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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10476 ***</div>
<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook,<br>
    The Vanishing Man, by R. Austin Freeman</h1>
<br>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr class="full">
<h1>THE VANISHING MAN</h1>

<center><i>A Detective Romance</i></center>
<br>
<center>
<b>BY  R. AUSTIN FREEMAN </b>
</center>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="RULE4_1"><!-- RULE4 1 --></a>
<h2>
	TO MY FRIEND
</h2>

<h2>
A.E.B.
</h2>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<center>
1911
</center>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

<hr>
<a name="TOC"><!-- TOC --></a>
<h3>
	CONTENTS
</h3>

<h3>
CHAPTER
</h3>
<b>
I <a href="#CH1">THE VANISHING MAN</a><br>
II <a href="#CH2">THE EAVESDROPPER</a><br>
III <a href="#CH3">JOHN THORNDYKE</a><br>
IV <a href="#CH4">LEGAL COMPLICATIONS AND A JACKAL</a><br>
V <a href="#CH5">THE WATERCRESS-BED</a><br>
VI <a href="#CH6">SIDELIGHTS</a><br>
VII <a href="#CH7">JOHN BELLINGHAM'S WILL</a><br>
VIII <a href="#CH8">A MUSEUM IDYLL</a><br>
IX <a href="#CH9">THE SPHINX OF LINCOLN'S INN</a><br>
X <a href="#CH10">THE NEW ALLIANCE</a><br>
XI <a href="#CH11">THE EVIDENCE REVIEWED</a><br>
XII <a href="#CH12">A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY</a><br>
XIII <a href="#CH13">THE CROWNER'S QUEST</a><br>
XIV <a href="#CH14">WHICH CARRIES THE READER INTO THE PROBATE COURT</a><br>
XV <a href="#CH15">CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE</a><br>
XVI <a href="#CH16">"O! ARTEMIDORUS, FAREWELL!"</a><br>
XVII <a href="#CH17">THE ACCUSING FINGER</a><br>
XVIII <a href="#CH18">JOHN BELLINGHAM</a><br>
XIX <a href="#CH19">A STRANGE SYMPOSIUM</a><br>
XX <a href="#CH20">THE END OF THE CASE</a><br>
</b>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH1"><!-- CH1 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER I
</h2>

<h3>
THE VANISHING MAN
</h3>
<p>
The school of St. Margaret's Hospital was fortunate
in its lecturer on Medical Jurisprudence, or Forensic
Medicine, as it is sometimes described. At some schools
the lecturer on this subject is appointed apparently for
the reason that he lacks the qualifications to lecture
on any other. But with us it was very different: John
Thorndyke was not only an enthusiast, a man of profound
learning and great reputation, but he was an
exceptional teacher, lively and fascinating in style and
of endless resources. Every remarkable case that had
ever been recorded he appeared to have at his fingers'
ends; every fact&mdash;chemical, physical, biological, or
even historical&mdash;that could in any way be twisted into
a medico-legal significance, was pressed into his service;
and his own varied and curious experiences seemed
as inexhaustible as the widow's cruse. One of his
favourite devices for giving life and interest to a
rather dry subject was that of analysing and commenting
upon contemporary cases as reported in the papers
(always, of course, with a due regard to the legal and
social proprieties); and it was in this way that I first
became introduced to the astonishing series of events
that was destined to exercise so great an influence on
my own life.
</p>
<p>
The lecture which had just been concluded had dealt
with the rather unsatisfactory subject of survivorship.
Most of the students had left the theatre, and the remainder
had gathered round the lecturer's table to
listen to the informal comments that Dr. Thorndyke
was wont to deliver on these occasions in an easy,
conversational manner, leaning against the edge
of the table and apparently addressing his remarks
to a stick of blackboard chalk that he held in his
fingers.
</p>
<p>
"The problem of survivorship," he was saying, in
reply to a question put by one of the students,
"ordinarily occurs in cases where the bodies of the
parties are producible, or where, at any rate, the occurrence
of death and its approximate time are actually
known. But an analogous difficulty may arise in a case
where the body of one of the parties is not forthcoming,
and the fact of death may have to be assumed on collateral
evidence.
</p>
<p>
"Here, of course, the vital question to be settled is,
what is the latest instant at which it is certain that this
person was alive? And the settlement of that question
may turn on some circumstance of the most trivial
and insignificant kind. There is a case in this morning's
paper which illustrates this. A gentleman has
disappeared rather mysteriously. He was last seen by
the servant of a relative at whose house he had called.
Now, if this gentleman should never reappear, dead or
alive, the question as to what was the latest moment
at which he was certainly alive will turn upon the
further question: 'Was he or was he not wearing a
particular article of jewellery when he called at that
relative's house?'"
</p>
<p>
He paused with a reflective eye bent upon the stump
of chalk that he still held; then, noting the expectant
interest with which we were regarding him, he resumed:
</p>
<p>
"The circumstances in this case are very curious;
in fact, they are highly mysterious; and if any legal
issues should arise in respect of them, they are likely
to yield some very remarkable complications. The
gentleman who has disappeared, Mr. John Bellingham,
is a man well known in archaeological circles. He recently
returned from Egypt, bringing with him a very
fine collection of antiquities&mdash;some of which, by the
way, he has presented to the British Museum, where
they are now on view&mdash;and having made this presentation,
he appears to have gone to Paris on business. I
may mention that the gift consisted of a very fine
mummy and a complete set of tomb-furniture. The
latter, however, had not arrived from Egypt at the
time when the missing man left for Paris, but the
mummy was inspected on the fourteenth of October at
Mr. Bellingham's house by Dr. Norbury of the British
Museum, in the presence of the donor and his solicitor,
and the latter was authorised to hand over the complete
collection to the British Museum authorities
when the tomb-furniture arrived; which he has since
done.
</p>
<p>
"From Paris he seems to have returned on the
twenty-third of November, and to have gone direct
from Charing Cross to the house of a relative, a Mr.
Hurst, who is a bachelor and lives at Eltham. He appeared
at the house at twenty minutes past five, and
as Mr. Hurst had not yet come down from town and
was not expected until a quarter to six, he explained
who he was and said he would wait in the study and
write some letters. The housemaid accordingly showed
him into the study, furnished him with writing materials,
and left him.
</p>
<p>
"At a quarter to six Mr. Hurst let himself in with
his latchkey, and before the housemaid had time to
speak to him he had passed through into the study and
shut the door.
</p>
<p>
"At six o'clock, when the dinner bell was rung, Mr.
Hurst entered the dining-room alone, and, observing
that the table was laid for two, asked the reason.
</p>
<p>
"'I thought Mr. Bellingham was staying to dinner,
sir,' was 'The housemaid's' reply.
</p>
<p>
"'Mr. Bellingham!' exclaimed the astonished host.
'I didn't know he was here. Why was I not told?'
</p>
<p>
"'I thought he was in the study with you, sir,' said
the housemaid.
</p>
<p>
"On this a search was made for the visitor, with the
result that he was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared
without leaving a trace, and what made the
incident more odd was that the housemaid was certain
that he had not gone out by the front door. For since
neither she nor the cook was acquainted with Mr. John
Bellingham, she had remained the whole time either
in the kitchen, which commanded a view of the front
gate, or in the dining-room, which opened into the hall
opposite the study door. The study itself has a French
window opening on a narrow grass plot, across which
is a side gate that opens into an alley; and it appears
that Mr. Bellingham must have made his exit by this
rather eccentric route. At any rate&mdash;and this is the
important fact&mdash;he was not in the house, and no one
had seen him leave it.
</p>
<p>
"After a hasty meal Mr. Hurst returned to town
and called at the office of Mr. Bellingham's solicitor and
confidential agent, a Mr. Jellicoe, and mentioned the
matter to him. Mr. Jellicoe knew nothing of his client's
return from Paris, and the two men at once took the
train down to Woodford, where the missing man's
brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham, lives. The servant
who admitted them said that Mr. Godfrey was not at
home, but that his daughter was in the library, which
is a detached building situated in a shrubbery beyond
the garden at the back of the house. Here the two men
found, not only Miss Bellingham, but also her father,
who had come in by the back gate.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Godfrey and his daughter listened to Mr.
