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A CERTAIN DR THORNDYKE [Part 2]

CHAPTER X

BETTY’S APPEAL

As the prisoner was withdrawn by his guard into the dark opening of the thicket, Osmond halted for a moment to look back across the river. Not a sign of the enemy was to be seen excepting the pall of smoke that hung over the wooded shore. But the reports of unseen muskets and rifles and the hum of slugs and bullets warned him of the danger of exposing himself—though he, too, was probably hidden from the enemy by the dense smoke of the black powder. Accordingly he turned quickly and, plunging into the dark tunnel-like passage, groped his way forward, unable, at first, to distinguish anything in the all-pervading gloom. Presently he perceived a little distance ahead a cluster of the great bamboo stalks faintly lighted as if by a hidden fire or torch, and a moment later, a turn of the passage brought him in view of the light itself, which seemed to be a rough shea-butter candle or lamp, set on the ground and lighting up dimly the forlorn little band whose retreat he had covered.

This much he took in at the first glance. But suddenly he became aware of a new presence at the sight of which he stopped short with a smothered exclamation. Stockbridge, sitting beside his dead comrade, had uncovered his wounded leg; and kneeling by him as she applied a dressing to the wound was a woman. He could not see her face, which was partly turned away from him and concealed by a wide pith helmet; but the figure was—to him—unmistakable, as were the little, dainty, capable hands on which the flickering light shone. He approached slowly, and as Stockbridge greeted him with a wry grin, she turned her head quickly and looked up at him. “Good evening, Mr. Cook,” she said, quietly. “What a fortunate chance it is that you should be here.”

“Yes, by Jove,” agreed Stockbridge; “at least a fortunate chance for us. He is a born tactician.”

Osmond briefly acknowledged the greeting, and in the ensuing silence, as Betty methodically applied the bandage, he looked about him and rapidly assessed the situation. Stockbridge looked weak and spent and was evidently in considerable pain, though he uttered no complaint; the wounded Hausas lay hard by, patiently awaiting their turn to have their injuries attended to, and the carriers crouched disconsolately in gloomy corners out of the way of chance missiles. A continuous firing was being kept up from the other side of the river, and slugs and Mauser bullets ploughed noisily through the bamboo, though none came near the fugitives. The position of the latter, indeed, was one of great natural strength, for the river made a horse-shoe bend at this spot and the little peninsula enclosed by it was entirely occupied by the bamboo. An attack was possible in only two directions; by the bridge, or by the path that entered the thicket at the other end.

“Well,” said Osmond, as Betty, having finished the dressing, transferred her attention to one of the wounded Hausas, “here we are, safe for the moment. They can’t get at us in here.”

“No,” agreed Stockbridge. “It’s a strong position, if we could stay here, though they will probably try to rush the bridge when it’s dark.”

Osmond shook his head with a grim smile. “They won’t do that,” said he. “I’ve taken the precaution to grease the log; so they’ll have to crawl across carefully, which they won’t care to do with the Hausas potting at them from shelter. But we can’t stay here. We’d better clear out as soon as it is dark; and the question is, which way?”

“We must follow the river, I suppose,” said Stockbridge, in a faint voice. “But you’d better arrange with the sergeant. I’m no good now. Tell him he’s to take your orders. Our carriers know the country.”

The sergeant, who had witnessed Osmond’s masterly retreat, accepted the new command without demur. A guard was posted to watch the bridge from safe cover, and the carriers were assembled to discuss the route.

“Now,” said Osmond, “where is the next bridge?” There was apparently no other bridge, but there was a ford some miles farther up, and a couple of miles below there was a village which possessed one or two of the large, punt-shaped canoes that were used for trading across the lagoon.

“S’pose dey no fit to pass de bridge,” said the head carrier, “dey go and fetch canoe for carry um across de river.”

“I see,” said Osmond. “Then they’d attack us from the rear and we should be bottled up from both sides. That won’t do. You must get ready to march out as soon as it is dark, sergeant. Your carriers can take Mr. Westall’s body and some of the wounded and the sound men must carry the rest. And send my carriers back the way they came. There are too many of us as it is.”

“And dem muskets and powder, dat we bring in from the villages?” said the sergeant. “What we do wid dem?”

“We must leave them here or throw them in the river. Anyhow, you get off as quickly as you can.”

The sergeant set about his preparations without delay and Osmond’s carriers departed gleefully towards the safe part of the country. Meanwhile Osmond considered the situation. If the enemy obtained canoes from the lower river, they would probably ferry a party across and attack the bamboo fortress from front and rear simultaneously. Then they would find the nest empty, and naturally would start in pursuit; which would be unpleasant for the helpless fugitives, crawling painfully along the river bank. He turned the position over again and again with deep dissatisfaction, while Stockbridge watched him anxiously and Betty silently continued her operations on the wounded. If they were pursued, they were lost. In their helpless condition they could make no sort of stand against a large body attacking from the cover of the bush. And the pursuit would probably commence before they had travelled a couple of miles towards safety.

Suddenly his eye fell on the heap of captured muskets and powder-kegs that, were to be left behind or destroyed. He looked at them meditatively, and, as he looked, there began to shape itself in his mind a plan by which the fugitives might at least increase their start by a mile or so. A fantastic scheme, perhaps, but yet, in the absence of any better, worth trying.

With characteristic energy, he set to work at once, while the carriers hastily fashioned rough litters of bamboo for the dead and wounded. Broaching one of the powder-kegs, he proceeded to load all but two of the muskets—of which there were twenty-three in all—cramming the barrels with powder and filling up each with a heavy charge of gravel. Six of the loaded and primed muskets he laid on the ground about fifty yards from the bridge end of the long passage, with their muzzles pointing towards the bridge; the remaining fifteen he laid in batches of five about the same distance from the opposite entrance, towards which their muzzles pointed. Then, taking a length of the plaited cord with which the muskets had been lashed into bundles, he tied one end to the stock of one of the unloaded guns and the other to the trigger of one of the wounded Hausas’ rifles. Fixing the rifle upright against the bamboo with its muzzle stuck in the half-empty powder-keg, of which he broke out two or three staves, he carried the cord—well greased with shea butter—through a loop tied to one of the slanting bamboos. Then he propped the musket in a standing position on two bamboo sticks, to one of which he attached another length of cord. It was the mechanism of the common sieve bird-trap. When the cord was pulled, the stick would be dislodged, the musket would fall, and in falling jerk the other cord and fire the rifle.

Broaching another keg, he carried a large train of powder from the first keg to the row of loaded muskets, over the pans of which he poured a considerable heap. Leaving the tripping-cord loose, he next proceeded to the opposite end of the thicket and set up a similar trap near the landward entrance, connecting it by a large powder train with the three batches of loaded muskets.

“You seemed to be deuced busy, Cook,” Stockbridge remarked as Osmond passed the hammock in which he was now reclining.

“Yes,” Osmond replied; “I am arranging a little entertainment to keep our friends amused while we are getting a start. Now, sergeant, if you are ready, you had better gag the prisoner and move outside the bamboos. It will be dark in a few minutes. And give me Mr. Westall’s revolver and pouch.”

At this moment, Betty, having applied such “first aid” as was possible to the wounded Hausas, came to him and said in a low voice:

“Jim, dear, you will let me help you, if I can, won’t you?”

“Certainly I will, dearest,” he replied, “though I wish to God you weren’t here.”

“I don’t,” said she. “If it comes to the worst, we shall go out together. But it won’t. I am not a bit frightened now you are with me.”

“I see you have given Stockbridge your hammock,” said he. “How far do you think you can walk?”

“Twenty miles, easily, or more at night. Now, Jim, don’t worry about me. Just tell me what I am to do and forget me. You have plenty to think about.”

“Well, then, I want you and Stockbridge to keep in the middle of the column. The carrier who knows the way will lead, and the sergeant and I will march at the rear to look out for the pursuers. And you must get along as fast as you can.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she replied, smiling in his face and raising her hand smartly to the peak of her helmet; and without another word she turned away to take her place in the retiring column.

As the little procession moved towards the opening, Osmond ran back to the bridge end of the track to clear out the guard before he set his traps. A brisk fusillade was proceeding from the concealed enemy when he arrived, to which the guards were replying from their cover.

“I tink dey fit for come across de bridge,” one of the Hausas remarked as Osmond gave them the orders to retire.

“Very well,” he replied; “you be off one time. I stop to send them back.”

The two Hausas accordingly retired, reluctant and protesting, and Osmond took their place behind the screen of bamboo, from which he looked out across the river. It was evident by the constant stirring of the bush and the occasional appearance of men in the openings that some sort of move was in progress, and in fact the footsteps of the two Hausas had hardly died away when it took definite shape. The attack opened with a thundering volley which sent the leaves and splinters of bamboo flying in all directions; then, out of the bush, a compact body of warriors each armed with a Mauser rifle, emerged in single file and advanced towards the bridge at a smart trot. Osmond watched them with a grim smile. Down the narrow track they came in perfect order and on to the foot of the bridge, stepping along the smooth log with perfect security they reached the greased portion. Then came the catastrophe. As the leading warrior stepped on the greasy surface, his feet flew from under him and down he slithered, grabbing frantically at the legs of the next man, who instantly clawed hold of his neighbour and thus passed on the disturbance. In a moment the whole file was capsized like a row of ninepins, and as each man’s rifle exploded as he fell and the whole body broke out into simultaneous yells of rage and terror, the orderly dignity of the attack was destroyed utterly.

The cause of the disaster was not immediately perceived, and as soon as the struggling warriors had been rescued from the river or had drifted down stream, the attack was renewed, to end in another wholesale capsize. After the third attempt, however, it apparently began to dawn on the warriors that there was something unnatural about the bridge. A noisy consultation followed, and when Osmond opened a smart fire with his revolver, the entire body retreated hastily into the bush.

As it was pretty certain that there would be no further attempt to rush the bridge at present, and as the darkness was fast closing in, Osmond proceeded to finish his arrangements before evacuating the fortress. Having set the tripping-cord across the path about six inches from the ground, he loaded and cocked the rifle. The trap was now set. If the warriors should presently manage to crawl across the bridge and enter the thicket, the first comer would certainly strike the cord; and the musket volley and the flying gravel, though they would probably do little harm, would send the attacking party back to the cover of the bush.

Having set the trap, Osmond knocked in the heads of the remaining powder-kegs and spread the powder about among the dry dead bamboo stalks that covered the ground. Then he retired to the landward end of the thicket, and, having set the second trap, started in pursuit of his friends.

The fugitives had evidently travelled at a good pace despite their encumbrances, for he had walked nearly a mile along the riverside track before he overtook them. As he turned a sharp bend he came on them quite suddenly, crouching down in the undergrowth as if in hiding; and, as he appeared, the two Hausas who formed the rear-guard motioned to him to crouch down too.

“What is it?” he whispered, kneeling beside the last Hausa.

“S’t! Someone live for river. You no hear um, sah?”

Osmond listened attentively. From somewhere down the river came a sound of muffled voices and the rhythmical swish of something moving through water. He crept nearer to the brink and cautiously peered through the bushes across the dark river. The sounds drew nearer, and soon he could dimly make out the shapes of two long canoes poling upstream in the shallows on the other side. Each canoe held only three or four men, just enough to drive it swiftly against the stream; but in spite of this, there could be little doubt as to the business on which these stealthily-moving craft were bent. As they faded into the darkness, Osmond touched the Hausa on the shoulder, and, whispering to him to follow, began softly to retrace his steps. His experience of the happy-go-lucky native had inspired him with a new hope.

Attended by the puzzled but obedient Hausa, he followed the sound of the retreating canoes until it suddenly ceased. Then he crept forward still more cautiously and presently caught sight of the two craft, brought up under the opposite bank and filling rapidly with men. He crouched down among the bushes and watched. Very soon the canoes, now crowded with men, put out, one after the other, and swiftly crossing the river, grounded on a small beach or hard under the high bank; when the men, each of whom, as Osmond could now see, carried a gun or rifle, landed and crept up a sloping path. The canoe immediately put off and returned to the other side, whence, having taken up a fresh batch of passengers they crossed to the hard. This manoeuvre was repeated six times, and, as each canoe carried over a dozen men, there were now assembled on the near bank about a hundred and fifty warriors, who remained in a mass, talking in hoarse undertones and waiting for the word to advance.

The last load apparently completed the contingent, for, this time, all the passengers landed and crept up the path, leaving the two canoes drawn up on the hard. This was what Osmond had hoped for and half expected. Feverishly he watched the mob of warriors form up and move off in orderly single file, each shouldering his musket or rifle and no one making a sound. As the silent procession vanished towards the lately evacuated fortress, he craned forward to see if any guards had been posted. But not a soul was in sight. Then he stole along the track until he was above the hard, when he turned to the Hausa.

“Wait,” he whispered, “until I get the canoes. Then go back quickly and tell the sergeant I come.”

He crept down the path to the hard, and, stepping into one of the canoes, walked to the stern, holding on to the second canoe. As his weight depressed the stern, the bow lifted from the ground and he was able to push off, walking slowly forward as the craft went astern. Then, from the bow, he threw his weight on the stern of the second canoe, which lifted free of the ground in the same manner, and the two craft began silently to drift away down stream on the swift current.

Osmond waved his free hand to the Hausa, and, when he had seen the man steal away to carry the good tidings to the fugitives, he set himself to secure the two canoes together. Each had a primitive painter of grass rope rove through a hole in the bluff bow and a small thwart or cross-band of the same material close to the stern to strengthen the long sides. By making fast the painter of the second canoe to the stern thwart of the one he was in, he secured them together and left himself free to ply the pole; which he began to do as noiselessly as possible, when he had drifted down about a quarter of a mile from the hard, steering the canoes close along the side on which his friends would be waiting. Presently there came a soft hail from the bank; on which, checking their way with the pole, he brought the two canoes up on a spit of sandy mud close underneath.

As he stepped ashore, holding on to the painter of the leading canoe, a little, white-skirted figure came scrambling down the bank, and running to him, seized both his hands.

“Jim!” she whispered, “you are a wonder! You have saved us all! Of course you have! I knew you would!” She gave his hands a final squeeze and then abruptly returned to business. “I will see to the wounded if you tell me where they are to go.”

Osmond indicated the larger of the two canoes, and she at once climbed up the bank to arrange the embarkation, while Osmond, having drawn both canoes up on the spit, called to two of the Hausas to take charge of the painters so that the craft should not get adrift while loading. Then he went up to superintend. The first problem, that of canoe-men, was easily solved, for the carriers, who were natives of the lagoon country, all had some skill in the use of the pole and cheerfully volunteered for duty.

But it was not without some difficulty that the three rough litters—one of them containing the body of poor Westall—were lowered down the steep bank and the wounded men helped down to the spit; but when once they were there, the roomy, punt-like canoes afforded ample and comfortable accommodation for the whole party. The sound men, with three canoe-men and the prisoner, were packed into the smaller canoe, leaving plenty of space in the other for the wounded to lie at their ease. Stockbridge’s hammock was stowed in the bows, so that he should not be disturbed by the movements of the canoe-men, the body of Westall came next, decently covered with a country cloth, and then the rest of the wounded. When all was ready, Betty and Osmond stepped on board and took their places side by side in the stern.

As they pushed off into the river Stockbridge settled himself comfortably on his pillow with a sigh of relief at exchanging the jolting of the bush road for the easy motion of the canoe.

“By Jove, Cook!” he exclaimed, “it was a stroke of luck for us that you happened to overtake us. But for your wits they would have made a clean sweep of us. Hallo! What the deuce is that?”

From up the river came three thunderous volleys in quick succession, followed by a confused noise of shouting and the reports of muskets and rifles; then the sound of another volley, more shouts and rattling reports; and as they looked back, the sky was lighted for a few moments by a red glare. Osmond briefly explained the nature of his ‘little arrangements,’ while the alarmed carriers poled along the shallows for dear life.

“But,” said Stockbridge, after listening awhile, “what are the beggars going on firing for? Just hark at them! They’re blazing away like billy-oh!”

“I take it,” replied Osmond, “that they have gorged the bait. Apparently, a party has managed to crawl across the bridge to attack the bamboo thicket from the front while the other force, which ferried across the river, attacked from the rear, and that each party is mistaking the other for us. The trifling error ought to keep them amused for quite a long time; in fact until we are beyond reach of pursuit.”

Stockbridge chuckled softly. “You are an ingenious beggar, Cook,” he declared with conviction; “and how you managed to keep your wits about you in that hurly-burly, I can’t imagine. However, I think we are safe enough now.” With this comfortable conclusion, he snuggled down into his hammock and settled himself for a night’s rest.

“Oh, Jim, dear,” whispered Betty, “how like you! To think out your plans calmly with the bullets flying around and everybody else in a hopeless twitter. It reminds me of the ‘phantom mate’ on the dear old Speedwell. By the way, how did you happen to be there in that miraculously opportune fashion?”

Osmond chuckled. “Well,” he exclaimed, “you are a pretty cool little fish, Betty. You drop down from the clouds and then inquire how I happened to be there. How did you happen to be there?”

“Oh, that is quite simple,” she replied. “I got Daddy’s permission to take a trip from Accra across the Akwapim Mountains to Akuse; and when I got there I thought I should like to have a look at the Country where the bobbery was going on. So I crossed the river and was starting off gaily towards the Krepi border when an interfering though well-meaning old chief stopped me and said I mustn’t go any farther because of war-palaver. I wanted to go on, but my carriers wouldn’t budge; so back I came, taking the road for Quittah, and by good luck dropped into a little war-palaver after all.”

“Why were you going to Quittah?”

“Now, Jim, don’t ask silly questions. You know perfectly well. Of course I was going to run over to Adaffia to call on my friend Captain J.; and by the same token, I shouldn’t have found him there. Now tell me how you came to be in the bush at this particular time.”

Osmond stated baldly the ostensible purpose of his expedition, to which Betty listened without comment. She had her suspicions as to the ultimate motive, but she asked no questions. The less said on that subject, the better.

This was evidently Osmond’s view, for he at once plunged into an account of the loss of the Speedwell and of Captain Hartup’s testamentary arrangements. Betty was deeply affected, both by the loss of the ship and the death of the worthy but cross-grained little skipper.

“How awfully sad!” she exclaimed, almost in tears. “The dear old ship, where I spent the happiest days of my life! And poor Captain Hartup! I always liked him, really. He was quite nice to me, in spite of his gruff manner. I used to feel that he was just a little human porcupine with india-rubber quills. And now I love him because, in his perverse little heart, he understood and appreciated my Captain Jim. May I come, one day, and put a wreath on his grave?”

“Yes, do, Betty,” he replied. “I buried him next to Osmond’s new grave, and I put up an oaken cross which I made out of some of the planking of the old Speedwell. He was very fond of his ship. And I have kept a couple of her beams—thought you might like to have something made out of one of them.”

“How sweet of you, Jim, to think of it!” she exclaimed, nestling close to him and slipping her hand round his arm, “and to know exactly what I should like! But we do understand each other, don’t we, Jim, dear?

“I think we do, Betty, darling,” he replied, pressing the little hand that had stolen into his own.

For a long time nothing more was said. After the turmoil and the alarms of the escape, it was very peaceful to sit in the gently-swaying canoe and listen to the voices of the night; the continuous “chirr” of countless cicadas, punctuated by the soft swish of the canoe-poles as they were drawn forward for another stroke; the deep-toned, hollow whistle of the great fox-bats, flapping slowly across the river; the long drawn cry, or staccato titter, of far-away hyenas, and now and again, the startling shriek of a potto in one of the lofty trees by the river-bank. It was more soothing than absolute silence. The sounds seemed so remote and unreal, so eloquent of utter solitude; of a vast, unseen wilderness with its mysterious population of bird and beast, living on its strange, primeval life unchanged from the days when the world was young.

After a long interval, Betty spoke again. “It seems,” she said, reflectively, “dreadfully callous to be so perfectly happy. I wonder if it is.”

“Why should it be?” her companion asked.

“I mean,” she explained, “with poor Mr. Westall lying there dead, only a few feet away.”

Osmond felt inwardly that Westall had not only thrown away his own life but jeopardized the lives of the others which were in his custody. But he forbore to express what he felt and answered, simply: “I don’t suppose the poor chap would grudge us our happiness. It won’t last very long.”

“Why shouldn’t it, Jim?” she exclaimed. “Why should we part again and be miserable for the want of one another? Oh, Jim, darling, my own mate, won’t you try to put away your scruples—your needless scruples, though I love and respect you for having them? But don’t let them spoil our lives. Forget John Osmond. He is dead and buried. Let him rest. I am yours, Jim, and you know it; and you are mine, and I know it. Those are the realities, which we could never change if we should live for a century. Let us accept them and forget what is past and done with. Life is short enough, dear, and our youth is slipping away. If we make a false move, we shall never get another chance. Oh, say it, Jim. Say you will put away the little things that don’t matter and hold fast to the reality of our great love and the happiness that is within our reach. Won’t you, Jim?”

He was silent for a while. This was what he had dreaded. To have freely offered, yet again, the gift beside which all the treasures of the earth were to him as nothing; and, even worse, to be made to feel that he, himself, had something to give which he must yet withhold; it was an agony. The temptation to yield—to shut his eyes to the future and snatch at the golden present—was almost irresistible. He knew that Betty was absolutely sincere. He knew quite well that whatever might befall in the future, she would hold him blameless and accept all mischances as the consequences of her own considered choice. His confidence in her generosity was absolute, nor did he undervalue her judgment. He even admitted that she was probably right. John Osmond was dead. The pursuit was at an end and the danger of discovery negligible. In a new country and in a new character he was sure that he could make her life all that she hoped. Then why not forget the past and say “yes”?

It was a great temptation. One little word, and they would possess all that they wished for, all that mattered to either of them. And yet—“Betty,” he said at length, in a tone of the deepest gravity, “you have said that we understand one another. We do; perfectly; absolutely. There is no need for me to tell you that I love you, or that if there were any sacrifice that I could make for you, I would make it joyfully and think it an honour and a privilege. You know that as well as I do. But there is one thing that I cannot do. Whatever I may be or may have done, I cannot behave like a cad to the woman I love. And that is what I should do if I married you. I should accept your sterling gold and give you base metal in exchange. You would be the wife of an outlaw, you would live under the continual menace of scandal and disaster. Your children would be the children of a nameless man and would grow up to the inheritance of an ancestry that could not be spoken of.

“Those are the realities, Betty. I realize, and I reverence, your great and noble love for me, unworthy as I am. But I should be a selfish brute if I accepted what you offer to me with such incredible generosity. I can’t do it, Betty. It was a disaster that you ever met me, but that we cannot help. We can only limit its effects.”

She listened silently while he pronounced the doom of her newly-born hopes, holding his hand tightly grasped in hers and scarcely seeming to breathe. She did not reply immediately when he ceased speaking, but sat a while, her head resting against his shoulder and her hand still clasped in his. Once she smothered a little sob and furtively wiped her eyes. But she was very quiet, and, at length, in a composed, steady voice, though sadly enough, she rejoined: “Very well, Jim, dear. It must be as you think best, and I won’t tease you with any more appeals. At any rate, we can go on loving each other, and that will be something. The gift of real love doesn’t come to everyone.”

For a long time they sat without further speech, thinking each their own thoughts. To Betty the position was a little puzzling. She understood Osmond’s point of view and respected it, for she knew that the sacrifice was as great to him as to her. And though, woman-like, she felt their mutual devotion to be a full answer to all his objections, yet—again, woman-like—she approved, though reluctantly, of his rigid adherence to a masculine standard of conduct.

But here came another puzzle. What was it that he had done? What could it possibly be that a man like this should have done? He had said plainly—and she knew that it was true—that there had been a warrant for his arrest. He had been, and in a sense still was, a fugitive from justice. Yet his standard of honour was of the most scrupulous delicacy. It had compelled him quite unnecessarily to disclose his identity. It compelled him now to put away what she knew was his dearest wish. Nothing could be more unlike a criminal; who, surely, is above all things self-indulgent. Yet he was an offender against the law. Now, what, in the name of Heaven, is the kind of offence against the law of which a man of this type could be guilty? He had never given a hint upon the subject, and of course she had never sought to find out. She was not in the least inquisitive now. But the incongruity, the discrepancy between his character and his circumstances, perplexed her profoundly.

Finally, she gave up the puzzle and began to talk to him about Captain Hartup and the pleasant old times on board the Speedwell. He responded with evident relief at having passed the dreaded crisis; and so, by degrees, they got back to cheerful talk and frank enjoyment of one another’s society, letting the past, the future, and the might-have-been sink into temporary oblivion.

CHAPTER XI

The Order of Release

IT was a long journey down the winding river and across the great lagoon. How long Osmond never knew; for, as hour after hour passed and the canoe sped on noiselessly through the encompassing darkness, the fatigues of the day began to take effect, not only on him, but on his companion too. Gradually the conversation slackened, the intervals of silence grew longer and longer, merging into periods of restful unconsciousness and punctuated by little smothered yawns on the part of Betty; until, at length, silence fell upon the canoe, unbroken save by the sounds of sleeping men and the rhythmical ‘swish’ of the poles.

At the sound of a distant bugle Osmond opened his eyes and became aware that the day was breaking and that the journey was nearly at an end. Also that his head was very comfortably pillowed on the shoulder of his companion, who now slumbered peacefully at his side. Very softly he raised himself and looked down at the sleeping girl, almost holding his breath lest he should disturb her. How dainty and frail she looked, this brave, hardy little maid! How delicate, almost childlike, she seemed as she lay, breathing softly, in the easy posture of graceful youth! And how lovely she was! He gazed adoringly at the sweet face, so charmingly wreathed with its golden aureole, at the peacefully-closed eyes with their fringes of long, dark lashes, and thought half-bitterly, half-proudly, that she was his own for the asking; and even as he looked, she opened her eyes and greeted him with a smile.

“What are you looking so solemn about, Jim?” she asked, as she sat up and reached for her helmet.

“Was I looking solemn? I expect it was only foolishness. Most fools are solemn animals.”

“Don’t be a guffin, Jim,” she commanded, reprovingly.

“What is a guffin?” he asked.

“It is a thing with a big, Roman nose and most abnormal amount of obstinacy, which makes disparaging comments on my Captain Jim.”

“A horrid sort of beast it must be. Well, I won’t, then. Is that Quittah, where all those canoes are?”

“I suppose it is, but I’ve never been there. Yes, it must be. I can see Fort Firminger—that thing like a Martello tower out in the lagoon opposite the landing-place. Mr. Cockeram says it is an awfully strong fort. You couldn’t knock it down with a croquet mallet.”

Osmond looked about him with the interest of a traveller arriving at a place which he has heard of but never seen. Behind and on both sides, the waste of water extended as far as the eye could see. Before them was a line of low land with occasional clumps of coconut palms that marked the position of beach villages. Ahead was a larger mass of palms, before which was a wide ‘hard’ or landing-place, already thronged with market people, towards which numbers of trading canoes were converging from all parts of the lagoon.

As they drew nearer, an opening in the palms revealed a whitewashed fort above which a flag was just being hoisted; and now, over the sandy shore, the masts of two vessels came into view.

“There is the Widgeon,” said Betty, pointing to the masts of a barquentine, “and there is another vessel, a schooner. I wonder who she is.”

