, “for they combine the attractions of an office, a museum, a laboratory and a workshop.”

“And a restaurant,” added a small, elderly man, who was decanting a bottle of claret by means of a glass syphon: “you forgot that, sir.”

“Yes, I forgot that, Polton,” said Thorndyke, “but I see you have not.” He glanced towards a small table that had been placed near the fire and set out with the requisites for our meal.

“Tell me,” said Thorndyke, as we made the initial onslaught on the products of Polton’s culinary experiments, “what has been happening to you since you left the hospital six years ago?”

“My story is soon told,” I answered, somewhat bitterly. “It is not an uncommon one. My funds ran out, as you know, rather unexpectedly. When I had paid my examination and registration fees the coffer was absolutely empty, and though, no doubt, a medical diploma contains—to use Johnson’s phrase—the potentiality of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, there is a vast difference in practice between the potential and the actual. I have, in fact, been earning a subsistence, sometimes as an assistant, sometimes as a locum tenens. Just now I’ve got no work to do, and so have entered my name on Turcival’s list of eligibles.”

Thorndyke pursed up his lips and frowned.

“It’s a wicked shame, Jervis,” said he presently, “that a man of your abilities and scientific acquirements should be frittering away his time on odd jobs like some half-qualified wastrel.”

“It is,” I agreed. “My merits are grossly undervalued by a stiff-necked and obtuse generation. But what would you have, my learned brother? If poverty steps behind you and claps the oc­culting bushel over your thirty thousand candle-power luminary, your brilliancy is apt to be obscured.”

“Yes, I suppose that is so,” grunted Thorndyke, and he re­mained for a time in deep thought.

“And now,” said I, “let us have your promised explanation. I am positively frizzling with curiosity to know what chain of circumstances has converted John Evelyn Thorndyke from a medical practitioner into a luminary of the law.”

Thorndyke smiled indulgently.

“The fact is,” said he, “that no such transformation has oc­curred. John Evelyn Thorndyke is still a medical practitioner.”

“What, in a wig and gown!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, a mere sheep in wolf’s clothing,” he replied. “I will tell you how it has come about. After you left the hospital, six years ago, I stayed on, taking up any small appointments that were going—assistant demonstrator—or curatorships and such like—hung about the chemical and physical laboratories, the museum and post mortem room, and meanwhile took my M.D. and D.Sc. Then I got called to the bar in the hope of getting a coronership, but soon after this, old Stedman retired unexpectedly—you remember Stedman, the lecturer on medical jurisprudence—and I put in for the vacant post. Rather to my surprise, I was appointed lecturer, whereupon I dismissed the coronership from my mind, took my present chambers and sat down to wait for anything that might come.”

“And what has come?” I asked.

“Why, a very curious assortment of miscellaneous practice,” he replied. “At first I only got an occasional analysis in a doubtful poisoning case, but, by degrees, my sphere of influence has ex­tended until it now includes all cases in which a special knowledge of medicine or physical science can be brought to bear upon law.”

“But you plead in court, I observe,” said I.

“Very seldom,” he replied. “More usually I appear in the character of that bête noir of judges and counsel—the scientific witness. But in most instances I do not appear at all; I merely direct investigations, arrange and analyse the results, and prime the counsel with facts and suggestions for cross-examination.”

“A good deal more interesting than acting as understudy for an absent g.p.,” said I, a little enviously. “But you deserve to succeed, for you were always a deuce of a worker, to say nothing of your capabilities.”

“Yes, I worked hard,” replied Thorndyke, “and I work hard still; but I have my hours of labour and my hours of leisure, unlike you poor devils of general practitioners, who are liable to be dragged away from the dinner table or roused out of your first sleep by—confound it all! Who can that be?”

For at this moment, as a sort of commentary on his self-congratulation, there came a smart rapping at the outer door.

“Must see who it is, I suppose,” he continued, “though one expects people to accept the hint of a closed oak.”

He strode across the room and flung open the door with an air of by no means gracious inquiry.

“It’s rather late for a business call,” said an apologetic voice outside, “but my client was anxious to see you without delay.”

“Come in, Mr. Lawley,” said Thorndyke, rather stiffly, and, as he held the door open, the two visitors entered. They were both men—one middle-aged, rather foxy in appearance and of a typically legal aspect, and the other a fine, handsome young fellow of very prepossessing exterior, though at present rather pale and wild-looking, and evidently in a state of profound agitation.

“I am afraid,” said the latter, with a glance at me and the dinner table, “that our visit—for which I am alone responsible—is a most unseasonable one. If we are really inconveniencing you, Dr. Thorndyke, pray tell us, and my business must wait.”

Thorndyke had cast a keen and curious glance at the young man, and he now replied in a much more genial tone—

“I take it that your business is of a kind that will not wait, and as to inconveniencing us, why, my friend and I are both doctors, and, as you are aware, no doctor expects to call any part of the twenty-four hours his own unreservedly.”

I had risen on the entrance of the two strangers, and now proposed to take a walk on the Embankment and return later, but the young man interrupted me.

“Pray don’t go away on my account,” he said. “The facts that I am about to lay before Dr. Thorndyke will be known to all the world by this time tomorrow, so there is no occasion for any show of secrecy.”

“In that case,” said Thorndyke, “let us draw our chairs up to the fire and fall to business forthwith. We had just finished our dinner and were waiting for the coffee, which I hear my man bringing down at this moment.”

We accordingly drew up our chairs, and when Polton had set the coffee on the table and retired, the lawyer plunged into the matter without preamble.

CHAPTER II

THE SUSPECT

“I had better,” said he, “give you a general outline of the case as it presents itself to the legal mind, and then my client, Mr. Reuben Hornby, can fill in the details if necessary, and answer any questions that you may wish to put to him.

“Mr. Reuben occupies a position of trust in the business of his uncle, John Hornby, who is a gold and silver refiner and dealer in precious metals generally. There is a certain amount of outside assay work carried on in the establishment, but the main business consists in the testing and refining of samples of gold sent from certain mines in South Africa.

“About five years ago Mr. Reuben and his cousin Walter—another nephew of John Hornby—left school, and both were articled to their uncle, with the view to their ultimately becoming partners in the house; and they have remained with him ever since, occupying, as I have said, positions of considerable responsibility.

“And now for a few words as to how business is conducted in Mr. Hornby’s establishment. The samples of gold are handed over at the docks to some accredited representative of the firm—generally either Mr. Reuben or Mr. Walter—who has been despatched to meet the ship, and conveyed either to the bank or to the works according to circumstances. Of course every effort is made to have as little gold as possible on the premises, and the bars are always removed to the bank at the earliest opportunity; but it happens unavoidably that samples of considerable value have often to remain on the premises all night, and so the works are furnished with a large and powerful safe or strong room for their reception. This safe is situated in the private office under the eye of the principal, and, as an additional precaution, the caretaker, who acts as night-watchman, occupies a room directly over the office, and patrols the building periodically through the night.

“Now a very strange thing has occurred with regard to this safe. It happens that one of Mr. Hornby’s customers in South Africa is interested in a diamond mine, and, although transactions in precious stones form no part of the business of the house, he has, from time to time, sent parcels of rough diamonds addressed to Mr. Hornby, to be either deposited in the bank or handed on to the diamond brokers.

“A fortnight ago Mr. Hornby was advised that a parcel of stones had been despatched by the Elmina Castle, and it appeared that the parcel was an unusually large one and contained stones of exceptional size and value. Under these circumstances Mr. Reu­ben was sent down to the docks at an early hour in the hope the ship might arrive in time for the stones to be lodged in the bank at once. Unfortunately, however, this was not the case, and the diamonds had to be taken to the works and locked up in the safe.”

“Who placed them in the safe?” asked Thorndyke.

“Mr. Hornby himself, to whom Mr. Reuben delivered up the package on his return from the docks.”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and what happened next?”

“Well, on the following morning, when the safe was opened, the diamonds had disappeared.”

“Had the place been broken into?” asked Thorndyke.

“No. The place was all locked up as usual, and the caretaker, who had made his accustomed rounds, had heard nothing, and the safe was, outwardly, quite undisturbed. It had evidently been opened with keys and locked again after the stones were re­moved.”

“And in whose custody were the keys of the safe?” inquired Thorndyke.

“Mr. Hornby usually kept the keys himself, but, on occasions, when he was absent from the office, he handed them over to one of his nephews—whichever happened to be in charge at the time. But on this occasion the keys did not go out of his custody from the time when he locked up the safe, after depositing the diamonds in it, to the time when it was opened by him on the following morning.”

“And was there anything that tended to throw suspicion upon anyone?” asked Thorndyke.

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Lawley, with an uncomfortable glance at his client, “unfortunately there was. It seemed that the person who abstracted the diamonds must have cut or scratched his thumb or finger in some way, for there were two drops of blood on the bottom of the safe and one or two bloody smears on a piece of paper, and, in addition, a remarkably clear imprint of a thumb.”

“Also in blood?” asked Thorndyke.

“Yes. The thumb had apparently been put down on one of the drops and then, while still wet with blood, had been pressed on the paper in taking hold of it or otherwise.”

“Well, and what next?”

“Well,” said the lawyer, fidgeting in his chair, “to make a long story short, the thumb-print has been identified as that of Mr. Reuben Hornby.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “The plot thickens with a vengeance. I had better jot down a few notes before you proceed any further.”

He took from a drawer a small paper-covered notebook, on the cover of which he wrote “Reuben Hornby,” and then, laying the book open on a blotting-pad, which he rested on his knee, he made a few brief notes.

“Now,” he said, when he had finished, “with reference to this thumb-print. There is no doubt, I suppose, as to the identification?”

“None whatever,” replied Mr. Lawley. “The Scotland Yard people, of course, took possession of the paper, which was handed to the director of the fingerprint department for examination and comparison with those in their collection. The report of the experts is that the thumb-print does not agree with any of the thumb-prints of criminals in their possession; that it is a very peculiar one, inasmuch as the ridge-pattern on the bulb of the thumb—which is a remarkably distinct and characteristic one—is crossed by the scar of a deep cut, rendering identification easy and infallible; that it agrees in every respect with the thumb-print of Mr. Reuben Hornby, and is, in fact, his thumb-print beyond any possible doubt.”

“Is there any possibility,” asked Thorndyke, “that the paper bearing the thumb-print could have been introduced by any per­son?”

“No,” answered the lawyer. “It is quite impossible. The paper on which the mark was found was a leaf from Mr. Hornby’s memorandum block. He had pencilled on it some particulars relating to the diamonds, and laid it on the parcel before he closed up the safe.”

“Was anyone present when Mr. Hornby opened the safe in the morning?” asked Thorndyke.

“No, he was alone,” answered the lawyer. “He saw at a glance that the diamonds were missing, and then he observed the paper with the thumb-mark on it, on which he closed and locked the safe and sent for the police.”

“Is it not rather odd that the thief did not notice the thumb-mark, since it was so distinct and conspicuous?”

“No, I think not,” answered Mr. Lawley. “The paper was lying face downwards on the bottom of the safe, and it was only when he picked it up and turned it over that Mr. Hornby discovered the thumb-print. Apparently the thief had taken hold of the parcel, with the paper on it, and the paper had afterwards dropped off and fallen with the marked surface downwards—probably when the parcel was transferred to the other hand.”

“You mentioned,” said Thorndyke, “that the experts at Scotland Yard have identified this thumb-mark as that of Mr. Reuben Hornby. May I ask how they came to have the opportunity of making the comparison?”

“Ah!” said Mr. Lawley. “Thereby hangs a very curious tale of coincidences. The police, of course, when they found that there was so simple a means of identification as a thumb-mark, wished to take thumb-prints of all the employees in the works; but this Mr. Hornby refused to sanction—rather quixotically, as it seems to me—saying that he would not allow his nephews to be subjected to such an indignity. Now it was, naturally, these nephews in whom the police were chiefly interested, seeing that they alone had had the handling of the keys, and considerable pressure was brought to bear upon Mr. Hornby to have the thumb-prints taken.

“However, he was obdurate, scouting the idea of any suspicion attaching to either of the gentlemen in whom he had reposed such complete confidence and whom he had known all their lives, and so the matter would probably have remained a mystery but for a very odd circumstance.

“You may have seen on the bookstalls and in shop windows an appliance called a ‘Thumbograph,’ or some such name, consisting of a small book of blank paper for collecting the thumb-prints of one’s friends, together with an inking pad.”

“I have seen those devices of the Evil One,” said Thorndyke, “in fact, I have one, which I bought at Charing Cross Station.”

“Well, it seems that some months ago Mrs. Hornby, the wife of John Hornby, purchased one of these toys—”

“As a matter of fact,” interrupted Reuben, “it was my cousin Walter who bought the thing and gave it to her.”

“Well, that is not material,” said Mr. Lawley (though I ob­served that Thorndyke made a note of the fact in his book); “at any rate, Mrs. Hornby became possessed of one of these appliances and proceeded to fill it with the thumb-prints of her friends, including her two nephews. Now it happened that the detective in charge of this case called yesterday at Mr. Hornby’s house when the latter was absent from home, and took the opportunity of urging her to induce her husband to consent to have the thumb-prints of her nephews taken for the inspection of the experts at Scotland Yard. He pointed out that the procedure was really necessary, not only in the interests of justice but in the interests of the young men themselves, who were regarded with considerable suspicion by the police, which suspicion would be completely re­moved if it could be shown by actual comparison that the thumb-print could not have been made by either of them. Moreover, it seemed that both the young men had expressed their willingness to have the test applied, but had been forbidden by their uncle. Then Mrs. Hornby had a brilliant idea. She suddenly remembered the ‘Thumbograph,’ and thinking to set the question at rest once for all, fetched the little book and showed it to the detective. It contained the prints of both thumbs of Mr. Reuben (among others), and, as the detective had with him a photograph of the incriminating mark, the comparison was made then and there; and you may imagine Mrs. Hornby’s horror and amazement when it was made clear that the print of her nephew Reuben’s left thumb corresponded in every particular with the thumb-print that was found in the safe.

“At this juncture Mr. Hornby arrived on the scene and was, of course, overwhelmed with consternation at the turn events had taken. He would have liked to let the matter drop and make good the loss of the diamonds out of his own funds, but, as that would have amounted practically to compounding a felony, he had no choice but to prosecute. As a result, a warrant was issued for the arrest of Mr. Reuben, and was executed this morning, and my client was taken forthwith to Bow Street and charged with the robbery.”

“Was any evidence taken?” asked Thorndyke.

“No. Only evidence of arrest. The prisoner is remanded for a week, bail having been accepted in two sureties of five hundred pounds each.”

Thorndyke was silent for a space after the conclusion of the narrative. Like me, he was evidently not agreeably impressed by the lawyer’s manner, which seemed to take his client’s guilt for granted, a position indeed not entirely without excuse having regard to the circumstances of the case.

“What have you advised your client to do?” Thorndyke asked presently.

“I have recommended him to plead guilty and throw himself on the clemency of the court as a first offender. You must see for yourself that there is no defence possible.”

The young man flushed crimson, but made no remark.

“But let us be clear how we stand,” said Thorndyke. “Are we defending an innocent man or are we endeavouring to obtain a light sentence for a man who admits that he is guilty?”

Mr. Lawley shrugged his shoulders.

“That question can be best answered by our client himself,” said he.

Thorndyke directed an inquiring glance at Reuben Hornby, remarking—

“You are not called upon to incriminate yourself in any way, Mr. Hornby, but I must know what position you intend to adopt.”

Here I again proposed to withdraw, but Reuben interrupted me.

“There is no need for you to go away, Dr. Jervis,” he said. “My position is that I did not commit this robbery and that I know nothing whatever about it or about the thumb-print that was found in the safe. I do not, of course, expect you to believe me in the face of the overwhelming evidence against me, but I do, nevertheless, declare in the most solemn manner before God, that I am absolutely innocent of this crime and have no knowledge of it whatever.”

“Then I take it that you did not plead ‘guilty’?” said Thorn­dyke.

“Certainly not; and I never will,” replied Reuben hotly.

“You would not be the first innocent man, by very many, who has entered that plea,” remarked Mr. Lawley. “It is often the best policy, when the defence is hopelessly weak.”

“It is a policy that will not be adopted by me,” rejoined Reuben. “I may be, and probably shall be, convicted and sentenced, but I shall continue to maintain my innocence, whatever happens. Do you think,” he added, turning to Thorndyke, “that you can undertake my defence on that assumption?”

“It is the only assumption on which I should agree to undertake the case,” replied Thorndyke.

“And—if I may ask the question—” pursued Reuben anxiously, “do you find it possible to conceive that I may really be innocent?”

“Certainly I do,” Thorndyke replied, on which I observed Mr. Lawley’s eyebrows rise perceptibly. “I am a man of facts, not an advocate, and if I found it impossible to entertain the hypothesis of your innocence, I should not be willing to expend time and energy in searching for evidence to prove it. Nevertheless,” he continued, seeing the light of hope break out on the face of the unfortunate young man, “I must impress upon you that the case presents enormous difficulties and that we must be prepared to find them insuperable in spite of all our efforts.”

“I expect nothing but a conviction,” replied Reuben in a calm and resolute voice, “and can face it like a man if only you do not take my guilt for granted, but give me a chance, no matter how small, of making a defence.”

“Everything shall be done that I am capable of doing,” said Thorndyke; “that I can promise you. The long odds against us are themselves a spur to endeavour, as far as I am concerned. And now, let me ask you, have you any cuts or scratches on your fingers?”

Reuben Hornby held out both his hands for my colleague’s inspection, and I noticed that they were powerful and shapely, like the hands of a skilled craftsman, though faultlessly kept. Thorn­dyke set on the table a large condenser such as is used for microscopic work, and taking his client’s hand, brought the bright spot of light to bear on each finger in succession, examining their tips and the parts around the nails with the aid of a pocket lens.

“A fine, capable hand, this,” said he, regarding the member approvingly, as he finished his examination, “but I don’t perceive any trace of a scar on either the right or left. Will you go over them, Jervis? The robbery took place a fortnight ago, so there has been time for a small cut or scratch to heal and disappear entirely. Still, the matter is worth noting.”

He handed me the lens and I scrutinised every part of each hand without being able to detect the faintest trace of any recent wound.

“There is one other matter that must be attended to before you go,” said Thorndyke, pressing the electric bell-push by his chair. “I will take one or two prints of the left thumb for my own information.”