Hurst's story with the greatest surprise, and assured
him that they had neither seen nor heard anything of
John Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
"Presently the party left the library to walk up to
the house; but only a few feet from the library door
Mr. Jellicoe noticed an object lying in the grass and
pointed it out to Mr. Godfrey.
</p>
<p>
"The latter picked it up, and they all recognised it
as a scarab which Mr. John Bellingham had been
accustomed to wear suspended from his watch-chain.
There was no mistaking it. It was a very fine scarab
of the eighteenth dynasty fashioned of lapis lazuli and
engraved with the cartouche of Amenhotep III. It
had been suspended by a gold ring fastened to a wire
which passed through the suspension hole, and the
ring, though broken, was still in position.
</p>
<p>
"This discovery, of course, only added to the mystery,
which was still further increased when, on inquiry,
a suit-case bearing the initials J.B. was found to be
lying unclaimed in the cloak-room at Charing Cross.
Reference to the counterfoil of the ticket-book showed
that it had been deposited about the time of arrival of
the Continental express on the twenty-third of November,
so that its owner must have gone straight on to
Eltham.
</p>
<p>
"That is how the affair stands at present, and,
should the missing man never reappear or should his
body never be found, the question, as you see, which
will be required to be settled is, 'What is the exact
time and place, when and where, he was last known
to be alive?' As to the place, the importance of the
issues involved in that question are obvious and we
need not consider them. But the question of time has
another kind of significance. Cases have occurred, as
I pointed out in the lecture, in which proof of survivorship
by less than a minute has secured succession to
property. Now, the missing man was last seen alive
at Mr. Hurst's house at twenty minutes past five on
the twenty-third of November. But he appears to have
visited his brother's house at Woodford, and, since
nobody saw him at that house, it is at present uncertain
whether he went there before or after calling on Mr.
Hurst. If he went there first, then twenty minutes
past five on the evening of the twenty-third is the
latest moment at which he is known to have been alive;
but if he went there after, there would have to be
added to this time the shortest possible time in
which he could travel from the one house to the
other.
</p>
<p>
"But the question as to which house he visited first
hinges on the scarab. If he was wearing the scarab
when he arrived at Mr. Hurst's house, it would be certain
that he went there first; but if it was not then
on his watch-chain, a probability would be established
that he went first to Woodford. Thus, you see, a
question which may conceivably become of the most
vital moment in determining the succession of property
turns on the observation or non-observation by this
housemaid of an apparently trivial and insignificant
fact."
</p>
<p>
"Has the servant made any statement on the subject,
sir?" I ventured to inquire.
</p>
<p>
"Apparently not," replied Dr. Thorndyke; "at
any rate, there is no reference to any such statement
in the newspaper report, though, otherwise, the case
is reported in great detail; indeed, the wealth of detail,
including plans of the two houses, is quite remarkable
and well worth noting as being in itself a fact of considerable
interest."
</p>
<p>
"In what respect, sir, is it of interest?" one of the
students asked.
</p>
<p>
"Ah!" replied Dr. Thorndyke, "I think I must
leave you to consider that question yourself. This is
an untried case, and we mustn't make free with the
actions and motives of individuals."
</p>
<p>
"Does the paper give any description of the missing
man, sir?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Yes; quite an exhaustive description. Indeed, it
is exhaustive to the verge of impropriety, considering
that the man may possibly turn up alive and well at
any moment. It seems that he has an old Pott's fracture
of the left ankle, a linear, longitudinal scar on
each knee&mdash;origin not stated, but easily guessed at&mdash;and
that he has tattooed on his chest in vermilion a
very finely and distinctly executed representation of
the symbolical Eye of Osiris&mdash;or Horus or Ra, as the
different authorities have it. There certainly ought to
be no difficulty in identifying the body. But we will
hope that it won't come to that.
</p>
<p>
"And now I must really be running away, and so
must you; but I would advise you all to get copies of
the paper and file them when you have read the remarkably
full details. It is a most curious case, and
it is highly probable that we shall hear of it again.
Good afternoon, gentlemen."
</p>
<p>
Dr. Thorndyke's advice appealed to all who heard
it, for medical jurisprudence was a live subject at St.
Margaret's and all of us were keenly interested in it.
As a result, we sallied forth in a body to the nearest
newsvendor's, and, having each provided himself with
a copy of the <i>Daily Telegraph</i>, adjourned together to
the Common Room to devour the report and thereafter
to discuss the bearings of the case, unhampered
by those considerations of delicacy that afflicted our
more squeamish and scrupulous teacher.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH2"><!-- CH2 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER II
</h2>

<h3>
THE EAVESDROPPER
</h3>
<p>
It is one of the canons of correct conduct, scrupulously
adhered to (when convenient) by all well-bred persons,
that an acquaintance should be initiated by a proper
introduction. To this salutary rule, which I have disregarded
to the extent of an entire chapter, I now
hasten to conform; and the more so inasmuch as nearly
two years have passed since my first informal appearance.
</p>
<p>
Permit me, then, to introduce Paul Berkeley, M.B.,
etc., recently&mdash;very recently&mdash;qualified, faultlessly attired
in the professional frock-coat and tall hat, and,
at the moment of introduction, navigating with anxious
care a perilous strait between a row of well-filled coal-sacks
and a colossal tray piled high with kidney potatoes.
</p>
<p>
The passage of this strait landed me on the terra
firma of Fleur-de-Lys Court, where I halted for a moment
to consult my visiting list. There was only one
more patient for me to see this morning, and he lived at
49 Nevill's Court, wherever that might be. I turned
for information to the presiding deity of the coal shop.
</p>
<p>
"Can you direct me, Mrs. Jablett, to Nevill's
Court?"
</p>
<p>
She could and she did, grasping me confidentially by
the arm (the mark remained on my sleeve for weeks)
and pointing a shaking forefinger at the dead wall
ahead. "Nevill's Court," said Mrs. Jablett, "is a
alley, and you goes into it through a archway. It
turns out of Fetter Lane on the right 'and as you goes
up, oppersight Bream's Buildings."
</p>
<p>
I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad
that the morning round was nearly finished, and vaguely
conscious of a growing appetite and of a desire to wash
in hot water.
</p>
<p>
The practice which I was conducting was not my
own. It belonged to poor Dick Barnard, an old St.
Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits and indifferent
physique, who had started only the day before for a
trip down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged
in the currant trade; and this, my second morning's
round, was in some sort a voyage of geographical discovery.
</p>
<p>
I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow,
arched opening, bearing the superscription "Nevill's
Court," arrested my steps, and here I turned to encounter
one of those surprises that lie in wait for the
wanderer in London byways. Expecting to find the
grey squalor of the ordinary London court, I looked
out from under the shadow of the arch past a row of
decent little shops through a vista full of light and
colour&mdash;a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls
relieved by sunlit foliage. In the heart of London a
tree is always a delightful surprise; but here were not
only trees, but bushes and even flowers. The narrow
footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with
their wooden palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the
place an air of quaint and sober rusticity; and even
as I entered a bevy of work-girls, with gaily-coloured
blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened up
the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle
a summer hedgerow.
</p>
<p>
In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths
were paved with what looked like circular tiles, but
which, on inspection, I found to be old-fashioned stone
ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I was meditating
upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener
who had thus adorned his habitation&mdash;a law-writer
perhaps, or an author, or perchance even a poet&mdash;when
I perceived the number that I was seeking inscribed
on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell
or knocker, so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door
open and entered.