Osmond had observed and was also wondering who she was; for he had a suspicion that he had seen her before. Something in the appearance of the tall, slim masts seemed to recall the mysterious yacht-like craft that he had seen one night at Adaffia revealed for a moment in ‘the glimpses of the moon.’

They were now rapidly approaching the landing-place. The other canoe had already arrived, and its disembarked crew could be seen on the hard surrounded by a crowd of natives.

“That looks like a naval officer waiting on the beach,” said Osmond, looking at a white-clad figure which had separated itself from the crowd and appeared to be awaiting their arrival.

“It is,” replied Betty. “I believe it is Captain Darley. And there is a constabulary officer coming down, too. I expect they have heard the news. You’ll get a great reception when they hear Mr. Stockbridge’s story—and mine. But they will be awfully upset about poor Mr. Westall. You are coming up to the fort with me, of course?”

Osmond had intended to go straight on to Adaffia, but he now saw that this would be impossible. Besides, there was the schooner. “Yes,” he replied, “I will see you to your destination.”

“It isn’t my destination,” said she. “I shall rest here for a day—the German deaconesses will give me a bed, I expect—and then I am coming on with you to Adaffia to put a wreath on Captain Hartup’s grave. You can put up either at the fort or with one of the German traders or missionaries. There are no English people here excepting the two officers at the fort.”

Osmond made no comment on this, for they were now close inshore. The canoe slid into the shallows and in a few moments more was hauled up by a crowd of willing natives until her bows were high and dry on the hard.

The officer who had joined Darley turned out to be the doctor, under whose superintendence Stockbridge’s hammock was carefully landed and the rest of the wounded brought ashore. Then the litter containing the body of the dead officer was lifted out and slowly borne away, while Darley and the native soldiers stood at the salute, and the doctor, having mustered the wounded, led the way towards the little hospital. As the melancholy procession moved off, Darley turned to greet Betty and Osmond, who had stepped ashore last.

“How do you do, Miss Burleigh? None the worse for your adventures, I hope. Been having rather a strenuous time, haven’t you?”

“We have rather,” she replied. “Isn’t it a dreadful thing to have lost poor Mr. Westall?”

“Yes,” he replied, as they turned away from the lagoon and began to walk towards the fort. “Shocking affair. Still, fortune of war, you know. Can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs. And here is Mr. Cook, in the thick of the bobbery, as usual. What a fellow you are, Cook! Always in hot water.”

As he shook Osmond’s hand heartily, the latter replied: “Well, the bobbery wasn’t of my making, this time. I found it ready made and just bore a hand. By the way, what schooner is that out in the roads?”

“That,” replied Darley, “is an ancient yacht named the Primula—a lovely old craft—sails like a witch. But she has come down in the world now. We met her coming up from the leeward coast and brought her in here.”

“Brought her in? Is she in custody, then?”

“Well, we brought her in to overhaul her and make some inquiries. There is just a suspicion that she has been concerned in the gun-running that has been going on. But we haven’t found anything up to the present. She seems to be full up with ordinary, legitimate cargo.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Osmond.

“Why ‘ha’?” demanded Darley with a quick look at Osmond. “Do you know anything about her?”

“Let us hear some more,” said Osmond. “Is there a Welshman named Jones on board?”

“There is. He’s the skipper, purser, and super cargo all combined.”

“Have you looked through her manifest?”

“I have; and I’ve jotted down some notes of the items of her lading.”

“Is there any ivory on board?”

“Yes,” replied Darley, with growing excitement.

“Three large crates and a big canvas bag?”

“Yes!”

“Containing in all, thirty-nine large tusks and fifty-one scribellos?”

Darley dragged a pocket-book out of his pocket and feverishly turned over the leaves. “Yes, by Jove!” he fairly shouted. “The very numbers. Now, what have you got to tell us?”

“I think you can take it that the ivory and probably the rest of the lading, too, is stolen property.”

“Why,” exclaimed Betty, “that must be your ivory, Jim.”

Darley flashed an astonished glance at her and then looked inquiringly at Osmond. “Is that so?” he asked.

“I have no doubt that it is,” the latter replied. “But if it should happen that there is a man on board named Sam Winter—”

“There is,” interrupted Darley.

“And another named Simmons and others named Foat, Bradley, and Darker, I think, if you introduce me to them, that we shall get the whole story. And as to the gun-running, I can’t make a voluntary statement, but if you were to put me in the witness-box, I should have to tell you all that I know; and I may say that I know a good deal. Will that do, for the present?”

Darley smiled complacently. “It seems like a pretty straight tip,” said he. “I will just skip on board, now, and take possession of the manifest; and if you will give me that list of names again, I will see if those men are on board, and bring them ashore, if they are. You will be staying at the fort, I suppose? There are only Cockeram and the doctor there.”

“Yes,” said Betty, “I shall ask Mr. Cockeram to put him up, for tonight, at any rate.”

“Very well,” said Darley, “then I shall see you again later. And now I will be off and lay the train.”

He touched his cap, and as they emerged into an open space before the gateway of the fort, he turned and walked away briskly down a long, shady avenue of wild fig-trees that led towards the shore.

Quittah fort was a shabby-looking, antique structure adapted to the conditions of primitive warfare. It was entered by an arched gateway graced by two ancient cannon set up as posts and guarded by a Hausa sentry in a blue serge uniform and a scarlet fez. Towards the gateway Osmond and Betty directed their steps, and as they approached, the sentry sprang smartly to attention and presented arms; whereupon Betty marched in with impressive dignity and two tiny fingers raised to the peak of her helmet.

“This seems to be the way up,” she said, turning towards a mouldering wooden staircase, as a supercilious-looking pelican waddled towards them and a fish-eagle on a perch in a corner uttered a loud yell. “What a queer place it is! It looks like a menagerie. I wonder if there is anyone at home.”

She tripped up the stairs, followed by Osmond and watched suspiciously by an assemblage of storks, coots, rails, and other birds which were strolling about at large in the quadrangle, and came out on an open space at the top of a corner bastion. Just as they reached this spot a man came hurrying out of a shabby building which occupied one side of the square; and at the first glance Osmond recognized him as the officer who had come to Adaffia to execute the warrant on the day when he had buried poor Larkom. The recognition was mutual, for as soon as he had saluted Betty, the officer turned to him and held out his hand.

“Larkom, by Jove!” said he.

“My name is Cook,” Osmond corrected.

“Oh,” said the other; “glad you set me right, because I have been going to send you a note. You remember me—Cockeram. I came down to Adaffia, you know, about that poor chap, Osmond.”

“I remember. You said you had been going to write to me.”

“Yes. I was going to send you something that I thought would interest you. I may as well give it to you now.” He began to rummage in his pockets and eventually brought forth a bulging letter-case, the very miscellaneous contents of which he proceeded to sort out. “It’s about poor Osmond,” he continued, disjointedly, and still turning over a litter of papers. “I felt that you would like to see it. Poor chap! It was such awfully rough luck.”

“What was?” asked Osmond.

“Why, you remember,” replied Cockeram, suspending his search to look up, “that I had a warrant to arrest him. It seemed that he was wanted for some sort of jewel robbery and there had been a regular hue-and-cry after him. Then he managed to slip away to sea and had just contrived to get into hiding at Adaffia when the fever got him. Frightful hard lines!”

“Why hard lines?” demanded Osmond.

“Why? Because he was innocent.”

“Innocent!” exclaimed Osmond, staring at the officer in amazement.

“Yes, innocent. Had nothing whatever to do with the robbery. No one can make out why on earth he scooted.”

As Cockeram made his astounding statement, Betty turned deathly pale. “Is it quite certain that he was innocent?” she asked in a low, eager tone.

“Perfectly,” he replied, turning an astonished blue eye on the white-faced girl and then hastily averting it. “Where is that confounded paper—newspaper cutting? I cut it out to send to Lark—Cook. There is no doubt whatever. It seems that they employed a criminal lawyer chap—a certain Dr. Thorndyke—to work up the case against Osmond. So this lawyer fellow got to work. And the upshot of it was that he proved conclusively that Osmond couldn’t possibly be the guilty party.”

“How did he prove that?” Osmond demanded.

“In the simplest and most satisfactory way possible,” replied Cockeram. “He followed up the tracks until he had spotted the actual robber and held all the clues in his hand. Then he gave the police the tip; and they swooped down on my nabs—caught him fairly on the hop with all the stolen property in his possession. There isn’t the shadow of a doubt about it.”

“What was the name of the man who stole the gems?” Osmond asked anxiously.

“I don’t remember,” Cockeram replied. “What interested me was the name of the man who didn’t steal them.”

Betty, still white-faced and trembling, stood gazing rather wildly at Osmond. For his face bore a very singular expression—an expression that made her feel sick at heart. He did not look relieved or joyful. Surprised he certainly was. But it was not joyous surprise. Rather was it suggestive of alarm and dismay. And meanwhile Cockeram continued to turn over the accumulations in his letter-case. Suddenly he drew forth a crumpled and much-worn envelope from which he triumphantly extracted a long newspaper cutting.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as he handed it to Osmond, “here we are. You will find full particulars in this. You needn’t send it back to me. I have done with it. And now I must hook off to the court-house. You will take possession of the mess-room, Miss Burleigh, won’t you? and order whatever you want. Of course, Mr. Cook is my guest.” With a formal salute he turned, ran down the rickety stairs and out at the gate, pursued closely as far as the wicket by the pelican.

But Betty’s whole attention was focussed on Osmond; and as he fastened hungrily on the newspaper cutting, she took his arm and drew him gently through a ramshackle lattice porch into the shabby little white washed mess-room, where she stood watching with mingled hope and terror the strange, enigmatical expression on his face as he devoured the printed lines.

Suddenly—in the twinkling of an eye—That expression changed. Anxiety, even consternation, gave place to the wildest astonishment; his jaw fell, and the hand which held the newspaper cutting dropped to his side. And then he laughed aloud; a weird, sardonic laugh that made poor Betty’s flesh creep.

“What is it, Jim, dear?” she asked nervously.

He looked in her face and laughed again.

“My name,” said he, “is not Jim. It is John. John Osmond.”

“Very well, John,” she replied, meekly. “But why did you laugh?”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her with a smile.

“Betty, darling,” said he, “do I understand that you are willing to marry me?”

“Willing indeed!” she exclaimed. “I am going to marry you.”

“Then, my darling,” said he, “you are going to marry a fool.”

BOOK II

The Investigator

CHAPTER XII

The Indictment

Mr. Joseph Penfield sat behind his writing-table in a posture of calm attention, allowing his keen grey eyes to travel back and forth from the silver snuff box which lay on the note-pad before him to the two visitors who confronted him from their respective chairs. One of these, an elderly hard-faced man, square of jaw and truculent of eye, was delivering some sort of statement, while the other, a considerably younger man, listened critically, with his eyes cast down, but stealing, from time to time, a quick, furtive glance either at the speaker or at Mr. Penfield. He was evidently following the statement closely; and to an observer there might have appeared in his concentrated attention something more than mere interest; something inscrutable, with, perhaps, the faintest suggestion of irony.

As the speaker came, somewhat abruptly, to an end, Mr. Penfield opened his snuff-box and took a pinch delicately between finger and thumb.

“It is not quite clear to me, Mr. Woodstock,” said he, “why you are consulting me in this matter. You are an experienced practitioner, and the issue is a fairly simple one. What is there against your dealing with the case according to your own judgment?”

“A good deal,” Mr. Woodstock replied. “In the first place, I am one of the interested parties—the principal one, in fact. In the second, I practise in a country town, whereas you are here in the very heart of the legal world; and in the third, I have no experience whatever of criminal practice; I am a conveyancer pure and simple.”

“But,” objected Mr. Penfield, “this is not a matter of criminal practice. It is just a question of your liability as a bailee.”

“Yes, true. But that question is closely connected with the robbery. Since no charge was made for depositing this property in my strong-room, obviously, I am not liable unless it can be shown that the loss was due to negligence. But the question of negligence turns on the robbery.”

“Which I understand was committed by one of your own staff?”

“Yes, the man Osmond, whom I mentioned; one of my confidential clerks—Hepburn, here, is the other—who had access to the strong-room and who absconded as soon as the robbery was discovered.”

“When you say he had access,” said Mr. Penfield, “you mean—”

“That he had access to the key during office hours. As a matter of fact, it hangs on the wall beside my desk, and when I am there the strong-room is usually kept open—the door is in my private office and opposite to my desk. Of course, when I leave at the end of the day, I lock up the strong-room and take the key away with me.”

“Yes. But in the interval—hm? It almost looks as if a claim might be—hm? But you have given me only an outline of the affair. Perhaps a more detailed account might enable us better to form an opinion on the position. Would it be troubling you too much?”

“Not at all,” replied Mr. Woodstock; “but it is rather a long story. However, I will cut it as short as I can. We will take the events in the order in which they occurred; and you must pull me up, Hepburn, if I overlook anything.

“The missing valuables are the property of a client of mine named Hollis; a retired soap manufacturer, as rich as Croesus, and like most of these over-rich men, having made a fortune was at his wit’s end what to do with it. Eventually, he adopted the usual plan. He became a collector. And having decided to burden himself with a lot of things that he didn’t want, he put the lid on it by specializing in goldsmith’s work, jewellery and precious stones. Wanted a valuable collection, he said, that could be kept in an ordinary dwelling-house.

“Well, of course, the acquisitive mania, once started, grew by what it fed on. The desire to possess this stuff became an obsession. He was constantly planning expeditions in search of new rarities, scouring the Continent for fresh loot, flitting from town to town and from dealer to dealer like an idiotic bee. And whenever he went off on one of these expeditions he would bring the pick of his confounded collection to me to have it deposited in my strong-room. I urged him to take it to the bank; but he doesn’t keep an account with any of the local branches and didn’t want to take the stuff to London. Moreover, he had inspected my strong-room and was a good deal impressed by it.”

“It is really strong, is it?” asked Mr. Penfield.

“Very. Thick reinforced concrete lined with steel. Very large, too. Not that the strength is material as it was not broken into. Well, eventually I agreed to deposit the things in the strong-room—couldn’t refuse an important client—but I resolutely declined to make any charge or accept any sort of consideration for the service. I wasn’t going to make myself responsible for the safety of things of that value. And I explained my position to Hollis; but he said that a strong-room that was good enough for my valuable documents was good enough for his jewels. Which was talking like a fool. Burglars don’t break into safes to steal leases.

“Well, this business began about six years ago, and—so far as I can tell—nothing amiss occurred until quite lately. I say so far as I can tell, for of course we can’t date the robbery. We only know when it was discovered. But I assume that the theft was committed pretty recently or it would surely have been discovered sooner.”

“And when was it first ascertained that a robbery had been committed?” asked Mr. Penfield, dipping a quill into the ink.

“On the fourth of October,” replied Mr. Woodstock; and having paused while Mr. Penfield noted the date, he continued: “On that day Hollis took a great ruby up to South Kensington, where it had been accepted for a loan exhibition. He delivered it himself to the keeper of the precious stones, and was a little taken aback when that gentleman, after a preliminary inspection, began to pore over it with a magnifying-glass and then sent for one of his colleagues. The second expert raised his eyebrows when he had looked at the gem, and he, too, made a careful scrutiny with the lens. Finally, they sent for a third official; and the upshot of it was that the three experts agreed that the stone was not a ruby at all but only a first-class imitation.

“Of course Hollis didn’t believe them, and said so. He had bought the stone for four thousand pounds from a well-known dealer and had shown it to a number of connoisseurs, who had all been enthusiastic about the colour and lustre of the gem. There had never been any question that it was not merely a genuine ruby, but a ruby of the highest class. However, when e had heard the verdict of the experts, he pocketed his treasure and went straight off to Cawley’s in Piccadlilly. But when Mr. Cawley shook his head over the gem and pronounced it an unquestionable counterfeit, he became alarmed and danced off in a deuce of a twitter to the dealer from whom he had bought it.

“That interview settled the matter. The dealer remembered the transaction quite well and knew all about the stone, for he had full records of the circumstances under which he had acquired it. Moreover, he recognized the setting—a pendant with a surround of small diamonds—but he was quite clear that the stone in it was not the stone that he had sold to Hollis. In fact it was not a stone at all; it was just a good-class paste ruby. The original had been picked out of the setting and the counterfeit put in its place; and the person who had done the job was apparently not a skilled jeweller, for there were traces on the setting of some rather amateurish work.”

“There is no doubt, I suppose,” said Mr. Penfield, “of the bona-fides of the dealer?”

“Not the slightest,” was the reply. “He is a man of the highest reputation; and as a matter of fact, no regular dealer would palm off a counterfeit. It wouldn’t be business. But the question doesn’t really arise, as you will see when I proceed with the story.

“As soon as Hollis was convinced that a substitution had been effected, he commissioned an independent expert to come down and make a critical survey of his collection; and it was then ascertained that practically every important gem in his cabinets was a counterfeit. And in every case in which the stone was a false one, the same traces of clumsy workmanship were discoverable by an expert eye.

“The conclusion was obvious. Since the original gems had come from all sorts of different sources, there could he no question of fraud on the part of the various vendors; to say nothing of the fact that Hollis—who has practically no knowledge of stones himself—always obtained an expert opinion before concluding a deal. It was obvious that a systematic robbery had been carried out, and the question that arose was, who could the robber be?

“But that question involved certain others; as, for instance, when had the robbery been committed? where were the jewels at that time? and who had access to the place in which they were?

“These were difficult questions. At first it seemed as if they were unanswerable, and perhaps some of them would have been if the robber had not lost his nerve. But I am anticipating. Let us take the questions in their order.

“First as to the date of the robbery. It happens that a little less than two years ago Professor Eccles came down by invitation and made a careful inspection of Hollis’s collection with a view to a proposed bequest to the nation, and marked off what he considered to be the most valuable specimens. Now, I need not say that if Professor Eccles detected no counterfeit stones, we may take it that no counterfeits were there. Consequently, the collection was then intact and the robbery must have been committed since that date. But it happens that that date coincides almost exactly with the arrival of Osmond at my office. Just two years ago Hepburn introduced him to me; and as he is Hepburn’s brother-in-law, I accepted him with perfect confidence.

“The other questions seemed more difficult. As to Hollis’s own premises, the jewel-room had a Chubb detector lock on its only door, the cabinets have similar locks, the windows are always kept securely fastened, and no attempt has ever been made to break into the place. Besides, burglars would simply have taken the jewels away. They would not have left substitutes. The personnel of his household—a lady secretary, a housekeeper, and two maids—appear beyond suspicion. Moreover, they had all been with him many years before the robbery occurred. In short, I think we may consider Hollis’s premises as outside the field of inquiry.”

“Do you really?” said Mr. Penfield, in a tone which clearly indicated that he did not.

“Certainly; and so will you when you have heard the rest of the story. We now come to the various occasions on which the more valuable parts of this collection were deposited in my strong-room. Let, me describe the procedure. In the first place, Hollis himself packed the jewels in a number of wooden boxes which he had had made specially for the purpose, each about fourteen inches by nine by about five inches deep. Every box had a good lock with a sunk disc on each side of the keyhole for the seals. When the boxes were packed they were locked and a strip of tape put across the keyhole and secured at each end with a seal. They were then wrapped in strong paper and sealed at all the joints with Hollis’s seal—an antique Greek seal set in a ring which he always wears on his finger. On the outside of the cover was written a list of the contents in Hollis’s own handwriting and signed by him, and each box bore in addition a number. The boxes were brought to my office by Hollis and by him delivered personally to me; and I gave him a receipt, roughly describing and enumerating the boxes, but, of course, not committing myself in respect of the contents. I then carried them myself into the strong-room and placed them on an upper shelf which I reserved for them; and there they remained until Hollis fetched them away, when he used to give me a receipt in the same terms as my own. That concluded the particular transaction.

“Now, it happened that at the time when the robbery was discovered, several of the boxes which Hollis had taken back from me about a month previously still remained packed and in their paper wrappings. And it further happened that one of these—there were eight in all—contained an emerald which Hollis had bought only a few days before he packed it. There was no question as to the genuineness of this stone; and when the box was opened, there was no question as to the fact that it had been replaced by a counterfeit. Even Hollis was able to spot the change. So that seemed to fix the date of the robbery to the period during which the box had been in my strong-room.”

“Apparently,” Mr. Penfield agreed. “But you speak of the box as being still in its paper wrapping. What of the seals?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Woodstock, “that is the most mysterious feature of the affair. The seals were unbroken and, so far as Hollis could see, the package was absolutely intact, just as it had been handed to me.”

Mr. Penfield pursed up his lips and took snuff to the verge of intemperance.

“If the seals were unbroken,” said he, “and the package was in all other respects intact, that would seem to be incontestable proof that it had never been opened since it was closed and sealed.”

“That was what I pointed out,” interposed Hepburn, “when Mr. Woodstock talked the matter over with Osmond and me. The unbroken seals seemed a conclusive answer to any suggestion that the robbery took place in our office.”

“So they did,” Woodstock agreed, “and so they would still if Osmond had kept his head. But he didn’t. He had evidently reckoned on the question of a robbery from our strong-room never being raised, and I imagine that it was that emerald that upset his nerve. At any rate, within a week of our discussion he bolted, and then, of course, the murder was out.”

Mr. Penfield nodded gravely and asked, after a short pause: “And how is Mr. Hollis taking it? Is he putting any pressure on you?”

“Oh, not at all—up to the present. He has not suggested any claim against me; he merely wants to lay his hand on the robber and, if possible, get his jewels back. He entirely approves of what I have done.”

“What have you done?” Mr. Penfield asked.

“I have done the obvious thing,” was the reply, delivered in a slightly truculent tone. “As soon as it was clear that Osmond had absconded, I communicated with the police. I laid an information and gave them the leading facts.”

“And do they propose to take any action?”

“Most undoubtedly; in fact I may say that they have been most commendably prompt. They have already traced Osmond to Bristol, and I have every hope that in due course they will run him to earth and arrest him.”

“That is quite probable,” said Mr. Penfield. “And when they have arrested him—?”

“He will be brought back and charged before a magistrate, when we may take it that he will be committed for trial.”

“It is possible,” Mr. Penfield assented, doubtfully. “And then—”

“Then,” replied Woodstock, reddening and raising his voice, “he will be put on his trial and, I make no doubt, sent to penal servitude.”

Mr. Penfield took snuff deprecatingly and shook his head. “I think not,” said he; “but perhaps there is some item of evidence which you have omitted to mention?”

“Evidence!” Woodstock repeated impatiently. “What evidence do you want? The property has been stolen and the man who had an opportunity to steal it has absconded. What more do you want?”

Mr. Penfield looked at his brother solicitor with mild surprise.

“The judge,” he replied, “and I should think the magistrate, too, would want some positive evidence that the accused stole the jewels. There appears to be no such evidence. The unexplained disappearance of this man is a suspicious circumstance; but it is useless to take suspicions into court. You have got to make out a case, and at present you have no case. If the charge were not dismissed by the magistrate, the bill would certainly be thrown out by the Grand Jury.”

Mr. Woodstock glowered sullenly at the old lawyer, but he made no reply, while Hepburn sat with down cast eyes and the faintest trace of an ironical smile.

“Consider,” Mr. Penfield resumed, “what would be the inevitable answer of the defence. They would point out that there is not a particle of evidence that the robbery—if there has really been a robbery—occurred in your office at all, and that there are excellent reasons for believing that it did not.”

“What reasons are there?”

“There are the unbroken seals. Until you can show how the jewels could have been abstracted without breaking the seals, you have not even a prima-facie case. Then there is the method of the alleged robbery. It would have required not merely access but undisturbed possession for a considerable time. It was not just a matter of picking out the stones. They were replaced by plausible counterfeits which had to be made or procured. Take the case of the ruby that you mentioned. It deceived Hollis completely. Then it must have been very like the original in size, form, and colour. It could not have been picked up casually at a theatrical property dealer’s; it must have been made ad hoc by careful comparison with the original. But all this and the subsequent setting and finishing would take time. It would be quite possible while the jewels were lying quietly in Hollis’s cabinets, but it would seem utterly impossible under the alleged circumstances. In short,” Mr. Penfield concluded, “I am astounded that you ever admitted the possibility of the robbery having occurred on your premises. What do you say, Mr. Hepburn?”

“I agree with you entirely,” the latter replied. “My position would have been that we had received certain sealed packages and that we had handed them back in the same condition as we received them. I should have left Hollis to prove the contrary.”

“And I think he could have done it,” said Woodstock doggedly. “You seem to be forgetting that emerald. But in any case I have accepted the suggestion and I am not going to draw back, especially as my confidential clerk has absconded and virtually admitted the theft. The question is, what is to be done? Hollis is mad to get hold of the robber and recover his gems, and he is prepared to stand the racket financially.”

“In that case,” said Mr. Penfield, taking a final pinch and pocketing his snuff-box, “I will venture to make a suggestion. This case is out of your depth and out of mine. I suggest that you allow me to take counsel’s opinion; and the counsel I should select would be Dr. John Thorndyke.”

“Thorndyke—hm!” grunted Woodstock. “Isn’t he an irregular practitioner of some sort?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Penfield dissented warmly. “He is a scientific expert with an unrivalled knowledge and experience of criminal practice. If it is possible for anyone to unravel this tangle, I am confident that he is the man; and I know of no other.”

“Then,” exclaimed Woodstock, “for God’s sake get hold of him, and let me know what he says, so that I can report to Hollis. And let him know that there will be no trouble about costs.”

With this Mr. Woodstock rose and, after an unemotional leave-taking, made his way out of the office, followed by Hepburn.

CHAPTER XIII

Thorndyke Takes Up the Inquiry

Mr. Penfield’s visit to Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers in King’s Bench Walk, Inner Temple, was productive of some little surprise, as such visits were rather apt to be. For the old solicitor had definitely made up his mind that Woodstock’s theory of the robbery was untenable and that the burden of proof ought to be cast on Hollis; and he was therefore not a little disconcerted to find Thorndyke tending to favour the view that the probabilities pointed to the strong-room as the scene of the robbery.

“After all,” the latter said, “we must not ignore the obvious. It is undeniable that Osmond’s disappearance—which has the strongest suggestion of flight—is a very suspicious circumstance. It occurred almost immediately after the discovery of the thefts and the suggestion that the gems had been stolen from the strong-room. Osmond had access to the strong-room—though I admit that a good many other persons had, too. Then there is the striking fact that the period of the robberies coincides exactly with the period of Osmond’s presence at the office. During the four years which preceded his arrival no robbery appears to have occurred, although all the other conditions seem to have been the same. So far as we can see, the robberies must have commenced very shortly after his arrival. These are significant facts which, as I have said, we cannot ignore.”

“I am entirely with you,” Mr. Penfield replied, “when you say that we must not ignore the obvious. But are you not doing so? These packages were most carefully and elaborately sealed; and it is admitted that they were returned to the owner with the seals unbroken. Now, it seems to me obvious that if the seals were unbroken, the packages could not have been opened. But apparently you think otherwise. Possibly you attach less importance to seals than I do?”

“Probably,” Thorndyke admitted. “It is easy to exaggerate their significance. For what is a seal, when all is said? It is an artificial thing which some artist or workman has made and which another artist or workman could copy if necessary. There is no magic in seals.”