In response to the summons, Polton made his appearance from some lair unknown to me, but presumably the laboratory, and, having received his instructions, retired, and presently re­turned carrying a box, which he laid on the table. From this receptacle Thorndyke drew forth a bright copper plate mounted on a slab of hard wood, a small printer’s roller, a tube of fingerprint ink, and a number of cards with very white and rather glazed surfaces.

“Now, Mr. Hornby,” said he, “your hands, I see, are beyond criticism as to cleanliness, but we will, nevertheless, give the thumb a final polish.”

Accordingly he proceeded to brush the bulb of the thumb with a well-soaked badger-hair nail-brush, and, having rinsed it in water, dried it with a silk handkerchief, and gave it a final rub on a piece of chamois leather. The thumb having been thus prepared, he squeezed out a drop of the thick ink on to the copper plate and spread it out with the roller, testing the condition of the film from time to time by touching the plate with the tip of his finger and taking an impression on one of the cards.

When the ink had been rolled out to the requisite thinness, he took Reuben’s hand and pressed the thumb lightly but firmly on to the inked plate; then, transferring the thumb to one of the cards, which he directed me to hold steady on the table, he repeated the pressure, when there was left on the card a beautifully sharp and clear impression of the bulb of the thumb, the tiny papillary ridges being shown with microscopic distinctness, and even the mouths of the sweat glands, which appeared as rows of little white dots on the black lines of the ridges. This manoeuvre was repeated a dozen times on two of the cards, each of which thus received six impressions. Thorndyke then took one or two rolled prints, i.e. prints produced by rolling the thumb first on the inked slab and then on the card, by which means a much larger portion of the surface of the thumb was displayed in a single print.

“And now,” said Thorndyke, “that we may be furnished with all the necessary means of comparison, we will take an impression in blood.”

The thumb was accordingly cleansed and dried afresh, when Thorndyke, having pricked his own thumb with a needle, squeezed out a good-sized drop of blood on to a card.

“There,” said he, with a smile, as he spread the drop out with the needle into a little shallow pool, “it is not every lawyer who is willing to shed his blood in the interests of his client.”

He proceeded to make a dozen prints as before on two cards, writing a number with his pencil opposite each print as he made it.

“We are now,” said he, as he finally cleansed his client’s thumb, “furnished with the material for a preliminary investigation, and if you will now give me your address, Mr. Hornby, we may consider our business concluded for the present. I must apologise to you, Mr. Lawley, for having detained you so long with these experiments.”

The lawyer had, in fact, been viewing the proceedings with hardly concealed impatience, and he now rose with evident relief that they were at an end.

“I have been highly interested,” he said mendaciously, “though I confess I do not quite fathom your intentions. And, by the way, I should like to have a few words with you on another matter, if Mr. Reuben would not mind waiting for me in the square just a few minutes.”

“Not at all,” said Reuben, who was, I perceived, in no way deceived by the lawyer’s pretence. “Don’t hurry on my account; my time is my own—at present.” He held out his hand to Thorndyke, who grasped it cordially.

“Good-bye, Mr. Hornby,” said the latter. “Do not be unreasonably sanguine, but at the same time, do not lose heart. Keep your wits about you and let me know at once if anything occurs to you that may have a bearing on the case.”

The young man then took his leave, and, as the door closed after him, Mr. Lawley turned towards Thorndyke.

“I thought I had better have a word with you alone,” he said, “just to hear what line you propose to take up, for I confess that your attitude has puzzled me completely.”

“What line would you propose?” asked Thorndyke.

“Well,” said the lawyer, with a shrug of his shoulders, “the position seems to be this: our young friend has stolen a parcel of diamonds and has been found out; at least, that is how the matter presents itself to me.”

“That is not how it presents itself to me,” said Thorndyke drily. “He may have taken the diamonds or he may not. I have no means of judging until I have sifted the evidence and acquired a few more facts. This I hope to do in the course of the next day or two, and I suggest that we postpone the consideration of our plan of campaign until I have seen what line of defence it is possible to adopt.”

“As you will,” replied the lawyer, taking up his hat, “but I am afraid you are encouraging the young rogue to entertain hopes that will only make his fall the harder—to say nothing of our own position. We don’t want to make ourselves ridiculous in court, you know.”

“I don’t, certainly,” agreed Thorndyke. “However, I will look into the matter and communicate with you in the course of a day or two.”

He stood holding the door open as the lawyer descended the stairs, and when the footsteps at length died away, he closed it sharply and turned to me with an air of annoyance.

“The ‘young rogue,’” he remarked, “does not appear to me to have been very happy in his choice of a solicitor. By the way, Jervis, I understand you are out of employment just now?”

“That is so,” I answered.

“Would you care to help me—as a matter of business, of course—to work up this case? I have a lot of other work on hand and your assistance would be of great value to me.”

I said, with great truth, that I should be delighted.

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “come round to breakfast tomor­row and we will settle the terms, and you can commence your duties at once. And now let us light our pipes and finish our yarns as though agitated clients and thick-headed solicitors had no existence.”

CHAPTER III

A LADY IN THE CASE

When I arrived at Thorndyke’s chambers on the following morning, I found my friend already hard at work. Breakfast was laid at one end of the table, while at the other stood a microscope of the pattern used for examining plate-cultures of micro-organisms, on the wide stage of which was one of the cards bearing six thumb-prints in blood. A condenser threw a bright spot of light on the card, which Thorndyke had been examining when I knocked, as I gathered from the position of the chair, which he now pushed back against the wall.

“I see you have commenced work on our problem,” I re­marked as, in response to a double ring of the electric bell, Polton entered with the materials for our repast.

“Yes,” answered Thorndyke. “I have opened the campaign, supported, as usual, by my trusty chief-of-staff; eh! Polton?”

The little man, whose intellectual, refined countenance and dignified bearing seemed oddly out of character with the tea-tray that he carried, smiled proudly, and, with a glance of affectionate admiration at my friend, replied—

“Yes, sir. We haven’t been letting the grass grow under our feet. There’s a beautiful negative washing upstairs and a bromide enlargement too, which will be mounted and dried by the time you have finished your breakfast.”

“A wonderful man that, Jervis,” my friend observed as his assistant retired. “Looks like a rural dean or a chancery judge, and was obviously intended by Nature to be a professor of physics. As an actual fact he was first a watchmaker, then a maker of optical instruments, and now he is mechanical factotum to a medical jurist. He is my right-hand, is Polton; takes an idea before you have time to utter it—but you will make his more intimate acquaintance by-and-by.”

“Where did you pick him up?” I asked.

“He was an in-patient at the hospital when I first met him, miserably ill and broken, a victim of poverty and undeserved misfortune. I gave him one or two little jobs, and when I found what class of man he was I took him permanently into my service. He is perfectly devoted to me, and his gratitude is as boundless as it is uncalled for.”

“What are the photographs he was referring to?” I asked.

“He is making an enlarged facsimile of one of the thumb-prints on bromide paper and a negative of the same size in case we want the print repeated.”

“You evidently have some expectation of being able to help poor Hornby,” said I, “though I cannot imagine how you propose to go to work. To me his case seems as hopeless a one as it is possible to conceive. One doesn’t like to condemn him, but yet his innocence seems almost unthinkable.”

“It does certainly look like a hopeless case,” Thorndyke agreed, “and I see no way out of it at present. But I make it a rule, in all cases, to proceed on the strictly classical lines of inductive inquiry—collect facts, make hypotheses, test them and seek for verification. And I always endeavour to keep a perfectly open mind.

“Now, in the present case, assuming, as we must, that the robbery has actually taken place, there are four conceivable hypotheses: (1) that the robbery was committed by Reuben Hornby; (2) that it was committed by Walter Hornby; (3) that it was committed by John Hornby, or (4) that it was committed by some other person or persons.

“The last hypothesis I propose to disregard for the present and confine myself to the examination of the other three.”

“You don’t think it possible that Mr. Hornby could have stolen the diamonds out of his own safe?” I exclaimed.

“I incline at present to no one theory of the matter,” replied Thorndyke. “I merely state the hypotheses. John Hornby had access to the diamonds, therefore it is possible that he stole them.”

“But surely he was responsible to the owners.”

“Not in the absence of gross negligence, which the owners would have difficulty in proving. You see, he was what is called a gratuitous bailee, and in such a case no responsibility for loss lies with the bailee unless there has been gross negligence.”

“But the thumb-mark, my dear fellow!” I exclaimed. “How can you possibly get over that?”

“I don’t know that I can,” answered Thorndyke calmly; “but I see you are taking the same view as the police, who persist in regarding a fingerprint as a kind of magical touchstone, a final proof, beyond which inquiry need not go. Now, this is an entire mistake. A fingerprint is merely a fact—a very important and significant one, I admit—but still a fact, which, like any other fact, requires to be weighed and measured with reference to its evidential value.”

“And what do you propose to do first?”

“I shall first satisfy myself that the suspected thumb-print is identical in character with that of Reuben Hornby—of which, however, I have very little doubt, for the fingerprint experts may fairly be trusted in their own speciality.”

“And then?”

“I shall collect fresh facts, in which I look to you for assistance, and, if we have finished breakfast, I may as well induct you into your new duties.”

He rose and rang the bell, and then, fetching from the office four small, paper-covered notebooks, laid them before me on the table.

“One of these books,” said he, “we will devote to data concerning Reuben Hornby. You will find out anything you can—anything, mind, no matter how trivial or apparently irrelevant—in any way connected with him and enter it in this book.” He wrote on the cover “Reuben Hornby” and passed the book to me. “In this second book you will, in like manner, enter anything that you can learn about Walter Hornby, and, in the third book, data concerning John Hornby. As to the fourth book, you will keep that for stray facts connected with the case but not coming under either of the other headings. And now let us look at the product of Polton’s industry.”

He took from his assistant’s hand a photograph ten inches long by eight broad, done on glazed bromide paper and mounted flatly on stiff card. It showed a greatly magnified facsimile of one of the thumb-prints, in which all the minute details, such as the orifices of the sweat glands and trifling irregularities in the ridges, which, in the original, could be seen only with the aid of a lens, were plainly visible to the naked eye. Moreover, the entire print was covered by a network of fine black lines, by which it was divided into a multitude of small squares, each square being distinguished by a number.

“Excellent, Polton,” said Thorndyke approvingly; “a most admirable enlargement. You see, Jervis, we have photographed the thumb-print in contact with a numbered micrometer divided into square twelfths of an inch. The magnification is eight diameters, so that the squares are here each two-thirds of an inch in dia­meter. I have a number of these micrometers of different scales, and I find them invaluable in examining cheques, doubtful signatures and such like. I see you have packed up the camera and the microscope, Polton; have you put in the micrometer?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Polton, “and the six-inch objective and the low-power eye-piece. Everything is in the case; and I have put ‘special rapid’ plates into the dark-slides in case the light should be bad.”

“Then we will go forth and beard the Scotland Yard lions in their den,” said Thorndyke, putting on his hat and gloves.

“But surely,” said I, “you are not going to drag that great microscope to Scotland Yard, when you only want eight diameters. Haven’t you a dissecting microscope or some other portable instrument?”

“We have a most delightful instrument of the dissecting type, of Polton’s own make—he shall show it to you. But I may have need of a more powerful instrument—and here let me give you a word of warning: whatever you may see me do, make no comments before the officials. We are seeking information, not giving it, you understand.”

At this moment the little brass knocker on the inner door—the outer oak being open—uttered a timid and apologetic rat-tat.

“Who the deuce can that be?” muttered Thorndyke, replacing the microscope on the table. He strode across to the door and opened it somewhat brusquely, but immediately whisked his hat off, and I then perceived a lady standing on the threshold.

“Dr. Thorndyke?” she inquired, and as my colleague bowed, she continued, “I ought to have written to ask for an appointment but the matter is rather urgent—it concerns Mr. Reuben Hornby and I only learned from him this morning that he had consulted you.”

“Pray come in,” said Thorndyke. “Dr. Jervis and I were just setting out for Scotland Yard on this very business. Let me present you to my colleague, who is working up the case with me.”

Our visitor, a tall handsome girl of twenty or thereabouts, returned my bow and remarked with perfect self-possession, “My name is Gibson—Miss Juliet Gibson. My business is of a very simple character and need not detain you many minutes.”

She seated herself in the chair that Thorndyke placed for her, and continued in a brisk and business-like manner—

“I must tell you who I am in order to explain my visit to you. For the last six years I have lived with Mr. and Mrs. Hornby, although I am no relation to them. I first came to the house as a sort of companion to Mrs. Hornby, though, as I was only fifteen at the time, I need hardly say that my duties were not very onerous; in fact, I think Mrs. Hornby took me because I was an orphan without the proper means of getting a livelihood, and she had no children of her own.

“Three years ago I came into a little fortune which rendered me independent; but I had been so happy with my kind friends that I asked to be allowed to remain with them, and there I have been ever since in the position of an adopted daughter. Naturally, I have seen a great deal of their nephews, who spend a good part of their time at the house, and I need not tell you that the horrible charge against Reuben has fallen upon us like a thunderbolt. Now, what I have come to say to you is this: I do not believe that Reuben stole those diamonds. It is entirely out of character with all my previous experience of him. I am convinced that he is innocent, and I am prepared to back my opinion.”

“In what way?” asked Thorndyke.

“By supplying the sinews of war,” replied Miss Gibson. “I understand that legal advice and assistance involves considerable expense.”

“I am afraid you are quite correctly informed,” said Thorn­dyke.

“Well, Reuben’s pecuniary resources are, I am sure, quite small, so it is necessary for his friends to support him, and I want you to promise me that nothing shall be left undone that might help to prove his innocence if I make myself responsible for any costs that he is unable to meet. I should prefer, of course, not to appear in the matter, if it could be avoided.”

“Your friendship is of an eminently practical kind, Miss Gib­son,” said my colleague, with a smile. “As a matter of fact, the costs are no affair of mine. If the occasion arose for the exercise of your generosity you would have to approach Mr. Reuben’s solicitor through the medium of your guardian, Mr. Hornby, and with the consent of the accused. But I do not suppose the occasion will arise, although I am very glad you called, as you may be able to give us valuable assistance in other ways. For example, you might answer one or two apparently impertinent questions.”

“I should not consider any question impertinent that you considered necessary to ask,” our visitor replied.

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “I will venture to inquire if any special relations exist between you and Mr. Reuben.”

“You look for the inevitable motive in a woman,” said Miss Gibson, laughing and flushing a little. “No, there have been no tender passages between Reuben and me. We are merely old and intimate friends; in fact, there is what I may call a tendency in another direction—Walter Hornby.”

“Do you mean that you are engaged to Mr. Walter?”

“Oh, no,” she replied; “but he has asked me to marry him—he has asked me, in fact, more than once; and I really believe that he has a sincere attachment to me.”

She made this latter statement with an odd air, as though the thing asserted were curious and rather incredible, and the tone was evidently noticed by Thorndyke as well as me for he re­joined—

“Of course he has. Why not?”

“Well, you see,” replied Miss Gibson, “I have some six hundred a year of my own and should not be considered a bad match for a young man like Walter, who has neither property nor expectations, and one naturally takes that into account. But still, as I have said, I believe he is quite sincere in his professions and not merely attracted by my money.”

“I do not find your opinion at all incredible,” said Thorndyke, with a smile, “even if Mr. Walter were quite a mercenary young man—which, I take it, he is not.”

Miss Gibson flushed very prettily as she replied—

“Oh, pray do not trouble to pay me compliments; I assure you I am by no means insensible of my merits. But with regard to Walter Hornby, I should be sorry to apply the term ‘mercenary’ to him, and yet—well, I have never met a young man who showed a stronger appreciation of the value of money. He means to succeed in life and I have no doubt he will.”

“And do I understand that you refused him?”

“Yes. My feelings towards him are quite friendly, but not of such a nature as to allow me to contemplate marrying him.”

“And now, to return for a moment to Mr. Reuben. You have known him for some years?”

“I have known him intimately for six years,” replied Miss Gibson.

“And what sort of character do you give him?”

“Speaking from my own observation of him,” she replied, “I can say that I have never known him to tell an untruth or do a dishonourable deed. As to theft, it is merely ridiculous. His habits have always been inexpensive and frugal, he is unambitious to a fault, and in respect to the ‘main chance’ his indifference is as conspicuous as Walter’s keenness. He is a generous man, too, although careful and industrious.”

“Thank you, Miss Gibson,” said Thorndyke. “We shall apply to you for further information as the case progresses. I am sure that you will help us if you can, and that you can help us if you will, with your clear head and your admirable frankness. If you will leave us your card, Dr. Jervis and I will keep you informed of our prospects and ask for your assistance whenever we need it.”

After our fair visitor had departed, Thorndyke stood for a minute or more gazing dreamily into the fire. Then, with a quick glance at his watch, he resumed his hat and, catching up the microscope, handed the camera case to me and made for the door.

“How the time goes!” he exclaimed, as we descended the stairs; “but it hasn’t been wasted, Jervis, hey?”

“No, I suppose not,” I answered tentatively.

“You suppose not!” he replied. “Why here is as pretty a little problem as you could desire—what would be called in the jargon of the novels, a psychological problem—and it is your business to work it out, too.”

“You mean as to Miss Gibson’s relations with these two young men?”

Thorndyke nodded.

“Is it any concern of ours?” I asked.

“Certainly it is,” he replied. “Everything is a concern of ours at this preliminary stage. We are groping about for a clue and must let nothing pass unscrutinised.”

“Well, then, to begin with, she is not wildly infatuated with Walter Hornby, I should say.”

“No,” agreed Thorndyke, laughing softly; “we may take it that the canny Walter has not inspired a grand passion.”

“Then,” I resumed, “if I were a suitor for Miss Gibson’s hand, I think I would sooner stand in Reuben’s shoes than in Walter’s.”

“There again I am with you,” said Thorndyke. “Go on.”

“Well,” I continued, “our fair visitor conveyed to me the impression that her evident admiration of Reuben’s character was tempered by something that she had heard from a third party. That expression of hers, ‘speaking from my own observation,’ seemed to imply that her observations of him were not in entire agreement with somebody else’s.”

“Good man!” exclaimed Thorndyke, slapping me on the back, to the undissembled surprise of a policeman whom we were passing; “that is what I had hoped for in you—the capacity to perceive the essential underneath the obvious. Yes; somebody has been saying something about our client, and the thing that we have to find out is, what is it that has been said and who has been saying it. We shall have to make a pretext for another interview with Miss Gibson.”