</p>
<p>
But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a
positive wonder, a dream. Here, within earshot of the
rumble of Fleet Street, I was in an old-fashioned garden
enclosed by high walls and, now that the gate was
shut, cut off from all sight and knowledge of the urban
world that seethed without. I stood and gazed in delighted
astonishment. Sun-gilded trees and flower-beds
gay with blossom; lupins, snap-dragons, nasturtiums,
spiry foxgloves, and mighty hollyhocks formed the
foreground; over which a pair of sulphur-tinted butterflies
flitted, unmindful of a buxom and miraculously
clean white cat which pursued them, dancing across
the borders and clapping her snowy paws fruitlessly
in mid-air. And the background was no less wonderful:
a grand old house, dark-eaved and venerable, that
must have looked down on this garden when ruffled
dandies were borne in sedan chairs through the court,
and gentle Izaak Walton, stealing forth from his shop
in Fleet Street, strolled up Fetter Lane to "go a-angling"
at Temple Mills.
</p>
<p>
So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that
my hand was on the bottom knob of a row of bell-pulls
before I recollected myself; and it was not until a
most infernal jangling from within recalled me to my
business that I observed underneath it a small brass
plate inscribed "Miss Oman."
</p>
<p>
The door opened with some suddenness, and a short,
middle-aged woman surveyed me hungrily.
</p>
<p>
"Have I rung the wrong bell?" I asked&mdash;foolishly
enough, I must admit.
</p>
<p>
"How can I tell?" she demanded. "I expect you
have. It's the sort of thing a man would do&mdash;ring the
wrong bell and then say he's sorry."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't go as far as that," I retorted. "It seems
to have had the desired effect, and I've made your
acquaintance into the bargain."
</p>
<p>
"Whom do you want to see?" she asked.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
"Are you the doctor?"
</p>
<p>
"I am <i>a</i> doctor."
</p>
<p>
"Follow me upstairs," said Miss Oman, "and don't
tread on the paint."
</p>
<p>
I crossed the spacious hall, and, preceded by my
conductress, ascended a noble oak staircase, treading
carefully on a ribbon of matting that ran up the middle.
On the first-floor landing Miss Oman opened a door
and, pointing to the room, said: "Go in there and
wait; I'll tell her you're here."
</p>
<p>
"I said <i>Mr</i>. Bellingham&mdash;" I began; but the door
slammed on me, and Miss Oman's footsteps retreated
rapidly down the stairs.
</p>
<p>
It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very
awkward position. The room into which I had been
shown communicated with another, and though the
door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly
aware of a conversation that was taking place in the
adjoining room. At first, indeed, only a vague mutter,
with a few disjointed phrases, came through the door,
but suddenly an angry voice rang out clear and painfully
distinct:
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I did! And I say it again. Bribery! Collusion!
That's what it amounts to. You want to square
me!"
</p>
<p>
"Nothing of the kind, Godfrey," was the reply in a
lower tone; but at this point I coughed emphatically
and moved a chair, and the voices subsided once more
into an indistinct murmur.
</p>
<p>
To distract my attention from my unseen neighbours
I glanced curiously about the room and speculated
upon the personalities of its occupants. A very curious
room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayed
splendour and old-world dignity: a room full of interest
and character and of contrasts and perplexing
contradictions. For the most part it spoke of unmistakable
though decent poverty. It was nearly bare of
furniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest&mdash;a
small kitchen table and three Windsor chairs (two
of them with arms); a threadbare string carpet on the
floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on the table; these,
with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed of
grocer's boxes, formed the entire suite. And yet,
despite its poverty, the place exhaled an air of homely
if rather ascetic comfort, and the taste was irreproachable.
The quiet russet of the tablecloth struck a pleasant
harmony with the subdued bluish green of the
worn carpet; the Windsor chairs and the legs of the
table had been carefully denuded of their glaring varnish
and stained a sober brown; and the austerity of
the whole was relieved by a ginger-jar filled with fresh-cut
flowers and set in the middle of the table.
</p>
<p>
But the contrasts of which I have spoken were most
singular and puzzling. There were the bookshelves,
for instance, home-made and stained at the cost of a
few pence, but filled with recent and costly works on
archaeology and ancient art. There were the objects
on the mantelpiece: a facsimile in bronze&mdash;not bronzed
plaster&mdash;of the beautiful head of Hypnos and a pair of
fine Ushabti figures. There were the decorations of the
walls, a number of etchings&mdash;signed proofs, every one
of them&mdash;of Oriental subjects, and a splendid facsimile
reproduction of an Egyptian papyrus. It was incongruous
in the extreme, this mingling of costly refinements
with the barest and shabbiest necessaries of life,
of fastidious culture with manifest poverty. I could
make nothing of it. What manner of man, I wondered,
was this new patient of mine? Was he a miser, hiding
himself and his wealth in this obscure court? An
eccentric savant? A philosopher? Or&mdash;more probably&mdash;a
crank? But at this point my meditations were
interrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, once
more raised in anger.
</p>
<p>
"But I say that you <i>are</i> making an accusation!
You are implying that I made away with him."
</p>
<p>
"Not at all," was the reply; "but I repeat that it
is your business to ascertain what has become of him.
The responsibility rests upon you."
</p>
<p>
"Upon me!" rejoined the first voice. "And what
about you? Your position is a pretty fishy one if it
comes to that."
</p>
<p>
"What!" roared the other. "Do you insinuate
that I murdered my own brother?"
</p>
<p>
During this amazing colloquy I had stood gaping
with sheer astonishment. Suddenly I recollected myself,
and, dropping into a chair, set my elbows on my
knees and slapped my hands over my ears; and thus
I must have remained for a full minute when I became
aware of the closing of a door behind me.
</p>
<p>
I sprang to my feet and turned in some embarrassment
(for I must have looked unspeakably ridiculous)
to confront the sombre figure of a rather tall and
strikingly handsome girl, who, as she stood with her
hand on the knob of the door, saluted me with a formal
bow. In an instantaneous glance I noted how perfectly
she matched her strange surroundings. Black-robed,
black-haired, with black-grey eyes and a grave,
sad face of ivory pallor, she stood, like one of old
Terborch's portraits, a harmony in tones so low as to be
but a step removed from monochrome. Obviously a
lady in spite of the worn and rusty dress, and something
in the poise of the head and the set of the straight
brows hinted at a spirit that adversity had hardened
rather than broken.
</p>
<p>
"I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting,"
she said; and as she spoke a certain softening
at the corners of the austere mouth reminded me of
the absurd position in which she had found me.
</p>
<p>
I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence
whatever; that I had, in fact, been rather
glad of the rest; and I was beginning somewhat
vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the
voice from the adjoining room again broke forth with
hideous distinctness.
</p>
<p>
"I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind! Why, confound
you, it's nothing less than a conspiracy that
you're proposing!"
</p>
<p>
Miss Bellingham&mdash;as I assumed her to be&mdash;stepped
quickly across the floor, flushing angrily, as well she
might; but, as she reached the door, it flew open and
a small, spruce, middle-aged man burst into the room.
</p>
<p>
"Your father is mad, Ruth!" he exclaimed; "absolutely
stark mad! And I refuse to hold any further
communication with him."
</p>
<p>
"The present interview was not of his seeking,"
Miss Bellingham replied coldly.
</p>
<p>
"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it
was my mistaken generosity. But there&mdash;what is the
use of talking? I've done my best for you and I'll do
no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can find my
way. Good morning." With a stiff bow and a quick
glance at me, the speaker strode out of the room,
banging the door after him.
</p>
<p>
"I must apologise for this extraordinary reception,"
said Miss Bellingham; "but I believe medical men are
not easily astonished. I will introduce you to your
patient now." She opened the door and, as I followed
her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is another
visitor for you, dear. Doctor&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Berkeley," said I. "I am acting for my friend
Doctor Barnard."
</p>
<p>
The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five,
who sat propped up in bed with a pile of pillows, held
out an excessively shaky hand, which I grasped cordially,
making a mental note of the tremor.
</p>
<p>
"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Bellingham. "I
hope Doctor Barnard is not ill."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, no," I answered; "he has gone for a trip
down the Mediterranean on a currant ship. The chance
occurred rather suddenly, and I bustled him off before
he had time to change his mind. Hence my rather
unceremonious appearance, which I hope you will forgive."