“Dear, dear!” Mr. Penfield exclaimed with a wry smile. “Another illusion shattered! But I think a Court of Law would share my erroneous view of the matter. However, we will let that pass. I understand that you look upon Osmond as the probable delinquent?”

“The balance of probabilities is in favour of that view. But I am keeping an open mind. There are other possibilities, and they will have to be explored. We must take nothing for granted.”

Mr. Penfield nodded approvingly. “And suppose,” he asked, “the police should arrest Osmond?”

“Then,” replied Thorndyke, “Mr. Woodstock would be in difficulties, and so would the police—who have shown less than their usual discretion—unless the prisoner should get in a panic and plead ‘guilty.’ There is not even a prima-facie case. They can’t call upon Osmond to prove that he did not steal the gems.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Penfield agreed. “That is what I tried to impress on Woodstock—who is really a most extraordinarily unlegal lawyer. But have you any suggestion to offer?”

“I can only suggest that, as we are practically without data, we should endeavour to obtain some. The only fact that we have is that the stones have been removed from their settings and replaced by imitations. There seems to be no doubt about that. As to how they came to be removed, there are evidently four possibilities. First, they may have been taken from Hollis’s cabinets by some person unknown. Second, the substitution may have been effected by Hollis himself, for reasons unknown to us and by no means easy to imagine. Third, they may have been stolen from the strong-room by some person other than Osmond. Fourth, they may have been stolen from the strong-room by Osmond. The last is, I think, the most probable. But all of the four hypotheses must be impartially considered. Do I understand that Hollis is prepared to offer facilities?”

“He agrees to give every assistance, financial or other.”

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “I suggest that we make a beginning by inspecting the boxes. I understand that there are still some unopened.”

“Yes; six. Hollis reserved them to be opened in the presence of witnesses.”

“Let Hollis bring those six boxes together with those that have been opened, with their packings and wrappings, if he has them. If we can fix a day, I will arrange for an expert to be present to witness the opening of the six boxes and give an opinion on the stones in them. If it appears that any robbery has been committed, I shall ask Hollis to leave the boxes and the counterfeit jewels that I may examine them at my leisure.”

Mr. Penfield chuckled softly and helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

“Your methods, Dr. Thorndyke,” said be, “are a perennial source of wonder to me. May I ask what kind of information you expect to extract from the empty boxes?”

“I have no specific expectations at all,” was the reply; “but it will be strange indeed if we learn nothing from them. They will probably have little enough to tell us; but, seeing that we have, at present, hardly a single fact beyond that of the substitution—and that is not of our own observing—a very small addition to our knowledge would be all to the good.”

“Very true, very true,” agreed Mr. Penfield. “A single definite fact might enable us to decide which of those four possibilities is to be adopted and pursued; though how you propose to extract such a fact from an empty box, or even a full one, I am unable to imagine. However, I leave that problem in your hands. As soon as you have secured your expert, perhaps you will kindly advise me and I will then make the necessary arrangements with Mr. Hollis.”

With this Mr. Penfield rose and took his departure, leaving Thorndyke to read over and amplify the notes that he had taken during the consultation.

As matters turned out, he was able to advise Mr. Penfield within twenty-four hours that he had secured the services of an expert who was probably the greatest living authority on gem stones; with the result that a telegram arrived from Mr. Hollis accepting the appointment for the following day at eleven in the forenoon, that time having been mentioned by the expert as the most suitable on account of the light.

It wanted several minutes to the appointed hour when the first visitor arrived; for the Treasury clock had hardly struck the third quarter when, in response to a smart rat-tat on the little brass knocker, Thorndyke opened the door and admitted Professor Eccles.

“I am a little before my time,” the latter remarked as he shook hands, “but I wanted to have a few words with you before Mr. Hollis arrived. I understand that you want me to give an opinion on some doubtful stones of his. Are they new ones? Because I may say that I looked over his collection very carefully less than two years ago and I can state confidently that it contained no gems that were not unquestionably genuine. But I have heard some rumours of a robbery—unfounded, I hope, seeing that Hollis proposes to bequeath his treasures to the national collection.”

“I am afraid,” replied Thorndyke, “that the rumours are correct; but that is what you are going to help us to decide. It is not a case of simple robbery. The stolen stones seem to have been replaced by imitations; and as you examined the collection when it was undoubtedly intact, you will see at once if there has been any substitution.”

He proceeded to give the professor a brief account of the case and the curious problem that it presented, and he had barely finished when a cab was heard to draw up below. A minute later, as the two men stood at the open door, the visitor made his appearance, followed by the cabman, each carrying a bulky but apparently light wooden case.

Mr. Hollis was a typical business man—dry, brisk, and shrewd-looking. Having shaken hands with the professor and introduced himself to Thorndyke, he dismissed the cabman and came to the point without preamble.

“This case, marked A, contains the full boxes. The other, marked B, contains the empties. I will leave you to deal with that at your convenience. My concern and Professor Eccles’s is with the other, which I will open at once and then we can get to work.”

He thrust the despised case B into a corner, and hoisting the other on to the table, unbuckled the straps, unlocked it, threw open the lid, and took out six sealed packages, which he placed side by side on the table.

“Shall I open them?” he asked, producing a pocket knife, “or will you?

“Before we disturb them,” said Thorndyke, “we had better examine the exteriors very carefully.”

“I’ve done that,” said Hollis. “I’ve been over each one most thoroughly and, so far as I can see, they are in exactly the same condition as they were when I handed them to Woodstock. The writing on them is certainly my writing and the seals are impressions of my seal, which, as you see, I carry on my finger in this ring.”

“In that case,” said Thorndyke, “we may as well open them forthwith. Perhaps I had better take off the wrappings, as I should like to preserve them and the seals intact.”

He took up the first package and turned it over in his hands, examining each surface closely. And as he did so, his two visitors watched him—the professor with slightly amused curiosity, the other with a dry, rather impatient manner not without a trace of scepticism. The package was about fourteen inches in length by nine wide and five inches deep. It was very neatly covered with a strong, smooth white paper bearing a number—thirteen—and a written and signed list of the contents, and sealed at each end in the middle. The paper was further secured by a string, tied tightly and skilfully, of which the knot was embedded in a mass of wax on which was an excellent impression of the seal.

“You see,” Hollis pointed out, “that the parcel has been made as secure as human care could make it. I should have said that it was perfectly impossible to open it without breaking the seals.”

“But surely,” exclaimed the professor, “it would be an absolute impossibility! Don’t you agree, Dr. Thorndyke?”

“We shall be better able to judge when we have seen the inside,” the latter replied. With a small pair of scissors he cut the string, which he placed on one side, and then, with great care, cut round each of the seals, removing them with the portions of paper on which they were fixed and putting them aside with the string. The rest of the paper was now taken off, disclosing a plain, white-wood box, the keyhole of which was covered by a strip of tape secured at each end by a seal seated in a small circular pit. Thorndyke cut the tape and held the box towards Hollis, who already held the key in readiness. This having been inserted and turned, Thorndyke raised the lid and laid the box on the table.

“There, Professor,” said he; “you can now answer your own question. The list of contents is on the cover. It is for you to say whether that list correctly describes the things which are inside.”

Professor Eccles drew a chair up to the table, and lifting from the inside of the box a thick pad of tissue paper (which Thorndyke took from him and placed with the string and the seals), ran his eye quickly over the neatly-arranged assemblage of jewels that reposed on a second layer of tissue. Very soon a slight frown began to wrinkle his forehead. He bent more closely over the box, looked narrowly first at one gem, then at another, and at length picked out a small, plain pendant set with a single oval green stone about half an inch in diameter.

“Leaf-green jargoon,” said he, reading from the list as he produced a Coddington lens from his pocket; “that is the one, isn’t it?”

Hollis grunted an assent as he watched the professor inspecting the gem through his lens.

“I remember the stone,” said the professor. “It was one of the finest of the kind that I have ever seen. Well, this isn’t it. This is not a jargoon at all. It is just a lump of green glass—flint glass, in fact. But it is quite well cut. The lapidary knew his job better than the jeweller. There has been some very rough work on the setting.”

“How much was the stone worth?” Thorndyke asked.

“The original? Not more than thirty pounds, I should say. It was a beautiful and interesting stone, but rather a collector’s specimen than a jeweller’s piece. The public won’t give big prices for out-of-the-way stones. They like diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds.”

“Is this counterfeit a true facsimile of the original? I mean as to size and style of cutting?”

Professor Eccles took from his pocket a small leather case, from which he extracted a calliper gauge. Applying this delicately to the exposed edges of the “girdle” between the claws, he read the vernier and then reapplied it in the other diameter.

“Seven-twelfths by three-quarters of an inch, brilliant cut,” he announced. “Do you happen to remember the dimensions, Mr. Hollis? These can’t be far out, as the stone fits the setting.”

“I’ve brought my catalogue,” said Hollis, producing a small, fat volume from his pocket. “Thought we might want it. What’s the number? Three-sixty-three. Here we are. ‘Jargoon. Full leaf-green. Brilliant cut. Seven-twelfths by three-quarters.’

“Then,” said the professor, “this would seem to be a perfect replica. Queer, isn’t it? I see your point, Doctor. This fellow has been to endless pains and some expense in lapidary’s charges—unless he is a lapidary himself—to say nothing of the risk; and all to get possession of a stone worth only about thirty pounds, and not easily marketable at that.”

“Some of the other stones are worth more, though,” remarked Hollis.

“True, true,” agreed the professor. “Let us look at some of the others. Ha! Here is one that looks a little suspicious, if my memory serves.”

He picked out a gold ornament set with a large cat’s-eye bordered with small diamonds and exhibited it to Hollis, who bent down to inspect it.

“Cat’s-eye,” he commented, after a long and anxious inspection. “Well, it looks all right to me. What’s the matter with it?”

“Oh, it is a cat’s-eye, sure enough, but not the right kind, I think. What does the catalogue say?”

Hollis turned over a page and read out: “Chrysoberyl. Cymophane or cat’s-eye. Brown, oval, cut en cabochon. Five-eighths by half an inch. Bordered by twelve diamonds.”

“I thought so,” said the professor. “This is a cat’s-eye, but not a chrysoberyl. It is a quartz cat’s-eye. But I should hardly have thought it would have been worth the trouble and expense of making the exchange. You see,” he added, taking the dimensions with his gauge, “this stone is apparently a facsimile of the missing one in size and shape and not a bad match in colour. The diamonds don’t appear to have been tampered with.”

“What about that emerald?” Hollis asked anxiously, indicating a massive ring set with a large, square stone bordered with diamonds. Professor Eccles picked up the ring, and at the first glance he pursed up his lips, dubiously. But he examined it carefully through his lens, nevertheless.

“Well?” demanded Hollis.

The professor shook his head sadly. “Paste,” he replied. “A good imitation as such things go, but unmistakable glass. Will you read out the description?”

Hollis did so; and once again the correspondence in dimensions and cutting showed the forgery to be a carefully-executed facsimile.

“This fellow was a conscientious rascal,” said the professor. “He did the thing thoroughly—excepting the settings.”

“Yes, damn him!” Hollis agreed, savagely. “That ring cost me close on twelve hundred pounds. It came from Lord Pycroft’s collection.”

Professor Eccles was deeply concerned; naturally enough, for any robbery of precious things involves a wicked waste. And then there was the depressing fact that the valuable “Hollis bequest” was melting away before his eyes. Gloomily, he picked out one after another of the inmates of the box and regretfully added them to the growing heap of the rejected.

When the first box had been emptied, the second was attacked with similar procedure, and so on with the remainder, until the last box had been probed to the bottom, when the professor sat back in his chair and drew a deep breath. “Well,” he exclaimed, “it is a terrible disaster and profoundly mysterious. In effect, the collection has been skimmed of everything of real value. Even the moonstones have been exchanged for cheap specimens with the rough native cutting untouched. I have never heard of anything like it. But I don’t understand why the fellow took all this trouble. He couldn’t have supposed that the robbery would pass undetected.”

“It might easily have remained undetected long enough to confuse the issues,” said Thorndyke. “If the jewels had been returned to the cabinets and lain there undisturbed for a few months, it would have been very difficult to determine exactly when, or where, or how the robbery had been carried out.”

“Yes,” growled Hollis. “The scoundrel must have known that I am no expert and reckoned on my not spotting the change. And I don’t suppose I should, for that matter. However, the cat slipped out of the bag sooner than he expected and now the police are close on his heels. I’ll have my pound of flesh out of him yet.”

As he snapped out this expression of his benevolent intentions, Mr. Hollis gathered up the remnant of unrifled jewels and was about to deposit them in one of the empty boxes when Thorndyke interposed.

“May I lend you a deed-box with some fresh packing? I think we agreed that the empty boxes and the packing should be left with me, that I might examine them thoroughly before returning them.”

“Very well,” said Hollis, “though it seems a pretty futile thing to do. But I suppose you know your own business. What about those sham stones?”

“I should like to examine them too, as they are facsimile imitations; and we may possibly learn some thing from the settings.”

“What do you expect to learn?” Hollis inquired in a tone which pretty plainly conveyed his expectations.

“Very little,” Thorndyke replied (on which Hollis nodded a somewhat emphatic agreement). “But,” he continued, “this case will depend on circumstantial evidence—unless the robber confesses—and that evidence has yet to be discovered. We can do no more than use our eyes to the best advantage in the hope that we may light on some trace that may give us a lead.”

Hollis nodded again. “Sounds pretty hopeless,” said he. “However, Mr. Penfield advised me to put the affair in your hands, so I have done so. If you should discover anything that will help us with the prosecution, I suppose you will let me know.”

“I shall keep Mr. Penfield informed as to what evidence, if any, is available, and he will, no doubt, communicate with you.”

With this rather vague promise Mr. Hollis appeared to be satisfied, for he pursued the subject no farther, but, having packed the poor remainder of his treasures in the deed-box, prepared to depart.

“Before you go,” said Thorndyke, “I should like to take a trial impression of your seal, if you would allow me.”

Hollis stared at him in amazement. “My seal!” he exclaimed. “Why, good God, sir, you have already got some seventy impressions—six from each of these boxes and all those from the empties!”

“The seals that I have,” Thorndyke replied, “are the questioned seals. I should like to have what scientists call a ‘control.’

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘questioned seals,’” Hollis retorted. “I haven’t questioned them, I have acknowledged them as my own seals.”

“I think,” Thorndyke rejoined with a faint smile, “that Mr. Penfield would advise you to acknowledge nothing. But, furthermore, none of these seals is a really perfect impression such as one would require for purposes of comparison.”

“Comparison!” exclaimed Hollis. “Comparison with what? But there,” he concluded with a sour smile, “it’s no use arguing. Have it your own way. I suppose you know what you are about.”

With this, he drew off the ring, and, laying it on the table, bestowed a glance of defiance on Thorndyke. The latter had, apparently, made his preparations, for he promptly produced from a drawer a small box, the opening of which revealed a supply of sealing-wax, a spirit-lamp, a metal plate, a little crucible or melting-ladle with a wooden handle, a bottle of oil, a camel’s-hair brush, and a number of small squares of white paper. While he was setting out this apparatus the professor examined the seal through his lens.

“A fine example,” he pronounced. “Syracusan, I should say, fourth or fifth century B.C. Not unlike the decadrachm of that period—the racing Quadriga with the winged Victory above and the panoply of armour below seem to recall that coin. The stone seems to be green chalcedony. It is a beautiful work. Seems almost a pity to employ it in common use.”

He surrendered it regretfully to Thorndyke, who, having taken an infinitesimal drop of oil on the point of the brush and wiped it off on the palm of his hand, delicately brushed the surface of the seal. Then he laid a square of paper on the metal plate, broke off a piece from one of the sticks of sealing-wax and melted it in the crucible over the lamp. When it was completely liquefied, he poured it slowly on the centre of the square of paper, where it formed a circular, convex pool. Having given this a few seconds to cool, he took the ring and pressed it steadily on the soft wax. When he raised it—which he did with extreme care, steadying the paper with his fingers—the wax bore an exquisitely perfect impression of the seal.

Hollis was visibly impressed by the careful manipulation and the fine result; and when Thorndyke had repeated the procedure, he requested that a third impression might be made for his own use. This having been made and bestowed in the deed-box, he replaced the ring on his finger, bade the professor and Thorndyke a curt farewell, and made his way down to the waiting cab.

As the door closed behind him, the professor turned to Thorndyke with a somewhat odd expression on his face.

“This is a very mysterious affair, Doctor,” said he.

The curiously significant tone caused Thorndyke to cast a quick, inquiring glance at the speaker. But he merely repeated the latter’s remark.

“A very mysterious affair, indeed.”

“As I understand it,” the professor continued, “Hollis claims that these gems were stolen from the boxes while they were in the solicitor’s strong-room; and that they were taken without breaking the seals. But that sounds like sheer nonsense. And yet the solicitor appears to accept the suggestion.”

“Yes. Hollis claims that the gems that were put into the boxes were the real gems; and both he and the solicitor, Woodstock, base their beliefs on the fact that Woodstock’s confidential clerk appears to have absconded immediately after the discovery of the robbery.”

“H’m!” grunted the professor. “Is it quite clear that the clerk has really absconded?”

“He has disappeared for no known reason.”

“H’m. Not quite the same thing, is it? But has it been established that the real stones were actually in the boxes when they were handed to the solicitor?”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘established,’” Thorndyke admitted. “There is evidence that one stone, at least, was intact a day or two before the boxes were deposited; and that stone—a large emerald—was found to have been changed when the box was opened.”

The professor grunted dubiously and reflected awhile. Then he looked hard at Thorndyke and appeared to be about to make some observation; and then he seemed to alter his mind, for he concluded with the somewhat colourless remark: “Well, I daresay you are quite alive to all the possibilities,” and with this he prepared to take his departure.

“Do you happen,” asked Thorndyke, “to know the addresses of any lapidaries who specialize in imitation stones?”

Professor Eccles reflected. “Imitations are rather out of my province,” he replied. “Of course any lapidary could cut a paste gem or make a doublet or triplet, and would if paid for the job. I will write down the addresses of one or two men who have worked for me and they will probably be able to give you any further information.” He wrote down two or three addresses, and as he put away his pencil, he asked: “How is your colleague, Jervis? He is still with you, I suppose?

“Jervis,” was the reply, “is at present an independent practitioner. He accepted, on my advice, a whole-time appointment at the ‘Griffin’ Life Assurance Office. But he drops in from time to time to lend me a hand. I will tell him you asked after him. And let me tender you my very warmest thanks for your invaluable help today.”

“Tut, tut,” said the professor, “you need not thank me. I am an interested party. If Hollis doesn’t recover his gems, the national collection is going to lose a valuable bequest. Bear that in mind as an additional spur to your endeavours. Good-bye, and good luck!”

With a hearty handshake and a valedictory smile, Professor Eccles let himself out and went his way, apparently in a deeply thoughtful frame of mind, as Thorndyke judged by observing his receding figure from the window.

CHAPTER XIV

THORNDYKE MAKES A BEGINNING

The profound cogitations of Professor Eccles set up in the mind of Thorndyke a sort of induced psychic current. As he turned from the window and began to occupy himself in sorting his material preparatory to examining it, his thoughts were busy with his late visitor. The professor had been about to say something and had suddenly thought better of it. Now, what could it have been that he was about to say? And why had he not said it? And what was the meaning of that strangely intent look that he had bestowed on Thorndyke, and that rather odd expression that his face had borne? And, finally, what were those ‘possibilities’ at which he had hinted?

These were the questions that Thorndyke asked himself as he carried out, quietly and methodically, the preliminaries to his later investigations; with the further questions: Did the professor know anything that bore on the mystery? and if so, what was it that he knew? He evidently had no knowledge either of Woodstock or of Osmond, but he was fairly well acquainted with Hollis. It was manifest that he rejected utterly the alleged robbery from the strong-room; which implied a conviction that the exchange of stones had been made either before the boxes were handed to Woodstock or after they had been received back from him.

It was a perfectly natural and reasonable belief. Mr. Penfield had been of the same opinion. But Mr. Penfield had no special knowledge of the matter. His opinion had been based exclusively on the integrity of the seals. Was this the professor’s case, too? Or was he in possession of some significant facts which he had not disclosed? His manner rather suggested that he was. Perhaps it might be expedient, later, to sound him cautiously. But this would depend on the amount and kind of information that was yielded by other sources.

By the time he reached this conclusion the sorting process was completed. The six boxes with their contents replaced were set out in order, the empties put together as well as was possible, and the seals from the wrapping of each box put into a separate envelope on which the number and description was written. A supply of white paper was laid on the table together with a number of new paper bags, and a little simple microscope which consisted of a watchmaker’s compound eyeglass mounted on a small wooden stand. Thorndyke ran his eye over the collection to see that everything was in order; then, dismissing the professor from his mind, he drew a chair up to the table and fell to work.

He began with the seals. Opening one of the envelopes, he took out the four seals—including that on the knot, which he had cut off—and laying them out on the table, examined them quickly, one after the other. Then he picked up one of them, laid it on a card and placed the card on the stage of the magnifier, through which he made a more prolonged examination, turning the card from time to time to alter the incidence of the light, and jotting down on a note-block a few brief memoranda. The same procedure was followed with the other three seals, and when they had all been examined they were returned to their envelope, the top sheet of the note-block was detached and put in with them, the envelope was put aside and a fresh one opened. Finally he came to the envelope which contained the two impressions that he had, himself, taken from Hollis’s seal, but these were not subjected to the minute scrutiny that the others had received. They were merely laid on the card, slipped under the magnifier, and after a single, brief glance, returned to their envelope and put aside. Next, the seals in the recesses by the keyholes of the boxes were scrutinized, the eyeglass being swung clear of its stand for the purpose, and when this had been done, the fresh set of notes was detached and slipped into one of the envelopes.

But this did not conclude the examination. Apparently there was some further point to be elucidated. Rising from his chair, Thorndyke fetched from a cabinet a microscope of the kind used for examining documents—a heavy-based instrument with a long, pivoted arm and a bull’s-eye condenser. With this he re-examined the seals in succession, beginning with the two impressions that he had, himself, taken; and it might have been noticed that this examination concerned itself exclusively with a particular spot on the seal—a portion of the background just in front of the chariot and above the back of the near horse.

He had just finished and was replacing the microscope in the cabinet when the door opened silently and a small, clerical-looking man entered the room and regarded him benevolently.

“I have laid a cold lunch, sir, in the small room upstairs,” he announced, “and I have put everything ready in your laboratory. Can I help you to carry anything up?” As he spoke, he ran an obviously inquisitive eye over the row of boxes and the numbered envelopes.

“Thank you, Polton,” Thorndyke replied. “I think we will take these things up out of harm’s way and I will just look them over before lunch. But meanwhile there is a small job that you might get on with. I have here a collection of seals of which I want enlarged photographs made—four diameters magnification and each set on a separate negative and numbered similarly to the envelopes.”

He exhibited the collection to his trusty coadjutor with a few words of explanation, when Polton tenderly gathered together the seven envelopes, and master and man betook themselves to the upper regions, each laden with a consignment of Mr. Hollis’s boxes, full and empty.

The laboratory of which Polton had spoken was a smallish room which Thorndyke reserved for his own use, and which was on the same floor as the large laboratory and the workshop over which Polton presided. Its principal features were a long work-bench, covered with polished linoleum and at present occupied by a microscope and a tray of slides, needles, forceps, and other accessories, a side-table, a cupboard, and several sets of shelves.

“Is there anything more, sir?” Polton asked when the boxes had been stacked on the side-table. He looked at them wistfully as he spoke, but accepted with resignation the polite negative and stole out, shutting the door silently behind him As soon as he had gone, Thorndyke fell to work with a rapid but unhurried method suggestive of a fixed purpose and a considered plan. He began by putting on a pair of thin rubber gloves. Then, spreading on the bench a sheet of white demy paper such as chemists use for wrapping bottles, he took one of the boxes, detached its wrapping paper, opened the box, and taking out the jewels and the pads of tissue paper, deposited the former at one end of the bench and the latter at the other, together with the empty box. First he dealt with the pads of tissue paper, one of which he placed on the sheet of white paper, and having opened it out and smoothed it with an ivory paper-knife, examined it closely on both sides with the aid of a reading glass. Then he took from a drawer a large tuning-fork, and holding the packing paper vertically over the middle of the sheet on the bench, he struck the tuning-fork sharply, and while it was vibrating, lightly applied its tip to the centre of the suspended paper, causing it to hum like a gigantic bumble-bee and to vibrate visibly at its edges. Having repeated this proceeding two or three times, he laid the paper aside and with the reading glass inspected the sheet of demy, on which a quite considerable number of minute specks of dust were now to be seen. This procedure he repeated with the other pads of tissue paper from the box, and as he worked, the sheet of white paper on the bench became more and more conspicuously sprinkled with particles of dust until, by the time all the pads had been treated, a quite appreciable quantity of dust had accumulated. Finally, Thorndyke took the box itself and, having opened it, placed its bottom on the sheet of paper and with a small mallet tapped it lightly but sharply all over the bottom and sides. When he lifted it from the paper, the further contribution of dust could be plainly seen in a speckling of the surface corresponding to the shape of the box.

For some moments Thorndyke stood by the bench looking down on this powdering of grey that occupied the middle of the sheet of white paper. Some of the particles, such as vegetable fibres, were easily recognizable by the unaided eye; and there were two hairs, evidently moustache hairs, both quite short and of a tawny brown colour. But he made no detailed examination of the deposit. Taking from the cupboard a largish flat pill-box, he wrote on its lid the number of the box, and then, having lightly folded the sheet of paper, carefully assembled the dust into a tiny heap in the middle and transferred it to the pill-box, applying the tuning-fork to the sheet to propel the last few grains to their destination. Then, having put the box aside and deposited the sheets of tissue paper—neatly folded—in a numbered envelope, he spread a fresh sheet of demy on the bench, and taking up another box from the side-table, subjected it to similar treatment; and so, carefully and methodically, he dealt with the entire collection of boxes, never pausing for more than a rapid glance at the sprinkling of dust that each one yielded.

He was just shooting the ‘catch’ from the last package into the pill-box when a quick step was audible on the stairs, and after a short interval Polton let himself in silently.

“Here’s Dr. Jervis, sir,” said he, “and he says he hasn’t had lunch yet. It is past three o’clock, sir.”

“A very delicate hint, Polton,” said Thorndyke. “I will join him immediately—but here he is, guided by instinct at the very psychological moment.”

As he spoke, Dr. Jervis entered the room and looked about him inquisitively. From the row of pill-boxes his glance travelled to the little heaps of jewellery, each on a numbered sheet of paper.

“This is a quaint collection, Thorndyke,” said he, stooping to inspect the jewels. “What is the meaning of it? I trust that my learned senior has not, at last, succumbed to temptation; but it is a suspicious looking lot.”

“It does look a little like a fence’s stock-in-trade or the product of a super-burglary,” Thorndyke admitted. “However, I think Polton will be able to reassure you, when he has looked over the swag. But let us go and feed; and I will give you an outline sketch of the case in the intervals of mastication. It is quite a curious problem.”

“And I take it,” said Jervis, “that those pill-boxes contain the solution. There is a necromantic look about them that I seem to recognize. You must tell me about them when you have propounded the problem.”

He followed Thorndyke into the little breakfast-room, and when they had taken their seats at the table and fairly embarked on their immediate business, the story of the gem robbery was allowed to transpire gradually. Jervis followed the narrative with close attention and an occasional chuckle of amusement.