“By the way, why didn’t you ask her what she meant?” I asked foolishly.

Thorndyke grinned in my face. “Why didn’t you?” he re­torted.

“No,” I rejoined, “I suppose it is not politic to appear too discerning. Let me carry the microscope for a time; it is making your arm ache, I see.”

“Thanks,” said he, handing the case to me and rubbing his fingers; “it is rather ponderous.”

“I can’t make out what you want with this great instrument,” I said. “A common pocket lens would do all that you require. Besides, a six-inch objective will not magnify more than two or three diameters.”

“Two, with the draw-tube closed,” replied Thorndyke, “and the low-power eye-piece brings it up to four. Polton made them both for me for examining cheques, bank-notes and other large objects. But you will understand when you see me use the instrument, and remember, you are to make no comments.”

We had by this time arrived at the entrance to Scotland Yard, and were passing up the narrow thoroughfare, when we encountered a uniformed official who halted and saluted my colleague.

“Ah, I thought we should see you here before long, doctor,” said he genially. “I heard this morning that you have this thumb-print case in hand.”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “I am going to see what can be done for the defence.”

“Well,” said the officer as he ushered us into the building, “you’ve given us a good many surprises, but you’ll give us a bigger one if you can make anything of this. It’s a foregone conclusion, I should say.”

“My dear fellow,” said Thorndyke, “there is no such thing. You mean that there is a prima facie case against the accused.”

“Put it that way if you like,” replied the officer, with a sly smile, “but I think you will find this about the hardest nut you ever tried your teeth on—and they’re pretty strong teeth too, I’ll say that. You had better come into Mr. Singleton’s office,” and he conducted us along a corridor and into a large, barely-furnished room, where we found a sedate-looking gentleman seated at a large writing table.

“How-d’ye-do, doctor?” said the latter, rising and holding out his hand. “I can guess what you’ve come for. Want to see that thumb-print, eh?”

“Quite right,” answered Thorndyke, and then, having introduced me, he continued: “We were partners in the last game, but we are on opposite sides of the board this time.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Singleton; “and we are going to give you check-mate.”

He unlocked a drawer and drew forth a small portfolio, from which he extracted a piece of paper which he laid on the table. It appeared to be a sheet torn from a perforated memorandum block, and bore the pencilled inscription: “Handed in by Reuben at 7.3 p.m., 9.3.01. J. H.” At one end was a dark, glossy blood-stain, made by the falling of a good-sized drop, and this was smeared slightly, apparently by a finger or thumb having been pressed on it. Near to it were two or three smaller smears and a remarkably distinct and clean print of a thumb.

Thorndyke gazed intently at the paper for a minute or two, scrutinising the thumb-print and the smears in turn, but making no remark, while Mr. Singleton watched his impassive face with expectant curiosity.

“Not much difficulty in identifying that mark,” the official at length observed.

“No,” agreed Thorndyke; “it is an excellent impression and a very distinctive pattern, even without the scar.”

“Yes,” rejoined Mr. Singleton; “the scar makes it absolutely conclusive. You have a print with you, I suppose?”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, and he drew from a wide flap-pocket the enlarged photograph, at the sight of which Mr. Singleton’s face broadened into a smile.

“You don’t want to put on spectacles to look at that,” he remarked; “not that you gain anything by so much enlargement; three diameters is ample for studying the ridge-patterns. I see you have divided it up into numbered squares—not a bad plan; but ours—or rather Galton’s, for we borrowed the method from him—is better for this purpose.”

He drew from the portfolio a half-plate photograph of the thumb-print which appeared magnified to about four inches in length. The print was marked by a number of figures written minutely with a fine-pointed pen, each figure being placed on an “island,” a loop, a bifurcation or some other striking and characteristic portion of the ridge-pattern.

“This system of marking with reference numbers,” said Mr. Singleton, “is better than your method of squares, because the numbers are only placed at points which are important for comparison, whereas your squares or the intersections of the lines fall arbitrarily on important or unimportant points according to chance. Besides, we can’t let you mark our original, you know, though, of course, we can give you a photograph, which will do as well.”

“I was going to ask you to let me take a photograph presently,” said Thorndyke.

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Singleton, “if you would rather have one of your own taking. I know you don’t care to take anything on trust. And now I must get on with my work, if you will excuse me. Inspector Johnson will give you any assistance you may require.”

“And see that I don’t pocket the original,” added Thorndyke, with a smile at the inspector who had shown us in.

“Oh, I’ll see to that,” said the latter, grinning; and, as Mr. Singleton returned to his table, Thorndyke unlocked the microscope case and drew forth the instrument.

“What, are you going to put it under the microscope?” ex­claimed Mr. Singleton, looking round with a broad smile.

“Must do something for my fee, you know,” replied Thorn­dyke, as he set up the microscope and screwed on two extra objectives to the triple nose-piece.

“You observe that there is no deception,” he added to the inspector, as he took the paper from Mr. Singleton’s table and placed it between two slips of glass.

“I’m watching you, sir,” replied the officer, with a chuckle; and he did watch, with close attention and great interest, while Thorndyke laid the glass slips on the microscope stage and proceeded to focus.

I also watched, and was a good deal exercised in my mind by my colleague’s proceedings. After a preliminary glance with the six-inch glass, he swung round the nose-piece to the half-inch objective and slipped in a more powerful eye-piece, and with this power he examined the blood-stains carefully, and then moved the thumb-print into the field of vision. After looking at this for some time with deep attention, he drew from the case a tiny spirit lamp which was evidently filled with an alcoholic solution of some sodium salt, for when he lit it I recognised the characteristic yellow sodium flame. Then he replaced one of the objectives by a spectroscopic attachment, and having placed the little lamp close to the microscope mirror, adjusted the spectroscope. Evidently my friend was fixing the position of the “D” line (or sodium line) in the spectrum.

Having completed the adjustments, he now examined afresh the blood-smears and the thumb-print, both by transmitted and reflected light, and I observed him hurriedly draw one or two diagrams in his notebook. Then he replaced the spectroscope and lamp in the case and brought forth the micrometer—a slip of rather thin glass about three inches by one and a half—which he laid over the thumb-print in the place of the upper plate of glass.

Having secured it in position by the clips, he moved it about, comparing its appearance with that of the lines on the large photograph, which he held in his hand. After a considerable amount of adjustment and readjustment, he appeared to be satisfied, for he remarked to me—

“I think I have got the lines in the same position as they are on our print, so, with Inspector Johnson’s assistance, we will take a photograph which we can examine at our leisure.”

He extracted the camera—a quarter-plate instrument—from its case and opened it. Then, having swung the microscope on its stand into a horizontal position, he produced from the camera case a slab of mahogany with three brass feet, on which he placed the camera, and which brought the latter to a level with the eye-piece of the microscope.

The front of the camera was fitted with a short sleeve of thin black leather, and into this the eye-piece end of the microscope was now passed, the sleeve being secured round the barrel of the microscope by a stout rubberband, thus producing a completely light-tight connection.

Everything was now ready for taking the photograph. The light from the window having been concentrated on the thumb-print by means of a condenser, Thorndyke proceeded to focus the image on the ground-glass screen with extreme care and then, slipping a small leather cap over the objective, introduced the dark slide and drew out the shutter.

“I will ask you to sit down and remain quite still while I make the exposure,” he said to me and the inspector. “A very little vibration is enough to destroy the sharpness of the image.”

We seated ourselves accordingly, and Thorndyke then re­moved the cap, standing motionless, watch in hand, while he exposed the first plate.

“We may as well take a second, in case this should not turn out quite perfect,” he said, as he replaced the cap and closed the shutter.

He reversed the dark slide and made another exposure in the same way, and then, having removed the micrometer and replaced it by a slip of plain glass, he made two more exposures.

“There are two plates left,” he remarked, as he drew out the second dark slide. “I think I will take a record of the blood-stain on them.”

He accordingly made two more exposures—one of the larger blood-stain and one of the smaller smears.

“There,” said he, with an air of satisfaction, as he proceeded to pack up what the inspector described as his “box of tricks.” “I think we have all the data that we can squeeze out of Scotland Yard, and I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Singleton, for giving so many facilities to your natural enemy, the counsel for the defence.”

“Not our natural enemies, doctor,” protested Mr. Singleton. “We work for a conviction, of course, but we don’t throw obstacles in the way of the defence. You know that perfectly well.”

“Of course I do, my dear sir,” replied Thorndyke, shaking the official by the hand. “Haven’t I benefited by your help a score of times? But I am greatly obliged all the same. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, doctor. I wish you luck, though I fear you will find it ‘no go’ this time.”

“We shall see,” replied Thorndyke, and with a friendly wave of the hand to the inspector he caught up the two cases and led the way out of the building.

CHAPTER IV

CONFIDENCES

During our walk home my friend was unusually thoughtful and silent, and his face bore a look of concentration under which I thought I could detect, in spite of his habitually impassive expression, a certain suppressed excitement of a not entirely un­plea­surable kind. I forbore, however, from making any remarks or asking questions, not only because I saw that he was preoccupied, but also because, from my knowledge of the man, I judged that he would consider it his duty to keep his own counsel and to make no unnecessary confidences even to me.

On our arrival at his chambers he immediately handed over the camera to Polton with a few curt directions as to the development of the plates, and, lunch being already prepared, we sat down at the table without delay.

We had proceeded with our meal in silence for some time when Thorndyke suddenly laid down his knife and fork and looked into my face with a smile of quiet amusement.

“It has just been borne in upon me, Jervis,” said he, “that you are the most companionable fellow in the world. You have the heaven-sent gift of silence.”

“If silence is the test of companionability,” I answered, with a grin, “I think I can pay you a similar compliment in even more emphatic terms.”

He laughed cheerfully and rejoined—

“You are pleased to be sarcastic, I observe; but I maintain my position. The capacity to preserve an opportune silence is the rarest and most precious of social accomplishments. Now, most men would have plied me with questions and babbled comments on my proceedings at Scotland Yard, whereas you have allowed me to sort out, without interruption, a mass of evidence while it is still fresh and impressive, to docket each item and stow it away in the pigeonholes of my brain. By the way, I have made a ridiculous oversight.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“The ‘Thumbograph.’ I never ascertained whether the police have it or whether it is still in the possession of Mrs. Hornby.”

“Does it matter?” I inquired.

“Not much; only I must see it. And perhaps it will furnish an excellent pretext for you to call on Miss Gibson. As I am busy at the hospital this afternoon and Polton has his hands full, it would be a good plan for you to drop in at Endsley Gardens—that is the address, I think—and if you can see Miss Gibson, try to get a confidential chat with her, and extend your knowledge of the manners and customs of the three Messieurs Hornby. Put on your best bedside manner and keep your weather eye lifting. Find out everything you can as to the characters and habits of those three gentlemen, regardless of all scruples of delicacy. Everything is of importance to us, even to the names of their tailors.”

“And with regard to the ‘Thumbograph’?”

“Find out who has it, and, if it is still in Mrs. Hornby’s possession, get her to lend it to us or—what might, perhaps, be better—get her permission to take a photograph of it.”

“It shall be done according to your word,” said I. “I will furbish up my exterior, and this very afternoon make my first appearance in the character of Paul Pry.”

About an hour later I found myself upon the doorstep of Mr. Hornby’s house in Endsley Gardens listening to the jangling of the bell that I had just set in motion.

“Miss Gibson, sir?” repeated the parlourmaid in response to my question. “She was going out, but I am not sure whether she has gone yet. If you will step in, I will go and see.”

I followed her into the drawing-room, and, threading my way amongst the litter of small tables and miscellaneous furniture by which ladies nowadays convert their special domain into the semblance of a broker’s shop, let go my anchor in the vicinity of the fireplace to await the parlourmaid’s report.

I had not long to wait, for in less than a minute Miss Gibson herself entered the room. She wore her hat and gloves, and I congratulated myself on my timely arrival.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Dr. Jervis,” she said, holding out her hand with a frank and friendly manner, “but you are very welcome all the same. You have come to tell me something?”

“On the contrary,” I replied, “I have come to ask you something.”

“Well, that is better than nothing,” she said, with a shade of disappointment. “Won’t you sit down?”

I seated myself with caution on a dwarf chair of scrofulous aspect, and opened my business without preamble.

“Do you remember a thing called a ‘Thumbograph’?”

“Indeed I do,” she replied with energy. “It was the cause of all this trouble.”

“Do you know if the police took possession of it?”

“The detective took it to Scotland Yard that the fingerprint experts might examine it and compare the two thumb-prints; and they wanted to keep it, but Mrs. Hornby was so distressed at the idea of its being used in evidence that they let her have it back. You see, they really had no further need of it, as they could take a print for themselves when they had Reuben in custody; in fact, he volunteered to have a print taken at once, as soon as he was arrested, and that was done.”

“So the ‘Thumbograph’ is now in Mrs. Hornby’s possession?”

“Yes, unless she has destroyed it. She spoke of doing so.”

“I hope she has not,” said I, in some alarm, “for Dr. Thorn­dyke is extremely anxious, for some reason, to examine it.”

“Well, she will be down in a few minutes, and then we shall know. I told her you were here. Have you any idea what Dr. Thorndyke’s reason is for wanting to see it?”

“None whatever,” I replied. “Dr. Thorndyke is as close as an oyster. He treats me as he treats every one else—he listens attentively, observes closely, and says nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound very agreeable,” mused Miss Gibson; “and yet he seemed very nice and sympathetic.”

“He is very nice and sympathetic,” I retorted with some em­phasis, “but he doesn’t make himself agreeable by divulging his clients’ secrets.”

“I suppose not; and I regard myself as very effectively snubbed,” said she, smiling, but evidently somewhat piqued by my not very tactful observation.

I was hastening to repair my error with apologies and self-accusations, when the door opened and an elderly lady entered the room. She was somewhat stout, amiable and placid of mien, and impressed me (to be entirely truthful) as looking rather fool­ish.

“Here is Mrs. Hornby,” said Miss Gibson, presenting me to her hostess; and she continued, “Dr. Jervis has come to ask about the ‘Thumbograph.’ You haven’t destroyed it, I hope?”

“No, my dear,” replied Mrs. Hornby. “I have it in my little bureau. What did Dr. Jervis wish to know about it?”

Seeing that she was terrified lest some new and dreadful surprise should be sprung upon her, I hastened to reassure her.

“My colleague, Dr. Thorndyke, is anxious to examine it. He is directing your nephew’s defence, you know.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Hornby. “Juliet told me about him. She says he is a dear. Do you agree with her?”

Here I caught Miss Gibson’s eye, in which was a mischievous twinkle, and noted a little deeper pink in her cheeks.

“Well,” I answered dubiously, “I have never considered my colleague in the capacity of a dear, but I have a very high opinion of him in every respect.”

“That, no doubt, is the masculine equivalent,” said Miss Gib­son, recovering from the momentary embarrassment that Mrs. Hornby’s artless repetition of her phrase had produced. “I think the feminine expression is more epigrammatic and comprehensive. But to return to the object of Dr. Jervis’s visit. Would you let him have the ‘Thumbograph,’ aunt, to show to Dr. Thorndyke?”

“Oh, my dear Juliet,” replied Mrs. Hornby, “I would do anything—anything—to help our poor boy. I will never believe that he could be guilty of theft—common, vulgar theft. There has been some dreadful mistake—I am convinced there has—I told the detectives so. I assured them that Reuben could not have committed the robbery, and that they were totally mistaken in supposing him to be capable of such an action. But they would not listen to me, although I have known him since he was a little child, and ought to be able to judge, if anyone is. Diamonds, too! Now, I ask you, what could Reuben want with diamonds? and they were not even cut.”

Here Mrs. Hornby drew forth a lace-edged handkerchief and mopped her eyes.

“I am sure Dr. Thorndyke will be very much interested to see this little book of yours,” said I, with a view to stemming the tide of her reflections.

“Oh, the ‘Thumbograph,’” she replied. “Yes, I will let him have it with the greatest pleasure. I am so glad he wishes to see it; it makes one feel hopeful to know that he is taking so much interest in the case. Would you believe it, Dr. Jervis, those detective people actually wanted to keep it to bring up in evidence against the poor boy. My ‘Thumbograph,’ mind you. But I put my foot down there and they had to return it. I was resolved that they should not receive any assistance from me in their efforts to involve my nephew in this horrible affair.”

“Then, perhaps,” said Miss Gibson, “you might give Dr. Jervis the ‘Thumbograph’ and he can hand it to Dr. Thorndyke.”

“Of course I will,” said Mrs. Hornby; “instantly; and you need not return it, Dr. Jervis. When you have finished with it, fling it into the fire. I wish never to see it again.”

But I had been considering the matter, and had come to the conclusion that it would be highly indiscreet to take the book out of Mrs. Hornby’s custody, and this I now proceeded to explain.

“I have no idea,” I said, “for what purpose Dr. Thorndyke wishes to examine the ‘Thumbograph,’ but it occurs to me that he may desire to put it in evidence, in which case it would be better that it should not go out of your possession for the present. He merely commissioned me to ask for your permission to take a photograph of it.”

“Oh, if he wants a photograph,” said Mrs. Hornby, “I could get one done for him without any difficulty. My nephew Walter would take one for us, I am sure, if I asked him. He is so clever, you know—is he not, Juliet, dear?”

“Yes, aunt,” replied Miss Gibson quickly, “but I expect Dr. Thorndyke would rather take the photograph himself.”

“I am sure he would,” I agreed. “In fact, a photograph taken by another person would not be of much use to him.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Hornby in a slightly injured tone, “you think Walter is just an ordinary amateur; but if I were to show you some of the photographs he has taken you would really be surprised. He is remarkably clever, I assure you.”

“Would you like us to bring the book to Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers?” asked Miss Gibson. “That would save time and trouble.”

“It is excessively good of you—” I began.

“Not at all. When shall we bring it? Would you like to have it this evening?”

“We should very much,” I replied. “My colleague could then examine it and decide what is to be done with it. But it is giving you so much trouble.”

“It is nothing of the kind,” said Miss Gibson. “You would not mind coming with me this evening, would you, aunt?”