</p>
<p>
"Not at all," was the hearty response. "I'm delighted
to hear that you sent him off; he wanted a
holiday, poor man. And I am delighted to make your
acquaintance, too."
</p>
<p>
"It is very good of you," I said; whereupon he
bowed as gracefully as a man may who is propped up
in bed with a heap of pillows; and having thus exchanged
broadsides of civility, so to speak, we&mdash;or, at
least, I&mdash;proceeded to business.
</p>
<p>
"How long have you been laid up?" I asked cautiously,
not wishing to make too evident the fact that
my principal had given me no information respecting
his case.
</p>
<p>
"A week to-day," he replied. "The <i>fons et origo
mali</i> was a hansom-cab which upset me opposite the
Law Courts&mdash;sent me sprawling in the middle of the
road. My own fault, of course&mdash;at least, the cabby
said so, and I suppose he knew. But that was no consolation
to me."
</p>
<p>
"Were you much hurt?"
</p>
<p>
"No, not really; but the fall bruised my knee rather
badly and gave me a deuce of a shake up. I'm too old
for that sort of thing, you know."
</p>
<p>
"Most people are," said I.
</p>
<p>
"True; but you can take a cropper more gracefully
at twenty than at fifty-five. However, the knee is getting
on quite well&mdash;you shall see it presently&mdash;and
you observe that I am giving it complete rest. But
that isn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it.
It's my confounded nerves. I'm as irritable as the
devil and as nervous as a cat, and I can't get a decent
night's rest."
</p>
<p>
I recalled the tremulous hand that he had offered
me. He did not look like a drinker, but still&mdash;
</p>
<p>
"Do you smoke much?" I inquired diplomatically.
</p>
<p>
He looked at me slyly and chuckled. "That's a
very delicate way to approach the subject, Doctor,"
he said. "No, I don't smoke much, and I don't crook
my little finger. I saw you look at my shaky hand
just now&mdash;oh, it's all right; I'm not offended. It's a
doctor's business to keep his eyelids lifting. But my
hand is steady enough as a rule, when I'm not upset,
but the least excitement sets me shaking like a jelly.
And the fact is that I have just had a deucedly unpleasant
interview&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"I think," Miss Bellingham interrupted, "Doctor
Berkeley and, in fact, the neighbourhood at large, are
aware of the fact."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham laughed rather shamefacedly. "I'm
afraid I did lose my temper," he said; "but I am an
impulsive old fellow, Doctor, and when I'm put out I'm
apt to speak my mind&mdash;a little too bluntly, perhaps."
</p>
<p>
"And audibly," his daughter added. "Do you
know that Doctor Berkeley was reduced to the necessity
of stopping his ears?" She glanced at me, as
she spoke, with something like a twinkle in her solemn
grey eyes.
</p>
<p>
"Did I shout?" Mr. Bellingham asked, not very
contritely, I thought, though he added: "I'm very
sorry, my dear; but it won't happen again. I think
we've seen the last of that good gentleman."
</p>
<p>
"I am sure I hope so," she rejoined, adding: "And
now I will leave you to your talk; I shall be in the
next room if you should want me."
</p>
<p>
I opened the door for her, and when she had passed
out with a stiff little bow I seated myself by the bedside
and resumed the consultation. It was evidently
a case of nervous breakdown, to which the cab accident
had, no doubt, contributed. As to the other antecedents,
they were no concern of mine, though Mr. Bellingham
seemed to think otherwise, for he resumed:
"That cab business was the last straw, you know, and
it finished me off, but I have been going down the hill
for a long time. I've had a lot of trouble during the
last two years. But I suppose I oughtn't to pester
you with the details of my personal affairs."
</p>
<p>
"Anything that bears on your present state of health
is of interest to me if you don't mind telling it," I
said.
</p>
<p>
"Mind!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever meet an
invalid who didn't enjoy talking about his own health?
It's the listener who minds, as a rule."
</p>
<p>
"Well, the present listener doesn't," I said.
</p>
<p>
"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "I'll treat myself to
the luxury of telling you all my troubles; I don't often
get the chance of a confidential grumble to a responsible
man of my own class. And I really have some excuse
for railing at Fortune, as you will agree when I tell
you that, a couple of years ago, I went to bed one
night a gentleman of independent means and excellent
prospects and woke up in the morning to find myself
practically a beggar. Not a cheerful experience that,
you know, at my time of life, eh?"
</p>
<p>
"No," I agreed, "nor at any other."
</p>
<p>
"And that was not all," he continued; "for, at the
same moment, I lost my only brother, my dearest,
kindest friend. He disappeared&mdash;vanished off the face
of the earth; but perhaps you have heard of the affair.
The confounded papers were full of it at the time."
</p>
<p>
He paused abruptly, noticing, no doubt, a sudden
change in my face. Of course, I recollected the case
now. Indeed, ever since I had entered the house some
chord of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now
his last words had struck out the full note.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I said, "I remember the incident, though I
don't suppose I should but for the fact that our lecturer
on medical jurisprudence drew my attention to
it."
</p>
<p>
"Indeed," said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as
I fancied. "What did he say about it?"
</p>
<p>
"He referred to it as a case that was calculated to
give rise to some very pretty legal complications."
</p>
<p>
"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Bellingham, "that man
was a prophet! Legal complications, indeed! But
I'll be bound he never guessed at the sort of infernal
tangle that has actually gathered round the affair. By
the way, what was his name?"
</p>
<p>
"Thorndyke," I replied. "Doctor John Thorndyke."
</p>
<p>
"Thorndyke," Mr. Bellingham repeated in a musing,
retrospective tone. "I seem to remember that name.
Yes, of course. I have heard a legal friend of mine, a
Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the case
of a man whom I knew slightly years ago&mdash;a certain
Jeffrey Blackmore, who also disappeared very mysteriously.
I remember now that Doctor Thorndyke
unravelled that case with most remarkable ingenuity."
</p>
<p>
"I daresay he would be very much interested to hear
about your case," I suggested.
</p>
<p>
"I daresay he would," was the reply; "but one
can't take up a professional man's time for nothing,
and I couldn't afford to pay him. And that reminds
me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping about
my purely personal affairs."
</p>
<p>
"My morning round is finished," said I, "and, moreover,
your personal affairs are highly interesting. I
suppose I mustn't ask what is the nature of the legal
entanglement?"
</p>
<p>
"Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the
rest of the day and go home a raving lunatic. But I'll
tell you this much: the trouble is about my poor
brother's will. In the first place, it can't be administered
because there is no sufficient evidence that my
brother is dead; and in the second place, if it could,
all the property would go to people who were never
intended to benefit. The will itself is the most diabolically
exasperating document that was ever produced
by the perverted ingenuity of a wrong-headed
man. That's all. Will you have a look at my knee?"
</p>
<p>
As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a
rapid <i>crescendo</i> and ending almost in a shout) had left
him purple-faced and trembling, I thought it best to
bring our talk to an end. Accordingly I proceeded
to inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well,
and to overhaul my patient generally; and having given
him detailed instructions as to his general conduct, I
rose to take my leave.
</p>
<p>
"And remember," I said as I shook his hand, "no
tobacco, no coffee, no excitement of any kind. Lead
a quiet, bovine life."
</p>
<p>
"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but supposing
people come here and excite me?"
</p>
<p>
"Disregard them," said I, "and read <i>Whitaker's
Almanack</i>." And with this parting advice I passed
out into the other room.
</p>
<p>
Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile
of blue-covered note-books before her, two of which
were open, displaying pages closely written in a small,
neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and looked
at me inquiringly.
</p>
<p>
"I heard you advising my father to read <i>Whitaker's
Almanack</i>," she said. "Was that as a curative measure?"
</p>
<p>
"Entirely," I replied. "I recommended it for its
medicinal virtues, as an antidote to mental excitement."
</p>
<p>
She smiled faintly. "It certainly is not a highly
emotional book," she said, and then asked: "Have
you any other instructions to give?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, I might give the conventional advice&mdash;to
maintain a cheerful outlook and avoid worry; but I
don't suppose you would find it very helpful."