“It is an odd problem,” he commented when the whole story had been told. “There doesn’t seem to be any doubt as to who committed the robbery; and yet if you were to put this man Osmond into the dock, although the jury would be convinced to a man of his guilt, they would have to acquit him. I wonder what the deuce made him bolt.”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “that is what I have been asking myself. He may be a nervous, panicky man, but that does not look like the explanation. The suggestion is rather that he knew of some highly incriminating fact which he expected to come to light, but which has not come to light. As it is, the only incriminating fact is his own disappearance, which is evidentially worthless by itself.”

“Perfectly. And you are now searching for corroborative facts in the dust from those boxes. It doesn’t look a very hopeful quest.”

“It doesn’t,” Thorndyke agreed. “But still, circumstantial evidence gains weight very rapidly. A grain of positive evidence would give quite a new importance to the disappearance. For instance, no less than seven of those boxes have yielded moustache hairs, all apparently from the same person—a fair man with a rather closely cropped moustache of a tawny colour. Now, if it should turn out that Osmond has a moustache of that kind and that no other person connected with those boxes has a moustache of precisely that character, this would be a really important item of evidence, especially coupled with the disappearance.”

“It would, indeed; and even the number might be illuminating. I mean that, although moustache hairs are shed pretty freely, one would not have expected to find so many. But if the man had the not uncommon habit of stroking or rubbing his moustache, that would account for the number that had got detached.”

Thorndyke nodded approvingly. “Quite a good point, Jervis. I will make a note of it for verification. And now, as we seem to have finished, shall we take a look at one or two of the samples.”

“Exactly what I was going to propose,” replied Jervis; and as they rose and repaired to the small laboratory, he added: “It’s quite like old times to be pursuing a mysterious unknown quantity with you. I sometimes feel like chucking the insurance job and coming back.”

“It is better to come back occasionally and keep the insurance job,” Thorndyke rejoined as he placed two microscopes on the bench facing the window and drew up a couple of chairs. “You had better note the number of each box that you examine, though it is probably of no consequence.”

He took up the collection of pill-boxes, and having placed them between the two microscopes, sat down, and the two friends then fell to work, each carefully tipping the contents of a box on to a large glass slip and laying the latter on the stage of the microscope.

For some time they worked on in silence, each jotting down on a note-block brief comments on the specimens examined. When about half of the boxes had been dealt with—and their contents very carefully returned to them—Jervis leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his colleague.

“This is very commonplace, uncharacteristic dust in most respects,” said he, “but there is one queer feature in it that I don’t quite make out. I have found in every specimen a number of irregularly oval bodies, some of them with pointed ends. They are about a hundredth of an inch long by a little more than a two hundredth wide; a dull pink in colour and apparently of a granular homogeneous substance. I took them at first for insect eggs, but they are evidently not, as they have no skin or shell. I don’t remember having seen anything exactly like them before. Have you found any of them?”

“Yes. Like you, I have found some in every box.”

“And what do you make of them? Do you recognize them?”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “They are the castings of a wood-boring beetle; particles of that fine dust that you see in the worm-holes of worm-eaten wood. Quite an interesting find.”

“Quite; unless they come from the boxes that the jewels were packed in.”

“I don’t think they do. Those boxes are white wood, whereas these castings are from a red wood. But we may as well make sure.”

He rose and took up the empty boxes one by one, turning each one over and examining it closely on all sides.

“You see, Jervis,” he said as he laid down the last of them, “there is not a trace of a worm-hole in any of them. No, that worm-dust came from an outside source.”

“But,” exclaimed Jervis, “it is very extraordinary. Don’t you think so? I mean,” he continued in response to an inquiring glance from his colleague, “that the quantity is so astonishing. Just think of it. In every one of these boxes we have found an appreciable number of these castings—quite a large quantity in the aggregate. But the amount of dust that will fall from a piece of worm-eaten furniture must be infinitesimal.”

“I would hardly agree to that, Jervis. A really badly wormed piece—say an old walnut chair or armoire—may, in the course of time, shed a surprisingly large amount of dust. But, nevertheless, my learned friend has, with his usual perspicacity, laid his finger on the point that is of real evidential importance—the remarkable quantity of this dust and its more or less even distribution among all these boxes. And now you realize the truth of what I was saying just now as to the cumulative quality of circumstantial evidence. Here we have a number of boxes which have undoubtedly been tampered with by some person. That person is believed to be the man Osmond on the ground that he has absconded. But his disappearance, by itself, furnishes no evidence of his guilt. It merely offers a suggestion. He may have gone away for some entirely different reason.

“Then we find in these boxes certain moustache hairs. If it should turn out that Osmond has a moustache composed of similar hairs, that fact alone would not implicate him, since there are thousands of other men with similar moustaches. But taken in conjunction with the disappearance, the similarity of the hairs would constitute an item of positive evidence.

“Then we find some dust derived from worm-eaten wood. Its presence in these boxes, its character, and its abundance offer certain suggestions as to the kind of wood, the nature of the wooden object, and the circumstances attending its deposition in the boxes. Now, if it should be possible to ascertain the existence of a wooden object of the kind suggested and associated with the suggested circumstances, and if that object were the property of, or definitely associated with, the man Osmond, that fact, together with the hairs and the disappearance, would form a really weighty mass of evidence against him.”

“Yes, I see that,” said Jervis; “but what I don’t see is how you arrive at your inferences as to the object from which the dust was derived.”

“It is a question of probabilities,” replied Thorndyke. “First, as to the kind of wood. It is a red wood. It is pretty certainly not mahogany, as it is too light in colour and mahogany is very little liable to ‘the worm.’ But the abundance of dust suggests one of those woods which are specially liable to be worm eaten. Of these the fruit woods—walnut, cherry, apple, and pear—are the most extreme cases, cherry being, perhaps, the worst of all and therefore usually avoided by the cabinet-maker. But this dust is obviously not walnut. It is the wrong colour. But it might be either cherry, apple, or pear, and the probabilities are rather in favour of cherry; though, of course, it might be some other relatively soft and sappy red wood.”

“But how do you infer the nature of the object?”

“Again, by the presence of the dust in these boxes, by the properties of that dust and the large quantity of it. Consider the case of ordinary room dust. You find it on all sorts of surfaces, even high up on the walls or on the ceiling. There is no mystery as to how it gets there. It consists of minute particles, mostly of fibres from textiles, so small and light that they float freely in the air. But this wood consists of relatively large and heavy bodies—over a hundredth of an inch long. From the worm-holes it will fall to the floor; and there it will remain even when the floor is being swept. It cannot rise in the air and become deposited like ordinary dust, and it must therefore have made its way into these boxes in some other manner.”

“Yes, I realize that; but still I don’t see how that fact throws any light on the nature of the wooden object.”

“It is merely a suggestion,” replied Thorndyke; “and the inference may be quite wrong. But it is a perfectly obvious one. Come now, Jervis, don’t let your intellectual joints get stiff. Keep them lissom by exercise. Consider the problem of this dust. How did it get into these boxes and why is there so much of it? If you reason out the probabilities, you must inevitably reach a conclusion as to the nature of the wooden object. That conclusion may turn out to be wrong; but it will be logically justifiable.”

“Well, that is all that matters,” Jervis retorted with a sour smile, as he rose and glanced at his watch. “The mere fact of its being wrong we should ignore as an irrelevant triviality; just as the French surgeon, undisturbed by the death of the patient, proceeded with his operation and finally brought it to a brilliantly successful conclusion. I will practise your logical dumbbell exercise, and if I reach no conclusion after all I shall still be comforted by the mental vision of my learned senior scouring the country in search of a hypothetical worm-eaten chest of drawers.”

Thorndyke chuckled softly. “My learned friend is pleased to be ironical. But nevertheless his unerring judgement leads him to a perfectly correct forecast of my proceedings. The next stage of the inquiry will consist in tracing this dust to its sources, and the goal of my endeavours will be the discovery and identification of this wooden object. If I succeed in that, there will be, I imagine, very little more left to discover.”

“No,” Jervis agreed, “especially if the owner of the antique should happen to be the elusive Mr. Osmond. So I wish you success in your quest, and only hope it may not resemble too closely that of the legendary blind man, searching in a dark room for a black hat—that isn’t there.”

With this parting shot and a defiant grin, Jervis took his departure, leaving Thorndyke to complete the examination of the remaining material.

CHAPTER XV

MR. WAMPOLE IS HIGHLY AMUSED

On a certain Saturday afternoon at a few minutes to three the door of Mr. Woodstock’s office in High Street, Burchester, opened somewhat abruptly and disclosed the figures of the solicitor himself and his chief clerk.

“Confounded nuisance all this fuss and foolery,” growled the former, pulling out his watch and casting an impatient glance up the street. “I hope he is not going to keep us waiting.”

“He is not due till three,” Hepburn remarked, soothingly; and then, stepping out and peering up the nearly empty street, he added: “Perhaps that may be he—that tall man with the little clerical-looking person.”

“If it is, he seems to be bringing his luggage with him,” said Mr. Woodstock, regarding the pair, and especially the suitcases that they carried, with evident disfavour; “but you are right. They are coming here.”

He put away his watch, and as the two men crossed the road, he assumed an expression of polite hostility.

“Dr. Thorndyke?” he inquired as the newcomers halted opposite the doorway; and having received confirmation of his surmise, he continued: “I am Mr. Woodstock, and this is my colleague, Mr. Hepburn. May I take it that this gentleman is concerned in our present business?” As he spoke he fixed a truculent blue eye on Thorndyke’s companion, who crinkled apologetically.

“This is Mr. Polton, my laboratory assistant,” Thorndyke explained, “who has come with me to give me any help that I may need.”

“Indeed,” said Woodstock, glaring inquisitively at the large suitcase which Polton carried. “Help? I gathered from Mr. Penfield’s letter that you wished to inspect the office, and I must confess that I found myself utterly unable to imagine why. May I ask what you expect to learn from an inspection of the premises?”

“That,” replied Thorndyke, “is a rather difficult question to answer. But as all my information as to what has occurred here is second-or third-hand, I thought it best to see the place myself and make a few inquiries on the spot. That is my routine practice.”

“Ah, I see,” said Woodstock. “Your visit is just a matter of form, a demonstration of activity. Well, I am sorry I can’t be present at the ceremony. My colleague and I have an engagement elsewhere; but my office-keeper, Mr. Wampole, will be able to tell you anything that you may wish to know and show you all there is to see excepting the strong-room. If you want to see that, as I suppose you do, I had better show it to you now, as I must take the key away with me.”

He led the way along the narrow hall, half-way down which he opened a door inscribed ‘Clerks’ Office,’ and entered a large room, now unoccupied save by an elderly man who sat at a table with the parts of a dismembered electric bell spread out before him. Through this Mr. Woodstock passed into a somewhat smaller room furnished with a large writing-table, one or two nests of deed-boxes, and a set of book-shelves. Nearly opposite the table was the massive door of the strong-room, standing wide open with the key in the lock.

“This is my private office,” said Mr. Woodstock, “and here is the strong-room. Perhaps you would like to step inside. I am rather proud of this room. You don’t often see one of this size. And it is absolutely fire-proof; thick steel lining, concrete outside that, and then brick. It is practically indestructible. Those confounded boxes occupied that long upper shelf.”

Thorndyke did not appear to be specially interested in the strong-room. He walked in, looked round at the steel walls with their ranks of steel shelves, loaded with bundles of documents, and then walked out.

“Yes,” he said, “it is a fine room, as strong and secure as one could wish; though, of course, its security has no bearing on our case, since it must have been entered either with its own key or a duplicate. May I look at the key?”

Mr. Woodstock withdrew it from the lock and handed it to him without comment, watching him with undisguised impatience as he turned it over and examined its blade.

“Not a difficult type of key to duplicate,” he remarked as he handed it back, “though these wardless pin-keys are more subtle than they look.”

“I suppose they are,” Woodstock assented indifferently. “But really, these investigations appear to me rather pointless, seeing that the identity of the thief is known. And now I must be off; but first let me introduce you to my deputy, Mr. Wampole.”

He led the way back to the clerks’ office, where his subordinate was busily engaged in assembling the parts of the bell.

“This is Dr. Thorndyke, Wampole, who has come with his assistant, Mr.—er—Bolton, to inspect the premises and make a few inquiries. You can show him anything that he wants to see and give him all the assistance that you can in the way of answering questions. And,” concluded Mr. Woodstock, shaking hands stiffly with Thorndyke, “I wish you a successful issue to your labours.”

As Mr. Woodstock and his colleague departed, closing the outer door after them, Mr. Wampole laid down his screw-driver and looked at Thorndyke with a slightly puzzled expression.

“I don’t quite understand, sir, what you want to do,” said he, “or what sort of inspection you want to make; but I am entirely at your service, if you will kindly instruct me. What would you like me to show you first?”

“I don’t think we need interrupt your work just at present, Mr. Wampole. The first thing to be done is to make a rough plan of the premises, and while my assistant is doing that, perhaps I might ask you a few questions if it will not distract you too much.”

“It will not distract me at all,” Mr. Wampole replied, picking up his screw-driver. “I am accustomed to doing odd jobs about the office—I am the handy man of the establishment—and I am not easily put out of my stride.”

Evidently he was not; for even as he was speaking his fingers were busy in a neat, purposive way that showed clearly that his attention was not wandering from his task. Thorndyke watched him curiously, not quite able to ‘place’ him. His hands were the skilful, capable hands of a mechanic, and this agreed with Woodstock’s description of him and his own. But his speech was that of a passably educated man and his manner was quite dignified and self-possessed.

“By the way,” said Thorndyke, “Mr. Woodstock referred to you as the office-keeper. Does that mean that you are the custodian of the premises?”

“Nominally,” replied Wampole. “I am a law-writer by profession; but when I first came here, some twenty years ago, I came as a caretaker and used to live upstairs. But for many years past the upstairs rooms have been used for storage—obsolete books, documents, and all sorts of accumulations. Nobody lives in the house now. We lock the place up when we go away at night. As for me, I am, as I said, the handy man of the establishment. I do whatever comes along—copy letters, engross leases, keep an eye on the state of the premises, and so on.”

“I see. Then you probably know as much of the affairs of this office as anybody.”

“Probably, sir. I am the oldest member of the staff, and I am usually the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at night. I expect I can tell you anything that you want to know.”

“Then I will ask you one or two questions, if I may. You probably know that my visit here is connected with the robbery of Mr. Hollis’s gems?”

“The alleged robbery,” Mr. Wampole corrected. “Yes, sir. Mr. Woodstock told me that.”

“You appear to be somewhat doubtful about the robbery.”

“I am not doubtful at all,” Wampole replied in a tone of great decision. “I am convinced that the whole thing is a mare’s nest. The gems may have been stolen. I suppose they were as Mr. Hollis says they were. But they weren’t stolen from here.”

“You put complete trust in the strong-room?”

“Oh no, I don’t, sir. This is a solicitor’s strong-room, not a banker’s. It is secure against fire, not against robbery. It was designed for the custody of things such as documents, of great value to their owners but of no value to a thief. It was no proper receptacle for jewels. They should have gone to a bank.”

“Do I understand, then, that unauthorized persons might have obtained access to the strong-room?”

“They might, during business hours. Mr. Woodstock unlocks it when he arrives and it is usually open all day; or if it is shut, the key is left hanging on the wall. But it has never been taken seriously as a bank strong-room is. Mr. Hepburn and Mr. Osmond kept their cricket-bags and other things in it, and we have all been in the habit of putting things in there if we were leaving them here over-night.”

“Then, really, any member of the staff had the opportunity to make away with Mr. Hollis’s property?”

“I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that,” replied Wampole, with somewhat belated caution. “Any of us could have gone into the strong-room; but not without being seen by some of the others. Still, one must admit that a robbery might have been possible; the point is that it didn’t happen. I checked those boxes when I helped to put them in, and I checked them when we took them out. They were all there in their original wrappings with Mr. Hollis’s handwriting on them and all the seals intact. It is nonsense to talk of a robbery in the face of those facts.”

“And you attach no significance to Mr. Osmond’s disappearance?”

“No, sir. He was a bachelor and could go when and where he pleased. It was odd of him, I admit, but he sometimes did odd things; a hasty, impulsive gentleman, quick to jump at conclusions and make decisions and quick to act. Not a discreet gentleman at all; rather an unreasonable gentleman, perhaps, but I should say highly scrupulous. I can’t imagine him committing a theft.”

“Should you describe him as a nervous or timid man?”

Mr. Wampole emitted a sound as if he had clock work in his inside and was about to strike. “I never met a less nervous man,” he replied with emphasis. “No, sir. Bold to rashness would be my description of Mr. John Osmond. A buccaneering type of man. A yachtsman, a boxer, a wrestler, a footballer, and a cricketer. A regular hard nut, sir. He should never have been in an office. He ought to have been a sailor, an explorer, or a big-game hunter.”

“What was he like to look at?”

“Just what you would expect—a big, lean, square-built man, hatchet-faced, Roman-nosed, with blue eyes, light-brown hair, and a close-cropped beard and moustache. Looked like a naval officer.”

“Do you happen to know if his residence has been examined?”

“Mr. Woodstock and the Chief Constable searched his rooms, but of course they didn’t find anything. He had only two small rooms, as he took his meals and spent a good deal of his time with Mr. Hepburn, his brother-in-law. He seemed very fond of his sister and her two little boys.”

“Would it be possible for me to see those rooms?”

“I don’t see why not, sir. They are locked up now, but the keys are here and the rooms are only a few doors down the street.”

Here occurred a slight interruption, for Mr. Wampole, having completed his operations on the bell, now connected it with the battery—which had also been under repair—when it emitted a loud and cheerful peal. At the same moment, as if summoned by the sound, Polton entered holding a small drawing-board on which was a neatly executed plan of the premises.

“Dear me, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Wampole, casting an astonished glance at the plan. “You are very thorough in your methods. I see you have even put in the furniture.”

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, with a faint smile; “we must needs be thorough even if we reach no result.”

Mr. Wampole regarded him with a sly smile. “Very true, sir,” he chuckled—“very true, indeed. A bill of costs needs something to explain the total. But, God bless us! what is this?”

“This” was, in effect, a diminutive vacuum cleaner, fitted with a little revolving brush and driven by means of a large dry battery, which Polton was at the moment disinterring from his suitcase. Thorndyke briefly explained the nature of the apparatus while Mr. Wampole stared at it with an expression of stupe faction.

“But why have you brought it here, sir?” he exclaimed. “The premises would certainly be the better for a thorough cleaning, but surely—”

“Oh, we are not going to ‘vacuum clean’ you,” Thorndyke reassured him. “We are going to take samples of dust from the different parts of the premises.”

“Are you, indeed, sir? And, if I may take the liberty of asking, what do you propose to do with them?”

“I shall examine them carefully when I get home,” Thorndyke replied, “and I may then possibly be able to judge whether the robbery took place here or elsewhere.”

As Thorndyke furnished this explanation, Mr. Wampole stood gazing at him as if petrified. Once he opened his mouth, but shut it again tightly as if not trusting himself to speak. At length he rejoined: “Wonderful! wonderful!” and then, after an interval, he continued meditatively: “I seem to have read somewhere of a wise woman of the East who was able, by merely examining a hair from the beard of a man who had fallen downstairs, to tell exactly how many stairs he had fallen down. But I never imagined that it was actually possible.”

“It does sound incredible,” Thorndyke admitted, gravely. “She must have had remarkable powers of deduction. And now, if Mr. Polton is ready, we will begin our perambulation. Which was Mr. Osmond’s office?”

“I will show you,” replied Mr. Wampole, recovering from his trance of astonishment. He led the way out into the hall and thence into a smallish room in which were a writing-table and a large, old-fashioned, flap-top desk.

“This table,” he explained, “is Mr. Hepburn’s. The desk was used by Mr. Osmond and his belongings are still in it. That second door opens into Mr. Woodstock’s office.”

“Is it usually kept open or closed?” Thorndyke asked.

“It is nearly always open; and as it is, as you see”—here he threw it open—“exactly opposite the door of the strong-room, no one could go in there unobserved unless Mr. Woodstock, Mr. Hepburn, and Mr. Osmond had all been out at the same time.”

Thorndyke made a note of this statement and then asked: “Would it be permissible to look inside Mr. Osmond’s desk? Or is it locked?”

“I don’t think it is locked. No, it is not,” he added, demonstrating the fact by raising the lid; “and, as you see, there is nothing very secret inside.”

The contents, in fact, consisted of a tobacco-tin, a couple of briar pipes, a ball of string, a pair of gloves, a clothes-brush, a pair of much-worn hair-brushes, and a number of loose letters and bills. These last Thorndyke gathered together and laid aside without examination, and then proceeded methodically to inspect each of the other objects in turn, while Mr. Wampole watched him with the faintest shadow of a smile.

“He seems to have had a pretty good set of teeth and a fairly strong jaw,” Thorndyke remarked, balancing a massive pipe in his fingers and glancing at the deep tooth-marks on the mouth-piece, “which supports your statement as to his physique.”

He peered into the tobacco-tin, smelt the tobacco, inspected the gloves closely, especially at their palmar surfaces, and tried them on; examined the clothes brush, first with the naked eye and then with the aid of his pocket-lens, and, holding it inside the desk, stroked its hair backwards and forwards, looking closely to see if any dust fell from it. Finally, he took up the hair-brushes one at a time and, having examined them in the same minute fashion, produced from his pocket a pair of fine forceps and a seed-envelope. With the forceps he daintily picked out from the brushes a number of hairs which he laid on a sheet of paper, eventually transferring the collection to the little envelope, on which he wrote: “Hairs from John Osmond’s hair-brushes.”

“You don’t take anything for granted, sir,” remarked Mr. Wampole, who had been watching this proceeding with concentrated interest (perhaps he was again reminded of the wise woman of the East).

“No,” Thorndyke agreed. “Your description was hearsay testimony, whereas these hairs could be produced in Court and sworn to by me.”

“So they could, sir; though, as it is not disputed that Mr. Osmond has been in this office, I don’t quite see what they could prove.”

“Neither do I,” rejoined Thorndyke. “I was merely laying down the principle.”

Meanwhile, Polton had been silently carrying out his part of the programme, not unobserved by Mr. Wampole; and a pale patch about a foot square, between Mr. Hepburn’s chair and the front of the table, where the pattern of the grimy carpet had miraculously reappeared, marked the site of his operations. Tenderly removing the little silken bag, now bulging with its load of dust, he slipped it into a numbered envelope and wrote the number on the spot on the plan to which it corresponded.

Presently a similar patch appeared on the carpet in front of Osmond’s desk, and when the sample had been disposed of and the spot on the plan marked, Polton cast a wistful glance at the open desk.

“Wouldn’t it be as well, sir, to take a specimen from the inside?” he asked.

“Perhaps it would,” Thorndyke replied. “It should give us what we may call a ‘pure culture.’” He rapidly emptied the desk of its contents, when Polton introduced the nozzle of his apparatus and drew it slowly over every part of the interior. When this operation was completed, including the disposal of the specimen and the marking of the plan, the party moved into Mr. Woodstock’s office, and from thence back into the clerks’ office.

“I find this investigation intensely interesting,” said Mr. Wampole, rubbing his hands gleefully. “It seems to combine the attractions of a religious ceremony and a parlour game. I am enjoying it exceedingly. You will like to have the names of the clerks who sit at those desks, I presume.”

“If you please,” replied Thorndyke.

“And, of course, you will wish to take samples from the insides of the desks. You certainly ought to. The informal lunches which the occupants consume during the forenoon will have left traces which should be most illuminating. And the desks are not locked, as there are no keys.”

Mr. Wampole’s advice produced on Polton’s countenance a smile of most extraordinary crinkliness, but Thorndyke accepted it with unmoved gravity and it was duly acted upon. Each of the desks was opened and emptied of its contents—instructive enough as to the character and personal habits of the tenant—and cleared of its accumulation of crumbs, tobacco-ash, and miscellaneous dirt, the ‘catch’ forming a specimen supplementary to those obtained from the floor. At length, when they had made the round of the office, leaving in their wake a succession of clean squares on the matting which covered the floor, Mr. Wampole halted before an old-fashioned high desk which stood in a corner in company with a high office-stool.

“This is my desk,” said he. “I presume that you are going to take a little souvenir from it?”

“Well,” replied Thorndyke, “we may as well complete the series. We operated on Mr. Hollis’s premises this morning.”

“Did you indeed, sir! You went there first; and very proper too. I am sure Mr. Hollis was very gratified.”

“If he was,” Thorndyke replied with a smile, “he didn’t make it obtrusively apparent. May I compliment you on your desk? You keep it in apple-pie order.”

“I try to show the juniors an example,” replied Mr. Wampole, throwing back the lid of the desk and looking complacently at the neatly stowed contents. “It is a miscellaneous collection,” he added as he proceeded to transfer his treasures from the desk to a cleared space on the table.

It certainly was. There were a few tools—pliers, hack-saw, hammer, screw-driver, and a couple of gimlets—a loosely folded linen apron, one or two battery terminals and a coil of insulated wire, a stamp-album, a cardboard tray full of military buttons, cap-badges, and old civilian coat buttons, and a smaller tray containing one or two old copper and silver coins.

“I see you are a stamp collector,” remarked Thorndyke, opening the album and casting a glance of lukewarm interest over its variegated pages.

“Yes,” was the reply, “in a small way. It is a poor man’s hobby, unless one seeks to acquire costly rarities, which I do not. As a matter of fact, I seldom buy specimens at all. This album has been filled principally from our foreign correspondence. And the same is true of the coins. I don’t regularly collect them; I just keep any odd specimens that come my way.”

“And the buttons? You have a better opportunity there, for you have practically no competitors. And yet it seems to me that they are of more interest than the things that the conventional collectors seek so eagerly.”

“I entirely agree with you, sir,” Mr. Wampole replied, warmly. “It is the common things that are best worth collecting—the things that are common now and will be rare in a few years’ time. But the collector who has no imagination neglects things until they have become rare and precious. Then he buys at a high price what he could have got a few years previously for nothing. Look at these old gilt coat-buttons. I got them from an old-established tailor who was clearing out his obsolete stock. Unfortunately, he had thrown away most of them and nearly all the steel button-dies. I just managed to rescue these few and one or two dies, which I have at home. They are of no value now, but when the collectors discover the interest of old buttons, they will be worth their weight in gold. I am collecting all the buttons I can get hold of.”

“I think you are wise, from a collector’s point of view. By the way, did you ever meet with any of those leather-bound sample wallets that the old button-makers used to supply to tailors?”

“Never,” replied Mr. Wampole. “I have never even heard of them.”

“I have seen one or two,” said Thorndyke, “and each was a collection in itself, for it contained some two or three hundred buttons, fixed in sheets of mill-board, forming a sort of album; and, of course, every button was different from every other.”

Mr. Wampole’s eyes sparkled. “What an opportunity you had, sir!” he exclaimed. “But probably you are not a collector. It was a pity, though, for, as you say, one of those wallets was a museum in itself. If you should ever chance to meet with another, would it be too great a liberty for me to beg you to secure an option for me, at a price within my slender means?”

“It is no liberty at all,” Thorndyke replied. “It is not likely that I shall ever come across one again, but if I should, I will certainly secure it for you.”