“Certainly not, my dear,” replied Mrs. Hornby, and she was about to enlarge on the subject when Miss Gibson rose and, looking at her watch, declared that she must start on her errand at once. I also rose to make my adieux, and she then remarked—

“If you are walking in the same direction as I am, Dr. Jervis, we might arrange the time of our proposed visit as we go along.”

I was not slow to avail myself of this invitation, and a few seconds later we left the house together, leaving Mrs. Hornby smiling fatuously after us from the open door.

“Will eight o’clock suit you, do you think?” Miss Gibson asked, as we walked up the street.

“It will do excellently, I should say,” I answered. “If anything should render the meeting impossible I will send you a telegram. I could wish that you were coming alone, as ours is to be a business conference.”

Miss Gibson laughed softly—and a very pleasant and mu­sical laugh it was.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Dear Mrs. Hornby is a little diffuse and difficult to keep to one subject; but you must be indulgent to her little failings; you would be if you had experienced such kindness and generosity from her as I have.”

“I am sure I should,” I rejoined; “in fact, I am. After all, a little diffuseness of speech and haziness of ideas are no great faults in a generous and amiable woman of her age.”

Miss Gibson rewarded me for these highly correct sentiments with a little smile of approval, and we walked on for some time in silence. Presently she turned to me with some suddenness and a very earnest expression, and said—

“I want to ask you a question, Dr. Jervis, and please forgive me if I beg you to put aside your professional reserve just a little in my favour. I want you to tell me if you think Dr. Thorndyke has any kind of hope or expectation of being able to save poor Reuben from the dreadful peril that threatens him.”

This was a rather pointed question, and I took some time to consider it before replying.

“I should like,” I replied at length, “to tell you as much as my duty to my colleague will allow me to; but that is so little that it is hardly worth telling. However, I may say this without breaking any confidence: Dr. Thorndyke has undertaken the case and is working hard at it, and he would, most assuredly, have done neither the one nor the other if he had considered it a hopeless one.”

“That is a very encouraging view of the matter,” said she, “which, had, however, already occurred to me. May I ask if anything came of your visit to Scotland Yard? Oh, please don’t think me encroaching; I am so terribly anxious and troubled.”

“I can tell you very little about the results of our expedition, for I know very little; but I have an idea that Dr. Thorndyke is not dissatisfied with his morning’s work. He certainly picked up some facts, though I have no idea of their nature, and as soon as we reached home he developed a sudden desire to examine the ‘Thumbo­graph.’”

“Thank you, Dr. Jervis,” she said gratefully. “You have cheered me more than I can tell you, and I won’t ask you any more questions. Are you sure I am not bringing you out of the way?”

“Not at all,” I answered hastily. “The fact is, I had hoped to have a little chat with you when we had disposed of the ‘Thumbo­graph,’ so I can regard myself as combining a little business with a great deal of pleasure if I am allowed to accompany you.”

She gave me a little ironical bow as she inquired—

“And, in short, I may take it that I am to be pumped?”

“Come, now,” I retorted. “You have been plying the pump handle pretty vigorously yourself. But that is not my meaning at all. You see, we are absolute strangers to all the parties concerned in this case, which, of course, makes for an impartial estimate of their characters. But, after all, knowledge is more useful to us than impartiality. There is our client, for instance. He impressed us both very favourably, I think; but he might have been a plausible rascal with the blackest of records. Then you come and tell us that he is a gentleman of stainless character and we are at once on firmer ground.”

“I see,” said Miss Gibson thoughtfully; “and suppose that I or some one else had told you things that seemed to reflect on his character. Would they have influenced you in your attitude to­wards him?”

“Only in this,” I replied; “that we should have made it our business to inquire into the truth of those reports and ascertain their origin.”

“That is what one should always do, I suppose,” said she, still with an air of deep thoughtfulness which encouraged me to in­quire—

“May I ask if anyone to your knowledge has ever said anything to Mr. Reuben’s disadvantage?”

She pondered for some time before replying, and kept her eyes bent pensively on the ground. At length she said, not without some hesitation of manner—

“It is a small thing and quite without any bearing on this affair. But it has been a great trouble to me since it has to some extent put a barrier between Reuben and me; and we used to be such close friends. And I have blamed myself for letting it influence me—perhaps unjustly—in my opinion of him. I will tell you about it, though I expect you will think me very foolish.

“You must know, then, that Reuben and I used, until about six months ago, to be very much together, though we were only friends, you understand. But we were on the footing of relatives, so there was nothing out of the way in it. Reuben is a keen student of ancient and mediaeval art, in which I also am much interested, so we used to visit the museums and galleries together and get a great deal of pleasure from comparing our views and impressions of what we saw.

“About six months ago, Walter took me aside one day and, with a very serious face, asked me if there was any kind of understanding between Reuben and me. I thought it rather impertinent of him, but nevertheless, I told him the truth, that Reuben and I were just friends and nothing more.

“‘If that is the case,’ said he, looking mighty grave, ‘I would advise you not to be seen about with him quite so much.’

“‘And why not?’ I asked very naturally.

“‘Why, the fact is,’ said Walter, ‘that Reuben is a confounded fool. He has been chattering to the men at the club and seems to have given them the impression that a young lady of means and position has been setting her cap at him very hard, but that he, being a high-souled philosopher above the temptations that beset ordinary mortals, is superior both to her blandishments and her pecuniary attractions. I give you the hint for your own guidance,’ he continued, ‘and I expect this to go no farther. You mustn’t be annoyed with Reuben. The best of young men will often behave like prigs and donkeys, and I have no doubt the fellows have grossly exaggerated what he said; but I thought it right to put you on your guard.’

“Now this report, as you may suppose, made me excessively angry, and I wanted to have it out with Reuben then and there. But Walter refused to sanction this—‘there was no use in making a scene’ he said—and he insisted that the caution was given to me in strict confidence; so what was I to do? I tried to ignore it and treat Reuben as I always had done, but this I found impossible; my womanly pride was much too deeply hurt. And yet I felt it the lowest depth of meanness to harbour such thoughts of him with­out giving him the opportunity to defend himself. And although it was most unlike Reuben in some respects, it was very like him in others; for he has always expressed the utmost contempt for men who marry for a livelihood. So I have remained on the horns of a dilemma and am there still. What do you think I ought to have done?”

I rubbed my chin in some embarrassment at this question. Needless to say, I was most disagreeably impressed by Walter Hornby’s conduct, and not a little disposed to blame my fair companion for giving an ear to his secret disparagement of his cousin; but I was obviously not in a position to pronounce, offhand, upon the merits of the case.

“The position appears to be this,” I said, after a pause, “either Reuben has spoken most unworthily and untruthfully of you, or Walter has lied deliberately about him.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “that is the position; but which of the two alternatives appears to you the more probable?”

“That is very difficult to say,” I answered. “There is a certain kind of cad who is much given to boastful rhodomontade concerning his conquests. We all know him and can generally spot him at first sight, but I must say that Reuben Hornby did not strike me as that kind of man at all. Then it is clear that the proper course for Walter to have adopted, if he had really heard such rumours, was to have had the matter out with Reuben, instead of coming secretly to you with whispered reports. That is my feeling, Miss Gibson, but, of course, I may be quite wrong. I gather that our two young friends are not inseparable companions?”

“Oh, they are very good friends, but you see, their interests and views of life are quite different. Reuben, although an excellent worker in business hours, is a student, or perhaps rather what one would call a scholar, whereas Walter is more a practical man of affairs—decidedly long-headed and shrewd. He is undoubtedly very clever, as Mrs. Hornby said.”

“He takes photographs, for instance,” I suggested.

“Yes. But not ordinary amateur photographs; his work is more technical and quite excellent of its kind. For example, he did a most beautiful series of micro-photographs of sections of metalliferous rocks which he reproduced for publication by the collo­type process, and even printed off the plates himself.”

“I see. He must be a very capable fellow.”

“He is, very,” she assented, “and very keen on making a position; but I am afraid he is rather too fond of money for its own sake, which is not a pleasant feature in a young man’s character, is it?”

I agreed that it was not.

“Excessive keenness in money affairs,” proceeded Miss Gib­son oracularly, “is apt to lead a young man into bad ways—oh, you need not smile, Dr. Jervis, at my wise saws; it is perfectly true, and you know it. The fact is, I sometimes have an uneasy feeling that Walter’s desire to be rich inclines him to try what looks like a quick and easy method of making money. He had a friend—a Mr. Horton—who is a dealer on the Stock Exchange and who ‘operates’ rather largely—‘operate’ I believe is the expression used, although it seems to be nothing more than common gambling—and I have more than once suspected Walter of being concerned in what Mr. Horton calls ‘a little flutter.’”

“That doesn’t strike me as a very long-headed proceeding,” I remarked, with the impartial wisdom of the impecunious, and therefore untempted.

“No,” she agreed, “it isn’t. But your gambler always thinks he is going to win—though you mustn’t let me give you the impression that Walter is a gambler. But here is my destination. Thank you for escorting me so far, and I hope you are beginning to feel less like a stranger to the Hornby family. We shall make our appearance tonight at eight punctually.”

She gave me her hand with a frank smile and tripped up the steps leading to the street door; and when I glanced back, after crossing the road, she gave me a little friendly nod as she turned to enter the house.

CHAPTER V

THE ‘THUMBOGRAPH’

“So your net has been sweeping the quiet and pleasant waters of feminine conversation,” remarked Thorndyke when we met at the dinner table and I gave him an outline of my afternoon’s adventures.

“Yes,” I answered, “and here is the catch cleaned and ready for the consumer.”

I laid on the table two of my notebooks in which I had entered such facts as I had been able to extract from my talk with Miss Gibson.

“You made your entries as soon as possible after your return, I suppose?” said Thorndyke—“while the matter was still fresh?”

“I wrote down my notes as I sat on a seat in Kensington Gardens within five minutes after leaving Miss Gibson.”

“Good!” said Thorndyke. “And now let us see what you have collected.”

He glanced quickly through the entries in the two books, referring back once or twice, and stood for a few moments silent and abstracted. Then he laid the little books down on the table with a satisfied nod.

“Our information, then,” he said, “amounts to this: Reuben is an industrious worker at his business and, in his leisure, a student of ancient and medieval art; possibly a babbling fool and a cad or, on the other hand, a maligned and much-abused man.

“Walter Hornby is obviously a sneak and possibly a liar; a keen man of business, perhaps a flutterer round the financial candle that burns in Throgmorton Street; an expert photographer and a competent worker of the collotype process. You have done a very excellent day’s work, Jervis. I wonder if you see the bearing of the facts that you have collected.”

“I think I see the bearing of some of them,” I answered; “at least, I have formed certain opinions.”

“Then keep them to yourself, mon ami, so that I need not feel as if I ought to unbosom myself of my own views.”

“I should be very much surprised if you did, Thorndyke,” I replied, “and should have none the better opinion of you. I realise fully that your opinions and theories are the property of your client and not to be used for the entertainment of your friends.”

Thorndyke patted me on the back playfully, but he looked uncommonly pleased, and said, with evident sincerity, “I am really grateful to you for saying that, for I have felt a little awkward in being so reticent with you who know so much of this case. But you are quite right, and I am delighted to find you so discerning and sympathetic. The least I can do under the circumstances is to uncork a bottle of Pommard, and drink the health of so loyal and helpful a colleague. Ah! Praise the gods! Here is Polton, like a sacrificial priest accompanied by a sweet savour of roasted flesh. Rump steak I ween,” he added, sniffing, “food meet for the mighty Shamash (that pun was fortuitous, I need not say) or a ravenous medical jurist. Can you explain to me, Polton, how it is that your rump steak is better than any other steak? Is it that you have command of a special brand of ox?”

The little man’s dry countenance wrinkled with pleasure until it was as full of lines as a ground-plan of Clapham Junction.

“Perhaps it is the special treatment it gets, sir,” he replied. “I usually bruise it in the mortar before cooking, without breaking up the fibre too much, and then I heat up the little cupel furnace to about 600 C, and put the steak in on a tripod.”

Thorndyke laughed outright. “The cupel furnace, too,” he exclaimed. “Well, well, ‘to what base uses’—but I don’t know that it is a base use after all. Anyhow, Polton, open a bottle of Pommard and put a couple of ten by eight ‘process’ plates in your dark slides. I am expecting two ladies here this evening with a document.”

“Shall you bring them upstairs, sir?” inquired Polton, with an alarmed expression.

“I expect I shall have to,” answered Thorndyke.

“Then I shall just smarten the laboratory up a bit,” said Pol­ton, who evidently appreciated the difference between the masculine and feminine view as to the proper appearance of working premises.

“And so Miss Gibson wanted to know our private views on the case?” said Thorndyke, when his voracity had become somewhat appeased.

“Yes,” I answered; and then I repeated our conversation as nearly as I could remember it.

“Your answer was very discreet and diplomatic,” Thorndyke remarked, “and it was very necessary that it should be, for it is essential that we show the backs of our cards to Scotland Yard; and if to Scotland Yard, then to the whole world. We know what their trump card is and can arrange our play accordingly, so long as we do not show our hand.”

“You speak of the police as your antagonists; I noticed that at the ‘Yard’ this morning, and was surprised to find that they accepted the position. But surely their business is to discover the actual offender, not to fix the crime on some particular person.”

“That would seem to be so,” replied Thorndyke, “but in practice it is otherwise. When the police have made an arrest they work for a conviction. If the man is innocent, that is his business, not theirs; it is for him to prove it. The system is a pernicious one—especially since the efficiency of a police officer is, in consequence, apt to be estimated by the number of convictions he has secured, and an inducement is thus held out to him to obtain a conviction, if possible; but it is of a piece with legislative procedure in general. Lawyers are not engaged in academic discussions or in the pursuit of truth, but each is trying, by hook or by crook, to make out a particular case without regard to its actual truth or even to the lawyer’s own belief on the subject. That is what produces so much friction between lawyers and scientific witnesses; neither can understand the point of view of the other. But we must not sit over the table chattering like this; it has gone half-past seven, and Polton will be wanting to make this room presentable.”

“I notice you don’t use your office much,” I remarked.

“Hardly at all, excepting as a repository for documents and stationery. It is very cheerless to talk in an office, and nearly all my business is transacted with solicitors and counsel who are known to me, so there is no need for such formalities. All right, Polton; we shall be ready for you in five minutes.”

The Temple bell was striking eight as, at Thorndyke’s request, I threw open the iron-bound “oak”; and even as I did so the sound of footsteps came up from the stairs below. I waited on the landing for our two visitors, and led them into the room.

“I am so glad to make your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Hornby, when I had done the honours of introduction; “I have heard so much about you from Juliet—”

“Really, my dear aunt,” protested Miss Gibson, as she caught my eye with a look of comical alarm, “you will give Dr. Thorndyke a most erroneous impression. I merely mentioned that I had intruded on him without notice and had been received with undeserved indulgence and consideration.”

“You didn’t put it quite in that way, my dear,” said Mrs. Hornby, “but I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“We are highly gratified by Miss Gibson’s favourable report of us, whatever may have been the actual form of expression,” said Thorndyke, with a momentary glance at the younger lady which covered her with smiling confusion, “and we are deeply indebted to you for taking so much trouble to help us.”

“It is no trouble at all, but a great pleasure,” replied Mrs. Hornby; and she proceeded to enlarge on the matter until her remarks threatened, like the rippling circles produced by a falling stone, to spread out into infinity. In the midst of this discourse Thorndyke placed chairs for the two ladies, and, leaning against the mantelpiece, fixed a stony gaze upon the small handbag that hung from Mrs. Hornby’s wrist.

“Is the ‘Thumbograph’ in your bag?” interrupted Miss Gib­son, in response to this mute appeal.

“Of course it is, my dear Juliet,” replied the elder lady. “You saw me put it in yourself. What an odd girl you are. Did you think I should have taken it out and put it somewhere else? Not that these handbags are really very secure, you know, although I daresay they are safer than pockets, especially now that it is the fashion to have the pocket at the back. Still, I have often thought how easy it would be for a thief or a pickpocket or some other dreadful creature of that kind, don’t you know, to make a snatch and—in fact, the thing has actually happened. Why, I knew a lady—Mrs. Moggridge, you know, Juliet—no, it wasn’t Mrs. Moggridge, that was another affair, it was Mrs.—Mrs.—dear me, how silly of me!—now, what was her name? Can’t you help me, Juliet? You must surely remember the woman. She used to visit a good deal at the Hawley-Johnsons’—I think it was the Hawley-Johnsons’, or else it was those people, you know—”

“Hadn’t you better give Dr. Thorndyke the ‘Thumbograph’?” interrupted Miss Gibson.

“Why, of course, Juliet, dear. What else did we come here for?” With a slightly injured expression, Mrs. Hornby opened the little bag and commenced, with the utmost deliberation, to turn out its contents on to the table. These included a laced handkerchief, a purse, a card-case, a visiting list, a packet of papier poudré, and when she had laid the last-mentioned article on the table, she paused abruptly and gazed into Miss Gibson’s face with the air of one who has made a startling discovery.

“I remember the woman’s name,” she said in an impressive voice. “It was Gudge—Mrs. Gudge, the sister-in-law of—”

Here Miss Gibson made an unceremonious dive into the open bag and fished out a tiny parcel wrapped in notepaper and secured with a silk thread.

“Thank you,” said Thorndyke, taking it from her hand just as Mrs. Hornby was reaching out to intercept it. He cut the thread and drew from its wrappings a little book bound in red cloth, with the word “Thumbograph” stamped upon the cover, and was beginning to inspect it when Mrs. Hornby rose and stood beside him.

“That,” said she, as she opened the book at the first page, “is the thumb-mark of a Miss Colley. She is no connection of ours. You see it is a little smeared—she said Reuben jogged her elbow, but I don’t think he did; at any rate he assured me he did not, and, you know—”

“Ah! Here is one we are looking for,” interrupted Thorndyke, who had been turning the leaves of the book regardless of Mrs. Hornby’s rambling comments; “a very good impression, too, considering the rather rough method of producing it.”

He reached out for the reading lens that hung from its nail above the mantelpiece, and I could tell by the eagerness with which he peered through it at the thumb-print that he was looking for something. A moment later I felt sure that he had found that something which he had sought, for, though he replaced the lens upon its nail with a quiet and composed air and made no remark, there was a sparkle of the eye and a scarcely perceptible flush of suppressed excitement and triumph which I had begun to recognise beneath the impassive mask that he presented to the world.