</p>
<p>
"No," she answered bitterly; "it is a counsel of
perfection. People in our position are not a very
cheerful class, I am afraid; but still they don't seek
out worries from sheer perverseness. The worries come
unsought. But, of course, you can't enter into that."
</p>
<p>
"I can't give any practical help, I fear, though I do
sincerely hope that your father's affairs will straighten
themselves out soon."
</p>
<p>
She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied
me down to the street door, where, with a bow
and a rather stiff handshake, she gave me my <i>cong&eacute;</i>.
</p>
<p>
Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on
my ears as I came out through the archway, and very
squalid and unrestful the little street looked when contrasted
with the dignity and monastic quiet of the old
garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and
walls made hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards
in sham gilt frames, its aspect was so revolting that I
flew to the day-book for distraction, and was still
busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy,
Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH3"><!-- CH3 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER III
</h2>

<h3>
JOHN THORNDYKE
</h3>
<p>
That the character of an individual tends to be reflected
in his dress is a fact familiar to the least
observant. That the observation is equally applicable
to aggregates of men is less familiar, but equally true.
Do not the members of the fighting professions, even to
this day, deck themselves in feathers, in gaudy colours
and gilded ornaments, after the manner of the African
war-chief or the "Redskin brave," and thereby indicate
the place of war in modern civilisation? Does not the
Church of Rome send her priests to the altar in habiliments
that were fashionable before the fall of the
Roman Empire, in token of her immovable conservatism?
And, lastly, does not the Law, lumbering on in
the wake of progress, symbolise its subjection to precedent
by head-gear reminiscent of the days of good
Queen Anne?
</p>
<p>
I should apologise for obtruding upon the reader
these somewhat trite reflections; which were set going
by the quaint stock-in-trade of the wig-maker's shop in
the cloisters of the Inner Temple, whither I had strayed
on a sultry afternoon in quest of shade and quiet. I
had halted opposite the little shop window, and, with
my eyes bent dreamily on the row of wigs, was pursuing
the above train of thought when I was startled
by a deep voice saying softly in my ear: "I'd have
the full-bottomed one if I were you."
</p>
<p>
I turned swiftly and rather fiercely, and looked into
the face of my old friend and fellow-student, Jervis,
behind whom, regarding us with a sedate smile, stood
my former teacher, Dr. John Thorndyke. Both men
greeted me with a warmth that I felt to be very flattering,
for Thorndyke was quite a great personage, and
even Jervis was several years my academic senior.
</p>
<p>
"You are coming in to have a cup of tea with us,
I hope," said Thorndyke; and as I assented gladly, he
took my arm and led me across the court in the direction
of the Treasury.
</p>
<p>
"But why that hungry gaze at those forensic vanities,
Berkeley?" he asked. "Are you thinking of
following my example and Jervis's&mdash;deserting the bedside
for the Bar?"
</p>
<p>
"What! Has Jervis gone into the law?" I exclaimed.
</p>
<p>
"Bless you, yes!" replied Jervis. "I have become
parasitical on Thorndyke! 'The big fleas have little
fleas,' you know. I am the additional fraction trailing
after the whole number in the rear of a decimal
point."
</p>
<p>
"Don't you believe him, Berkeley," interposed
Thorndyke. "He is the brains of the firm. I supply
the respectability and moral worth. But you haven't
answered my question. What are you doing here on
a summer afternoon staring into a wigmaker's window?"
</p>
<p>
"I am Barnard's locum; he is in practice in Fetter
Lane."
</p>
<p>
"I know," said Thorndyke; "we meet him occasionally,
and very pale and peaky he has been looking
of late. Is he taking a holiday?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. He has gone for a trip to the Isles of Greece
in a currant ship."
</p>
<p>
"Then," said Jervis, "you are actually a local G.P.
I thought you were looking beastly respectable."
</p>
<p>
"And, judging from your leisured manner when we
encountered you," added Thorndyke, "the practice is
not a strenuous one. I suppose it is entirely local?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I replied. "The patients mostly live in the
small streets and courts within a half-mile radius of
the surgery, and the abodes of some of them are pretty
squalid. Oh! and that reminds me of a very strange
coincidence. It will interest you, I think."
</p>
<p>
"Life is made up of strange coincidences," said
Thorndyke. "Nobody but a reviewer of novels is ever
really surprised at a coincidence. But what is yours?"
</p>
<p>
"It is connected with a case that you mentioned to
us at the hospital about two years ago, the case of a
man who disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances.
Do you remember it? The man's name was
Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
"The Egyptologist? Yes, I remember the case quite
well. What about it?"
</p>
<p>
"The brother is a patient of mine. He is living in
Nevill's Court with his daughter, and they seem to be
as poor as church mice."
</p>
<p>
"Really," said Thorndyke, "this is quite interesting.
They must have come down in the world rather suddenly.
If I remember rightly, the brother was living
in a house of some pretensions standing in its own
grounds."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, that is so. I see you recollect all about the
case."
</p>
<p>
"My dear fellow," said Jervis, "Thorndyke never
forgets a likely case. He is a sort of medico-legal
camel. He gulps down the raw facts from the newspapers
or elsewhere, and then, in his leisure moments,
he calmly regurgitates them and has a quiet chew at
them. It is a quaint habit. A case crops up in the
papers or in one of the courts, and Thorndyke swallows
it whole. Then it lapses and everyone forgets it. A
year or two later it crops up in a new form, and, to
your astonishment, you find that Thorndyke has got it
all cut and dried. He has been ruminating on it
periodically in the interval."
</p>
<p>
"You notice," said Thorndyke, "that my learned
friend is pleased to indulge in mixed metaphors. But
his statement is substantially true, though obscurely
worded. You must tell us more about the Bellinghams
when we have fortified you with a cup of tea."
</p>
<p>
Our talk had brought us to Thorndyke's chambers,
which were on the first floor of No. 5A King's Bench
Walk, and as we entered the fine, spacious, panelled
room we found a small, elderly man, neatly dressed in
black, setting out the tea-service on the table. I
glanced at him with some curiosity. He hardly looked
like a servant, in spite of his neat, black clothes; in
fact, his appearance was rather puzzling, for while his
quiet dignity and his serious, intelligent face suggested
some kind of professional man, his neat, capable hands
were those of a skilled mechanic.
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke surveyed the tea-tray thoughtfully and
then looked at his retainer. "I see you have put three
tea-cups, Polton," he said. "Now, how did you know
I was bringing someone in to tea?"
</p>
<p>
The little man smiled a quaint, crinkly smile of
gratification as he explained:
</p>
<p>
"I happened to look out of the laboratory window
as you turned the corner, sir."
</p>
<p>
"How disappointingly simple," said Jervis. "We
were hoping for something abstruse and telepathic."
</p>
<p>
"Simplicity is the soul of efficiency, sir," replied
Polton as he checked the tea-service to make sure
that nothing was forgotten, and with this remarkable
aphorism he silently evaporated.
</p>
<p>
"To return to the Bellingham case," said Thorndyke,
when he had poured out the tea. "Have you
picked up any facts relating to the parties&mdash;any facts,
I mean, of course, that it would be proper for you to
mention?"
</p>
<p>
"I have learned one or two things that there is no
harm in repeating. For instance, I gather that Godfrey
Bellingham&mdash;my patient&mdash;lost all his property quite
suddenly about the time of the disappearance."
</p>
<p>
"That is really odd," said Thorndyke. "The opposite
condition would be quite understandable, but one
doesn't see exactly how this can have happened, unless
there was an allowance of some sort."
</p>
<p>
"No, that was what struck me. But there seem to
be some queer features in the case, and the legal position
is evidently getting complicated. There is a will,
for example, which is giving trouble."
</p>
<p>
"They will hardly be able to administer the will
without either proof or presumption of death," Thorndyke
remarked.
</p>
<p>
"Exactly. That's one of the difficulties. Another
is that there seems to be some fatal defect in the drafting
of the will itself. I don't know what it is, but I
expect I shall hear sooner or later. By the way, I
mentioned the interest that you had taken in the case,
and I think Bellingham would have liked to consult
you, but, of course, the poor devil has no money."