“That is most kind of you, sir,” exclaimed Mr. Wampole. “And now, as Mr. Polton seems to have completed the cleansing of my desk—the first that it has had, I am afraid, for a year or two—we may continue our exploration. Did you wish to examine the waiting-room?”

“I think not. I have just looked into it, but its associations are too ambiguous for the dust to be of any interest. But I should like to glance at the rooms upstairs.”

To the upstairs rooms they accordingly proceeded, but the inspection was little more than a formality. They walked slowly through each room, awakening the echoes as they trod the bare floors, and as they went, Thorndyke’s eye travelled searchingly over the shelves and rough tables, stacked with documents and obsolete account-books, and the few rickety Windsor chairs. There was certainly an abundance of dust, as Mr. Wampole pointed out, but it did not appear to be of the brand in which Thorndyke was interested.

“Well,” said Mr. Wampole, as they descended to the ground-floor, “you have now seen the whole of our premises. I think you said that you would like to inspect Mr. Osmond’s rooms. If you will wait a few moments, I will get the keys.”

He disappeared into the principal’s office, and meanwhile Polton rapidly packed his apparatus in the suit case, so that by the time Mr. Wampole reappeared, he was ready to start.

“Mr. Osmond’s rooms,” said Mr. Wampole, as they set forth, “are over a bookseller’s shop. This is the place. If you will wait for a moment at the private door, I will notify the landlord of our visit.” He entered the shop and after a short interval emerged briskly and stepped round to the side-door, into which he inserted a latch-key. He led the way along the narrow hall, past a partially open door, in the opening of which a portion of a human face was visible, to the staircase, up which the little procession advanced until the second-floor landing was reached. Here Mr. Wampole halted and, selecting a key from the small bunch, unlocked and opened a door, and preceded his visitors into the room.

“It is just as well that you came today,” he remarked, “for I understand that Mrs. Hepburn is going to take charge of these rooms. A day or two later and she would have been beforehand with you in the matter of dust. As it is, you ought to get quite a good haul.”

“Quite,” Thorndyke agreed. “There is plenty of dust; but in spite of that, the place has a very neat, orderly appearance. Do you happen to know whether the rooms have been tidied up since Mr. Osmond left?”

“They are just as he left them,” was the reply, “excepting that the Chief Constable and Mr. Woodstock came and looked over them. But I don’t think they disturbed them to any extent. There isn’t much to disturb, as you see.”

Mr. Wampole was right. The furnishing of the room did not go beyond the barest necessities, and when Thorndyke opened the door of communication and looked into the bedroom, it was seen to be characterized by a like austere simplicity. Whatever might be the moral short-comings of the vanished tenant, softness or effeminate luxuriousness did not appear to be among them.

As his assistant refixed the ‘extractor,’ Thorndyke stood thoughtfully surveying the room, trying to assess the personality of its late occupant by the light of his belongings. And those belongings and the room which held them were highly characteristic. The late tenant was clearly an active man, a man whose interests lay out-of-doors; an orderly man, too, with something of a sailor’s tidiness. He had the sailor’s knack of keeping the floor clear by slinging things aloft out of the way. Not only small articles such as rules, dividers, marlinspike, and sheath-knife, but a gun-case, fishing-rods, cricket-bats, and a bulky roll of charts were disposed of on the walls by means of picture-hooks and properly-made slings—the height of which gave a clue to the occupant’s stature and length of arm. And the nautical flavour was accentuated by the contents of a set of rough shelves in a recess, which included a boat compass, a nautical almanack, a volume of sailing directions, and a manual of naval architecture. The only touch of ornament was given by a set of four photographs in silver frames, which occupied the mantelpiece in company with a pipe-rack, a tobacco-jar, an ash-bowl, and a box of matches.

Thorndyke stepped across to the fireplace to look at them more closely. They were portraits of five persons: a grave-looking, elderly clergyman; a woman of about the same age with a strong, alert, resolute face and markedly aquiline features; and a younger woman, recognizably like the clergyman; and two boys of about seven and eight, photographed together.

“Those,” said Mr. Wampole, indicating the older persons, “are Mr. Osmond’s parents, both, I regret to say, deceased. The younger lady is Mrs. Hepburn, Mr. Osmond’s sister, and those little boys are her sons. Mr. Osmond was very devoted to them, as I believe they were to him.”

Thorndyke nodded. “They are fine little fellows,” he remarked. “Indeed it is a good-looking family. I gather from your description that Mr. Osmond must have taken rather strongly after his mother.”

“You are quite right, sir,” replied Mr. Wampole. “From that portrait of his mother you would recognize Mr. Osmond without the slightest difficulty. The likeness is quite remarkable.”

Thorndyke nodded again as he considered long and earnestly the striking face that looked out of the frame so keenly under its bold, straight brows. Strength, courage, determination, were written in every line of it; and as he stood with his eyes bent upon those of the portrait and thought of this woman’s son—of the mean, avaricious crime, so slyly and craftily carried out, of the hasty, pusillanimous flight, unjustified by any hint of danger—he was sensible of a discrepancy between personality and conduct to which his experience furnished no parallel. A vast amount of nonsense has been talked and believed on the subject of physiognomy; but within this body of error there lies a soul of truth. ‘Character reading’ in the Lavater manner is largely pure quackery; but there is a certain general congruity between a man’s essential character and his bodily ‘make-up,’ including his facial type. Here, however, was a profound incongruity. Thorndyke found it difficult to identify the sly, cowardly knave whom he was seeking with the actual man who appeared to be coming into view.

But his doubts did not affect his actions. He had come here to collect evidence; and that purpose he proceeded to execute with a perfectly open mind. He pointed out to Polton the most likely spots to work for characteristic dust; he examined minutely every piece of furniture and woodwork in both the rooms; he made careful notes of every fact observed by himself or communicated by Wampole that could throw any light on the habits or occupations of the absent man. Even the secretly-amused onlooker was impressed by the thoroughness of the investigation, for, as Polton finally packed his apparatus, he remarked: “Well, sir, I have told you what I think—that you are following a will-o’-the-wisp. But if you fail to run him to earth, it certainly won’t be for lack of painstaking effort. You deserve to succeed.”

Thorndyke thanked him for the compliment and retired slowly down the stairs while the rooms were being locked up. They called in at the office to collect Thorndyke’s green canvas-covered case and then made their adieux.

“I must thank you most warmly, Mr. Wampole,” said Thorndyke, “for the kind interest that you have taken in our investigations. You have given us every possible help.”

Mr. Wampole bowed. “It is very good of you to say so. But it has really been a great pleasure and a most novel and interesting experience.” He held the door open for them to pass out, and as they were crossing the threshold he added: “You won’t forget about that button-wallet, sir, if the opportunity should arrive.”

“I certainly will not,” was the reply. “I will secure an option—or better still, the wallet itself and send it to you. By the way, should it be sent here or to your private address?”

Mr. Wampole reflected for a few moments. Then he drew from his pocket a much-worn letter-case from which he extracted a printed visiting-card.

“I think, sir, it would be best to send it to my private address. One doesn’t want it opened by the wrong hands. This is my address; and let me thank you in advance, even if only for the kind intention. Good evening, sir. Good evening, Mr. Polton. I trust that your little dusty souvenirs will prove highly illuminating.”

He stood on the threshold and gravely watched his two visitors as they retired down the street. At length, when they turned a corner, he re-entered, shutting and locking the outer door. Then in an instant his gravity relaxed, and flinging himself into a chair, he roused the echoes with peal after peal of joyous laughter.

CHAPTER XVI

WHICH TREATS OF LAW AND BUTTONS

“This seems highly irregular,” said Mr. Penfield, settling himself comfortably in the easy-chair and smilingly regarding a small table on which were a decanter and glasses. “I don’t treat my professional visitors in this hospitable fashion. And you don’t even ask what has brought me here.”

“No,” replied Thorndyke, as he filled a couple of glasses; “I accept the gifts of Fortune and ask no questions.”

Mr. Penfield bowed. “You were good enough to say that I might call out of business hours, which is a great convenience, so here I am, with a twofold purpose; first, to seek information from you; and second to give you certain news of my own. Perhaps I may take them in that order and begin by asking one or two questions?”

“Do so, by all means,” replied Thorndyke.

“I have heard,” pursued Mr. Penfield, “from our friends Hollis and Woodstock, and perhaps you will not be surprised to learn that you have made yourself somewhat unpopular with them. They have even applied disrespectful epithets to you.”

“Such as mountebank, impostor, quack, and so forth,” suggested Thorndyke.

Mr. Penfield chuckled as he sipped his wine. “Your insight is remarkable,” said he. “You have quoted the very words. They complain that, after making a serious appointment with them and occupying their time, you merely asked a number of foolish and irrelevant questions, and then proceeded to sweep the floor. Is that an exaggeration, or did you really sweep the floor?”

“I collected a few samples of dust from the floor and elsewhere.”

Mr. Penfield consumed a luxurious pinch of snuff and regarded Thorndyke with delighted amusement.

“Did you indeed? Well, I am not surprised at their attitude. But a year or so ago it would have been my own. It must have looked like sheer wizardry. But tell me, have your investigations and floor-sweepings yielded any tangible facts?

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “they have; and those facts I will lay before you on the strict understanding that you communicate them to nobody. As to certain further inferences of a more speculative character, I should prefer to make no statement at present. They may be entirely erroneous.”

“Exactly, exactly. Let us keep scrupulously to definite facts which are susceptible of proof. Now, what have you discovered?”

“My positive results amount to this: in the first place I have ascertained beyond the possibility of any reasonable doubt that those boxes had been opened by some person other than Mr. Hollis. In the second place it is virtually certain that the person who opened them was in some way connected with Mr. Woodstock’s office.”

“Do you say that the boxes were actually opened in his office?

“No. The evidence goes to prove that they were taken from the office and opened elsewhere.”

“But surely they would have been missed from the strong-room?”

“That, I think was provided for. I infer that only one box was taken at a time and that its place was filled by a dummy.”

“Astonishing!” exclaimed Mr. Penfield. “It seems incredible that you should have been able to discover this—or, indeed, that it should be true. The seals seem to me to offer an insuperable difficulty.”

“On the contrary,” replied Thorndyke, “it was the seals that furnished the evidence. They were manifest forgeries.”

“Were they really! The robber had actually had a counterfeit seal engraved?”

“No. The false seal was not engraved. It was an electrotype made from one of the wax impressions; a much simpler and easier proceeding, and one that the robber could carry out himself and so avoid the danger of employing a seal engraver.”

“No doubt it would be the safer plan, and probably you are right in assuming that he adopted it; but—”

“I am not assuming,” said Thorndyke. “There is direct evidence that the seal used to make the false impressions was an electrotype.”

“Now, what would be the nature of that evidence—or is it, perhaps, too technical for an ignorant person like me to follow?”

“There is nothing very technical about it,” replied Thorndyke. “You know how an electrotype is made? Well, to put it briefly, the process would be this: one of the wax impressions from a box would be carefully coated with black lead or some other conducting material and attached to one of the terminals of an electric battery; and to the other terminal a piece of copper would be attached. The black-leaded wax impression and the piece of copper would be suspended from the wires of the battery, close together but not touching, in a solution of sulphate of copper. Then, as the electric current passed, the copper would dissolve in the solution and a film of metallic copper would become deposited on the black-leaded wax and would gradually thicken until it became a solid shell of copper. When this shell was picked off the wax it would be, in effect, a copper seal which would give impressions on wax just like the original seal. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly. But what is the evidence that this was actually done?”

“It is really very simple,” replied Thorndyke. “Let us consider what would happen in the two alternative cases. Take first that of the seal engraver. He has handed to him one or more of the wax impressions from the boxes and is asked to engrave a seal which shall be an exact copy of the seal which made the impressions. What does he do? If the wax impression were absolutely perfect, he would simply copy it in intaglio. But a seal impression never is perfect unless it is made with quite extraordinary care. But the wax impressions on the boxes were just ordinary impressions, hastily made with no attempt at precision, and almost certainly not a perfect one among them. The engraver, then, would not rigorously copy a particular impression, but, eliminating its individual and accidental imperfections, he would aim at producing a seal which should be a faithful copy of the original seal, without any imperfections at all.

“Now take the case of the electrotype. This is a mechanical reproduction of a particular impression. Whatever accidental marks or imperfections there may be in that impression will be faithfully reproduced. In short, an engraved seal would be a copy of the original seal; an electrotype would be a copy of a particular impression of that seal.”

Mr. Penfield nodded approvingly. “An excellent point and very clearly argued. But what is its bearing on the case?”

“It is this: since an electrotype seal is a mechanical copy of a particular wax impression, including any accidental marks or imperfections in it, it follows that every impression made on wax with such a seal will exhibit the accidental marks or imperfections of the original wax impression, in addition to any defects of its own. So that, if a series of such impressions were examined, although each would probably have its own distinctive peculiarities, yet all of them would be found to agree in displaying the accidental marks or imperfections of the original impression.”

“Yes, I see that,” said Mr. Penfield with a slightly interrogative inflexion.

“Well, that is what I have found in the series of seal-impressions from Mr. Hollis’s boxes. They are of all degrees of badness, but in every one of the series two particular defects occur; which, as the series consists of over thirty impressions, is utterly outside the limits of probability.”

“Might those imperfections not have been in the seal itself?

“No. I took, with the most elaborate care, two impressions from the original seal, and those impressions are, I think, as perfect as is possible. At any rate, they are free from these, or any other visible defects. I will show them to you.”

He took from a drawer a portfolio and an envelope. From the latter he produced one of the two impressions that he had made with Mr. Hollis’s seal and from the former a half-plate photograph.

“Here,” he said, handing them to Mr. Penfield, “is one of the seal impressions taken by me, and here is a magnified photograph of it. You can see that every part of the design is perfectly clear and distinct and the background quite free from indentations. Keep that photograph for comparison with these others, which show a series of thirty-two impressions from the boxes, magnified four diameters. In every one of them you will find two defects. First the projecting fore-legs of the left-hand horse are blurred and faint; second, there is, just in front of the chariot and above the back of the near horse, a minute pit in the back ground. It is hardly visible to the naked eye in the wax impressions, but the photographs show it plainly. It was probably produced by a tiny bubble of air between the seal and the wax.

“Now, neither of these defects is to be seen in Mr. Hollis’s seal. Either of them might have occurred accidentally in one or two impressions. But since they both occur in every case, whether the impressions are relatively good or bad, it is practically certain that they existed in the matrix or seal with which the impressions were made. And this conclusion is confirmed by the fact that, in some cases, the defect in the horse’s fore legs is inconsistent with other defects in the same impression.”

“How inconsistent?” Mr. Penfield demanded.

“I mean that the faint impression of the horse’s legs is due to insufficient pressure of the left side of the seal; the seal has not been put down quite vertically. But here—in number 23, for instance—the impression of the chariot and driver on the right-hand side is quite faint and shallow. In that case, the left-hand side of the impression should have been deep and distinct. But both sides are faint, whereas the middle is deep.”

“Might not the seal have been rocked from side to side?”

“No, that would not explain the appearances; for if the seal were rocked from side to side, both sides would be deep, though the middle might be shallow. It is impossible to imagine any kind of pressure which would give an impression shallow on both sides and deep in the middle. The only possible explanation is that the matrix, itself, was shallow on one side.”

Mr. Penfield reflected, helping his cogitations with a pinch of snuff.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Incredible as the thing appears, I think you have made out your case. But doesn’t it strike you as rather odd that this ingenious rascal should not have taken more care to secure a good impression from which to make his false seal?”

“I imagine that he had no choice,” replied Thorndyke. “On each box were six seals; three on the paper wrapping, two in the recesses by the keyhole, and one on the knot of the string. Now, as the paper had to be preserved, the seals could not be torn or cut from that. It would be impossible to get them out of the recesses. There remained only the seals on the knots. These were, of course, much the least perfect, though the string was little more than thread and the knots quite small. But they were the only ones that it was possible to remove, and our friend was lucky to have got as good an impression as he did.”

Mr. Penfield nodded. “Yes,” said he, “you have an answer to every objection. By the way, if the paper had to be preserved so carefully, how do you suppose he got the parcels open? He would have had to break the seals.”

“I think not. I assume that he melted the seals by holding a hot iron close to them and then gently opened the packets while the wax was soft.”

Mr. Penfield chuckled. “Yes,” he admitted, “it is all very complete and consistent. And now to go on to the next point. You say that there is evidence that these boxes were opened by some person other than Hollis himself; a person connected in some way with Woodstock’s office. Further that they were opened, not in the office itself, but in some other place to which they had been taken. I should like to hear that evidence; especially if it should happen to be connected with those mysterious floor-sweepings.”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” Thorndyke replied, with a smile. “But the floor-sweeping was not the first stage. The investigation began with Mr. Hollis’s boxes, from which I extracted every particle of dust that I could obtain; and this dust I examined minutely and exhaustively. The results were unexpectedly illuminating. For instance, from every one of the untouched boxes I obtained one or more moustache hairs.”

“Really! But isn’t that very remarkable?”

“Perhaps it is. But moustache hairs are shed very freely. If you look at the dust from a desk used by a man with a moustache, you will usually see in it quite a number of moustache hairs.”

“I have not noticed that,” said Mr. Penfield, “having no moustache myself. And what else did you obtain by your curious researches?”

“The other result was really very remarkable indeed. From every one of the boxes I obtained particles—in some cases only one or two, in others quite a number—of the very characteristic dust which is shed by worm-eaten furniture.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mr. Penfield. “And you were actually able to identify it! Astonishing! Now, I suppose—you must excuse me,” he interpolated with an apologetic smile, “but I am walking in an enchanted land and am ready to expect and believe in any marvels—I suppose you were not able to infer the character of the piece of furniture?

“Not with anything approaching certainty,” replied Thorndyke. “I formed certain opinions; but they are necessarily speculative, and we are dealing with evidence.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Mr. Penfield. “Let us avoid speculation. But I now begin to see the inwardness of the floor-sweeping. You were tracing this mysterious dust to its place of origin.”

“Exactly. And, naturally, I began with Mr. Hollis’s premises—though the forgery of the seals seemed to put him outside the field of inquiry.”

“Yes; he would hardly have needed to forge his own seal.”

“No. But I examined his premises thoroughly, with an entirely negative result. There was no one on them with a moustache of any kind; the dust from his floors showed not a particle of the wood-dust, and I could find no piece of furniture in his house which could have yielded such dust.

“I then proceeded to Woodstock’s office, and there I obtained abundant samples both of hairs and wood-dust. I found Osmond’s hair-brushes in his desk, and from them obtained a number of moustache hairs which, on careful comparison, appear to be identically similar to those found in the boxes.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Penfield in what sounded like a tone of disapproval. “And as to the wood-dust?”

“I obtained traces of it from every part of the floor. But it was very unequally distributed; so unequally as to associate it quite distinctly with a particular individual. I obtained abundant traces of it from the floor round that individual’s desk, and even more from the inside of the desk; whereas, from the interiors of the other desks I recovered hardly a particle.”

“You refer to ‘a particular individual.’ Do you mean John Osmond?”

“No,” replied Thorndyke. “Osmond’s desk contained no wood-dust.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Penfield in what sounded very like a tone of satisfaction.

“As to the individual referred to,” said Thorndyke, “I think that, for the present, it might be better—”

“Certainly,” Mr. Penfield interrupted emphatically, “certainly. It will be much better to mention no names. After all, it is but a coincidence, though undoubtedly a striking one. But we must keep an open mind.”

“That is what I feel,” said Thorndyke. “It is an impressive fact, but there is the possibility of some fallacy. Nevertheless it is the most promising clue that offers, and I shall endeavour to follow it up.”

“Undoubtedly,” Mr. Penfield agreed, warmly. “It indicates a new line of inquiry adapted to your peculiar gifts, though to me I must confess it only adds a new complication to this mystery. And I do really find this a most perplexing case. Perhaps you do not?”

“I do, indeed,” replied Thorndyke. “It bristles with contradictions and inconsistencies. Take the case against Osmond. On the one hand it is in the highest degree convincing. The robberies coincide in time with his presence in the office. His disappearance coincides with the discovery of the robbery; and then in the rifled boxes we find a number of hairs from his moustache.”

“Can you prove that they are actually his?” Mr. Penfield asked.

“No,” Thorndyke replied. “But I have not the slightest doubt that they are, and I think they would be accepted by a jury—in conjunction with the other circumstances—as good evidence. These facts seem to point quite clearly to his guilt. On the other hand, the wood-dust is not connected with him at all. None was found in his desk or near it; and when I examined his rooms—which by a fortunate chance I was able to do—I not only found no trace whatever of wood-dust, but from the appearance of the place I was convinced that the boxes had not been opened there. And furthermore, so far as I could ascertain, the man’s personality was singularly out of character with a subtle, cunning, avaricious crime of this type; not that I would lay great stress on that point.”

“No,” agreed Mr. Penfield; “the information is too scanty. But tell me: you inferred that the boxes were not opened in Woodstock’s office, but were taken away and opened in some other place. How did you arrive at that?”

“By means of the wood-dust. The place in which those boxes were opened and refilled must have contained some worm-eaten wooden object which yielded that very distinctive dust, and yielded it in large quantities. But there was no such object on Woodstock’s premises. I searched the house from top to bottom and could not find a single piece of worm-eaten wood work.”

“And may I inquire—mind, I am not asking for details—but may I inquire whether you have any idea as to the whereabouts of that piece of furniture?”

“I have a suspicion,” replied Thorndyke. “But there is my dilemma. I have a strong suspicion as to the place where it might be found; but, unfortunately, that place is not accessible for exploration. So, at present, I am unable either to confirm or disprove my theory.”

“But supposing you were able to ascertain definitely that the piece of furniture is where you believe it to be? What then?”

“In that case,” Thorndyke replied, “provided that this worm-eaten object turned out to be the kind of object that I believe it to be, I should be disposed to apply for a search-warrant.”

“To search for what?” demanded Mr. Penfield.

“The stolen property—and certain other things.”

“But surely the stolen property has been disposed of long ago.”

“I think,” replied Thorndyke, “that there are reasons for believing that it has not. But I would rather not go into that question at present.”

“No,” said Mr. Penfield. “We agreed to avoid speculative questions. And now, as I think I have exhausted your supply of information, it is my turn to contribute. I have a rather startling piece of news to communicate. John Osmond is dead.”

Thorndyke regarded Mr. Penfield with raised eyebrows. “Have you heard any particulars?” he asked.

“Woodstock sent me a copy of the police report, of which I will send you a duplicate if you would like one. Briefly, it amounts to this: Osmond was traced to Bristol, and it was suspected that he had embarked on a ship which traded from that port to the west coast of Africa. That ship was seen, some weeks later, at anchor off the coast at a considerable distance from her usual trading-ground, and on her arrival at her station—a place called Half-Jack on the Grain Coast—was boarded by an inspector of constabulary who had been sent up from the Gold Coast to make inquiries. To him the captain admitted that he had landed a passenger from Bristol at a place called Adaffia in the Bight of Benin. The passenger was a man named Walker whose description agreed completely with that of Osmond. Thereupon, the inspector returned to Accra to report; and from thence was sent down to Adaffia with an armed party to find the man and arrest him.

“But he was too late. He arrived only in time to find a trader named Larkom setting up a wooden cross over the grave. Walker had died early that morning or the night before.”

“Is it quite clear that this man was really John Osmond?”

“Quite,” replied Mr. Penfield. “Larkom had just painted the name John Osmond on the cross. It appeared that Osmond, when he realized that he was dying, had disclosed his real name and asked to have it written above his grave—naturally enough. One doesn’t want to be buried under an assumed name.”

“No,” Thorndyke agreed. “The grave is a sufficiently secure sanctuary. Does the report say what was the cause of death?”

“Yes, though it doesn’t seem very material. He is stated to have died from blackwater fever—whatever that may be.”

“It is a peculiarly malignant type of malaria,” Thorndyke explained; and he added after a pause: “Well, ‘the White Man’s Grave’ is a pestilential region, but poor Osmond certainly wasted no time in dying. How does his death affect our inquiry?”

Mr. Penfield took snuff viciously. “Woodstock’s view is—I can hardly speak of it with patience—that as the thief is dead, the inquiry comes automatically to an end.”

“And Hollis, I take it, does not agree?”

“Indeed he does not. He wants his property traced and recovered.”

“And do I understand that you instruct me to proceed with my investigations?

“Most certainly; especially in view of what you have told me.”

“I am glad of that,” said Thorndyke. “I dislike exceedingly leaving an inquiry uncompleted. In fact, I should have completed the case for my own satisfaction and as a matter of public policy. For if Osmond stole these gems, the fact ought to be proved lest any other person should be suspected; and if he did not, his character ought to be cleared as a matter of common justice.”

“That is exactly my own feeling,” said Mr. Penfield. “And then, of course, there is the property. That ought to be recovered if possible, especially if, as you seem to think, it is still intact. And now,” he added, draining his glass and rising, “it is time for me to depart. I have to thank you for a most interesting and pleasant evening.”

As Thorndyke stood on the landing looking down upon his retreating guest, he was dimly aware of a presence on the stair above; and when he turned to re-enter his chambers, the presence materialized into the form of Polton. With silent and stealthy tread the ‘familiar spirit’ stole down the stairs and followed his principal into the room, where, having closed both doors with a secret and portentous air, he advanced to the table.

“What have you got under your arm, Polton?” Thorndyke asked.

By way of reply, Polton regarded his employer with a smile of the most extraordinary crinkliness and began very deliberately to untie the string of a small parcel. From the latter he at length disengaged a kind of leathern wallet marked in gold lettering with what appeared to be a tradesman’s name and address. This he bore, slowly and ceremoniously, to the table, where with a sudden movement he unrolled it, displaying a glittering constellation of metal buttons.

“Well done, Polton!” Thorndyke exclaimed. “What a man you are! Now, where might you have unearthed this relic?”

“I discovered it, sir,” replied Polton, blushing with pleasure like a dried apricot, “in a little, old-fashioned tailor’s trimming-shop in one of the courts off Carnaby Street. It is quite a well preserved specimen, sir.”

“Yes, it is in wonderful condition, considering its age. Mr. Wampole will be delighted with it. He will be set up with buttons for life. I think, Polton, it would add to his pleasure if you were to run down and make the presentation in person. Don’t you?”

Polton’s features crinkled to the point of obliteration. “I do, indeed, sir,” he replied. “At his private residence, I think, sir.”

“Certainly; at his private residence. And we shall have to find out at what time he usually returns from the office.”

“We shall, sir,” Polton agreed; and thereupon proceeded to crinkle to a perfectly alarming extent.

CHAPTER XVII

The Lapidary

In a small street hard by Clerkenwell Green is a small shop of antique and mouldy aspect, the modest window of which is so obscured by a coat of paint on the inside as to leave the unaided observer to speculate in vain as to the kind of wares concealed within. A clue to the mystery is, however, furnished by an inscription in faded gilt lettering on the fascia above, which sets forth that the tenant’s name is Lambert and that his vocation is that of a lapidary and dealer in precious stones.

On a certain afternoon a few days after his interview with Mr. Penfield, Dr. John Thorndyke might have been seen to turn into the small street with a brisk, decisive air suggestive of familiarity with the neighbourhood and a definite purpose; and the latter suggestion would have been confirmed when, having arrived at the shop, he pushed open the door and entered. A faded, elderly man confronted him across the counter and inquired what might be his pleasure.