“I shall ask you to leave this little book with me, Mrs. Horn­by,” he said, breaking in upon that lady’s inconsequent babblings, “and, as I may possibly put it in evidence, it would be a wise precaution for you and Miss Gibson to sign your names—as small as possible—on the page which bears Mr. Reuben’s thumb-mark. That will anticipate any suggestion that the book has been tampered with after leaving your hands.”

“It would be a great impertinence for anyone to make any such suggestion,” Mrs. Hornby began; but on Thorndyke’s plac­ing his fountain pen in her hand, she wrote her signature in the place indicated and handed the pen to Miss Gibson, who signed underneath.

“And now,” said Thorndyke, “we will take an enlarged photograph of this page with the thumb-mark; not that it is necessary that it should be done now, as you are leaving the book in my possession; but the photograph will be wanted, and as my man is expecting us and has the apparatus ready, we may as well despatch the business at once.”

To this both the ladies readily agreed (being, in fact, devoured by curiosity with regard to my colleague’s premises), and we accordingly proceeded to invade the set of rooms on the floor above, over which the ingenious Polton was accustomed to reign in solitary grandeur.

It was my first visit to these mysterious regions, and I looked about me with as much curiosity as did the two ladies. The first room that we entered was apparently the workshop, for it contained a small woodworker’s bench, a lathe, a bench for metal work and a number of mechanical appliances which I was not then able to examine; but I noticed that the entire place presented to the eye a most unworkmanlike neatness, a circumstance that did not escape Thorndyke’s observation, for his face relaxed into a grim smile as his eye travelled over the bare benches and the clean-swept floor.

From this room we entered the laboratory, a large apartment, one side of which was given up to chemical research, as was shown by the shelves of reagents that covered the wall, and the flasks, retorts and other apparatus that were arranged on the bench, like ornaments on a drawing-room mantelpiece. On the opposite side of the room was a large, massively-constructed copying camera, the front of which, carrying the lens, was fixed, and an easel or copyholder travelled on parallel guides towards, or away, from it, on a long stand.

This apparatus Thorndyke proceeded to explain to our visitors while Polton was fixing the “Thumbograph” in a holder attached to the easel.

“You see,” he said, in answer to a question from Miss Gibson, “I have a good deal to do with signatures, cheques and disputed documents of various kinds. Now a skilled eye, aided by a pocket-lens, can make out very minute details on a cheque or bank-note; but it is not possible to lend one’s skilled eye to a judge or juryman, so that it is often very convenient to be able to hand them a photograph in which the magnification is already done, which they can compare with the original. Small things, when magnified, develop quite unexpected characters; for instance, you have handled a good many postage stamps, I suppose, but have you ever noticed the little white spots in the upper corner of a penny stamp, or even the difference in the foliage on the two sides of the wreath?”

Miss Gibson admitted that she had not.

“Very few people have, I suppose, excepting stamp-collectors,” continued Thorndyke; “but now just glance at this and you will find these unnoticed details forced upon your attention.” As he spoke, he handed her a photograph, which he had taken from a drawer, showing a penny stamp enlarged to a length of eight inches.

While the ladies were marvelling over this production, Polton proceeded with his work. The “Thumbograph” having been fixed in position, the light from a powerful incandescent gas lamp, fitted with a parabolic reflector, was concentrated on it, and the camera racked out to its proper distance.

“What are those figures intended to show?” inquired Miss Gibson, indicating the graduation on the side of one of the guides.

“They show the amount of magnification or reduction,” Thorn­dyke explained. “When the pointer is opposite 0, the photograph is the same size as the object photographed; when it points to, say, × 4, the photograph will be four times the width and length of the object, while if it should point to, say, ÷ 4, the photograph will be one-fourth the length of the object. It is now, you see, pointing to × 8, so the photograph will be eight times the diameter of the original thumb-mark.”

By this time Polton had brought the camera to an accurate focus and, when we had all been gratified by a glimpse of the enlarged image on the focussing screen, we withdrew to a smaller room which was devoted to bacteriology and microscopical re­search, while the exposure was made and the plate developed. Here, after an interval, we were joined by Polton, who bore with infinite tenderness the dripping negative on which could be seen the grotesque transparency of a colossal thumb-mark.

This Thorndyke scrutinised eagerly, and having pronounced it satisfactory, informed Mrs. Hornby that the object of her visit was attained, and thanked her for the trouble she had taken.

“I am very glad we came,” said Miss Gibson to me, as a little later we walked slowly up Mitre Court in the wake of Mrs. Horn­by and Thorndyke; “and I am glad to have seen these wonderful instruments, too. It has made me realise that something is being done and that Dr. Thorndyke really has some object in view. It has really encouraged me immensely.”

“And very properly so,” I replied. “I, too, although I really know nothing of what my colleague is doing, feel very strongly that he would not take all this trouble and give up so much valuable time if he had not some very definite purpose and some substantial reasons for taking a hopeful view.”

“Thank you for saying that,” she rejoined warmly; “and you will let me have a crumb of comfort when you can, won’t you?” She looked in my face so wistfully as she made this appeal that I was quite moved; and, indeed, I am not sure that my state of mind at that moment did not fully justify my colleague’s reticence towards me.

However, I, fortunately, had nothing to tell, and so, when we emerged into Fleet Street to find Mrs. Hornby already ensconced in a hansom, I could only promise, as I grasped the hand that she offered to me, to see her again at the earliest opportunity—a promise which my inner consciousness assured me would be strictly fulfilled.

“You seem to be on quite confidential terms with our fair friend,” Thorndyke remarked, as we strolled back towards his chambers. “You are an insinuating dog, Jervis.”

“She is very frank and easy to get on with,” I replied.

“Yes. A good girl and a clever girl, and comely to look upon withal. I suppose it would be superfluous for me to suggest that you mind your eye?”

“I shouldn’t, in any case, try to cut out a man who is under a cloud,” I replied sulkily.

“Of course you wouldn’t; hence the need of attention to the ophthalmic member. Have you ascertained what Miss Gibson’s actual relation is to Reuben Hornby?”

“No,” I answered.

“It might be worth while to find out,” said Thorndyke; and then he relapsed into silence.

CHAPTER VI

COMMITTED FOR TRIAL

Thorndyke’s hint as to the possible danger foreshadowed by my growing intimacy with Juliet Gibson had come upon me as a complete surprise, and had, indeed, been resented by me as somewhat of an impertinence. Nevertheless, it gave me considerable food for meditation, and I presently began to suspect that the watchful eyes of my observant friend might have detected something in my manner towards Miss Gibson suggestive of sentiments that had been unsuspected by myself.

Of course it would be absurd to suppose that any real feeling could have been engendered by so ridiculously brief an acquaintance. I had only met the girl three times, and even now, excepting for business relations, was hardly entitled to more than a bow of recognition. But yet, when I considered the matter impartially and examined my own consciousness, I could not but recognise that she had aroused in me an interest which bore no relation to the part that she had played in the drama that was so slowly unfolding. She was undeniably a very handsome girl, and her beauty was of a type that specially appealed to me—full of dignity and character that gave promise of a splendid middle age. And her personality was in other ways not less attractive, for she was frank and open, sprightly and intelligent, and though evidently quite self-reliant, was in nowise lacking in that womanly softness that so strongly engages a man’s sympathy.

In short, I realised that, had there been no such person as Reuben Hornby, I should have viewed Miss Gibson with uncom­mon interest.

But, unfortunately, Reuben Hornby was a most palpable real­ity, and, moreover, the extraordinary difficulties of his position entitled him to very special consideration by any man of honour. It was true that Miss Gibson had repudiated any feelings towards Reuben other than those of old-time friendship; but young ladies are not always impartial judges of their own feelings, and, as a man of the world, I could not but have my own opinion on the matter—which opinion I believed to be shared by Thorndyke. The conclusions to which my cogitations at length brought me were: first, that I was an egotistical donkey, and, second, that my relations with Miss Gibson were of an exclusively business character and must in future be conducted on that basis, with the added consideration that I was the confidential agent, for the time being, of Reuben Hornby, and in honour bound to regard his interests as paramount.

“I am hoping,” said Thorndyke, as he held out his hand for my teacup, “that these profound reflections of yours are connected with the Hornby affair; in which case I should expect to hear that the riddle is solved and the mystery made plain.”

“Why should you expect that?” I demanded, reddening somewhat, I suspect, as I met his twinkling eye. There was something rather disturbing in the dry, quizzical smile that I encountered and the reflection that I had been under observation, and I felt as much embarrassed as I should suppose a self-conscious water-flea might feel on finding itself on the illuminated stage of a binocular microscope.

“My dear fellow,” said Thorndyke, “you have not spoken a word for the last quarter of an hour; you have devoured your food with the relentless regularity of a sausage-machine, and you have, from time to time, made the most damnable faces at the coffee-pot—though there I’ll wager the coffee-pot was even with you, if I may judge by the presentment that it offers of my own countenance.”

I roused myself from my reverie with a laugh at Thorndyke’s quaint conceit and a glance at the grotesquely distorted reflection of my face in the polished silver.

“I am afraid I have been a rather dull companion this morn­ing,” I admitted apologetically.

“By no means,” replied Thorndyke, with a grin. “On the contrary, I have found you both amusing and instructive, and I only spoke when I had exhausted your potentialities as a silent entertainer.”

“You are pleased to be facetious at my expense,” said I.

“Well, the expense was not a very heavy one,” he retorted. “I have been merely consuming a by-product of your mental activity—Hallo! That’s Anstey already.”

A peculiar knock, apparently delivered with the handle of a walking-stick on the outer door, was the occasion of this exclamation, and as Thorndyke sprang up and flung the door open, a clear, musical voice was borne in, the measured cadences of which proclaimed at once the trained orator.

“Hail, learned brother!” it exclaimed. “Do I disturb you un­timely at your studies?” Here our visitor entered the room and looked round critically. “’Tis even so,” he declared. “Physiological chemistry and its practical applications appears to be the subject. A physico-chemical inquiry into the properties of streaky bacon and fried eggs. Do I see another learned brother?”

He peered keenly at me through his pince-nez, and I gazed at him in some embarrassment.

“This is my friend Jervis, of whom you have heard me speak,” said Thorndyke. “He is with us in this case, you know.”

“The echoes of your fame have reached me, sir,” said Anstey, holding out his hand. “I am proud to know you. I should have recognised you instantly from the portrait of your lamented uncle in Greenwich Hospital.”

“Anstey is a wag, you understand,” explained Thorndyke, “but he has lucid intervals. He’ll have one presently if we are patient.”

“Patient!” snorted our eccentric visitor, “it is I who need to be patient when I am dragged into police courts and other sinks of iniquity to plead for common thieves and robbers like a Kennington Lane advocate.”

“You’ve been talking to Lawley, I see,” said Thorndyke.

“Yes, and he tells me that we haven’t a leg to stand upon.”

“No, we’ve got to stand on our heads, as men of intellect should. But Lawley knows nothing about the case.”

“He thinks he knows it all,” said Anstey.

“Most fools do,” retorted Thorndyke. “They arrive at their knowledge by intuition—a deuced easy road and cheap travelling too. We reserve our defence—I suppose you agree to that?”

“I suppose so. The magistrate is sure to commit unless you have an unquestionable alibi.”

“We shall put in an alibi, but we are not depending on it.”

“Then we had better reserve our defence,” said Anstey; “and it is time that we wended on our pilgrimage, for we are due at Lawley’s at half-past ten. Is Jervis coming with us?”

“Yes, you’d better come,” said Thorndyke. “It’s the adjourned hearing of poor Hornby’s case, you know. There won’t be anything done on our side, but we may be able to glean some hint from the prosecution.”

“I should like to hear what takes place, at any rate,” I said, and we accordingly sallied forth together in the direction of Lincoln’s Inn, on the north side of which Mr. Lawley’s office was situated.

“Ah!” said the solicitor, as we entered, “I am glad you’ve come; I was getting anxious—it doesn’t do to be late on these occasions, you know. Let me see, do you know Mr. Walter Horn­by? I don’t think you do.” He presented Thorndyke and me to our client’s cousin, and as we shook hands, we viewed one another with a good deal of mutual interest.

“I have heard about you from my aunt,” said he, addressing himself more particularly to me. “She appears to regard you as a kind of legal Maskelyne and Cooke. I hope, for my cousin’s sake, that you will be able to work the wonders that she anticipates. Poor old fellow! He looks pretty bad, doesn’t he?”

I glanced at Reuben, who was at the moment talking to Thorn­dyke, and as he caught my eye he held out his hand with a warmth that I found very pathetic. He seemed to have aged since I had last seen him, and was pale and rather thinner, but he was composed in his manner and seemed to me to be taking his trouble very well on the whole.

“Cab’s at the door, sir,” a clerk announced.

“Cab,” repeated Mr. Lawley, looking dubiously at me; “we want an omnibus.”

“Dr. Jervis and I can walk,” Walter Hornby suggested. “We shall probably get there as soon as you, and it doesn’t matter if we don’t.”

“Yes, that will do,” said Mr. Lawley; “you two walk down together. Now let us go.”

We trooped out on to the pavement, beside which a four-wheeler was drawn up, and as the others were entering the cab, Thorndyke stood close beside me for a moment.

“Don’t let him pump you,” he said in a low voice, without looking at me; then he sprang into the cab and slammed the door.

“What an extraordinary affair this is,” Walter Hornby re­marked, after we had been walking in silence for a minute or two; “a most ghastly business. I must confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.”

“How is that?” I asked.

“Why, do you see, there are apparently only two possible theories of the crime, and each of them seems to be unthinkable. On the one hand there is Reuben, a man of the most scrupulous honour, as far as my experience of him goes, committing a mean and sordid theft for which no motive can be discovered—for he is not poor, nor pecuniarily embarrassed nor in the smallest degree avaricious. On the other hand, there is this thumb-print, which, in the opinion of the experts, is tantamount to the evidence of an eye-witness that he did commit the theft. It is positively bewildering. Don’t you think so?”

“As you put it,” I answered, “the case is extraordinarily puzzling.”

“But how else would you put it?” he demanded, with ill-concealed eagerness.

“I mean that, if Reuben is the man you believe him to be, the thing is incomprehensible.”

“Quite so,” he agreed, though he was evidently disappointed at my colourless answer.

He walked on silently for a few minutes and then said: “I suppose it would not be fair to ask if you see any way out of the difficulty? We are all, naturally anxious about the upshot of the affair, seeing what poor old Reuben’s position is.”

“Naturally. But the fact is that I know no more than you do, and as to Thorndyke, you might as well cross-examine a Whit­stable native as put questions to him.”

“Yes, so I gathered from Juliet. But I thought you might have gleaned some notion of the line of defence from your work in the laboratory—the microscopical and photographic work I mean.”

“I was never in the laboratory until last night, when Thorn­dyke took me there with your aunt and Miss Gibson; the work there is done by the laboratory assistant, and his knowledge of the case, I should say, is about as great as a type-founder’s knowledge of the books that he is helping to produce. No; Thorndyke is a man who plays a single-handed game and no one knows what cards he holds until he lays them on the table.”

My companion considered this statement in silence while I congratulated myself on having parried, with great adroitness, a rather inconvenient question. But the time was not far distant when I should have occasion to reproach myself bitterly for hav­ing been so explicit and emphatic.

“My uncle’s condition,” Walter resumed after a pause, “is a pretty miserable one at present, with this horrible affair added to his own personal worries.”

“Has he any special trouble besides this, then?” I asked.

“Why, haven’t you heard? I thought you knew about it, or I shouldn’t have spoken—not that it is in any way a secret, seeing that it is public property in the city. The fact is that his financial affairs are a little entangled just now.”

“Indeed!” I exclaimed, considerably startled by this new de­vel­opment.

“Yes, things have taken a rather awkward turn, though I think he will pull through all right. It is the usual thing, you know—investments, or perhaps one should say speculations. He appears to have sunk a lot of capital in mines—thought he was ‘in the know,’ not unnaturally; but it seems he wasn’t after all, and the things have gone wrong, leaving him with a deal more money than he can afford locked up and the possibility of a dead loss if they don’t revive. Then there are these infernal diamonds. He is not morally responsible, we know; but it is a question if he is not legally responsible, though the lawyers think he is not. Anyhow, there is going to be a meeting of the creditors tomorrow.”

“And what do you think they will do?”

“Oh, they will, most probably, let him go on for the present; but, of course, if he is made accountable for the diamonds there will be nothing for it but to ‘go through the hoop,’ as the sporting financier expresses it.”

“The diamonds were of considerable value, then?”

“From twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds’ worth vanished with that parcel.”

I whistled. This was a much bigger affair than I had imagined, and I was wondering if Thorndyke had realised the magnitude of the robbery, when we arrived at the police court.

“I suppose our friends have gone inside,” said Walter. “They must have got here before us.”

This supposition was confirmed by a constable of whom we made inquiry, and who directed us to the entrance to the court. Passing down a passage and elbowing our way through the throng of idlers, we made for the solicitor’s box, where we had barely taken our seats when the case was called.

Unspeakably dreary and depressing were the brief proceedings that followed, and dreadfully suggestive of the helplessness of even an innocent man on whom the law has laid its hand and in whose behalf its inexorable machinery has been set in motion.

The presiding magistrate, emotionless and dry, dipped his pen while Reuben, who had surrendered to his bail, was placed in the dock and the charge read over to him. The counsel representing the police gave an abstract of the case with the matter-of-fact air of a house-agent describing an eligible property. Then, when the plea of “not guilty” had been entered, the witnesses were called. There were only two, and when the name of the first, John Hornby, was called, I glanced towards the witness-box with no little curiosity.

I had not hitherto met Mr. Hornby, and as he now entered the box, I saw an elderly man, tall, florid, and well-preserved, but strained and wild in expression and displaying his uncontrollable agitation by continual nervous movements which contrasted curi­ously with the composed demeanour of the accused man. Nevertheless, he gave his evidence in a perfectly connected man­ner, recounting the events connected with the discovery of the crime in much the same words as I had heard Mr. Lawley use, though, indeed, he was a good deal more emphatic than that gentleman had been in regard to the excellent character borne by the prisoner.

After him came Mr. Singleton, of the fingerprint department at Scotland Yard, to whose evidence I listened with close attention. He produced the paper which bore the thumb-print in blood (which had previously been identified by Mr. Hornby) and a paper bearing the print, taken by himself, of the prisoner’s left thumb. These two thumb-prints, he stated, were identical in every respect.