</p>
<p>
"That is awkward for him if the other interested
parties have. There will probably be legal proceedings
of some kind, and as the law takes no account of
poverty, he is likely to go to the wall. He ought to
have advice of some sort."
</p>
<p>
"I don't see how he is to get it," said I.
</p>
<p>
"Neither do I," Thorndyke admitted. "There are
no hospitals for impecunious litigants; it is assumed
that only persons of means have a right to go to law.
Of course, if we knew the man and the circumstances
we might be able to help him; but, for all we know to
the contrary, he may be an arrant scoundrel."
</p>
<p>
I recalled the strange conversation that I had overheard,
and wondered what Thorndyke would have
thought of it if it had been allowable for me to repeat
it. Obviously it was not, however, and I could only
give my own impressions.
</p>
<p>
"He doesn't strike me as that," I said; "but, of
course, one never knows. Personally, he impressed me
rather favourably, which is more than the other man
did."
</p>
<p>
"What other man?" asked Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"There was another man in the case, wasn't there?
I forget his name. I saw him at the house and didn't
much like the look of him. I suspect he's putting some
sort of pressure on Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
"Berkeley knows more about this than he is telling
us," said Jervis. "Let us look up the report and see
who this stranger is." He took down from a shelf a
large volume of newspaper-cuttings and laid it on the
table.
</p>
<p>
"You see," said he, as he ran his finger down the
index, "Thorndyke files all the cases that are likely to
come to something, and I know he had expectations
respecting this one. I fancy he had some ghoulish
hope that the missing gentleman's head might turn up
in somebody's dust-bin. Here we are; the other man's
name is Hurst. He is apparently a cousin, and it
was at his house that the missing man was last seen
alive."
</p>
<p>
"So you think Mr. Hurst is moving in the matter?"
said Thorndyke, when he had glanced over the report.
</p>
<p>
"That is my impression," I replied, "though I really
know nothing about it."
</p>
<p>
"Well," said Thorndyke, "if you should learn what
is being done and should have permission to speak of
it, I shall be very interested to hear how the case progresses;
and if an unofficial opinion on any point would
be of service, I think there would be no harm in my
giving it."
</p>
<p>
"It would certainly be of great value if the other
parties are taking professional advice," I said; and
then, after a pause, I asked: "Have you given this
case much consideration?"
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke reflected. "No," he said, "I can't say
that I have. I turned it over rather carefully when the
report first appeared, and I have speculated on it occasionally
since. It is my habit, as Jervis was telling
you, to utilise odd moments of leisure (such as a railway journey,
for instance) by constructing theories to
account for the facts of such obscure cases as have
come to my notice. It is a useful habit, I think, for,
apart from the mental exercise and experience that one
gains from it, an appreciable proportion of these cases
ultimately come into my hands, and then the previous
consideration of them is so much time gained."
</p>
<p>
"Have you formed any theory to account for the
facts in this case?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Yes; I have several theories, one of which I especially
favour, and I am waiting with great interest
such new facts as may indicate to me which of these
theories is probably the correct one."
</p>
<p>
"It's no use your trying to pump him, Berkeley,"
said Jervis. "He is fitted with an information-valve
that opens inwards. You can pour in as much as you
like, but you can't get any out."
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke chuckled. "My learned friend is, in the
main, correct," he said. "You see, I may be called
upon any day to advise on this case, in which event I
should feel remarkably foolish if I had already expounded
my views in detail. But I should like to hear
what you and Jervis make of the case as reported in the
newspapers."
</p>
<p>
"There now," exclaimed Jervis, "what did I tell
you? He wants to suck our brains."
</p>
<p>
"As far as my brain is concerned," I said, "the
process of suction isn't likely to yield much except a
vacuum, so I will resign in favour of you. You are a
full-blown lawyer, whereas I am only a simple G.P."
</p>
<p>
Jervis filled his pipe with deliberate care and lighted
it. Then, blowing a slender stream of smoke into the
air, he said:
</p>
<p>
"If you want to know what I make of the case from
that report, I can tell you in one word&mdash;nothing.
Every road seems to end in a cul-de-sac."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, come!" said Thorndyke, "this is mere laziness.
Berkeley wants to witness a display of your
forensic wisdom. A learned counsel may be in a fog&mdash;he
very often is&mdash;but he doesn't state the fact baldly;
he wraps it up in a decent verbal disguise. Tell us how
you arrive at your conclusion. Show us that you have
really weighed the facts."
</p>
<p>
"Very well," said Jervis, "I will give you a masterly
analysis of the case&mdash;leading to nothing." He continued
to puff at his pipe for a time with slight embarrassment,
as I thought&mdash;and I fully sympathised with
him. Finally he blew a little cloud and commenced:
</p>
<p>
"The position appears to be this: Here is a man
who is seen to enter a certain house, who is shown into
a certain room and shut in. He is not seen to come
out, and yet, when the room is next entered, it is found
to be empty; and that man is never seen again, alive or
dead. That is a pretty tough beginning.
</p>
<p>
"Now, it is evident that one of three things must
have happened. Either he must have remained in that
room, or at least in that house, alive; or he must have
died, naturally or otherwise, and his body have been
concealed; or he must have left the house unobserved.
Let us take the first case. This affair happened nearly
two years ago. Now, he couldn't have remained alive
in the house for two years. He would have been noticed.
The servants, for instance, when cleaning out the rooms,
would have observed him."
</p>
<p>
Here Thorndyke interposed with an indulgent smile
at his junior: "My learned friend is treating the inquiry
with unbecoming levity. We accept the conclusion
that the man did not remain in the house
alive."
</p>
<p>
"Very well. Then did he remain in it dead? Apparently
not. The report says that as soon as the man
was missed, Hurst and the servants together searched
the house thoroughly. But there had been no time or
opportunity to dispose of the body, whence the only
possible conclusion is that the body was not there.
Moreover, if we admit the possibility of his having
been murdered&mdash;for that is what concealment of the
body would imply&mdash;there is the question: Who could
have murdered him? Not the servants, obviously, and
as to Hurst&mdash;well, of course, we don't know what his
relations with the missing man have been&mdash;at least, I
don't."
</p>
<p>
"Neither do I," said Thorndyke. "I know nothing
beyond what is in the newspaper report and what
Berkeley has told us."
</p>
<p>
"Then we know nothing. He may have had a motive
for murdering the man or he may not. The point is
that he doesn't seem to have had the opportunity.
Even if we suppose that he managed to conceal the
body temporarily, still there was the final disposal of
it. He couldn't have buried it in the garden with the
servants about; neither could he have burned it. The
only conceivable method by which he could have got
rid of it would have been that of cutting it up into
fragments and burying the dismembered parts in some
secluded spots or dropping them into ponds or rivers.
But no remains of the kind have been found, as some
of them probably would have been by now, so that
there is nothing to support this suggestion; indeed, the
idea of murder, in this house at least, seems to be excluded
by the search that was made the instant the
man was missed.
</p>
<p>
"Then to take the third alternative: Did he leave
the house unobserved? Well, it is not impossible, but
it would be a queer thing to do. He may have been
an impulsive or eccentric man. We can't say. We
know nothing about him. But two years have elapsed
and he has never turned up, so that if he left the house
secretly he must have gone into hiding and be hiding
still. Of course, he may have been the sort of lunatic
who would behave in that manner or he may not.
We have no information as to his personal character.
</p>
<p>
"Then there is the complication of the scarab that
was picked up in the grounds of his brother's house at
Woodford. That seems to show that he visited that
house at some time. But no one admits having seen
him there; and it is uncertain, therefore, whether he
went first to his brother's house or to Hurst's. If he
was wearing the scarab when he arrived at the Eltham
house, he must have left that house unobserved and
gone to Woodford; but if he was not wearing it he
probably went from Woodford to Eltham and there
finally disappeared. As to whether he was or was not
wearing the scarab when he was last seen alive by
Hurst's housemaid, there is at present no evidence.