“I have called,” said Thorndyke, “to make some inquiries concerning artificial stones.”

“Did you want them for theatrical purposes?”

“No. Those are usually cast or moulded, aren’t they?”

“Sometimes. Not as a rule. Can’t get much sparkle out of moulded glass, you know. But what was the class of goods you were wanting?”

“I wanted a set of imitation gems made to given shapes and dimensions to form a collection such as might be suitable for purposes of instruction in a technical school.”

“Would the shapes and dimensions have to be exact?”

“Yes, quite exact. They are intended to be copies of existing specimens and the settings are already made.”

Thorndyke’s answer seemed to occasion some surprise, for the man to whom he made it reflected profoundly for a few moments and then looked round at a younger man who was sorting samples from the stock at a side-bench.

“Odd, isn’t it, Fred?” said the former.

“What is odd?” inquired Thorndyke.

“Why, you see, sir, we had someone come in only a few days ago making the very same inquiry. You remember him, Fred?”

“Yes, I remember him, Mr. Lambert. Crinkly-faced little blighter.”

“That’s the man,” said Mr. Lambert. “I rather wondered at the time what his game was. Seemed to know a lot about the trade, too; but you have to mind what you are about making strass facsimiles.”

“Of course you have,” Thorndyke agreed, “especially when you are dealing with these crinkly-faced people.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Lambert, “But, of course, sir, in your case we know where we are.”

“It is very good of you to say so,” rejoined Thorndyke. “But I gather that you are not often asked to make sets of facsimile imitations.”

“No, not sets. Occasionally we get an order from a jeweller to duplicate the stones of a diamond necklace or tiara to be used while the original is in pawn, or for safety in a crowd. But not a collection such as you are speaking of. In fact, during all the thirty-five years that I have been in business, I have only had one order of the kind. That was between four and five years ago. A gentleman named Scofield wanted a set to offer to some local museum, and he wanted them to be copies of stones in various public collections. He got the shapes and dimensions from the catalogues—so I understood.”

“Did you execute the order?”

“Yes; and quite a big order it was.”

“I wonder,” said Thorndyke, “whether he happened to have selected any of the stones that are in my list. Mine are mostly from the Hollis collection. But I suppose you don’t keep records of the work you do?”

“I expect all the particulars are in the order book. We can soon see.”

He went over to a shelf on which was ranged a row of books of all ages, and running his hand along, presently drew out a leather volume which he laid on the counter and opened.

“Ah! Here we are,” said he, after a brief search. “Mr. Scofield. Perhaps you would like to glance over his list. You see there are quite a lot of them.”

He pushed the book across to Thorndyke, who had already produced a notebook from his pocket, the entries in which he now proceeded to compare with those in Mr. Scofield’s list. Mr. Lambert watched him with close interest as he placed his finger on one after another of the entries in the book, and presently remarked:

“You seem to be finding some duplicates of your own lot.”

“It is most remarkable,” said Thorndyke “—and yet perhaps it isn’t—but his selection coincides with mine in over a dozen instances. May I tick them off with a pencil?”

“Do, by all means,” said Lambert. “Then I can copy them out afterwards—that is, if you want me to get the duplicates cut.”

“I do, certainly. I will mark off those that I want, and, when you have cut those, I will give you a further list. And I may add that I should like you to use the best-quality strass that you can get. I want them to be as much like real stones as possible.”

“I should do that in any case for good cut work,” said Lambert; and he added: “I suppose there is no special hurry for these stones?

“None at all,” replied Thorndyke. “If you will send me a card to this address when they are ready, I will call for them. Or, perhaps, if I pay for them now you could send them to me.”

The latter alternative was adopted, and while the prices were being reckoned up and the bill was being made out, Thorndyke occupied himself in making, in shorthand, a copy of the list in the order book. He had finished and put away his notebook by the time the account was ready; when, having laid a visiting-card on the counter, he paid his score and began to put on his gloves.

“By the way,” said he, “your customer would not happen to be Mr. Scofield of the Middle Temple, I suppose?

“I really couldn’t say, sir,” replied Lambert. “He never gave any address. But I had an idea that he came up from the country. He used to give his orders and then he would call, at longish intervals, and take away as many of the stones as were ready. He was a middle-aged man, a bit on the shady side; tallish, clean-shaved, iron-grey hair, and not too much of it.”

“Ah, then I don’t think that would be the same Mr. Scofield. It is not a very uncommon name. Good-afternoon.”

With this Thorndyke took up his stick and, emerging from the shop, set a course southward for the Temple, walking quickly, as was his wont, with a long, swinging stride, and turning over in his mind the bearings of what he had just learned. In reality he had not learned much. Still, he had added one or two small items to his stock of facts, and in circumstantial evidence every added fact gives additional weight to all the others. He sorted out his new acquirements and considered each in turn.

In the first place, it was clear that Mr. Scofield’s collection was a facsimile of the missing part of Hollis’s. The list in Lambert’s book was identical with the one in his own pocket-book; which, in its turn, was a list of the forgeries. The discovery of the maker of the forgeries (a result of extensive preliminary scouting on the part of Polton) was of little importance at the moment, though it might be of great value in the future. For, since the forgeries existed, it was obvious that someone must have made them. Much more to the point was the identity of the person for whom they were made. Whoever ‘Mr. Scofield’ might have been, he certainly was not John Osmond. And this set Thorndyke once more puzzling over the really perplexing feature of this curious case. Why had Osmond absconded? That he had really done so, Thorndyke had no doubt, though he would have challenged the use of the word by anyone else. But why? There had been nothing to implicate him in any way. Beyond the hairs in the boxes—of which he could not have known and which were not at all conclusive—there was nothing to implicate him now but his own flight. All the other evidence seemed to point away from him. Yet he had absconded.

Thorndyke put to himself the various possibilities and argued them one at a time. There were three imaginable hypotheses. First, that Osmond had committed the robbery alone and unassisted; second, that he had been an accessory or worked with a confederate; third, that he had had no connection with the robbery at all.

The first hypothesis could be excluded at once, for Mr. Scofield must have been, at least, an accessory; and Mr. Scofield was not John Osmond. The second was much more plausible. It not only agreed with the known facts, but might even furnish some sort of explanation of the flight. Thus, supposing Osmond to have planned and executed the robbery with the aid of a confederate in the expectation that, even if discovered, it would never be traced to the office, might it not have been that, when, unexpectedly, it was so traced, Osmond had decided to take the onus on himself, and by absconding, divert suspicion from his accomplice? The thing was quite conceivable. It was entirely in agreement with Osmond’s character as pictured by Mr. Wampole; that of a rash, impulsive, rather unreasonable man. And if it were further assumed that there had been known to him some incriminating fact which he had expected to leak out, but which had not leaked out, then the whole set of facts, including the flight, would appear fairly consistent.

Nevertheless, consistent as the explanation might be, Thorndyke did not find it convincing. The aspect of Osmond’s rooms, with their suggestion of hardy simplicity and a robust asceticism, still lingered in his memory. Nor had he forgotten the impressive face of the gentlewoman whose portrait he had looked on with such deep interest in those rooms. These were, perhaps, but mere impressions, of no evidential weight; but yet they refused to be lightly dismissed.

As to the third hypothesis, that Osmond had not been concerned in the robbery at all, it would have been quite acceptable but for the irreconcilable fact of the flight. That seemed, beyond any question, to connect him with the crime. Of course it was conceivable that he might have some other reason for his flight. But no such reason had been suggested; whereas the circumstances in which he had elected to disappear—at the exact moment when the crime had been traced to the office—made it idle to look for any other explanation. And so, once more, Thorndyke found himself involved in a tangle of contradictions from which he could see no means of escape.

The end of his train of thought coincided with his arrival at the entry to his chambers. Ascending the stairs, he became aware of a light above as from an open door; and a turn of the staircase showed him that door—his own—framing a small, restless figure.

“Why, Polton,” he exclaimed, “you are early, aren’t you? I didn’t expect you for another hour or two.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Polton, “I got away early. But I’ve seen it, sir. And you were perfectly right—absolutely right. It is a sparrowhawk, stuck in a little log of cherry wood. Exactly as you said.”

“I didn’t say a sparrowhawk,” Thorndyke objected.

“You said, sir, that it was a stake or a bec iron or some kind of small anvil, and a sparrowhawk is a kind of small anvil.”

“Very well, Polton,” Thorndyke conceded. “But tell me how you managed it and why you are home so early.”

“Well, sir, you see,” Polton explained, fidgeting about the room as if he were afflicted with St. Vitus’s dance, “it came off much easier than I had expected. I got to his house a good hour too soon. His house keeper opened the door and wanted me to call again. But I said I had come down from London and would like to wait. And then I told her about the buttons and explained how valuable they were and asked her if she would like to see them; and she said she would. So she took me upstairs to his sitting-room and there I undid the parcel and showed her the buttons.

“Then I got talking to her about the rooms; remarked what a nice place Mr. Wampole had got and how beautifully it was kept.”

“Really, Polton!” Thorndyke chuckled, “I had no idea you were such a humbug.”

“No more had I, sir,” replied Polton, with a complacent crinkle. “But, you see, it was a case of necessity; and besides, the room was wonderfully neat and tidy. Well, I got her talking about the house, and very proud she seemed to be of it. So I asked her all the questions I could think of: whether she had a good kitchen and whether there was pipe water or a pump in the scullery, and so on. And she got so interested and pleased with herself that presently she offered to let me see over the house if I liked, and of course, I said that there was nothing in the world that I should like better. So she took me down and showed me the kitchen and the scullery and her own little sitting-room and a couple of big cupboards for linen and stores, and it was all as neat and clean as a new pin. Then we went upstairs again, and as we passed a door on the landing she said, ‘That’s a little room that Mr. Wampole does his tinkering in.’

“‘Ah!’ says I, ‘but I’ll warrant that room isn’t quite so neat and tidy. I do a bit of tinkering myself and I know what a workroom looks like.’

“‘Oh, it isn’t so bad,’ says she. ‘Mr. Wampole is a very orderly man. You shall see for yourself, if it isn’t locked. He usually locks it when he has a job in hand.’

“Well, it wasn’t locked; so she opened the door and in we went; and the very moment I put my head inside, I saw it—on the table that he used for a bench. It was set in a little upright log, such as you get from the trimmings of fruit trees. And, my word! it was fairly riddled.—like a sponge—and where it stood on the bench there was a regular ring of powder round it.

“‘That’s a rare old block that his anvil is set in,’ says I, going across to look at it.

“‘Not so old as you’d think,’ says she. ‘He got it about five years ago, when we had the cherry tree lopped. You can see the tree in the garden from this window.’

She went over to the window and I followed her; and as I passed the bench I picked up a pinch of the dust between my finger and thumb and put my hand in my pocket, where I had a pill-box that I had brought in case I should get a chance to collect a sample. As we were looking out of the window, I managed to work the lid off the pill-box and drop the pinch of dust in and slip the lid on again. Then I was happy; and as I had done all that I came to do, I thought I would rather like to clear off.”

“Why?” asked Thorndyke.

“Well, sir,” said Polton in a slightly apologetic tone, “the fact is that I wasn’t very anxious to meet Mr. Wampole. It wouldn’t have been quite pleasant, under the circumstances, to present those buttons and have him thanking me and shaking my hand. I should have felt rather like Pontius Pilate.”

“Why Pontius Pilate?” asked Thorndyke.

“Wasn’t he the chap—or was it Judas Iscariot? At any rate, I had a sudden feeling that I didn’t want to hand him those buttons. So I looked up my time table and discovered that I couldn’t wait to see him. ‘But, however,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t matter. I can leave the buttons with you to give him; and I will leave my card, too, so that he can send me a line if he wants to.’ So with that I gave her the roll of buttons and nipped off to the station, just in time to catch the earlier train to town. I hope I didn’t do wrong, sir.”

“Not at all,” Thorndyke replied heartily. “I quite understand your feeling on the matter; in fact, I think I should have done the same. Shall we look at that pill-box? I didn’t expect such good fortune as to get a specimen.”

Polton produced the little box, and having opened it to make sure that the contents were intact, handed it to Thorndyke, who forthwith made a preliminary inspection of the dust with the aid of his lens.

“Yes,” he reported, “it is evidently the same dust as was in the other samples, so that aspect of the case is complete. I must compliment you, Polton, on the masterly way in which you carried out your really difficult and delicate mission. You have made a brilliant success of it. And you have been equally successful in another direction. I have just come from Lambert’s, where I had a very instructive interview. You were perfectly correct. It was Lambert who cut those dummy stones.”

“I felt sure it must be,” said Polton, “when I had been round to those other lapidaries. He seems to be the only one who specializes in cutting strass gems. But did you find out who the customer was, sir?”

“I found out who he was not,” replied Thorndyke, “and that was as far as it seemed wise to go. The rest of the inquiry—the actual identification—will be better carried out by the police. I think, if we give Mr. Lambert’s address, with certain other particulars, to Mr. Superintendent Miller, we can safely leave him to do what is necessary.”

CHAPTER XVIII

The End of the Clue

It was nearing the hour of six in the evening when five men made their appearance on the stretch of pavement on which Mr. Woodstock’s office door opened. They did not, however, arrive in a solid body, but in two groups—of two and three, respectively—which held no mutual communication, but kept within easy distance of one another. The larger group consisted of Dr. Thorndyke, Mr. Lambert, the lapidary, and a tall, powerful man of distinctly military appearance and bearing; the smaller group consisted of a uniformed inspector of the local police and Mr. Lambert’s assistant “Fred.”

“I hope our friends are punctual in coming out,” Thorndyke remarked as he stood with his two companions ostensibly inspecting the stock in a bookseller’s window. “If we have to wait about long, we are likely to attract notice. Even a bookseller’s window won’t explain our presence indefinitely.”

“No,” the tall man agreed. “But there is a good deal of traffic in this street to cover us up and prevent us from being too conspicuous. All I hope is that he will take things quietly—that is, if he is the right man. You are sure you would know him again, Mr. Lambert?”

“Perfectly sure, Superintendent,” was the confident reply. “I remember him quite well. I have a good memory for faces, and so has my man, Fred. But I tell you frankly that neither of us relishes this job.”

“I sympathize with you, Mr. Lambert,” said Thorndyke. “I don’t relish it myself. We are both martyrs to duty. Ah! Here is somebody coming out. That is Mr. Woodstock. I mustn’t let him see me.”

He turned to the shop-window, presenting his back to the street, and the solicitor walked quickly past without noticing him. A few moments later Mr. Hepburn emerged and walked away in the opposite direction, furtively observed by Fred, who, with his companion, occupied a position on the farther side of the office door. He was followed after a short interval by two young men, apparently clerks, who walked away together up the street and were narrowly inspected by Fred as they passed. Close on their heels came an older man, who emerged with an air of business and, turning towards the three watchers, approached at a brisk walk.

“That the man, Mr. Lambert?” the superintendent asked in a low, eager tone, as the newcomer drew near.

“No,” was the reply. “Not a bit like him.”

Two more men came out, at both of whom Mr. Lambert shook his head. Then came a youth of about eighteen, and after his emergence an interval of several minutes, during which no one else appeared.

“That can’t be the lot,” said the superintendent, with a glance of anxious inquiry at Thorndyke.

“It isn’t unless some of them are absent,” the latter replied. “That would be rather a disaster.”

“It would, indeed,” the superintendent replied. “What do you say, Doctor, to going in—that is, if the door isn’t locked?

“Not yet, Miller,” Thorndyke replied. “Of course we can’t wait indefinitely, but, if possible—Ah! here is someone else.”

As he spoke, an elderly man came out and stood for a few moments looking up and down the street. Then he turned and very deliberately locked the door behind him.

“That’s the man!” Lambert exclaimed. “That is Mr. Scofield.”

“You are quite sure?” demanded Miller.

“Positive,” was the reply. “I recognized him instantly,” and in confirmation, Fred was signalling with a succession of emphatic nods.

Superintendent Miller cast an interrogative glance at Thorndyke. “Your man, too?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “Mr. Wampole.”

The unconscious subject of these observations, having locked the door, slowly pocketed the key and began to walk at a leisurely pace and with a thoughtful air towards the three observers, closely followed by Fred and the inspector. Suddenly he became aware of Thorndyke; and the beginnings of a smile of recognition had appeared on his face when he caught sight of Mr. Lambert. Instantly, the smile froze; and as Superintendent Miller bore down on him with evident purpose, he halted irresolutely and cast a quick glance behind him. At the sight of Fred—whom he evidently recognized at once—and the inspector, his bewilderment changed to sheer panic, and he darted out into the road close behind a large covered van that was drawn up at the kerb.

“Look out!” roared Miller, as Wampole passed the rear of the van; but the only effect of the warning was to cause the fugitive to cast a terrified glance backward over his shoulder as he ran. And then, in an instant, came the catastrophe. An empty lorry was coming up the street at a brisk trot, but its approach had been hidden from Wampole by the van. As the unfortunate man ran out from behind the latter, still looking back, he charged straight in front of the horses. The driver uttered a yell of dismay and tugged at the reins; but the affair was over in a moment. The pole of the lorry struck Wampole at the side of the neck with the force of a battering-ram and flung him violently down on the road, where he lay motionless as the ponderous vehicle swerved past within an inch of his head.

A number of bystanders immediately gathered round, and the carman, having pulled up the lorry, climbed down from his high perch and came hurrying, white-faced and breathless, across the road. Through the gathering crowd the inspector made his way and piloted Thorndyke to the fatal spot.

“Looks a pretty bad case, sir,” said he, casting a perturbed eye down at the motionless form, which lay where it had fallen. “Will you just have a glance at him?”

Thorndyke stooped over the prostrate figure and made a brief—a very brief—inspection. Then he stood up and announced curtly: “He is dead. The blow dislocated his neck.”

“Ha!” the inspector exclaimed, “I was afraid he was—though perhaps it is all for the best. At any rate, we’ve done with him now.”

“I haven’t,” said Miller. “I’ve got a search warrant; and I shall want his keys. We will come along with you to the mortuary. Can’t very well get them here.”

At this moment the carman presented himself, wiping his pale face with a large red handkerchief.

“Shockin’ affair, this, Inspector,” he said, huskily. “Pore old chap. I couldn’t do no more than what I done. You could see that for yourself. He was down almost as soon as I see ’im.”

“Yes,” the inspector agreed, “he ran straight at the pole. It was no fault of yours. At least, that’s my opinion,” he added with official caution. “Just help me and the constable here to lift the body on to your lorry and then he will show you the way to the mortuary. You understand, Borman,” he continued, addressing the constable. “You are to take the body to the mortuary, and wait there with the lorry until I come. I shall be there in a minute or two.”

The constable saluted, and the inspector, having made a note of the carman’s name and address, stood by while the ghastly passenger was lifted up on to the rough floor. Then, as the lorry moved off, he turned to Miller and remarked: “Your friend Mr. Lambert looks rather poorly, Superintendent. It has been a bit of a shock for him. Hadn’t you better take him somewhere and give him a little pick-me-up? We shall want him and his assistant at the mortuary, you know, for a regular identification.”

“Yes,” agreed Miller, glancing sympathetically at the white-faced, shaking lapidary, “he does look pretty bad, poor old chap. Thinks it’s all his doing, I expect. Well, you show us the way to a suitable place.”

“The Blue Lion Hotel is just round the corner,” said the inspector, “and it is on our way.”

To the Blue Lion he accordingly led the way, while Thorndyke followed, assisting and trying to comfort the shaken and self-reproachful Lambert. From the hotel they proceeded to the mortuary, where Lambert having, almost with tears, identified the body of ‘Mr. Scofield,’ and the dead man’s keys having been handed to Superintendent Miller, the latter departed with Thorndyke, leaving the inspector to conduct the carman to the police-station.

“You seem to be pretty confident,” said Miller as they set forth, guided by Polton’s written directions, “that the stuff is still there.”

“Not confident, Miller,” was the reply, “but I think it is there. At any rate, it is worth while to make the search. There may be other things to see besides the stones.”

“Ah!” Miller agreed doubtfully. “Well, I hope you are right.”

They walked on for some five minutes when Thorndyke, having again referred to his notes, halted before a pleasant little house in a quiet street on the outskirts of the town, and entering the front garden, knocked at the door. It was opened by a motherly-looking, middle-aged woman to whom Miller briefly but courteously explained his business and exhibited his warrant.

“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “What on earth makes you think the missing property is here?”

“I can’t go into particulars,” replied Miller. “Here is the search-warrant.”

“Yes, I see. But couldn’t you wait until Mr. Wampole comes home? He is due now, and his tea is waiting for him in his sitting-room.”

Miller cleared his throat. Then, hesitatingly and with manifest discomfort, he broke the dreadful news.

The poor woman was thunderstruck. For a few moments she seemed unable to grasp the significance of what Miller was telling her; then, when the horrid reality burst upon her, she turned away quickly, flinging out her hand towards the staircase, ran into her room, and shut the door.

The two investigators ascended the stairs in silence with an unconsciously stealthy tread. On the landing they paused, and as he softly opened the three doors and peered into the respective apartments, Miller remarked in an undertone: “Rather gruesome, Doctor, isn’t it? I feel like a tomb-robber. Which one shall we go in first?”

“This one on the left seems to be the workshop,” replied Thorndyke. “Perhaps we had better take that first, though it isn’t likely that the gems are in there.”

They entered the workshop, and Thorndyke looked about it with keen interest. On a small table, fitted with a metal-worker’s bench-vice, stood the “sparrow-hawk,” like a diminutive smith’s anvil, in its worm-eaten block, surrounded by a ring of pinkish-yellow dust. A Windsor chair, polished by years of use, was evidently the one on which the workman had been accustomed to sit at his bench; and close inspection showed a powdering of the pink dust on the rails and other protected parts. On the right-hand side of the room was a small woodworker’s bench, and on the wall above it a rack filled with chisels and other small tools. There was a tool cabinet ingeniously made from grocer’s boxes, and a set of shelves on which the glue-pot and various jars and small appliances were stowed out of the way.

“Seems to have been a pretty handy man,” remarked Miller, pulling out one of the drawers of the cabinet and disclosing a set of files.

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed; “he appears to have been quite a good workman. It is all very neat and orderly. This is rather interesting,” he added, reaching down from the shelf a box containing two earthen ware cells filled with a blue liquid, and a wide jar with similar contents.

“Electric battery, isn’t it?” said Miller. “What is the point of interest about it?”

“It is a two-cell Daniell’s battery,” replied Thorndyke, “the form of battery most commonly used for making small electrotypes. And in evidence that it was used for that purpose, here is the jar filled with copper sulphate solution, forming the tank, with the copper electrode in position. Moreover, I see on the shelf what look like some gutta-percha moulds.” He reached one down and examined it. “Yes,” he continued, “this is a squeeze from a coin. Apparently he had been making electrotype copies of coins; probably some that had been lent to him.”

“Well,” said Miller, “what about it?”

“The point is that whoever stole those gems made an electrotype copy of Hollis’s seal. We now have evidence that Wampole was able to make electrotypes and did actually make them.”

“It would be more to the point if we could find the gems themselves,” rejoined Miller.

“Yes, that is undoubtedly true,” Thorndyke admitted; “and as we are not likely to find them here, perhaps we had better examine the sitting-room. That is much the most probable place.”

“I don’t quite see why,” said Miller. “But I expect you do,” and with this he followed Thorndyke across the landing to the adjoining room.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, stopping to gaze at the neatly-arranged tea-service on the table, “just look at this! Uncanny, isn’t it? Teapot under the cosy—quite hot still. And what’s under this cover? Crumpets, by gum! And him lying there in the mortuary! Fairly gives one the creeps. Don’t you feel a bit like a ghoul, Doctor?”

“I might, perhaps,” Thorndyke replied, dryly, “if there had been no such person as John Osmond.”

“True,” said Miller. “He did do the dirty on Osmond, and that’s the fact—unless Osmond was in it, too. Looks rather as if he was; but you don’t seem to think so.”

“As a mere guess, I do not; but it is a puzzling case in some respects.”

He stood for a while looking about the room, letting his eye travel slowly along the papered walls as if in search of a possible hiding-place. From the general survey he proceeded to the consideration of details, turning the door-key—which was on the inside and turned smoothly and silently—and examining and trying a solid-looking brass bolt.

“You notice, Miller,” he said, “that he seems to have been in the habit of locking and bolting himself in; and that the bolt has been fixed on comparatively recently. That is somewhat significant.”

“It seems to suggests that the swag was hidden here at one time, if it isn’t here now. I suppose we may as well look through these cabinets, just as a matter of form, for he won’t have hidden the stuff in them.”

He produced the dead man’s bunch of keys, and having unlocked the hinged batten which secured the drawers of one, pulled out the top drawer.

“Coins,” he announced; “silver coins. No! By jingo, they’re copper, plated, and no backs to them. Just look at that!”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, taking the specimen from him, “a silver-faced copper electro, taken, no doubt, from a borrowed coin. Not a bad way of forming a collection. Probably, if he had been skilful enough to join the two faces and make a complete coin, it would have been the original owner who would have had the electrotype, and Wampole would have kept the genuine coin. While you are going through the cabinets, I think I will explore those two cupboards. They seem to me to have possibilities.”

The cupboards in question filled the recesses on either side of the fireplace. Each cupboard was built in two stages—a lower about three feet in height, and an upper extending nearly to the ceiling. Thorndyke began with the right-hand one, throwing open both its pairs of folding doors, after unlocking them with the keys, handed to him by Miller. Then he cleared the shelves of their contents—principally stamp albums and back numbers of The Connoisseur—until the cupboard was completely empty, when he proceeded to a systematic survey of the interior, rapping with his knuckles on every part of the back and sides and testing each shelf by a vigorous pull. Standing on a chair, he inspected the top and ascertained, by feeling it simultaneously from above and below, that it consisted of only a single board.

Having thoroughly explored the upper stage with no result, he next attacked the lower story, rapping at the back, sides, and floor and pulling at the solitary shelf, which was as immovable as the others. Then he tested the ceiling or top by feeling it with one hand while the other was placed on the floor of the upper story.

Meanwhile, Miller, who had been systematically examining the row of home-made cabinets, shut the last of the multitudinous drawers and stood up.

“Well,” he announced, “I’ve been right through the lot, Doctor, and there’s nothing in any of them—nothing, I mean, but trash. This last one is full of buttons—brass buttons, if you’ll believe it. How are you getting on? Had any luck?”

“Nothing definite, so far,” replied Thorndyke, who was, at the moment, taking a measurement of the height of the lower story with a tape-measure; “but there is something here that wants explaining. The internal height of the lower part of this cupboard is two feet ten inches; but the height from the floor of the lower part to the floor of the top part is three feet one inch. So there seems to be a space of three inches, less the thickness of two boards, between the ceiling of the lower part and the floor of the top part. That is not a normal state of affairs.”

“No, by jingo!” exclaimed the superintendent. “Ordinarily, the floor of the top part would be the ceiling of the bottom part. Carpenters don’t waste wood like that. Either the floor or the ceiling is false. Let us see if we can get a move on the floor. That is the most likely, as it would be the lid of the space between the two.”