“And you are of opinion that the mark on the paper that was found in Mr. Hornby’s safe, was made by the prisoner’s left thumb?” the magistrate asked in dry and business-like tones.

“I am certain of it.”

“You are of opinion that no mistake is possible?”

“No mistake is possible, your worship. It is a certainty.”

The magistrate looked at Anstey inquiringly, whereupon the barrister rose.

“We reserve our defence, your worship.”

The magistrate then, in the same placid, business-like man­ner, committed the prisoner for trial at the Central Criminal Court, refusing to accept bail for his appearance, and, as Reuben was led forth from the dock, the next case was called.

By special favour of the authorities, Reuben was to be allowed to make his journey to Holloway in a cab, thus escaping the horrors of the filthy and verminous prison van, and while this was being procured, his friends were permitted to wish him farewell.

“This is a hard experience, Hornby,” said Thorndyke, when we three were, for a few moments, left apart from the others; and as he spoke the warmth of a really sympathetic nature broke through his habitual impassivity. “But be of good cheer; I have convinced myself of your innocence and have good hopes of convincing the world—though this is for your private ear, you understand, to be mentioned to no one.”

Reuben wrung the hand of this “friend in need,” but was unable, for the moment, to speak; and, as his self-control was evidently strained to the breaking point, Thorndyke, with a man’s natural instinct, wished him a hasty good-bye, and passing his hand through my arm, turned away.

“I wish it had been possible to save the poor fellow from this delay, and especially from the degradation of being locked up in a jail,” he exclaimed regretfully as we walked down the street.

“There is surely no degradation in being merely accused of a crime,” I answered, without much conviction, however. “It may happen to the best of us; and he is still an innocent man in the eyes of the law.”

“That, my dear Jervis, you know, as well as I do, to be mere casuistry,” he rejoined. “The law professes to regard the unconvicted man as innocent; but how does it treat him? You heard how the magistrate addressed our friend; outside the court he would have called him Mr. Hornby. You know what will happen to Reuben at Holloway. He will be ordered about by warders, will have a number label fastened on to his coat, he will be locked in a cell with a spy-hole in the door, through which any passing stranger may watch him; his food will be handed to him in a tin pan with a tin knife and spoon; and he will be periodically called out of his cell and driven round the exercise yard with a mob composed, for the most part, of the sweepings of the London slums. If he is acquitted, he will be turned loose without a suggestion of compensation or apology for these indignities or the losses he may have sustained through his detention.”

“Still I suppose these evils are unavoidable,” I said.

“That may or may not be,” he retorted. “My point is that the presumption of innocence is a pure fiction; that the treatment of an accused man, from the moment of his arrest, is that of a criminal. However,” he concluded, hailing a passing hansom, “this discussion must be adjourned or I shall be late at the hospital. What are you going to do?”

“I shall get some lunch and then call on Miss Gibson to let her know the real position.”

“Yes, that will be kind, I think; baldly stated, the news may seem rather alarming. I was tempted to thrash the case out in the police court, but it would not have been safe. He would almost certainly have been committed for trial after all, and then we should have shown our hand to the prosecution.”

He sprang into the hansom and was speedily swallowed up in the traffic, while I turned back towards the police court to make certain inquiries concerning the regulations as to visitors at Holloway prison. At the door I met the friendly inspector from Scotland Yard, who gave me the necessary information, whereupon with a certain homely little French restaurant in my mind I bent my steps in the direction of Soho.

CHAPTER VII

SHOALS AND QUICKSANDS

When I arrived at Endsley Gardens, Miss Gibson was at home, and to my unspeakable relief, Mrs. Hornby was not. My veneration for that lady’s moral qualities was excessive, but her conversation drove me to the verge of insanity—an insanity not entirely free from homicidal tendencies.

“It is good of you to come—though I thought you would,” Miss Gibson said impulsively, as we shook hands. “You have been so sympathetic and human—both you and Dr. Thorndyke—so free from professional stiffness. My aunt went off to see Mr. Lawley directly we got Walter’s telegram.”

“I am sorry for her,” I said (and was on the point of adding “and him,” but fortunately a glimmer of sense restrained me); “she will find him dry enough.”

“Yes; I dislike him extremely. Do you know that he had the impudence to advise Reuben to plead ‘guilty’?”

“He told us he had done so, and got a well-deserved snubbing from Thorndyke for his pains.”

“I am so glad,” exclaimed Miss Gibson viciously. “But tell me what has happened. Walter simply said ‘Transferred to higher court,’ which we agreed was to mean, ‘Committed for trial.’ Has the defence failed? And where is Reuben?”

“The defence is reserved. Dr. Thorndyke considered it almost certain that the case would be sent for trial, and that being so, decided that it was essential to keep the prosecution in the dark as to the line of defence. You see, if the police knew what the defence was to be they could revise their own plans accordingly.”

“I see that,” said she dejectedly, “but I am dreadfully disappointed. I had hoped that Dr. Thorndyke would get the case dismissed. What has happened to Reuben?”

This was the question that I had dreaded, and now that I had to answer it I cleared my throat and bent my gaze nervously on the floor.

“The magistrate refused bail,” I said after an uncomfortable pause.

“Well?”

“Consequently Reuben has been—er—detained in custody.”

“You don’t mean to say that they have sent him to prison?” she exclaimed breathlessly.

“Not as a convicted prisoner, you know. He is merely de­tained pending his trial.”

“But in prison?”

“Yes,” I was forced to admit; “in Holloway prison.”

She looked me stonily in the face for some seconds, pale and wide-eyed, but silent; then, with a sudden catch in her breath, she turned away, and, grasping the edge of the mantel-shelf, laid her head upon her arm and burst into a passion of sobbing.

Now I am not, in general, an emotional man, nor even especially impulsive; but neither am I a stock or a stone or an effigy of wood; which I most surely must have been if I could have looked without being deeply moved on the grief, so natural and unselfish, of this strong, brave, loyal-hearted woman. In effect, I moved to her side and, gently taking in mine the hand that hung down, murmured some incoherent words of consolation in a particularly husky voice.

Presently she recovered herself somewhat and softly withdrew her hand, as she turned towards me drying her eyes.

“You must forgive me for distressing you, as I fear I have,” she said; “for you are so kind, and I feel that you are really my friend and Reuben’s.”

“I am indeed, dear Miss Gibson,” I replied, “and so, I assure you, is my colleague.”

“I am sure of it,” she rejoined. “But I was so unprepared for this—I cannot say why, excepting that I trusted so entirely in Dr. Thorndyke—and it is so horrible and, above all, so dreadfully suggestive of what may happen. Up to now the whole thing has seemed like a nightmare—terrifying, but yet unreal. But now that he is actually in prison, it has suddenly become a dreadful reality and I am overwhelmed with terror. Oh! Poor boy! What will become of him? For pity’s sake, Dr. Jervis, tell me what is going to happen.”

What could I do? I had heard Thorndyke’s words of encouragement to Reuben and knew my colleague well enough to feel sure that he meant all he had said. Doubtless my proper course would have been to keep my own counsel and put Miss Gibson off with cautious ambiguities. But I could not; she was worthy of more confidence than that.

“You must not be unduly alarmed about the future,” I said. “I have it from Dr. Thorndyke that he is convinced of Reuben’s innocence, and is hopeful of being able to make it clear to the world. But I did not have this to repeat,” I added, with a slight qualm of conscience.

“I know,” she said softly, “and I thank you from my heart.”

“And as to this present misfortune,” I continued, “you must not let it distress you too much. Try to think of it as of a surgical operation, which is a dreadful thing in itself, but is accepted in lieu of something which is immeasurably more dreadful.”

“I will try to do as you tell me,” she answered meekly; “but it is so shocking to think of a cultivated gentleman like Reuben, herded with common thieves and murderers, and locked in a cage like some wild animal. Think of the ignominy and degradation!”

“There is no ignominy in being wrongfully accused,” I said—a little guiltily, I must own, for Thorndyke’s words came back to me with all their force. But regardless of this I went on: “An acquittal will restore him to his position with an unstained character, and nothing but the recollection of a passing inconvenience to look back upon.”

She gave her eyes a final wipe, and resolutely put away her handkerchief.

“You have given me back my courage,” she said, “and chased away my terror. I cannot tell you how I feel your goodness, nor have I any thank-offering to make, except the promise to be brave and patient henceforth, and trust in you entirely.”

She said this with such a grateful smile, and looked withal so sweet and womanly that I was seized with an overpowering im­pulse to take her in my arms. Instead of this I said with conscious feebleness: “I am more than thankful to have been able to give you any encouragement—which you must remember comes from me second-hand, after all. It is to Dr. Thorndyke that we all look for ultimate deliverance.”

“I know. But it is you who came to comfort me in my trouble, so, you see, the honours are divided—and not divided quite equally, I fear, for women are unreasoning creatures, as, no doubt, your experience has informed you. I think I hear my aunt’s voice, so you had better escape before your retreat is cut off. But before you go, you must tell me how and when I can see Reuben. I want to see him at the earliest possible moment. Poor fellow! He must not be allowed to feel that his friends have forgotten him even for a single instant.”

“You can see him tomorrow, if you like,” I said; and, casting my good resolutions to the winds, I added: “I shall be going to see him myself, and perhaps Dr. Thorndyke will go.”

“Would you let me call at the Temple and go with you? Should I be much in the way? It is rather an alarming thing to go to a prison alone.”

“It is not to be thought of,” I answered. “If you will call at the Temple—it is on the way—we can drive to Holloway together. I suppose you are resolved to go? It will be rather unpleasant, as you are probably aware.”

“I am quite resolved. What time shall I come to the Temple?”

“About two o’clock, if that will suit you.”

“Very well. I will be punctual; and now you must go or you will be caught.”

She pushed me gently towards the door and, holding out her hand, said—

“I haven’t thanked you half enough and I never can. Good-bye!”

She was gone, and I stood alone in the street, up which yellowish wreaths of fog were beginning to roll. It had been quite clear and bright when I entered the house, but now the sky was settling down into a colourless grey, the light was failing and the houses dwindling into dim, unreal shapes that vanished at half their height. Nevertheless I stepped out briskly and strode along at a good pace, as a young man is apt to do when his mind is in somewhat of a ferment. In truth, I had a good deal to occupy my thoughts and, as will often happen both to young men and old, those matters that bore most directly upon my own life and prospects were the first to receive attention.

What sort of relations were growing up between Juliet Gibson and me? And what was my position? As to hers, it seemed plain enough; she was wrapped up in Reuben Hornby and I was her very good friend because I was his. But for myself, there was no disguising the fact that I was beginning to take an interest in her that boded ill for my peace of mind.

Never had I met a woman who so entirely realised my conception of what a woman should be, nor one who exercised so great a charm over me. Her strength and dignity, her softness and de­pendency, to say nothing of her beauty, fitted her with the necessary weapons for my complete and utter subjugation. And utterly subjugated I was—there was no use in denying the fact, even though I realised already that the time would presently come when she would want me no more and there would remain no remedy for me but to go away and try to forget her.

But was I acting as a man of honour? To this I felt I could fairly answer “yes,” for I was but doing my duty, and could hardly act differently if I wished to. Besides, I was jeopardising no one’s happiness but my own, and a man may do as he pleases with his own happiness. No; even Thorndyke could not accuse me of dishonourable conduct.

Presently my thoughts took a fresh turn and I began to reflect upon what I had heard concerning Mr. Hornby. Here was a startling development, indeed, and I wondered what difference it would make in Thorndyke’s hypothesis of the crime. What his theory was I had never been able to guess, but as I walked along through the thickening fog I tried to fit this new fact into our collection of data and determine its bearings and significance.

In this, for a time, I failed utterly. The red thumb-mark filled my field of vision to the exclusion of all else. To me, as to everyone else but Thorndyke, this fact was final and pointed to a conclusion that was unanswerable. But as I turned the story of the crime over and over, there came to me presently an idea that set in motion a new and very startling train of thought.

Could Mr. Hornby himself be the thief? His failure appeared sudden to the outside world, but he must have seen difficulties coming. There, indeed, was the thumb-mark on the leaf which he had torn from his pocket-block. Yes! But who had seen him tear it off? No one. The fact rested on his bare statement.

But the thumb-mark? Well, it was possible (though un­likely)—still possible—that the mark might have been made accidentally on some previous occasion and forgotten by Reuben, or even unnoticed. Mr. Hornby had seen the “Thumbograph,” in fact his own mark was in it, and so would have had his attention directed to the importance of fingerprints in identification. He might have kept the marked paper for future use, and, on the occasion of the robbery, pencilled a dated inscription on it, and slipped it into the safe as a sure means of diverting suspicion. All this was improbable in the highest degree, but then so was every other explanation of the crime; and as to the unspeakable baseness of the deed, what action is too base for a gambler in difficulties?

I was so much excited and elated by my own ingenuity in having formed an intelligible and practicable theory of the crime, that I was now impatient to reach home that I might impart my news to Thorndyke and see how they affected him. But as I approached the centre of the town the fog grew so dense that all my attention was needed to enable me to thread my way safely through the traffic; while the strange, deceptive aspect that it lent to familiar objects and the obliteration of landmarks made my progress so slow that it was already past six o’clock when I felt my way down Middle Temple Lane and crept through Crown Office Row towards my colleague’s chambers.

On the doorstep I found Polton peering with anxious face into the blank expanse of yellow vapour.

“The Doctor’s late, sir,” said he. “Detained by the fog, I expect. It must be pretty thick in the Borough.”

(I may mention that, to Polton, Thorndyke was The Doctor. Other inferior creatures there were, indeed, to whom the title of “doctor” in a way, appertained; but they were of no account in Polton’s eyes. Surnames were good enough for them.)

“Yes, it must be,” I replied, “judging by the condition of the Strand.”

I entered and ascended the stairs, glad enough of the prospect of a warm and well-lighted room after my comfortless groping in the murky streets, and Polton, with a final glance up and down the walk reluctantly followed.

“You would like some tea, sir, I expect?” said he, as he let me in (though I had a key of my own now).

I thought I should, and he accordingly set about the preparations in his deft methodical way, but with an air of abstraction that was unusual with him.

“The Doctor said he should be home by five,” he remarked, as he laid the tea-pot on the tray.

“Then he is a defaulter,” I answered. “We shall have to water his tea.”

“A wonderful punctual man, sir, is the Doctor,” pursued Polton. “Keeps his time to the minute, as a rule, he does.”

“You can’t keep your time to a minute in a ‘London Particular,’” I said a little impatiently, for I wished to be alone that I might think over matters, and Polton’s nervous flutterings irritated me somewhat. He was almost as bad as a female housekeeper.

The little man evidently perceived my state of mind, for he stole away silently, leaving me rather penitent and ashamed, and, as I presently discovered on looking out of the window, resumed his vigil on the doorstep. From this point of vantage he returned after a time to take away the tea-things; and thereafter, though it was now dark as well as foggy, I could hear him softly flitting up and down the stairs with a gloomy stealthiness that at length reduced me to a condition as nervously apprehensive as his own.

CHAPTER VIII

A SUSPICIOUS ACCIDENT

The Temple clock had announced in soft and confidential tones that it was a quarter to seven, in which statement it was stoutly supported by its colleague on our mantelpiece, and still there was no sign of Thorndyke. It was really a little strange, for he was the soul of punctuality, and moreover, his engagements were of such a kind as rendered punctuality possible. I was burning with impatience to impart my news to him, and this fact, together with the ghostly proceedings of Polton, worked me up to a state of nervous tension that rendered either rest or thought equally im­possible. I looked out of the window at the lamp below, glaring redly through the fog, and then, opening the door, went out on to the landing to listen.

At this moment Polton made a silent appearance on the stairs leading from the laboratory, giving me quite a start; and I was about to retire into the room when my ear caught the tinkle of a hansom approaching from Paper Buildings.

The vehicle drew nearer, and at length stopped opposite the house, on which Polton slid down the stairs with the agility of a harlequin. A few moments later I heard his voice ascending from the hall—

“I do hope, sir, you’re not much hurt?”

I ran down the stairs and met Thorndyke coming up slowly with his right hand on Polton’s shoulder. His clothes were muddy, his left arm was in a sling, and a black handkerchief under his hat evidently concealed a bandage.

“I am not really hurt at all,” Thorndyke replied cheerily, “though very disreputable to look at. Just came a cropper in the mud, Jervis,” he added, as he noted my dismayed expression. “Dinner and a clothes-brush are what I chiefly need.” Nevertheless, he looked very pale and shaken when he came into the light on the landing, and he sank into his easy-chair in the limp manner of a man either very weak or very fatigued.

“How did it happen?” I asked when Polton had crept away on tiptoe to make ready for dinner.

Thorndyke looked round to make sure that his henchman had departed, and said—

“A queer affair, Jervis; a very odd affair indeed. I was coming up from the Borough, picking my way mighty carefully across the road on account of the greasy, slippery mud, and had just reached the foot of London Bridge when I heard a heavy lorry coming down the slope a good deal too fast, considering that it was impossible to see more than a dozen yards ahead, and I stopped on the kerb to see it safely past. Just as the horses emerged from the fog, a man came up behind and lurched violently against me and, strangely enough, at the same moment passed his foot in front of mine. Of course I went sprawling into the road right in front of the lorry. The horses came stamping and sliding straight on to me, and, before I could wriggle out of the way, the hoof of one of them smashed in my hat—that was a new one that I came home in—and half-stunned me. Then the near wheel struck my head, mak­ing a dirty little scalp wound, and pinned down my sleeve so that I couldn’t pull away my arm, which is consequently barked all the way down. It was a mighty near thing, Jervis; another inch or two and I should have been rolled out as flat as a starfish.”

“What became of the man?” I asked, wishing I could have had a brief interview with him.

“Lost to sight though to memory dear: he was off like a lamplighter. An alcoholic apple-woman picked me up and escorted me back to the hospital. It must have been a touching spectacle,” he added, with a dry smile at the recollection.

“And I suppose they kept you there for a time to recover?”

“Yes; I went into dry dock in the O. P. room, and then old Langdale insisted on my lying down for an hour or so in case any symptoms of concussion should appear. But I was only a trifle shaken and confused. Still, it was a queer affair.”

“You mean the man pushing you down in that way?”

“Yes; I can’t make out how his foot got in front of mine.”

“You don’t think it was intentional, surely?” I said.