</p>
<p>
"If he went to his brother's house after his visit to
Hurst, the disappearance is more understandable if we
don't mind flinging accusations of murder about rather
casually; for the disposal of the body would be much
less difficult in that case. Apparently no one saw him
enter the house, and, if he did enter, it was by a back
gate which communicated with the library&mdash;a separate
building some distance from the house. In that case
it would have been physically possible for the Bellinghams
to have made away with him. There was plenty
of time to dispose of the body unobserved&mdash;temporarily,
at any rate. Nobody had seen him come to the house,
and nobody knew that he was there&mdash;if he <i>was</i> there;
and apparently no search was made either at the time
or afterwards. In fact, if it could be shown that the
missing man ever left Hurst's house alive, or that he
was wearing the scarab when he arrived there, things
would look rather fishy for the Bellinghams&mdash;for, of
course, the girl must have been in it if the father was.
But there's the crux: there is no proof that the man
ever did leave Hurst's house alive. And if he didn't&mdash;but
there! as I said at first, whichever turning you
take, you find that it ends in a blind alley."
</p>
<p>
"A lame ending to a masterly exposition," was
Thorndyke's comment.
</p>
<p>
"I know," said Jervis. "But what would you have?
There are quite a number of possible solutions, and
one of them must be the true one. But how are we
to judge which it is? I maintain that until we know
something of the parties and the financial and other
interests involved we have no data."
</p>
<p>
"There," said Thorndyke, "I disagree with you entirely.
I maintain that we have ample data. You
say that we have no means of judging which of the
various possible solutions is the true one; but I think
that if you will read the report carefully and thoughtfully
you will find that the facts now known to us
point clearly to one explanation, and one only. It
may not be the true explanation, and I don't suppose
it is. But we are now dealing with the matter speculatively,
academically, and I contend that our data
yield a definite conclusion. What do you say, Berkeley?"
</p>
<p>
"I say that it is time for me to be off; the evening
consultations begin at half-past six."
</p>
<p>
"Well," said Thorndyke, "don't let us keep you
from your duties, with poor Barnard currant-picking
in the Grecian Isles. But come in and see us again.
Drop in when you like, after your work is done. You
won't be in our way even if we are busy, which we
very seldom are after eight o'clock."
</p>
<p>
I thanked Dr. Thorndyke most heartily for making
me free of his chambers in this hospitable fashion and
took my leave, setting forth homewards by way of
Middle Temple Lane and the Embankment; not a very
direct route for Fetter Lane, it must be confessed; but
our talk had revived my interest in the Bellingham
household and put me in a reflective vein.
</p>
<p>
From the remarkable conversation that I had overheard
it was evident that the plot was thickening.
Not that I supposed that these two respectable gentlemen
really suspected one another of having made away
with the missing man; but still, their unguarded words,
spoken in anger, made it clear that each had allowed
the thought of sinister possibilities to enter his mind&mdash;a
dangerous condition that might easily grow into
actual suspicion. And then the circumstances really
were highly mysterious, as I realised with especial vividness
now after listening to my friend's analysis of the
evidence.
</p>
<p>
From the problem itself my mind travelled, not for
the first time during the last few days, to the handsome
girl who had seemed in my eyes the high-priestess
of this temple of mystery in the quaint little court.
What a strange figure she made against this strange
background, with her quiet, chilly, self-contained manner,
her pale face, so sad and worn, her black, straight
brows and solemn grey eyes, so inscrutable, mysterious,
Sibylline. A striking, even impressive, personality
this, I reflected, with something in it sombre and
enigmatic that attracted and yet repelled.
</p>
<p>
And here I recalled Jervis's words: "The girl must
have been in it if the father was." It was a dreadful
thought, even though only speculatively uttered, and
my heart rejected it; rejected it with an indignation
that rather surprised me. And this notwithstanding
that the sombre black-robed figure that my memory
conjured up was one that associated itself appropriately
enough with the idea of mystery and tragedy.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH4"><!-- CH4 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER IV
</h2>

<h3>
LEGAL COMPLICATIONS AND A JACKAL
</h3>
<p>
My meditations brought me by a circuitous route, and
ten minutes late, to the end of Fetter Lane, where,
exchanging my rather abstracted air for the alert
manner of a busy practitioner, I strode forward briskly
and darted into the surgery with knitted brows, as
though just released from an anxious case. But there
was only one patient waiting, and she saluted me as I
entered with a snort of defiance.
</p>
<p>
"Here you are, then?" said she.
</p>
<p>
"You are perfectly correct, Miss Oman," I replied;
"in fact, you have put the case in a nutshell. What
can I have the pleasure of doing for you?"
</p>
<p>
"Nothing," was the answer. "My medical adviser is
a lady; but I've brought a note from Mr. Bellingham.
Here it is," and she thrust the envelope into my hand.
</p>
<p>
I glanced through the note and learned that my
patient had had a couple of bad nights and a very
harassing day. "Could I have something to give me
a night's rest?" it concluded.
</p>
<p>
I reflected a few moments. One is not very ready
to prescribe sleeping draughts for unknown patients,
but still, insomnia is a very distressing condition. In
the end, I temporised with a moderate dose of bromide,
deciding to call and see if more energetic measures were
necessary.
</p>
<p>
"He had better take a dose of this at once, Miss
Oman," said I, as I handed her the bottle, "and I will
look in later and see how he is."
</p>
<p>
"I expect he will be glad to see you," she answered,
"for he is all alone to-night and very dumpy. Miss
Bellingham is out. But I must remind you that he's a
poor man and pays his way. You must excuse my mentioning
it."
</p>
<p>
"I am much obliged to you for the hint, Miss Oman,"
I rejoined. "It isn't necessary for me to see him, but
I should like just to look in and have a chat."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, it will do him good. You have your points,
though punctuality doesn't seem to be one of them,"
and with this parting shot Miss Oman bustled away.
</p>
<p>
Half-past eight found me ascending the great, dim
staircase of the house in Nevill's Court preceded by
Miss Oman, by whom I was ushered into the room.
Mr. Bellingham, who had just finished some sort of
meal, was sitting hunched up in his chair gazing
gloomily into the empty grate. He brightened up as I
entered, but was evidently in very low spirits.
</p>
<p>
"I didn't mean to drag you out after your day's
work was finished," he said, "though I am very glad
to see you."
</p>
<p>
"You haven't dragged me out. I heard you were
alone, so I just dropped in for a few minutes'
gossip."
</p>
<p>
"That is really kind of you," he said heartily.
"But I'm afraid you'll find me rather poor company.
A man who is full of his own highly disagreeable affairs
is not a desirable companion."
</p>
<p>
"You mustn't let me disturb you if you'd rather be
alone," said I, with a sudden fear that I was intruding.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, you won't disturb me," he replied; adding,
with a laugh: "It's more likely to be the other way
about. In fact, if I were not afraid of boring you to
death I would ask you to let me talk my difficulties
over with you."
</p>
<p>
"You won't bore me," I said. "It is generally interesting
to share another man's experiences without
their inconveniences. 'The proper study of mankind
is&mdash;man,' you know, especially to a doctor."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham chuckled grimly. "You make me
feel like a microbe," he said. "However, if you would
care to take a peep at me through your microscope, I
will crawl on to the stage for your inspection, though
it is not <i>my</i> actions that furnish the materials for your
psychological studies. I am only a passive agent. It
is my poor brother who is the <i>Deus ex machina</i>, who,
from his unknown grave, as I fear, pulls the strings of
this infernal puppet-show."
</p>
<p>
He paused, and for a space gazed thoughtfully into
the grate as if he had forgotten my presence. At
length he looked up, and resumed:
</p>
<p>
"It is a curious story, Doctor&mdash;a very curious story.
Part of it you know&mdash;the middle part. I will tell it
you from the beginning, and then you will know as
much as I do; for, as to the end, that is known to no
one. It is written, no doubt, in the book of destiny,
but the page has yet to be turned.
</p>
<p>
"The mischief began with my father's death. He
was a country clergyman of very moderate means, a
widower with two children, my brother John and me.