He passed his hands over the board, feeling for a yielding spot, and craned in, searching for some indication of a joint, as he made heavy pressure on the edges and corners. But the floor showed no sign whatever of a tendency to move. He was about to transfer his attention to the ceiling underneath when Thorndyke stopped him.

“Wait,” said he. “Here is another abnormal feature. This moulding along the front of the door is fastened on with three screws. They have been painted over with the rest of the moulding, but you can make out the slots quite plainly.”

“Well?” queried Miller.

“Carpenters don’t fix mouldings on with screws. They use nails and punch them in with a ‘nail-set’ and stop the holes with putty. Moreover, if you look closely at these screw-heads, you can see that they have been turned at some time since the moulding was painted.”

As the superintendent stooped to verify this observation, Thorndyke produced from his pocket a small leather pouch of portable tools from which he took a screw-bit and the universal handle. Having fitted them together, he inserted the screwdriver into the slot of the middle screw and gave a turn.

“Ah!” said he. “This screw has been greased. Do you see how easily it turns?”

He rotated the tool rapidly, and as the screw emerged he picked it out and exhibited it to Miller.

“Not a trace of rust, you see, although the paint is some years old.”

He laid it down and turned to the left-hand screw, which he extracted with similar ease. As he drew it out of its hole, the moulding became visibly loose, though still supported by the mitre; but when the last screw was extracted, the length of moulding came away in his hand, showing the free front edge of the floor, or bottom-board. This Thorndyke grasped with both hands and gave a steady pull, when the board slid forward easily, revealing a cavity about two inches deep.

“My eye!” exclaimed Miller, as Thorndyke drew the board right out. “This puts the lid on it—or rather takes the lid off.”

He stood for a moment gazing ecstatically into the cavity, and especially at a collection of small, flat boxes that were neatly packed into it; then he grabbed up one of the boxes, and sliding back the hooked catch, raised the lid.

The expression of half-amused astonishment with which he viewed the open box was not entirely unjustified. As the receptacle for a robber’s hoard, it was, to say the least, unconventional. The interior of the box was divided by partitions into a number of little square cells; and in each cell, reposing in a nest of black or white velvet according to its colour, was an unmounted gem.

The superintendent drew a deep breath. “Well,” he exclaimed, “this knocks anything I’ve ever come across. Looks as if he never meant to sell the stuff at all. Just meant to keep it to gloat over. Is this what you had expected to find, Doctor? I believe it is, from what you said.”

“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “This agrees exactly with my theory of the robbery. I never supposed that he had stolen the gems for the purpose of selling them.”

“Didn’t you?” said Miller. “Now, I wonder why.”

“My dear Miller,” Thorndyke answered, with a smile, “the answer is before you in those cabinets which you have just examined. The man was a human magpie. He had a passion for acquiring and accumulating. He was the born, inveterate collector. Now, your half-baked collector will sell his treasures at a sufficient profit; but the real, thoroughbred collector, when once he has got hold, will never let go.”

“Well,” said Miller, who had been meanwhile lifting out the boxes and verifying their contents with a supercilious glance into each, “what is one man’s meat is another man’s poison. I can’t see myself hoarding up expensive trash like this when I could swap it for good money.”

“Nor I,” said Thorndyke. “We both lack the acquisitive instinct. By the way, Miller, I think you will agree with me that all the circumstances point to Wampole’s having done this single-handed?”

“Undoubtedly,” was the reply. “This is a ‘one-man show,’ if ever there was one.”

“And, consequently, that this ‘find’ puts Osmond definitely out of the picture?”

“Yes,” Miller agreed; “I think there is no denying that.”

“Then you will also agree that, although we might wish it otherwise, the whole of the circumstances connected with this robbery must be made public. That is necessary as a measure of common justice to the memory of Osmond. He was publicly accused and he must be publicly exonerated.”

“You are quite right, Doctor,” Miller admitted, regretfully; “though it seems a pity, as the poor devil is dead and we’ve got the swag back. But, as you say, justice is justice. The innocent man ought to be cleared.”

He took out the last remaining box, and having opened it and looked in, handed it to Thorndyke and cast a final glance into the cavity.

“Hallo!” he exclaimed, reaching into the back of the space, “here’s something wrapped in paper—a key, by Jove!”

“Ah,” said Thorndyke, taking it from him and inspecting it curiously, “the key of the strong-room. I recognize it. Quite a well-made key, too. I think we ought to hand that to Woodstock at once; and perhaps it would be as well to hand him the gems, too, and get his receipt for them. We don’t want property of this value—something like a hundred thousand pounds—on our hands any longer than we can help. What do you say?”

“I say let us get rid of them at once if we can. But we must seal the boxes before we hand them over. And we must seal up these rooms until the property has been checked by Hollis. Let us put the books back in the cupboard and then, perhaps, you might go and find Woodstock while I keep guard on the treasure-trove.”

They fell to work repacking the cupboard with the albums and magazines which they had taken out; and had nearly finished when they became aware of voices below and then of hurried footsteps on the stairs. A few moments later the door was flung open and Mr. Woodstock and Mr. Hepburn strode into the room.

“May I ask,” the former demanded, glaring at Miller, “who the deuce you are and what is the meaning of this indecent invasion? The housekeeper tells me that you profess to have come here to search for missing property. What property are you searching for, and what is your authority?”

The superintendent quietly explained who he was and exhibited his warrant.

“Ha!” exclaimed Woodstock, with a withering glance at Thorndyke. “And I suppose you are making this ridiculous search at the suggestion of this gentleman?”

“You are quite correct, sir,” replied Miller. “The warrant was issued on information supplied by Dr. Thorndyke.”

“Ha!” was the contemptuous comment. “You obtained a warrant to search the private residence of a man of irreproachable character who has been in my employ for something like a score of years! Well, have you made your search? And if so, what have you found?”

“We have completed the search,” replied Miller, “and we have found what we believe to be the whole of the stolen property, and this key, which I understand is the key of your strong-room.”

As the superintendent made this statement, in studiously matter-of-fact tones, Mr. Woodstock’s jaw fell and his eyes opened until he appeared the very picture of astonishment. Nor was his colleague, Mr. Hepburn, less amazed; and for a space of some seconds the two solicitors stood speechless looking from one another to the wooden-faced but secretly amused detective officer. Then Woodstock recovered somewhat and began to show signs of incredulity. But there was the key and there were the boxes; and it needed only a glance at the contents of the latter to put the matter beyond all question. Even Woodstock could not reject the evidence of his eyesight.

“But,” he said with a puzzled air and with new born civility, “what I cannot understand is how you came to connect Wampole with the robbery. Where did you obtain the evidence of his guilt?”

“I obtained it,” Thorndyke replied, “from the dust which I collected from your office floor.”

Mr. Woodstock frowned impatiently and shook his head. “I am afraid,” he said, coldly, “you are speaking a language that I don’t understand. But no doubt you are right to keep your own counsel. What do you propose to do with this property?”

“We had proposed to hand it to you to hold pending the formal identification of the gems by Mr. Hollis.”

“Very well,” said Woodstock; “but I shall want you to seal the boxes before I put them in my strong-room. I can’t accept any responsibility as to the nature of the contents.”

“They shall be sealed with my seal and the superintendent’s,” Thorndyke replied, with a faint smile; “and we will hope that the seals will give more security than they did last time.”

This understanding having been arrived at, the boxes were gathered up and distributed among the party for conveyance to the office; and after a short halt on the landing while Miller locked the doors and sealed the keyholes, they went down the stairs, at the foot of which the tearful housekeeper was waiting. To her Mr. Woodstock gave a brief and somewhat obscure explanation of the proceedings and the sealed doors, and then the party set forth for the office, the two solicitors leading and conversing in low tones as they went.

Arrived at their destination, the formalities were soon disposed of. Each box was tied up with red tape, sealed on the knot and on the opening of the lid. Then, when they had all been conveyed into the strong-room and locked in, Mr. Woodstock wrote out a receipt for “eight boxes, containing real or artificial precious stones, said to be the property of James Hollis, Esq., and sealed with the seals of Dr. Thorndyke and Superintendent Miller of the C.I.D.,” and handed it to the latter officer.

“Of course,” he said, “I shall communicate with Mr. Hollis at once and ask him to remove these things from my custody. Probably he will write to you concerning them; but, in any case, I shall wash my hands of them when I get his receipt—and I shall take very good care that nobody ever saddles me with portable property of this kind again.”

“A very wise resolution,” said Thorndyke. “Perhaps you might point out to Mr. Hollis that the boxes ought to be opened in the presence of witnesses, one of whom, at least, should be an expert judge of precious stones. I shall write to him tonight, before I leave the town, to the same effect. We all want the restitution to be definitely proved and acknowledged.”

“That is perfectly true,” Woodstock admitted; “and perhaps I had better make it a condition on which I allow him to take possession of the boxes.”

The business being now concluded, Thorndyke and the superintendent prepared to take their departure. As they were turning away, Mr. Hepburn addressed Thorndyke for the first time.

“May I ask,” he said, hesitatingly and with an air of some embarrassment, “whether the—er—the dust from our office floor or—er—any other observations of yours which led you to this surprising discovery seemed to suggest the existence of any confederate?”

“No,” Thorndyke replied, decisively. “All the evidence goes to show, very conclusively, that Wampole carried out this robbery single-handed. Of that I, personally, have no doubt; and I think the superintendent agrees with me.”

“Undoubtedly,” Miller assented. “I, too, am perfectly convinced that our late lamented friend played a lone hand. You are thinking of John Osmond?”

“Yes,” Hepburn admitted, with a frown of perplexity. “I am. I am wondering what on earth can have induced him to go off in that extraordinary manner and at that particular time.”

“So am I,” said Thorndyke.

“Well, I’m afraid we shall never learn now,” said Woodstock.

“Apparently not,” Thorndyke agreed; “and yet—who knows?”

CHAPTER XIX

Thorndyke Connects the Links

Early in the afternoon—at forty minutes past twelve, to be exact—of a sunny day in late spring, a tall, hatchet-faced man, accompanied by a small, sprightly lady, strolled at a leisurely pace through Pump Court and presently emerged into the cloisters, where he and his companion halted and looked about them.

“What a lovely old place it is!” the latter exclaimed, letting her eyes travel appreciatively from the porch of the Temple Church to the façade of Lamb Buildings. “Wouldn’t you like to live here, Jack?”

“I should,” he replied. “It is delightful to look at whichever way you turn; and there is such a delicious atmosphere of peace and quiet.”

She laughed merrily. “Peace and quiet!” she repeated. “Peace, perfect peace. That has always been the desire of your heart, hasn’t it? Oh, you old hum bug! Before you had been here a month you would be howling for the sea and someone to fight.” Here her glance lighted on the little wig shop, tucked away in its shady corner, and she drew him eagerly towards it “Let us have a look at these wigs,” said she. “I love wigs. It is a pity they have gone out of fashion for general use. They were such a let-off for bald-headed men. Which one do you like best, Jack? I rather fancy that big one—full-bottomed, I think, is its proper description. It would suit you to a T. It looks a little vacant with no face inside it, but it would have a grand appearance with your old nose sticking out in front. You’d look like the Great Sphinx before they knocked his nose off. Don’t you think you’d look rather well in it?”

“I don’t know that I am particularly keen on wigs,” he replied.

“Unless they are on the green,” she suggested with a roguish smile.

He smiled at her in return, with a surprising softening of the rather rugged face, and then glanced at his watch.

“We mustn’t loiter here staring at these ridiculous wigs,” said he; “or we shall be late. Come along, you little babbler.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she responded; “come along, it is,” and they resumed their leisurely progress eastward across the court.

“I wonder,” he said, reflectively, “what sort of fellow Thorndyke is. Moderately human, I hope, be cause I want him to understand what I feel about all that he has done for us.”

“I shall want to kiss him,” said she.

“You had better not,” he said, threateningly. “Still, short of that, I shall look to you to let him know how grateful, beyond all words, we are to him.”

“You can trust me, Jack, darling,” she replied, “to make it as clear as I can. When I think of it, I feel like crying. We owe him everything. He is our fairy-godmother.”

“I don’t think, Betty, dear,” said Osmond with a faint grin, “that I should put it to him in exactly those words.”

“I wasn’t going to, you old guffin!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “But it is what I feel. He is a magician. A touch of his magic wand changed us in a moment from a pair of miserable, hopeless wretches into the pet children of Fortune, rich in everything we desired, and with the whole world of happiness at our feet. Oh, the wonder of it! Just think, darling! While you, with that ridiculous bee in your silly old bonnet, were doing everything that you could to make yourself—and me—miserable for life, here was this dry old lawyer, whose very existence we were unaware of, quietly, methodically working away to dig us out of our own entanglements. We can never even thank him properly.”

“No. That’s a fact,” Osmond agreed. “And, in spite of Penfield’s explanations, I can’t in the least understand how he did it.”

“Mr. Penfield admits that he has only a glimmering of an idea himself; but as he has promised to extract a full explanation today, we can afford to bottle up our curiosity a little longer. This seems to be the house; yes, here we are: ‘1st Pair, Dr. John Thorndyke.’”

She tripped up the stairs, followed by Osmond, and on the landing was confronted by the open ‘oak’ and a closed inner door, adorned by a small but brilliantly burnished brass knocker.

“What a dinkie little knocker!” she exclaimed; and forthwith executed upon it a most impressive flourish. Almost instantly the door was opened by a tall, dignified man who greeted the visitors with a smile of quiet geniality.

“I have no need to ask who you are,” he said, as, having saluted the lady, he shook hands with Osmond. “Your resemblance to your mother is quite remarkable.”

“Yes,” replied Osmond, a little mystified, nevertheless. “I was always considered to be very like her. I should like to think that the likeness is not only a superficial one.”

Here he became aware of Mr. Penfield, who had risen from an arm-chair and was advancing, snuff-box in hand, to greet them.

“It is very delightful to meet you both in these chambers,” said he, with an old bow. “A most interesting and significant meeting. Your husband’s name has often been spoken here, Mrs. Osmond, in the days when he was, to us, a mere abstraction of mystery.”

“I’ve no doubt it has,” said Betty, regarding the old lawyer with a mischievous smile, “and I don’t suppose it was spoken of in very complimentary terms. But we are both absolutely bursting with gratitude and we don’t know how to put our feelings into words.”

“There is no occasion for gratitude,” said Thorndyke. “It has been a mutual change of benefits. Your husband has provided us with a problem of the most thrilling interest, which we have had the satisfaction of solving, with the added pleasure of being of some service to you. We are really your debtors.”

“Very kind of you to put it in that way,” said Osmond, with a faint grin. “I seem to have played a sort of Falstaffian part. My deficiency of wit has been the occasion of wit in others.”

“Well, Mr. Osmond,” Thorndyke rejoined, with an appreciative side-glance at the smiling Betty, “you seem to have had wit enough to bring your affairs to a very happy conclusion. But let us draw up to the table. I understand that there are to be mutual explanations presently, so we had better fortify ourselves with nourishment.”

He pressed an electric bell, and, as his guests took their places at the table, the door opened silently and Polton entered with demure gravity to post himself behind Thorndyke’s chair and generally to supervise the proceedings.

Conversation was at first somewhat spasmodic and covered a good deal of mutual and curious inspection. Betty was frankly interested in her surroundings, in the homely simplicity of this queer bachelor household, in which everything seemed to be done so quietly, so smoothly, and so efficiently. But especially was she interested in her host. Of his great intellect and learning she had been readily enough convinced by Mr. Penfield’s enthusiastic accounts of him; but his personality, his distinguished appearance, and his genial, pleasant manners were quite beyond her expectations. It was a pleasure to her to look at him and to reflect that the affectionate gratitude that she must have felt for him, whatever he had been like, had at least been worthily bestowed.

“My husband and I were speaking as we came along,” she said, “of the revolution in our prospects that you created, in an instant, as it seemed, in the twinkling of an eye. One moment our affairs were at a perfectly hopeless deadlock; the next, all our difficulties were smoothed out, the tangle was unravelled, and an assured and happy future lay before us. It looked like nothing short of magic; for, you see, John had done everything that he possibly could to convince all the world that he was guilty.”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “that is how it appeared; and that is one of the mysteries which has to be cleared up presently.”

“It shall be,” Osmond promised, “if utterly idiotic, wrong-headed conduct can be made intelligible to reasonable men. But still, I agree with my wife. There is something quite uncanny in the way in which you unravelled this extraordinary tangle. I am a lawyer myself—a pretty poor lawyer, I admit—and I have heard Mr. Penfield’s account of the investigation, but even that has not enlightened me.”

“For a very good reason,” said Mr. Penfield. “I am not enlightened myself. I am, I believe, in possession of most of the material facts. But I have not the special knowledge that is necessary to interpret them. I am still unable to trace the connection between the evidence and the conclusion. Dr. Thorndyke’s methods are, to me, a source of endless wonder.”

“And yet,” said Thorndyke, “they are perfectly normal and simple. They differ from the methods of an orthodox lawyer merely in this: that whereas the issues that I have to try are usually legal issues, the means which I employ are those proper to scientific research.”

“But surely,” Betty interposed, “the purposes of legal and scientific research are essentially the same. Both aim at arrive at the truth.”

“Certainly,” he replied. “The purposes are identical. But the procedure is totally different. In legal practice the issues have to be decided by persons who have no first-hand knowledge of the facts—by the judge and jury. To them the facts are furnished by other persons—the witnesses—who have such first-hand knowledge and who are sworn to give it truly and completely. And on such sworn testimony the judges form their decision. The verdict has to be ‘according to the evidence,’ and its truth is necessarily subject to the truth of the testimony and the competence of the witnesses.

“But in scientific research there is no such division of function. The investigator is at once judge, jury, and witness. His knowledge is first-hand, and hence he knows the exact value of his evidence. He can hold a suspended judgment. He can form alternative opinions and act upon both alternatives. He can construct hypotheses and try them out. He is hampered by no rules but those of his own making. Above all, he is able to interrogate things as well as persons.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Penfield, “that is what has impressed me. You are independent of witnesses. Instead of having to seek somebody who can give evidence in respect of certain facts, you obtain the facts yourself and become your own witness. No doubt this will become evident in your exposition of this case, to which I—and our friends too, I am sure—are looking forward with eager interest.”

“You are paying me a great compliment,” said Thorndyke; “and as I hear Polton approaching with the coffee, I need not keep you waiting any longer. By the way, how much may I assume that our friends know?”

“They know all that I know,” replied Mr. Penfield. “We have had a long talk and I have told them everything I have learned and that you have told me.”

“Then I shall assume that they have all the main facts, and they must stop me if I assume too much.” He paused while Polton poured out the coffee and partially disencumbered the table. Then as his familiar retired, he continued: “I think that the clearest and most interesting way for me to present the case will be by recounting the investigation as it actually occurred, giving the facts observed and the inferences from them in their actual order of occurrence.”

“That will certainly be the easiest plan for us to follow,” said Osmond, “if it will not be too wearisome for you.”

“On the contrary,” replied Thorndyke, “it will be quite interesting to me to reconstitute the case as a whole; and the best way will be to treat it in the successive stages into which the inquiry naturally fell. I will begin with the information which was given to me when the case was placed in my hands.

“A number of sealed boxes had been deposited by Mr. Hollis in the custody of Mr. Woodstock, who placed them in his strong-room. These boxes were stated by Hollis to contain a number of valuable gems, but the nature of the contents was actually known only to Hollis, who had packed the boxes himself. After an interval the boxes were returned to Hollis; and it was agreed by all the parties, including Hollis, that all the seals were then intact. Nevertheless, on opening the boxes, Hollis found that most of the gems had been abstracted and replaced by counterfeits. Thereupon he declared that a robbery had been committed while the boxes were reposing in the strong room; and this view was, strange to say, accepted by Mr. Woodstock.

“Now, it was perfectly obvious that these statements of alleged fact were mutually irreconcilable. They could not possibly be all true. The question was, Which of them was untrue? If the stones were in the boxes when they were handed to Woodstock and were not there when he returned them to Hollis, then the boxes must have been opened in the interval. But in that case the seals must have been broken. On the other hand, if the seals were really intact, the boxes could not have been opened while they were in Woodstock’s custody. Woodstock’s position—which was also that of Hollis—was a manifest absurdity. What they alleged to have happened was a physical impossibility.

“So far, however, the legal position was quite simple, if Woodstock had accepted it. The seals were admitted to be intact. Therefore no robbery could have occurred in Woodstock’s office. But Woodstock accepted the impossible; and thereupon a certain Mr. John Osmond proceeded very deliberately to tip the fat into the fire.”

“Yes, didn’t he?” agreed Betty with a delighted gurgle. “You were an old guffin, Jack! Still, it was all for the best, wasn’t it?”

“It was, indeed,” assented Osmond. “Best stroke of work I ever did. You see, I knew that there is a Providence that watches over fools. But we mustn’t interrupt the exposition.”

“Well,” continued Thorndyke, “the disappearance of Mr. Osmond settled the matter so far as Mr. Woodstock was concerned. He swore an information forthwith, and must have grossly misled the police, for they immediately obtained a warrant, which they certainly would not have done if they had known the real facts. Then Woodstock, distrusting his own abilities—very justly, but too late—consulted Mr. Penfield. But Mr. Penfield took the perfectly sound legal view of the case. The seals were admittedly unbroken. Therefore the boxes had been returned intact and there had been no robbery in the office. But if there had been no robbery, the disappearance of Osmond had no bearing on the case. Of course, neither Woodstock nor Hollis would agree to this view, and Mr. Penfield then recommended that the case should be put in my hands.

“Now it was obvious that the whole case turned on the seals. They had been accepted as intact—without any kind of inquiry or examination. But were they really intact? If they were, the case was against Hollis; and I could see that my friend Professor Eccles suspected him of having engineered a sham robbery to evade a bequest to the nation. But this seemed to me a wild and unfair suspicion, and for my own part I strongly suspected the seals. Accordingly, I examined a whole series of them, minutely and exhaustively, with the result that they proved to be impressions, not of the matrix in Mr. Hollis’s ring, but of an electrotype matrix made from a wax impression.

“This new fact brought the inquiry to the next stage. It proved that the boxes had been opened and that they had been opened in Woodstock’s office. For when they came there they were sealed with Hollis’s seal, but when they left the office they were sealed with the forged seal. Things began to look rather black as regards Osmond; but, although I was retained ostensibly to work up a case against him, I kept an open mind and proceeded with the investigation as if he did not exist.

“The second stage, then, started with the establishment of these facts: a robbery had really occurred; it had occurred in Woodstock’s office; and, since the boxes had been kept in the strong-room, it was from thence that they had been abstracted. The next question was, By whom had the robbery been committed? Now, since the property had been taken from the strong-room, and since the strong-room had not been broken into, it followed that the thief must have had, or obtained, access to it. Now, there were three persons who had easy access to it: Woodstock who possessed the key, Hepburn and Osmond, both of whom occasionally had the key in their custody: There might be others, but if so, they were at present unknown to me. But of the three who were known, one, Osmond, had apparently absconded as soon as the robbery was discovered and connected with the office. Moreover, the commencement of the robberies apparently coincided in time with the date on which he joined the staff.

“Evidently, then, everything that was known pointed to Osmond as the delinquent. But there was no positive case against him, and I decided to proceed as if nothing at all were known and seek for fresh data. And my first proceeding was to make an exhaustive examination of the boxes, the wrapping-paper, and the inside packing. As to the paper, I may say that I developed up a large number of fingerprints—on the outside surface only—I never examined, as the occasion did not arise. The investigation really concerned itself with the dust from the insides of the boxes and from the packing material. Of this I collected every particle that I could extract and put it aside in pill-boxes numbered in accordance with the boxes from which it was obtained. When I came to examine systematically the contents of the pill-boxes, I made two very curious discoveries.

“First, every pill-box—representing, you will remember, one of the gem-boxes—contained one or more hairs; usually one only and never more than three. They were all alike. Each was a hair from a moustache of a light-brown colour and cut quite short, and there could be no doubt that they were all from the same individual. Consequently they could not be chance hairs which had blown in accidentally. The gem-boxes had been packed at various times, and hence the uniformity of the hairs connected them definitely with the person who packed the boxes. In short, it seemed at first sight practically certain that they were the hairs of the actual robber; in which case we could say that the robber was a man with a short light-brown moustache.

“But when I came to reflect on the facts observed I was struck by their singularity. Moustache hairs are shed very freely, but they do not drop out at regular intervals. One, two, or more hairs in any one box would not have been surprising. A man who was in the habit of pulling at or stroking his moustache might dislodge two or three at once. The surprising thing was the regularity with which these hairs occurred; one, and usually one only, in each box, and no complete box in which there was none. It was totally opposed to the laws of probability.

“The point was highly significant. Anyone can recognize a hair. Most men can recognize a moustache hair. A detective certainly could. If these boxes had been opened by the police, as Hollis had originally intended, these hairs would almost certainly have been seen and eagerly fastened on as giving what would amount to a description of the thief. They would have been put in evidence at the trial and would have been perfectly convincing to the jury.

“The more I reflected on the matter the more did I suspect those hairs. If one assumed that they had been planted deliberately, say by a clean-shaved or dark-haired criminal, their regular occurrence in every box would be quite understandable. It would be a necessary precaution against their being overlooked. Otherwise it was unaccountable. Still, the fact of their presence had to be noted and the individual from whom they came identified, if possible.

“The second discovery that I made was, perhaps, even more odd. In every one of the boxes I found particles of the fine dust which falls out of the holes in worm-eaten wood; sometimes only a few grains, sometimes quite a large number of grains, and in the aggregate a really considerable quantity.”

“But how astonishing,” exclaimed Betty, “that you should be able to tell at once that these tiny grains came from worm-eaten wood.”

“I make it my business,” he replied, “to be able to recognize the microscopical appearances of the different forms of dust. But your remark indicates a very significant point. I imagine that there will be very few persons in the world who could identify these particles in a collection of miscellaneous dust. And therein lay the value of this discovery; for if the significance of the hairs was open to doubt, that of the wood certainly was not. There was no question of its having been purposely planted. It had certainly found its way into the boxes accidentally, and the person who had unconsciously introduced it was pretty certainly unaware of its presence. It was undoubtedly a genuine clue.

“The discovery of this characteristic dust raised several questions. In the first place, how came it into the boxes? Dust from worm-eaten furniture falls on the floor and remains there. It is too coarse and heavy to float in the air like the finer kinds of dust. In a room in which there is worm-eaten furniture, you will find the particles of dust all over the floor; but you will not find any on the tables or chair-rails or mantelpiece. But these boxes must have stood on a table or bench when they were being packed and when the dust got into them. Then the dust must have been on the table or bench. But how could it have got there? It was possible that the bench, itself, might have been worm-eaten. But that was not a probable explanation, for the dust tends to fall, not to rise. It would have fallen, for the most part, from the under surface on to the floor. The most likely explanation emerged from a consideration of the next question; which was, how could one account for the large quantity that was found?

“The quantity was extraordinarily large. From the whole set of boxes we collected something approaching a quarter of a thimbleful; which seems an enormous amount if you consider that it must all have got into the boxes during the short time that they were open for packing. What could be the explanation?