“No, of course not,” he replied, but without much conviction, as it seemed to me; and I was about to pursue the matter when Polton reappeared, and my friend abruptly changed the subject.

After dinner I recounted my conversation with Walter Horn­by, watching my colleague’s face with some eagerness to see what effect this new information would produce on him. The result was, on the whole, disappointing. He was interested, keenly interested, but showed no symptoms of excitement.

“So John Hornby has been plunging in mines, eh?” he said, when I had finished. “He ought to know better at his age. Did you learn how long he had been in difficulties?”

“No. But it can hardly have been quite sudden and unforeseen.”

“I should think not,” Thorndyke agreed. “A sudden slump often proves disastrous to the regular Stock Exchange gambler who is paying differences on large quantities of unpaid-for stock. But it looks as if Hornby had actually bought and paid for these mines, treating them as investments rather than speculations, in which case the depreciation would not have affected him in the same way. It would be interesting to know for certain.”

“It might have a considerable bearing on the present case, might it not?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Thorndyke. “It might bear on the case in more ways than one. But you have some special point in your mind, I think.”

“Yes. I was thinking that if these embarrassments had been growing up gradually for some time, they might have already assumed an acute form at the time of the robbery.”

“That is well considered,” said my colleague. “But what is the special bearing on the case supposing it was so?”

“On the supposition,” I replied, “that Mr. Hornby was in actual pecuniary difficulties at the date of the robbery, it seems to me possible to construct a hypothesis as to the identity of the robber.”

“I should like to hear that hypothesis stated,” said Thorndyke, rousing himself and regarding me with lively interest.

“It is a highly improbable one,” I began with some natural shyness at the idea of airing my wits before this master of inductive method; “in fact, it is almost fantastic.”

“Never mind that,” said he. “A sound thinker gives equal consideration to the probable and the improbable.”

Thus encouraged, I proceeded to set forth the theory of the crime as it had occurred to me on my way home in the fog, and I was gratified to observe the close attention with which Thorndyke listened, and his little nods of approval at each point that I made.

When I had finished, he remained silent for some time, look­ing thoughtfully into the fire and evidently considering how my theory and the new facts on which it was based would fit in with the rest of the data. At length he spoke, without, however, remov­ing his eyes from the red embers—

“This theory of yours, Jervis, does great credit to your ingenuity. We may disregard the improbability, seeing that the alternative theories are almost equally improbable, and the fact that emerges, and that gratifies me more than I can tell you, is that you are gifted with enough scientific imagination to construct a possible train of events. Indeed, the improbability—combined, of course, with possibility—really adds to the achievement, for the dullest mind can perceive the obvious—as, for instance, the importance of a fingerprint. You have really done a great thing, and I congratulate you; for you have emancipated yourself, at least to some extent, from the great fingerprint obsession, which has possessed the legal mind ever since Galton published his epoch-making monograph. In that work I remember he states that a fingerprint affords evidence requiring no corroboration—a most dangerous and misleading statement which has been fastened upon eagerly by the police, who have naturally been de­lighted at obtaining a sort of magic touchstone by which they are saved the labour of investigation. But there is no such thing as a single fact that ‘affords evidence requiring no corroboration.’ As well might one expect to make a syllogism with a single premise.”

“I suppose they would hardly go so far as that,” I said, laugh­ing.

“No,” he admitted. “But the kind of syllogism that they do make is this—

“‘The crime was committed by the person who made this fingerprint.

“‘But John Smith is the person who made the fingerprint.

“‘Therefore the crime was committed by John Smith.’”

“Well, that is a perfectly good syllogism, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Perfectly,” he replied. “But, you see, it begs the whole question, which is, ‘Was the crime committed by the person who made this fingerprint?’ That is where the corroboration is required.”

“That practically leaves the case to be investigated without reference to the fingerprint, which thus becomes of no importance.”

“Not at all,” rejoined Thorndyke; “the fingerprint is a most valuable clue as long as its evidential value is not exaggerated. Take our present case, for instance. Without the thumb-print, the robbery might have been committed by anybody; there is no clue whatever. But the existence of the thumb-print narrows the in­quiry down to Reuben or some person having access to his fingerprints.”

“Yes, I see. Then you consider my theory of John Hornby as the perpetrator of the robbery as quite a tenable one?”

“Quite,” replied Thorndyke. “I have entertained it from the first; and the new facts that you have gathered increase its probability. You remember I said that four hypotheses were possible: that the robbery was committed either by Reuben, by Walter, by John Hornby, or by some other person. Now, putting aside the ‘some other person’ for consideration only if the first three hypo­theses fail, we have left, Reuben, Walter, and John. But if we leave the thumb-print out of the question, the probabilities evidently point to John Hornby, since he, admittedly, had access to the diamonds, whereas there is nothing to show that the others had. The thumb-print, however, transfers the suspicion to Reuben; but yet, as your theory makes evident, it does not completely clear John Hornby. As the case stands, the balance of probabilities may be stated thus: John Hornby undoubtedly had access to the diamonds, and therefore might have stolen them. But if the thumb-mark was made after he closed the safe and before he opened it again, some other person must have had access to them, and was probably the thief.

“The thumb-mark is that of Reuben Hornby, a fact that establishes a prima facie probability that he stole the diamonds. But there is no evidence that he had access to them, and if he had not, he could not have made the thumb-mark in the manner and at the time stated.

“But John Hornby may have had access to the previously-made thumb-mark of Reuben, and may possibly have obtained it; in which case he is almost certainly the thief.

“As to Walter Hornby, he may have had the means of ob­taining Reuben’s thumb-mark; but there is no evidence that he had access either to the diamonds or to Mr. Hornby’s memorandum block. The prima facie probabilities in his case, therefore, are very slight.”

“The actual points at issue, then,” I said, “are, whether Reu­ben had any means of opening the safe, and whether Mr. Hornby ever did actually have the opportunity of obtaining Reuben’s thumb-mark in blood on his memorandum block.”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “Those are the points—with some others—and they are likely to remain unsettled. Reuben’s rooms have been searched by the police, who failed to find any skeleton or duplicate keys; but this proves nothing, as he would probably have made away with them when he heard of the thumb-mark being found. As to the other matter, I have asked Reuben, and he has no recollection of ever having made a thumb-mark in blood. So there the matter rests.”

“And what about Mr. Hornby’s liability for the diamonds?”

“I think we may dismiss that,” answered Thorndyke. “He had undertaken no liability and there was no negligence. He would not be liable at law.”

After my colleague retired, which he did quite early, I sat for a long time pondering upon this singular case in which I found myself involved. And the more I thought about it the more puzzled I became. If Thorndyke had no more satisfactory explanation to offer than that which he had given me this evening, the defence was hopeless, for the court was not likely to accept his estimate of the evidential value of fingerprints. Yet he had given Reuben something like a positive assurance that there would be an adequate defence, and had expressed his own positive conviction of the accused man’s innocence. But Thorndyke was not a man to reach such a conviction through merely sentimental considerations. The inevitable conclusion was that he had something up his sleeve—that he had gained possession of some facts that had escaped my observation; and when I had reached this point I knocked out my pipe and betook myself to bed.

CHAPTER IX

THE PRISONER

On the following morning, as I emerged from my room, I met Polton coming up with a tray (our bedrooms were on the attic floor above the laboratory and workshop), and I accordingly followed him into my friend’s chamber.

“I shan’t go out today,” said Thorndyke, “though I shall come down presently. It is very inconvenient, but one must accept the inevitable. I have had a knock on the head, and, although I feel none the worse, I must take the proper precautions—rest and a low diet—until I see that no results are going to follow. You can attend to the scalp wound and send round the necessary letters, can’t you?”

I expressed my willingness to do all that was required and applauded my friend’s self-control and good sense; indeed, I could not help contrasting the conduct of this busy, indefatigable man, cheerfully resigning himself to most distasteful inaction, with the fussy behaviour of the ordinary patient who, with no­thing of importance to do, can hardly be prevailed upon to rest, no matter how urgent the necessity. Accordingly, I breakfasted alone, and spent the morning in writing and despatching letters to the various persons who were expecting visits from my colleague.

Shortly after lunch (a very spare one, by the way, for Polton appeared to include me in the scheme of reduced diet) my expectant ear caught the tinkle of a hansom approaching down Crown Office Row.

“Here comes your fair companion,” said Thorndyke, whom I had acquainted with my arrangements, “Tell Hornby, from me, to keep up his courage, and, for yourself, bear my warning in mind. I should be sorry indeed if you ever had cause to regret that you had rendered me the very valuable services for which I am now in­debted to you. Good-bye; don’t keep her waiting.”

I ran down the stairs and came out of the entry just as the cabman had pulled up and flung open the doors.

“Holloway Prison—main entrance,” I said, as I stepped up on to the footboard.

“There ain’t no back door there, sir,” the man responded, with a grin; and I was glad that neither the answer nor the grin was conveyed to my fellow-passenger.

“You are very punctual, Miss Gibson,” I said. “It is not half-past one yet.”

“Yes; I thought I should like to get there by two, so as to have as long a time with him as is possible without shortening your interview.”

I looked at my companion critically. She was dressed with rather more than her usual care, and looked, in fact, a very fine lady indeed. This circumstance, which I noted at first with surprise and then with decided approbation, caused me some inward discomfort, for I had in my mind a very distinct and highly disagreeable picture of the visiting arrangements at a local prison in one of the provinces, at which I had acted temporarily as medical officer.

“I suppose,” I said at length, “it is of no use for me to re-open the question of the advisability of this visit on your part?”

“Not the least,” she replied resolutely, “though I understand and appreciate your motive in wishing to do so.”

“Then,” said I, “if you are really decided, it will be as well for me to prepare you for the ordeal. I am afraid it will give you a terrible shock.”

“Indeed?” said she. “Is it so bad? Tell me what it will be like.”

“In the first place,” I replied, “you must keep in your mind the purpose of a prison like Holloway. We are going to see an innocent man—a cultivated and honourable gentleman. But the ordinary inmates of Holloway are not innocent men; for the most part, the remand cases on the male side are professional criminals, while the women are either petty offenders or chronic inebriates. Most of them are regular customers at the prison—such is the idiotic state of the law—who come into the reception-room like travellers entering a familiar hostelry, address the prison officers by name and demand the usual privileges and extra comforts—the ‘drunks,’ for instance, generally ask for a dose of bromide to steady their nerves and a light in the cell to keep away the horrors. And such being the character of the inmates, their friends who visit them are naturally of the same type—the lowest outpourings of the slums; and it is not surprising to find that the arrangements of the prison are made to fit its ordinary inmates. The innocent man is a negligible quantity, and no arrangements are made for him or his visitors.”

“But shall we not be taken to Reuben’s cell?” asked Miss Gibson.

“Bless you! No,” I answered; and, determined to give her every inducement to change her mind, I continued: “I will describe the procedure as I have seen it—and a very dreadful and shocking sight I found it, I can tell you. It was while I was acting as a prison doctor in the Midlands that I had this experience. I was going my round one morning when, passing along a passage, I became aware of a strange, muffled roar from the other side of the wall.

“‘What is that noise?’ I asked the warder who was with me.

“‘Prisoners seeing their friends,’ he answered. ‘Like to have a look at them, sir?’

“He unlocked a small door and, as he threw it open, the distant, muffled sound swelled into a deafening roar. I passed through the door and found myself in a narrow alley at one end of which a warder was sitting. The sides of the alley were formed by two immense cages with stout wire bars, one for the prisoners and the other for the visitors; and each cage was lined with faces and hands, all in incessant movement, the faces mouthing and grimacing, and the hands clawing restlessly at the bars. The uproar was so terrific that no single voice could be distinguished, though every one present was shouting his loudest to make himself heard above the universal din. The result was a very strange and horrid illusion, for it seemed as if no one was speaking at all, but that the noise came from outside, and that each one of the faces—low, vicious faces, mostly—was silently grimacing and gibbering, snapping its jaws and glaring furiously at the occupants of the opposite cage. It was a frightful spectacle. I could think of nothing but the monkey-house at the Zoo. It seemed as if one ought to walk up the alley and offer nuts and pieces of paper to be torn to pieces.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Miss Gibson. “And do you mean to say that we shall be turned loose into one of these cages with a herd of other visitors?”

“No. You are not turned loose anywhere in a prison. The arrangement is this: each cage is divided by partitions into a number of small boxes or apartments, which are numbered. The prisoner is locked in one box and his visitor in the corresponding box opposite. They are thus confronted, with the width of the alley between them; they can see one another and talk but cannot pass any forbidden articles across—a very necessary precaution, I need hardly say.”

“Yes, I suppose it is necessary, but it is horrible for decent people. Surely they ought to be able to discriminate.”

“Why not give it up and let me take a message to Reuben? He would understand and be thankful to me for dissuading you.”

“No, no,” she said quickly; “the more repulsive it is the greater the necessity for me to go. He must not be allowed to think that a trifling inconvenience or indignity is enough to scare his friends away. What building is that ahead?”

We had just swung round from Caledonian Road into a quiet and prosperous-looking suburban street, at the end of which rose the tower of a castellated building.

“That is the prison,” I replied. “We are looking at it from the most advantageous point of view; seen from the back, and especially from the inside, it is a good deal less attractive.”

Nothing more was said until the cab drove into the courtyard and set us down outside the great front gates. Having directed the cabman to wait for us, I rang the bell and we were speedily admitted through a wicket (which was immediately closed and locked) into a covered court closed in by a second gate, through the bars of which we could see across an inner courtyard to the actual entrance to the prison. Here, while the necessary formalities were gone through, we found ourselves part of a numerous and very motley company, for a considerable assemblage of the prisoners’ friends was awaiting the moment of admission. I noticed that my companion was observing our fellow-visitors with a kind of horrified curiosity, which she strove, however, and not unsuccessfully, to conceal; and certainly the appearance of the majority furnished eloquent testimony to the failure of crime as a means of worldly advancement. Their present position was productive of very varied emotions; some were silent and evidently stricken with grief; a larger number were voluble and excited, while a considerable proportion were quite cheerful and even inclined to be facetious.

At length the great iron gate was unlocked and our party taken in charge by a warder, who conducted us to that part of the building known as “the wing”; and, in the course of our progress, I could not help observing the profound impression made upon my companion by the circumstance that every door had to be unlocked to admit us and was locked again as soon as we had passed through.

“It seems to me,” I said, as we neared our destination, “that you had better let me see Reuben first; I have not much to say to him and shall not keep you waiting long.”

“Why do you think so?” she asked, with a shade of suspicion.

“Well,” I answered, “I think you may be a little upset by the interview, and I should like to see you into your cab as soon as possible afterwards.”

“Yes,” she said; “perhaps you are right, and it is kind of you to be so thoughtful on my account.”

A minute later, accordingly, I found myself shut into a narrow box, like one of those which considerate pawnbrokers provide for their more diffident clients, and in a similar, but more intense, degree, pervaded by a subtle odour of uncleanness. The woodwork was polished to an unctuous smoothness by the friction of numberless dirty hands and soiled garments, and the general appearance—taken in at a glance as I entered—was such as to cause me to thrust my hands into my pockets and studiously avoid contact with any part of the structure but the floor. The end of the box opposite the door was closed in by a strong grating of wire—excepting the lower three feet, which was of wood—and looking through this, I perceived, behind a second grating, Reuben Horn­by, standing in a similar attitude to my own. He was dressed in his usual clothes and with his customary neatness, but his face was unshaven and he wore, suspended from a button-hole, a circular label bearing the characters “B.31”; and these two changes in his exterior carried with them a suggestiveness as subtle as it was unpleasant, making me more than ever regretful that Miss Gibson had insisted on coming.

“It is exceedingly good of you, Dr. Jervis, to come and see me,” he said heartily, making himself heard quite easily, to my surprise, above the hubbub of the adjoining boxes; “but I didn’t expect you here. I was told I could see my legal advisers in the solicitor’s box.”

“So you could,” I answered. “But I came here by choice because I have brought Miss Gibson with me.”

“I am sorry for that,” he rejoined, with evident disapproval; “she oughtn’t to have come among these riff-raff.”

“I told her so, and that you wouldn’t like it, but she insisted.”

“I know,” said Reuben. “That’s the worst of women—they will make a beastly fuss and sacrifice themselves when nobody wants them to. But I mustn’t be ungrateful; she means it kindly, and she’s a deuced good sort, is Juliet.”

“She is indeed,” I exclaimed, not a little disgusted at his cool, unappreciative tone; “a most noble-hearted girl, and her devotion to you is positively heroic.”

The faintest suspicion of a smile appeared on the face seen through the double grating; on which I felt that I could have pulled his nose with pleasure—only that a pair of tongs of special construction would have been required for the purpose.

“Yes,” he answered calmly, “we have always been very good friends.”

A rejoinder of the most extreme acidity was on my lips. Damn the fellow! What did he mean by speaking in that supercilious tone of the loveliest and sweetest woman in the world? But, after all, one cannot trample on a poor devil locked up in a jail on a false charge, no matter how great may be the provocation. I drew a deep breath, and, having recovered myself, outwardly at least, said—

“I hope you don’t find the conditions here too intolerable?”

“Oh, no,” he answered. “It’s beastly unpleasant, of course, but it might easily be worse. I don’t mind if it’s only for a week or two; and I am really encouraged by what Dr. Thorndyke said. I hope he wasn’t being merely soothing.”

“You may take it that he was not. What he said, I am sure he meant. Of course, you know I am not in his confidence—nobody is—but I gather that he is satisfied with the defence he is preparing.”

“If he is satisfied, I am,” said Reuben, “and, in any case, I shall owe him an immense debt of gratitude for having stood by me and believed in me when all the world—except my aunt and Juliet—had condemned me.”

He then went on to give me a few particulars of his prison life, and when he had chatted for a quarter of an hour or so, I took my leave to make way for Miss Gibson.

Her interview with him was not as long as I had expected, though, to be sure, the conditions were not very favourable either for the exchange of confidences or for utterances of a sentimental character. The consciousness that one’s conversation could be overheard by the occupants of adjacent boxes destroyed all sense of privacy, to say nothing of the disturbing influence of the warder in the alley-way.

When she rejoined me, her manner was abstracted and very depressed, a circumstance that gave me considerable food for reflection as we made our way in silence towards the main en­trance. Had she found Reuben as cool and matter-of-fact as I had? He was assuredly a very calm and self-possessed lover, and it was conceivable that his reception of the girl, strung up, as she was, to an acute pitch of emotion, might have been somewhat in the nature of an anticlimax. And then, was it possible that the feeling was on her side only? Could it be that the priceless pearl of her love was cast before—I was tempted to use the colloquial singular and call him an “unappreciative swine!” The thing was almost unthinkable to me, and yet I was tempted to dwell upon it; for when a man is in love—and I could no longer disguise my condition from myself—he is inclined to be humble and to gather up thankfully the treasure that is rejected of another.

I was brought up short in these reflections by the clank of the lock in the great iron gate. We entered together the gloomy vestibule, and a moment later were let out through the wicket into the courtyard; and as the lock clicked behind us, we gave a simultaneous sigh of relief to find ourselves outside the precincts of the prison, beyond the domain of bolts and bars.

I had settled Miss Gibson in the cab and given her address to the driver, when I noticed her looking at me, as I thought, somewhat wistfully.

“Can’t I put you down somewhere?” she said, in response to a half-questioning glance from me.

I seized the opportunity with thankfulness and replied—

“You might set me down at King’s Cross if it is not delaying you;” and giving the word to the cabman, I took my place by her side as the cab started and a black-painted prison van turned into the courtyard with its freight of squalid misery.

“I don’t think Reuben was very pleased to see me,” Miss Gibson remarked presently, “but I shall come again all the same. It is a duty I owe both to him and to myself.”

I felt that I ought to endeavour to dissuade her, but the reflection that her visits must almost of necessity involve my companionship, enfeebled my will. I was fast approaching a state of infatuation.

“I was so thankful,” she continued, “that you prepared me. It was a horrible experience to see the poor fellow caged like a wild beast, with that dreadful label hanging from his coat; but it would have been overwhelming if I had not known what to expect.”

As we proceeded, her spirits revived somewhat, a circumstance that she graciously ascribed to the enlivening influence of my society; and I then told her of the mishap that had befallen my colleague.

“What a terrible thing!” she exclaimed, with evidently unaffected concern. “It is the merest chance that he was not killed on the spot. Is he much hurt? And would he mind, do you think, if I called to inquire after him?”

I said that I was sure he would be delighted (being, as a matter of fact, entirely indifferent as to his sentiments on the subject in my delight at the proposal), and when I stepped down from the cab at King’s Cross to pursue my way homewards, there already opened out before me the prospect of the renewal of this bitter-sweet and all too dangerous companionship on the morrow.

CHAPTER X

POLTON IS MYSTIFIED

A couple of days sufficed to prove that Thorndyke’s mishap was not to be productive of any permanent ill consequences; his wounds progressed favourably and he was able to resume his ordinary avocations.

Miss Gibson’s visit—but why should I speak of her in these formal terms? To me, when I thought of her, which I did only too often, she was Juliet, with perhaps an adjective thrown in; and as Juliet I shall henceforth speak of her (but without the adjective) in this narrative, wherein nothing has been kept back from the reader—Juliet’s visit, then, had been a great success, for my colleague was really pleased by the attention, and displayed a quiet geniality that filled our visitor with delight.

He talked a good deal of Reuben, and I could see that he was endeavouring to settle in his own mind the vexed question of her relations with and sentiments towards our unfortunate client; but what conclusions he arrived at I was unable to discover, for he was by no means communicative after she had left. Nor was there any repetition of the visit—greatly to my regret—since, as I have said, he was able, in a day or two, to resume his ordinary mode of life.

The first evidence I had of his renewed activity appeared when I returned to the chambers at about eleven o’clock in the morning, to find Polton hovering dejectedly about the sitting-room, apparently perpetrating as near an approach to a “spring clean” as could be permitted in a bachelor establishment.

“Hallo, Polton!” I exclaimed, “have you contrived to tear yourself away from the laboratory for an hour or two?”

“No, sir,” he answered gloomily. “The laboratory has torn itself away from me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The Doctor has shut himself in and locked the door, and he says I am not to disturb him. It will be a cold lunch today.”

“What is he doing in there?” I inquired.

“Ah!” said Polton, “that’s just what I should like to know. I’m fair eaten up with curiosity. He is making some experiments in connection with some of his cases, and when the Doctor locks himself in to make experiments, something interesting generally follows. I should like to know what it is this time.”

“I suppose there is a keyhole in the laboratory door?” I suggested, with a grin.

“Sir!” he exclaimed indignantly. “Dr. Jervis, I am surprised at you.” Then, perceiving my facetious intent, he smiled also and added: “But there is a keyhole if you’d like to try it, though I’ll wager the Doctor would see more of you than you would of him.”

“You are mighty secret about your doings, you and the Doc­tor,” I said.

“Yes,” he answered. “You see, it’s a queer trade this of the Doctor’s, and there are some queer secrets in it. Now, for in­stance, what do you make of this?”

He produced from his pocket a leather case, whence he took a piece of paper which he handed to me. On it was a neatly executed drawing of what looked like one of a set of chessmen, with the dimensions written on the margin.

“It looks like a pawn—one of the Staunton pattern,” I said.

“Just what I thought; but it isn’t. I’ve got to make twenty-four of them, and what the Doctor is going to do with them fairly beats me.”

“Perhaps he has invented some new game,” I suggested facetiously.

“He is always inventing new games and playing them mostly in courts of law, and then the other players generally lose. But this is a puzzler, and no mistake. Twenty-four of these to be turned up in the best-seasoned boxwood! What can they be for? Something to do with the experiments he is carrying on upstairs at this very moment, I expect.” He shook his head, and, having carefully returned the drawing to his pocket-book, said, in a solemn tone—“Sir, there are times when the Doctor makes me fairly dance with curiosity. And this is one of them.”

Although not afflicted with a curiosity so acute as that of Polton, I found myself speculating at intervals on the nature of my colleague’s experiments and the purpose of the singular little objects which he had ordered to be made; but I was unacquainted with any of the cases on which he was engaged, excepting that of Reuben Hornby, and with the latter I was quite unable to connect a set of twenty-four boxwood chessmen. Moreover, on this day, I was to accompany Juliet on her second visit to Holloway, and that circumstance gave me abundant mental occupation of another kind.

At lunch, Thorndyke was animated and talkative but not communicative. He “had some work in the laboratory that he must do himself,” he said, but gave no hint as to its nature; and as soon as our meal was finished, he returned to his labours, leaving me to pace up and down the walk, listening with ridiculous eagerness for the sound of the hansom that was to transport me to the regions of the blest, and—incidentally—to Holloway Prison.

When I returned to the Temple, the sitting-room was empty and hideously neat, as the result of Polton’s spring-cleaning ef­forts. My colleague was evidently still at work in the laboratory, and, from the circumstance that the tea-things were set out on the table and a kettle of water placed in readiness on the gas-ring by the fireplace, I gathered that Polton also was full of business and anxious not to be disturbed.

Accordingly, I lit the gas and made my tea, enlivening my solitude by turning over in my mind the events of the afternoon.

Juliet had been charming—as she always was—frank, friendly and unaffectedly pleased to have my companionship. She evidently liked me and did not disguise the fact—why should she indeed?—but treated me with a freedom, almost affectionate, as though I had been a favourite brother; which was very delightful, and would have been more so if I could have accepted the relationship. As to her feelings towards me, I had not the slightest misgiving, and so my conscience was clear; for Juliet was as innocent as a child, with the innocence that belongs to the direct, straightforward nature that neither does evil itself nor looks for evil motives in others. For myself, I was past praying for. The thing was done and I must pay the price hereafter, content to reflect that I had trespassed against no one but myself. It was a miserable affair, and many a heartache did it promise me in the lonely days that were to come, when I should have said “good-bye” to the Temple and gone back to my old nomadic life; and yet I would not have had it changed if I could; would not have bartered the bitter-sweet memories for dull forgetfulness.

But other matters had transpired in the course of our drive than those that loomed so large to me in the egotism of my love. We had spoken of Mr. Hornby and his affairs, and from our talk there had emerged certain facts of no little moment to the inquiry on which I was engaged.

“Misfortunes are proverbially sociable,” Juliet had remarked, in reference to her adopted uncle. “As if this trouble about Reu­ben were not enough, there are worries in the city. Perhaps you have heard of them.”

I replied that Walter had mentioned the matter to me.

“Yes,” said Juliet rather viciously; “I am not quite clear as to what part that good gentleman has played in the matter. It has come out, quite accidentally, that he had a large holding in the mines himself, but he seems to have ‘cut his loss,’ as the phrase goes, and got out of them; though how he managed to pay such large differences is more than we can understand. We think he must have raised money somehow to do it.”

“Do you know when the mines began to depreciate?” I asked.

“Yes, it was quite a sudden affair—what Walter calls ‘a slump’—and it occurred only a few days before the robbery. Mr. Hornby was telling me about it only yesterday, and he recalled it to me by a ridiculous accident that happened on that day.”

“What was that?” I inquired.

“Why, I cut my finger and nearly fainted,” she answered, with a shamefaced little laugh. “It was rather a bad cut, you know, but I didn’t notice it until I found my hand covered with blood. Then I turned suddenly faint, and had to lie down on the hearthrug—it was in Mr. Hornby’s study, which I was tidying up at the time. Here I was found by Reuben, and a dreadful fright it gave him at first; and then he tore up his handkerchief to tie up the wounded finger, and you never saw such an awful mess as he got his hands in. He might have been arrested as a murderer, poor boy, from the condition he was in. It will make your professional gorge rise to learn that he fastened up the extemporised bandage with red tape, which he got from the writing table after rooting about among the sacred papers in the most ruthless fashion.

“When he had gone I tried to put the things on the table straight again, and really you might have thought some horrible crime had been committed; the envelopes and papers were all smeared with blood and marked with the print of gory fingers. I remembered it afterwards, when Reuben’s thumb-mark was identi­fied, and thought that perhaps one of the papers might have got into the safe by accident; but Mr. Hornby told me that was impossible; he tore the leaf off his memorandum block at the time when he put away the diamonds.”

Such was the gist of our conversation as the cab rattled through the streets on the way to the prison; and certainly it contained matter sufficiently important to draw away my thoughts from other subjects, more agreeable, but less relevant to the case. With a sudden remembrance of my duty, I drew forth my notebook, and was in the act of committing the statements to writing, when Thorndyke entered the room.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, Jervis,” said he. “I will make myself a cup of tea while you finish your writing, and then you shall exhibit the day’s catch and hang your nets out to dry.”

I was not long in finishing my notes, for I was in a fever of impatience to hear Thorndyke’s comments on my latest addition to our store of information. By the time the kettle was boiling my entries were completed, and I proceeded forthwith to retail to my colleague those extracts from my conversation with Juliet that I have just recorded.

He listened, as usual, with deep and critical attention.

“This is very interesting and important,” he said, when I had finished; “really, Jervis, you are a most invaluable coadjutor. It seems that information, which would be strictly withheld from the forbidding Jorkins, trickles freely and unasked into the ear of the genial Spenlow. Now, I suppose you regard your hypothesis as having received very substantial confirmation?”

“Certainly, I do.”

“And very justifiably. You see now how completely you were in the right when you allowed yourself to entertain this theory of the crime in spite of its apparent improbability. By the light of these new facts it has become quite a probable explanation of the whole affair, and if it could only be shown that Mr. Hornby’s memorandum block was among the papers on the table, it would rise to a high degree of probability. The obvious moral is, never disregard the improbable. By the way, it is odd that Reuben failed to recall this occurrence when I questioned him. Of course, the bloody finger-marks were not discovered until he had gone, but one would have expected him to recall the circumstance when I asked him, pointedly, if he had never left bloody fingerprints on any papers.”

“I must try to find out if Mr. Hornby’s memorandum block was on the table and among the marked papers,” I said.

“Yes, that would be wise,” he answered, “though I don’t suppose the information will be forthcoming.”

My colleague’s manner rather disappointed me. He had heard my report with the greatest attention, he had discussed it with animation, but yet he seemed to attach to the new and—as they appeared to me—highly important facts an interest that was academic rather than practical. Of course, his calmness might be assumed; but this did not seem likely, for John Thorndyke was far too sincere and dignified a character to cultivate in private life the artifices of the actor. To strangers, indeed, he presented habitually a calm and impassive exterior; but this was natural to him, and was but the outward sign of his even and judicial habit of mind.

No; there was no doubt that my startling news had left him unmoved, and this must be for one of two reasons: either he already knew all that I had told him (which was perfectly possible), or he had some other and better means of explaining the crime. I was turning over these two alternatives, not unobserved by my watchful colleague, when Polton entered the room; a broad grin was on his face, and a drawing-board, that he carried like a tray, bore twenty-four neatly turned boxwood pieces.

Thorndyke at once entered into the unspoken jest that beamed from the countenance of his subordinate.

“Here is Polton with a problem for you, Jervis,” he said. “He assumes that I have invented a new parlour game, and has been trying to work out the moves. Have you succeeded yet, Polton?”

“No, sir, I haven’t; but I suspect that one of the players will be a man in a wig and gown.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Thorndyke; “but that doesn’t take you very far. Let us hear what Dr. Jervis has to say.”

“I can make nothing of them,” I answered. “Polton showed me the drawing this morning, and then was terrified lest he had committed a breach of confidence, and I have been trying ever since, without a glimmer of success, to guess what they can be for.”

“H’m,” grunted Thorndyke, as he sauntered up and down the room, teacup in hand, “to guess, eh? I like not that word ‘guess’ in the mouth of a man of science. What do you mean by a ‘guess’?”

His manner was wholly facetious, but I professed to take his question seriously, and replied—

“By a guess, I mean a conclusion arrived at without data.”

“Impossible!” he exclaimed, with mock sternness. “Nobody but an utter fool arrives at a conclusion without data.”

“Then I must revise my definition instantly,” I rejoined. “Let us say that a guess is a conclusion drawn from insufficient facts.”

“That is better,” said he; “but perhaps it would be better still to say that a guess is a particular and definite conclusion deduced from facts which properly yield only a general and indefinite one. Let us take an instance,” he continued. “Looking out of the window, I see a man walking round Paper Buildings. Now suppose I say, after the fashion of the inspired detective of the ro­mances, ‘That man is a stationmaster or inspector,’ that would be a guess. The observed facts do not yield the conclusion, though they do warrant a conclusion less definite and more general.”

“You’d have been right though, sir!” exclaimed Polton, who had stepped forward with me to examine the unconscious subject of the demonstration. “That gent used to be the stationmaster at Camberwell. I remember him well.”

The little man was evidently greatly impressed.

“I happen to be right, you see,” said Thorndyke; “but I might as easily have been wrong.”

“You weren’t though, sir,” said Polton. “You spotted him at a glance.”

In his admiration of the result he cared not a fig for the correctness of the means by which it had been attained.

“Now why do I suggest that he is a stationmaster?” pursued Thorndyke, disregarding his assistant’s comment.

“I suppose you were looking at his feet,” I answered. “I seem to have noticed that peculiar, splay-footed gait in stationmasters, now that you mention it.”

“Quite so. The arch of the foot has given way; the plantar ­ligaments have become stretched and the deep calf muscles weakened. Then, since bending of the weakened arch causes dis­comfort, the feet have become turned outwards, by which the bending of the foot is reduced to a minimum; and as the left foot is the more flattened, so it is turned out more than the right. Then the turning out of the toes causes the legs to splay outward from the knees downwards—a very conspicuous condition in a tall man like this one—and you notice that the left leg splays out more than the other.

“But we know that depression of the arch of the foot is brought about by standing for long periods. Continuous pressure on a living structure weakens it, while intermittent pressure strength­ens it; so the man who stands on his feet continuously develops a flat instep and a weak calf, while the professional dancer or runner acquires a high instep and a strong calf. Now there are many occupations which involve prolonged standing and so induce the condition of flat foot: waiters, hall-porters, hawkers, policemen, shop-walkers, salesmen, and station officials are examples. But the waiter’s gait is characteristic—a quick, shuffling walk which enables him to carry liquids without spilling them. This man walks with a long, swinging stride; he is obviously not a waiter. His dress and appearance in general exclude the idea of a hawker or even a hall-porter; he is a man of poor physique and so cannot be a policeman. The shop-walker or salesman is accustomed to move in relatively confined spaces, and so acquires a short, brisk step, and his dress tends to rather exuberant smartness; the station official patrols long platforms, often at a rapid pace, and so tends to take long strides, while his dress is dignified and neat rather than florid. The last-mentioned characteristics, you see, appear in the subject of our analysis; he agrees with the general description of a stationmaster. But if we therefore conclude that he is a stationmaster, we fall into the time-honoured fallacy of the undistributed middle term—the fallacy that haunts all brilliant guessers, including the detective, not only of romance, but too often also of real life. All that the observed facts justify us in inferring is that this man is engaged in some mode of life that necessitates a good deal of standing; the rest is mere guess-work.”

“It’s wonderful,” said Polton, gazing at the now distant figure; “perfectly wonderful. I should never have known he was a stationmaster.” With this and a glance of deep admiration at his em­ployer, he took his departure.

“You will also observe,” said Thorndyke, with a smile, “that a fortunate guess often brings more credit than a piece of sound reasoning with a less striking result.”

“Yes, that is unfortunately the case, and it is certainly true in the present instance. Your reputation, as far as Polton is concerned, is now firmly established even if it was not before. In his eyes you are a wizard from whom nothing is hidden. But to return to these little pieces, as I must call them, for the lack of a better name. I can form no hypothesis as to their use. I seem to have no ‘departure,’ as the nautical phrase goes, from which to start an inquiry. I haven’t even the material for guess-work. Ought I to be able to arrive at any opinion on the subject?”

Thorndyke picked up one of the pieces, fingering it delicately and inspecting with a critical eye the flat base on which it stood, and reflected for a few moments.

“It is easy to trace a connection when one knows all the facts,” he said at length, “but it seems to me that you have the materials from which to form a conjecture. Perhaps I am wrong, but I think, when you have had more experience, you will find yourself able to work out a problem of this kind. What is required is constructive imagination and a rigorous exactness in reasoning. Now, you are a good reasoner, and you have recently shown me that you have the necessary imagination; you merely lack experience in the use of your faculties. When you learn my purpose in having these things made—as you will before long—you will probably be surprised that their use did not occur to you. And now let us go forth and take a brisk walk to refresh ourselves (or perhaps I should say myself) after the day’s labour.