“There were two factors which had to be considered: the nature of the wood and the nature of the object which had been fashioned from it; and both were important for purposes of identification. Let us consider the first factor—material. Now, these wood-boring insects do not bore through wood as the bookworm bores through paper, to get at something else. They actually feed upon the wood. Naturally, then, they tend to select the kind of wood which contains the most nourishment and which, incidentally, is usually the softest. But of all woods those of the fruit trees are richest in gum and sap and are most subject to the attacks of the worm. Walnut, pear, apple, plum, and cherry all have this drawback, and of these cherry is so inveterately ‘wormy’ that it has usually been shunned by the cabinet-maker. Now, the quantity of the wood-dust pointed to some excessively worm-eaten object and suggested one of the fruit woods as the probable material, and the balance of probability was in favour of cherry; and this was supported by the pinkish colour of the dust. But, of course, this inference was purely hypothetical. It represented the general probabilities and nothing more.

“And now we come to the second factor. What was the nature of this wooden object? A piece of ordinary furniture we could dismiss for two reasons: first, the dust from such a piece will ordinarily fall upon the floor, from whence it could hardly have got into the boxes; and, second, no matter how badly wormed a piece of furniture may be, the quantity of dust which falls from it is relatively small and accumulates quite slowly, being practically confined to that which is pushed out of the holes by the movements of the insects within. This process would not account for the great quantity indicated by these samples of ours. My feeling was that this worm-eaten object was an appliance of some sort, subject to frequent and violent disturbance. Let us take an imaginary case as an illustration. Let us imagine a mallet with an excessively worm-eaten head. Whenever that mallet is used, the shock of the impact will send a shower of wood-dust flying out on the bench, where it will rapidly accumulate.

“But, of course, this object of ours could not be a mallet for the reason that mallets are always made of hard wood; and jewellers’ mallets are usually made of box-wood, lignum vitae or horn, none of which is subject to ‘the worm.’ Thinking over the various appliances used by jewellers—since it was with a jeweller we were dealing—I suddenly bethought me of one which seemed to fulfil the conditions exactly. Jewellers and goldsmiths, as you probably know, use a variety of miniature anvils, known as stakes, bec irons, sparrowhawks, etc. Now, these little anvils are usually stuck in a block of wood, just as a smith’s anvil is planted on a tree-stump. These blocks are not usually hard wood; indeed, soft wood is preferable as it absorbs the shock better. A favourite plan is to get a little log of wood and set the spike of the stake or sparrow-hawk in a hole bored in the end grain; and the most abundant source of these little logs—at least in the country—is the pile of trimmings from old fruit trees. Such a log would tend very soon to become worm-eaten; and if it did, every time it was used a ring of wood-dust would form around its base and would soon spread all over the bench, sticking to everything on it and straying on to the hands, arms, and clothing of the workman.

“This inference, you will observe, was, like the previous one, purely hypothetical. But it agreed perfectly with the observed facts and accounted for them in a reasonable way; and as I could think of no other that did, I adopted it with the necessary reservations. But, in fact, the correctness or incorrectness of this hypothesis was at present of no great importance. Apart from any question as to its exact origin, the wood-dust was an invaluable clue. We now knew that the unknown robber was a person whose clothing was more or less impregnated with wood-dust; that any places that he had frequented would yield traces of wood-dust from the floors, and that the place where the boxes had been packed abounded in wood-dust and contained a badly worm-eaten wooden object of some kind.

“The next proceeding was obvious. It was to find the places which had been frequented by that unknown person, to seek for the worm-eaten object, and, if possible, to identify the individual who appeared to be connected with it. The suspected places were two: Mr. Hollis’s house and Mr. Woodstock’s office. I did not, myself, suspect Hollis; but nevertheless I determined to examine his house as narrowly as the other. Accordingly I asked Mr. Penfield to obtain facilities for me to visit both places to make inquiries on the spot; which he did.

“Perhaps, before I describe that voyage of exploration, it may be as well to pause and consider what knowledge I now possessed and what I was going to look for. There was the wood-dust, of course. That was the visible trail that I hoped to pick up. But there were other matters. I knew that there was a man, in some way connected with the robbery, who had a short, fair moustache. I had to find out who he was. Also if there was any source from which some other person might collect specimen hairs from that moustache—a hair-brush, for instance—and if such source existed, who had access to it.

“Then there was the personality of the thief. One knew a good deal about him by this time. He was an ingenious man; a fairly good workman, at any rate, with metal-worker’s tools, but not a skilled jeweller. He must have been able to make a key from a wax squeeze—unless he were Woodstock himself, which he pretty certainly was not; for none of the others had sufficiently free access to the strong-room to do what had been done. Then he must have had at least a simple working knowledge of electric batteries, since we could be fairly certain that he made the electrotypes himself; he would never have run the risk of putting the forgery out to the trade. He was clearly a secretive, self-contained man. The only fallacy that I had to guard against was the possibility of a confederate outside the office, who might have done the actual work; but this possibility seemed to be negatived by the whole character of the robbery and especially by one very odd feature in it, which was this: Professor Eccles had noticed with surprise that many of the stones which were taken were of quite trifling intrinsic value, so trifling that, if they had been sold, they would hardly have realized enough to pay the cost of replacing them with the specially-made counterfeits. Indeed, in one case, at least, the thief must have lost money on the transaction, for he had taken a fine moonstone and replaced it with an inferior one of the same dimensions. But the value of the original was only about ten shillings, and he must have spent more than that on the replacement. The professor was greatly puzzled by this, having assumed, of course, that the gems were stolen to sell. But to me, this rather anomalous feature of the robbery offered a very curious suggestion; which was that no sale of the booty had ever been contemplated. It looked like a collector’s robbery; and if there had been a collector in any way connected with the parties, I should have given him my very close attention. But, so far as I knew, there was none. Nevertheless, this peculiarity of the robbery had to be borne in mind when I came to make my investigations on the spot.

“Let me now briefly describe those investigations. Their main object was to ascertain whether there were any traces of wood-dust in the premises of either Hollis or Woodstock, and the method was this: in each case, a rough ground-plan of the premises was made; then small areas of the floors were cleaned thoroughly with a specially constructed vacuum cleaner and the dust from each area put into an envelope marked with a number, which number was also marked in the plan on the spot from which the dust had been collected. The collection was carried out by my laboratory assistant, Mr. Polton, whom you have seen, leaving me free to make inquiries and to inspect the premises. Of course, the samples of dust had to be brought home to be examined in the laboratory, so we were hampered by the circumstance that we did not know at the time whether any wood-dust had or had not been obtained. But this proved to be of no importance.

“We operated first at Mr. Hollis’s house, regardless of his scornful protests. Then we went on to Mr. Woodstock’s office; and there I had a rather remarkable experiences As I entered with Mr. Woodstock, I saw an elderly man engaged in repairing an electric bell; and a glance at his hands and the way in which he manipulated his tools showed the unmistakable facility and handiness of the skilled workman. It was a little startling; for here were two of the characteristics of the unknown person I was endeavouring to identify. This man had evident skill in the use of metal-worker’s tools and he clearly knew a good deal about electric batteries. And when I learned that this Mr. Wampole was the office-keeper and that he evidently had a key of the premises, I was still further impressed. I began to revise my opinion as to there being no confederate; for the fact remained that Osmond had absconded and that his disappearance—until it was otherwise explained—undeniably connected him with the robbery. I began to think it possible that there had been a partnership and that he had been used as a cat’s paw. Meanwhile, I had to find out as much as I could about him, and to this end I sat down by Wampole, as he worked at refitting the batteries, and questioned him on the subject of Osmond’s appearance, habits, temperament, and circumstances. It is only fair to him to say that he scouted the idea of Osmond’s having committed the robbery and gave excellent reasons for rejecting it. On the other hand, his description of Osmond made it clear that the hairs which I had found in the boxes were Osmond’s hairs; and when I expressed a wish to inspect Osmond’s desk, he took me to it readily enough, and as it was unlocked, he threw up the lid and showed me the interior. The most interesting thing in it, from my point of view, was a pair of hair-brushes; from which I was able to extract several moustache hairs which appeared—and subsequently turned out to be—identically similar to those found in the boxes.

“The examination of Osmond’s desk suggested a similar examination of all the other desks in the office, finishing up with that belonging to Mr. Wampole. And it was in examining that desk that I did really receive somewhat of a shock. For when we came to turn out its contents, I found that these included, in addition to a number of metal-worker’s tools, a work man’s linen apron and some battery terminals and insulated wire, a stamp-album, a tray of military buttons and badges and old civilian buttons, and another tray of old coins.

“The coincidence was too striking to be ignored. Here was a man who had free access to these premises night and day, and who corresponded in every particular with the unknown robber. We had already seen that he had the skill and special knowledge that were postulated; now this stamp-album, these buttons, badges, and coins, wrote him down an inveterate collector. If I had looked on Mr. Wampole with interest before, I now regarded him with very definite suspicion. Whatever significance the hairs had seemed to have was now entirely against him; for there were the brushes, easily available, and he knew it.

“I must confess that I was greatly puzzled. Every new fact that I observed seemed more and more to confuse the issues. With the exception of the hairs—which were, at least, doubtful evidence—I had found nothing whatever to incriminate Osmond; whereas Wampole presented a highly suspicious appearance. But Osmond had absconded; which seemed to put Wampole outside the inquiry, excepting as a confederate. And when I went with Wampole to Osmond’s rooms, my inspection of them only left me more puzzled; for the personality that they reflected was the very opposite of that indicated by the nature and method of the robbery. Instead of the avarice and cunning that characterized the robber, the qualities suggested were those of a hardy, adventurous, open-air man, simple to austerity in his tastes and concerned with any thing rather than wealth and worldly possessions. The very photographs on the mantelpiece proclaimed the incongruity, especially that of his mother, whom Wampole informed me he strongly resembled; which showed the face of a dignified, strong, resolute, courageous looking lady, whose son I found it hard to picture, first as a thief, and then as a panicky fugitive. Yet the fact remained that Osmond had absconded.

“However, when we got home and proceeded to question the samples of dust in the laboratory, they gave an answer that was unmistakable. The results were roughly thus: the samples from Hollis’s house contained no wood-dust; those from Osmond’s rooms contained none; that from the inside of his desk contained none and that from his office floor barely a trace. Those from the floor of the clerks’ office yielded a very small quantity, but that from the floor by Wampole’s desk contained quite a large amount, while the dust extracted from the interior of his desk was full of the castings—derived, no doubt, to a large extent from the apron which he had kept in it. So the murder was out. The man who had packed those boxes was Mr. Wampole, and the hairs which I found in them had come from Osmond’s brushes.

“One thing only remained to be done: the final verification. The wood-dust had to be traced to its ultimate source in Wampole’s lair. This invaluable service was carried out by my assistant, Polton, who, with extraordinary tact and skill, contrived to get a glimpse into the workshop during Wampole’s absence; and when he peeped in, the first object that met his eye was a sparrowhawk, planted in a little log of cherry-wood that was absolutely riddled by the worm. That concluded the inquiry so far as I was concerned, though some further work had to be done to enable the police to act. But no doubt Mr. Penfield has told you about the lapidary and the police raid which resulted in Wampole’s death and the discovery of the gems in his possession.”

“Yes,” Osmond replied, “I think we have had full details of the final stages. Indeed, Mr. Penfield had given us most of the facts that you have mentioned, but neither he nor we were able to connect them completely. It seemed to us as if you had made one or two very fortunate guesses; but now that I have heard your reasoned exposition I can see that there was no element of guessing at all.”

“Exactly,” agreed Mr. Penfield; “every stage of the argument rests securely on the preceding stages. I am beginning to suspect that we lawyers habitually underestimate the man of science.”

“Yes,” said Osmond, “I am afraid that is so. It is pretty certain that no lawyer could have solved this mystery.”

“I have to remind you,” Thorndyke remarked, “that the man of science was not able to solve it. He was able only to solve a part of it. The thief was identified and the stolen property traced to its hiding-place. But one question remained and still remains unanswered. Why did John Osmond disappear?”

Osmond and Betty both smiled, and the latter asked: “Did you never form any guess on the subject?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Thorndyke, “I made plenty of guesses. But that was mere speculation which led to nothing. It occurred to me, for instance, that he was perhaps drawing a red-herring across the trail—that he was shielding the real criminal. But I could find no support for the idea. I could see no reason why he should shield Wampole—unless he was a confederate, which I did not believe. If the criminal had been Hepburn, it would have been at least imaginable. But there was never the shadow of a suspicion in regard to Hepburn. No, I never had even a hypothesis; and I haven’t now.”

“I am not surprised,” said Osmond, with a slightly sheepish grin. “It was beyond even your powers to conceive the possible actions of an impulsive fool who has mistaken the facts. However, as I have put you to the trouble of trying to account for my unaccountable conduct, it is only fair that I should make it clear, if I can; even though I know that when I have finished, your opinion of me will be like Bumble’s opinion of the Law—that I am ‘a ass and a idiot.’”

“I hardly think that very likely,” said Thorndyke, turning a twinkling eye on Betty. “As I said just now, you seem to have brought a most unpromising affair to an extraordinarily satisfactory conclusion which is not at all suggestive of ‘a ass and a idiot.’”

“But,” objected Osmond, “the satisfactory conclusion which you are putting to my credit is entirely your own work. I set up the obstacles; you knocked them down. However, we need not argue the point in advance. I will tell you the story and you shall judge for yourself.”

CHAPTER XX

OSMOND’S MOTIVE

“In order to make my position clear,” Osmond began, “it is necessary for me to say certain things to you, my best and kindest of friends, which I should not confide to any other human creature. I shall have to confess to thoughts and suspicions which were probably quite unjust and unreasonable and which are now uttered subject to the seal of the confession.”

The two lawyers bowed gravely in acknowledgement, and Osmond continued: “I was introduced to Mr. Woodstock, as you know, by my brother-in-law, Mr. Hepburn; and I may say that I accepted the post chiefly that I might be near my sister. She and I had always been very devoted to one another, and from the time when I left Oxford up to the date of her marriage we had lived under one roof; and that was how she came to make the acquaintance of Hepburn.

“I did not encourage the intimacy, but neither could I hinder it. She was of a responsible age and she knew her own mind. The end of it was that, after an engagement lasting a few months, they were married, and there was nothing more to be said. But I was rather troubled about it. I had known Hepburn nearly all my life. We had been at school together and the greater part of our time at Oxford, where we belonged to the same college, Merton. Through all those years we were on the footing of intimate friends—rather oddly, for we were very different in temperament and tastes, and, indeed, had very little in common—and we knew one another extremely well. I don’t know what Hepburn thought of me, but I must confess that I never had much of an opinion of him. He was a clever man; rather too clever, to my taste. An excellent manager, very much on the spot, and in fact decidedly cunning; fearfully keen on the main chance, fond of money and ambitious to be rich, and none too scrupulous in his ideas. At school he was one of those boys who contrive to increase their pocket-money by all sorts of mysterious little deals, and the same tendency showed up at Oxford. I didn’t like his ways at all. I always had the feeling that, if he should ever be tempted by an opportunity to make a haul by illegitimate means, he might be led by his acquisitiveness to do something shady.

“However, his morals were not in my custody and were none of my business until he began to visit us at my rooms, where I was living with my sister. Then I gave her a few words of warning; but they took no effect. He made himself acceptable to her, and, as I have said, they became engaged and eventually, when Hepburn took up his job with Woodstock, married. For a year or two I saw little of them—I was articled to a solicitor in London; but when I was fully qualified Hepburn, at my sister’s suggestion, offered to speak to Woodstock on my behalf, and the result was that I entered the office, as you have heard.

“And now I come to the particular transaction. Woodstock’s office was, as you know, conducted in a rather happy-go-lucky fashion, especially as regards the strong-room. The key hung on the wall practically all day. Usually, Woodstock took it away with him at night; but quite frequently, when Woodstock was away for a night, it would be left in Hepburn’s charge. Occasionally it was left with me; and on one occasion, at least, Wampole had charge of it for a night. And each of us four, Woodstock, Hepburn, Wampole, and myself, had a key of the outer door and could enter the premises whenever we pleased. You will remember, too, that the house was empty, out of office hours. There was no caretaker.

“Now, one night when I had been out on the river and got home rather late, I found that I had run out of tobacco. The shops were all shut, but I remembered that there was a nearly full tin in my desk at the office, so I ran round there to fill my pouch. I am always rather quiet in my movements, and perhaps, as it was late, I may have moved, instinctively, more silently than usual. Moreover, I still wore my rubber-soled boating-shoes. Well, I let myself in with my key and entered the office, leaving the outer door ajar. As I came in through the clerks’ office I could see through the open doorway that there was a light in Woodstock’s office and that the door of the strong-room was open. A good deal surprised at this, I stopped and listened. There were sounds of someone moving about in the strong-room, and I was on the point of going in to see who it was when Hepburn came out with one of Hollis’s boxes in his hand. And at that moment the outer door blew-to with a bang.

“At the sound of the closing door Hepburn started and whisked round to re-enter the strong-room. Then he saw me standing in the dark office, and I shall never forget his look of terror. He turned as white as a ghost and nearly dropped the box. Of course I sang out to let him know who I was and apologized for giving him such a start, but it was a minute or two before he recovered himself, and when he did he was decidedly huffy with me for creeping in so silently. His explanation of the affair was quite simple. He had been up to London with Woodstock, who had stayed in town for the night and had sent him down with a consignment of valuable securities which the firm were taking charge of. Not liking to have them in his personal possession, he had come on to the office to deposit them in the strong-room; and then, while he was there, he had taken the opportunity of checking Hollis’s boxes, which he informed me he was in the habit of doing periodically and usually after office hours.

“The explanation was, as I have said, quite simple; indeed, no explanation seemed to be called for. There was nothing in the least abnormal about the affair. When I had once more apologized for the fright that I had given him, I filled my pouch and we went away together, and I dismissed the matter from my mind.

“I don’t suppose I should ever have given the incident another thought if nothing had occurred to remind me of it. The months went by and it seemed to have passed completely out of my memory. Then Hollis dropped his bomb-shell into the office. Some one among us, he declared, had secretly opened his boxes and stolen his gems; and until that somebody was identified, we were all more or less under suspicion.

“Of course, Hepburn scouted the idea of there having been any robbery at all, and so did Wampole. They both pointed to the unbroken seals and declared that the thing was a physical impossibility; and I should have been disposed to take the same view, in spite of the strong evidence of the missing emerald. But as soon as I heard the charge, that scene in the office came back to me in a flash; and now, somehow, it did not look by any means so natural and simple as it had at the time. I recalled Hepburn’s terrified stare at me; his pale face and trembling hands. Of course, my sudden appearance must have been startling enough to upset anyone’s nerves; but it now seemed to me that his fright had been out of all proportion to the cause.

“Then, when I came to think it over, the whole affair seemed very characteristic of Hepburn; of his greed for money, his slyness, his cunning, calculating ways. The property which had been stolen was of great value, and I did not doubt that Hepburn would have annexed it without a qualm if he could have done so with complete safety. But it had been done so skilfully that the risk had been almost entirely eliminated. It was a very clever robbery. But for the merest chance the things would have gone back to Hollis’s cabinet unchallenged; and when they had been there a week or two the issues would have become hopelessly confused. It would have been impossible to say when or where the robbery had been committed. The whole affair had been most cunningly planned and neatly carried out. I felt that, if Hepburn had been the robber, that was just the way in which he would have done it.

“Moreover, the robbery—if there had really been one, as I had no doubt there had—seemed to lie between three, or at the most, four of us: those who had easy access to the strong-room. But of these Woodstock was out of the question, Wampole had practically no access to the strong-room and was an old and trusted servant of irreproachable character, and as I was out of it, there remained only Hepburn. Whichever way I thought of the affair, everything seemed to point to him, and whenever I thought of it the vision came back to me of that scared figure standing by the the strong-room door with the box of gems in his hand.

“But I need not go into any further detail. The bald fact is that it appeared to me beyond a doubt that Hepburn was the thief, and the only question was, what was to be done. The fat was in the fire. The police would be called in. The stolen property would be traced and the crime pretty certainly brought I home to Hepburn. That was how I forecast the probable course of events.

“Now, if Hepburn had been a single man it would have been no affair of mine. But he was my sister’s husband and the father of my two little nephews, who had been to me like my own children. If Hepburn had been convicted of this crime, my sister’s life would have been absolutely wrecked. It would have broken her heart; and as for the two little boys, their future would have been utterly and irrevocably damned. I couldn’t bear to think of it. But was there any way out? It seemed to me that there was. I was a bachelor with no home-ties but my sister and the kiddies. I had always had a desire to travel and see the world. Well, now was the time. If I cleared off to some out-of-the-way region, the dangerous inquiries at the office would stop at once and the whole hue-and-cry would be transferred to me. So I decided to go. And the place that I selected as my destination was Adaffia, where I knew that an old friend of Hepburn’s had settled as a trader.

“But I thought I would take Hepburn into my confidence and give him a chance of doing the same by me, only I am afraid I rather muddled the business. The fact is that, when it came to the point, I was a little shy of telling him exactly what was in my mind. It is a delicate business, telling a man that you have discovered him to be a thief. So I hummed and hawed and approached the subject gradually by remarking that it looked as if there would be wigs on the green presently. But that cat didn’t jump. Hepburn declined to admit that any robbery had occurred in the office. However, I persisted that we should presently have the police buzzing about the office and that then the position would become mighty uncomfortable for some of us. Still, he professed to be—and, of course, was—quite unconcerned; but when I went on to suggest that if I took a little holiday the state of affairs at the office would be made more comfortable for everybody, he stared at me in astonishment, as well he might. Of course, I could think of nothing but what I had seen that night when I caught him coming out of the strong-room, and I took it for granted that he realized what was in my mind, so that his astonishment didn’t surprise me.

“‘Wouldn’t it look a bit queer if you went away just now?’ he asked.

“‘That is just the point,” I replied. ‘I’ll hop off, they will leave the office alone and there will be no more trouble.’

“He seemed a good deal puzzled, but he didn’t raise any objections; and of course he did not make any confidences, which again did not very much surprise me. He was the very soul of caution and secretiveness.

“‘Where did you think of going for your holiday?’ he asked.

“I told him that I thought of running over to Adaffia to call on Larkom, the trader there, and suggested that he should send Larkom a letter introducing me. He didn’t much like writing that letter, and he liked it less when I mentioned that I proposed to travel under the name of Walker. However, Larkom was an old friend whom he knew that he could trust, so, in the end, he agreed to write the letter. And that settled the affair. In due course I went off in the comfortable belief that he understood the position exactly, leaving him considerably surprised but quite confident that he knew all about the robbery. It was a very pretty comedy of errors; but it would have become a tragedy but for your wonderful insight and for the strange chance that the results of your investigations should have found their way into the newspapers. That is to say, if it was a chance.”

“It was not a chance,” said Mr. Penfield. “As a matter of fact, Dr. Thorndyke wrote out the account himself and broadcast it to all the papers, including those of the United States.”

“Why did you do that?” Betty inquired, with a glance of intense curiosity at Thorndyke.

“For two reasons,” the latter replied: “one obvious, the other less so. In the first place, Osmond had been publicly accused, and as there had been no trial, there had been no public withdrawal of the accusation. But he was a man of honourable antecedents and irreproachable character. Common justice demanded that his innocence should be proclaimed at least as widely as had been the presumption of his guilt. Even if he were dead, it was necessary that his memory should be cleared of all reproach. But, in the second place, it was not at all clear to me that he was dead.”

“The deuce it wasn’t!” exclaimed Osmond. “I thought I had settled that question beyond any possible doubt. But you were not satisfied?”

“No. The report which reached me was singularly unconvincing, and there were certain actual discrepancies. Take first the general appearance of the alleged occurrences; here is a man, a fugitive from justice, whose purpose is to disappear. He lands at Adaffia and in the course of a week or two is reported to have died. Now, West Africa is a very unhealthy place, but people don’t usually drop down dead as soon as they arrive there. On the contrary. The mortality among newcomers is quite small. Death is most commonly due to the cumulative effects of repeated attacks of malaria and does not ordinarily occur during the first year of residence. Osmond’s death under the circumstances alleged was not in agreement with ordinary probabilities.

“Then the fact of death was not certified or corroborated. The officer who reported it had not seen the body; he had only seen the grave. But to a man of my profession, the uncorroborated grave of a man who is admittedly trying to escape from the police is an object of deep suspicion. The possibility of a sham burial was obvious. This man, on leaving his home, had made a bee-line for Adaffia, an insignificant village on the African coast the existence of which was unknown to the immense majority of persons, including myself. How came he to know of Adaffia? and why did he select it as a hiding-place? The obvious answer suggested was that he had a friend there. But as there was only one white man in the place—who must have been that friend—a sham death and burial would have been perfectly easy and a most natural expedient.

“Then there was the discrepancy. Osmond was reported to have died of blackwater fever. Now, this was almost an impossibility. Blackwater fever is not a disease which attacks newcomers. It lies in wait for the broken-down coaster whose health has been sapped by long-standing chronic malaria. In the immense majority of cases it occurs during, or after the third year of residence. I have found no record of a single case in which the patient was a newcomer to the coast. It was this discrepancy that immediately aroused my suspicions; and as soon as I came to consider the circumstances at large, the other improbabilities came into view. The conclusion that I arrived at was that there was a considerable probability that the trader, Larkom, had carried out a sham burial; or, if it it had really been a case of blackwater fever at Adaffia, the victim was Larkom himself, and that a false name had been put on the grave; in which case the man whom the officer saw must have been Osmond. You will note the suspicious fact that the name on the grave was ‘John Osmond’—not ‘Walker.’ That impressed me very strongly. It met the necessities of the fugitive so very perfectly.”

Osmond chuckled softly. “It seems to me, Dr. Thorndyke,” said he, “that you and I represent the two opposite extremes. You take nothing for granted. You accept no statement at its face value. You weigh, measure, and verify every item of evidence put to you. Whereas I—well, I wonder what you think of me. I shan’t be hurt if you speak your mind bluntly.”

“There is nothing in my mind,” said Thorndyke, “by which you need be hurt. It would, of course, be insincere to pretend that you did not display very bad judgement in taking so momentous a course of action on a mere, unconfirmed suspicion. But perhaps there are qualities even more valuable than worldly wisdom, and certainly more endearing; such as chivalry, generosity and self-forgetfulness. I can only say that what you have told us as to your motives has made my little service to you a great pleasure to me; it has turned a mere technical success into a source of abiding satisfaction—even though you did seek to defeat the ends of justice.”

“It is nice of you to say that, Dr. Thorndyke,” Betty exclaimed with brimming eyes. “After all, it is better to be generous than discreet—at least, I think so; and I don’t mind admitting that I am proud to be the wife of a man who could cheerfully give up everything for the good of his kinsfolk.”

“I think,” said Mr. Penfield, tapping his snuff-box by way of emphasis, “you have very good reason to be proud of one another.”

“Thank you, Mr. Penfield,” she replied, smilingly. “And that brings me to what really was the object of our visit today. Only, here I am in rather a difficulty. I am commissioned to give thanks for all that has been done for us, and I really don’t know how to express one-half of what we feel.”

“Is there any need?” said Thorndyke. “Mr. Penfield and I already understand that you enormously overestimate your indebtedness to us. Isn’t that enough?”

“Well, then,” said Betty, “I will just say this. But for you, Jack and I could never have been married. It was really you who gave us to one another. We wish to say that we are extremely pleased with your gift and we are very much obliged.”