He managed to send us both to Oxford, after which
John went into the Foreign Office and I was to have
gone into the Church. But I suddenly discovered that
my views on religion had undergone a change that made
this impossible, and just about this time my father
came into a quite considerable property. Now, as it
was his expressed intention to leave the estate equally
divided between my brother and me, there was no need
for me to take up any profession for a livelihood.
Archaeology was already the passion of my life, and I
determined to devote myself henceforth to my favourite
study, in which, by the way, I was following a family
tendency; for my father was an enthusiastic student
of ancient Oriental history, and John was, as you know,
an ardent Egyptologist.
</p>
<p>
"Then my father died quite suddenly, and left no
will. He had intended to have one drawn up, but had
put it off until it was too late. And since nearly all
the property was in the form of real estate, my brother
inherited practically the whole of it. However, in
deference to the known wishes of my father, he made
me an allowance of five hundred a year, which was
about a quarter of the annual income, I urged him to
assign me a lump sum, but he refused to do this. Instead,
he instructed his solicitor to pay me the allowance
in quarterly instalments during the rest of his
life; and it was understood that, on his death, the
entire estate should devolve on me, or if I died first,
on my daughter Ruth. Then, as you know, he disappeared
suddenly, and as the circumstances suggested
that he was dead, and there was no evidence that he
was alive, his solicitor&mdash;a Mr. Jellicoe&mdash;found himself
unable to continue the payment of the allowance. On
the other hand, as there was no positive evidence that
my brother was dead, it was impossible to administer
the will."
</p>
<p>
"You say that the circumstances suggested that
your brother was dead. What circumstances were
they?"
</p>
<p>
"Principally the suddenness and completeness of the
disappearance. His luggage, as you may remember,
was found lying unclaimed at the railway station; and
there was another circumstance even more suggestive.
My brother drew a pension from the Foreign Office, for
which he had to apply in person, or, if abroad, produce
proof that he was alive on the date when the payment
became due. Now, he was exceedingly regular in this
respect; in fact, he had never been known to fail,
either to appear in person or to transmit the necessary
documents to his agent, Mr. Jellicoe. But from the
moment when he vanished so mysteriously to the present
day, nothing whatever has been heard of him."
</p>
<p>
"It's a very awkward position for you," I said,
"but I should think there will not be much difficulty
in obtaining the permission of the Court to presume
death and to proceed to prove the will."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham made a wry face. "I expect you
are right," he said, "but, unfortunately, that doesn't
help me much. You see, Mr. Jellicoe, having waited
a reasonable time for my brother to reappear, took a
very unusual but, I think, in the special circumstances,
a very proper step: he summoned me and the other
interested party to his office and communicated to us
the provisions of the will. And very extraordinary
provisions they turned out to be. I was thunderstruck
when I heard them. And the exasperating thing is
that I feel sure my poor brother imagined that he had
made everything perfectly safe and simple."
</p>
<p>
"They generally do," I said, rather vaguely.
</p>
<p>
"I suppose they do," said Mr. Bellingham; "but
poor John has made the most infernal hash of his will,
and I am certain that he has utterly defeated his own
intentions. You see, we are an old London family.
The house in Queen Square where my brother nominally
lived, but actually kept his collection, has been
occupied by us for generations, and most of the Bellinghams
are buried in St. George's burial-ground close
by, though some members of the family are buried in
other churchyards in the neighbourhood. Now, my
brother&mdash;who, by the way, was a bachelor&mdash;had a
strong feeling for the family traditions, and he stipulated,
not unnaturally, in his will that he should be
buried in St. George's burial-ground among his ancestors,
or, at least, in one of the places of burial
appertaining to his native parish. But instead of
simply expressing the wish and directing his executors
to carry it out, he made it a condition affecting the
operation of the will."
</p>
<p>
"Affecting it in what respect?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"In a very vital respect," answered Mr. Bellingham.
"The bulk of the property he bequeathed to me, or if
I predeceased him, to my daughter Ruth. But the
bequest was subject to the condition that I have mentioned&mdash;that
he should be buried in a certain place&mdash;and
if that condition was not fulfilled, the bulk of the
property was to go to my cousin, George Hurst."
</p>
<p>
"But in that case," said I, "as you can't produce
the body, neither of you can get the property."
</p>
<p>
"I am not so sure of that," he replied. "If my
brother is dead, it is pretty certain that he is not buried
in St. George's or any of the other places mentioned,
and the fact can easily be proved by production of the
registers. So that a permission to presume death
would result in the handing over to Hurst of almost
the entire estate."
</p>
<p>
"Who is the executor?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "there is another muddle.
There are two executors; Jellicoe is one, and the other
is the principal beneficiary&mdash;Hurst or myself, as the
case may be. But, you see, neither of us can become
an executor until the Court has decided which of us is
the principal beneficiary."
</p>
<p>
"But who is to apply to the Court? I thought that
was the business of the executors."
</p>
<p>
"Exactly. That is Hurst's difficulty. We were discussing
it when you called the other day, and a very
animated discussion it was," he added, with a grim
smile. "You see, Jellicoe naturally refuses to move
in the matter alone. He says he must have the support
of the other executor. But Hurst is not at present the
other executor; neither am I. But the two of us together
are the co-executor, since the duty devolves
upon one or other of us, in any case."
</p>
<p>
"It's a complicated position," I said.
</p>
<p>
"It is; and the complication has elicited a very curious
proposal from Hurst. He points out&mdash;quite correctly,
I am afraid&mdash;that as the conditions as to burial
have not been complied with, the property must come
to him, and he proposes a very neat little arrangement,
which is this: That I shall support him and
Jellicoe in their application for permission to presume
death and administer the will, and that he shall pay
me four hundred a year for life; the arrangement to
hold good <i>in all eventualities</i>."
</p>
<p>
"What does he mean by that?"
</p>
<p>
"He means," said Bellingham, fixing me with a
ferocious scowl, "that if the body should turn up at
any future time, so that the conditions as to burial
should be able to be carried out, he should still retain
the property and pay me the four hundred a year."
</p>
<p>
"The deuce!" said I. "He seems to know how to
drive a bargain."
</p>
<p>
"His position is that he stands to lose four hundred
a year for the term of my life if the body is never
found, and he ought to stand to win if it is."
</p>
<p>
"And I gather that you have refused his offer?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes; very emphatically, and my daughter agrees
with me; but I am not sure that I have done the right
thing. A man should think twice, I suppose, before
he burns his boats."
</p>
<p>
"Have you spoken to Mr. Jellicoe about the
matter?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I have been to see him to-day. He is a cautious
man, and he doesn't advise me one way or the
other. But I think he disapproves of my refusal; in
fact, he remarked that a bird in the hand is worth two
in the bush, especially when the whereabouts of the
bush is unknown."
</p>
<p>
"Do you think he will apply to the Court without
your sanction?"
</p>
<p>
"He doesn't want to; but I suppose, if Hurst puts
pressure on him, he will have to. Besides, Hurst, as an
interested party, could apply on his own account, and
after my refusal he probably will; at least, that is
Jellicoe's opinion."
</p>
<p>
"The whole thing is a most astonishing muddle,"
I said, "especially when one remembers that your
brother had a lawyer to advise him. Didn't Mr. Jellicoe
point out to him how absurd the provisions were?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, he did. He tells me that he implored my
brother to let him draw up a will embodying the matter
in a reasonable form. But John wouldn't listen to
him. Poor old fellow! he could be very pig-headed when
he chose."
</p>
<p>
"And is Hurst's proposal still open?"
</p>
<p>
"No, thanks to my peppery temper. I refused it
very definitely, and sent him off with a flea in his ear.
I hope I have not made a false step; I was quite taken
by surprise when Hurst made the proposal and got
rather angry. You remember, my brother was last
seen alive at Hurst's house&mdash;but there, I oughtn't to
talk like that, and I oughtn't to pester you with my
confounded affairs when you have come in for a
friendly chat, though I gave you fair warning, you
remember."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, but you have been highly entertaining. You
don't realise what an interest I take in your case."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham laughed somewhat grimly. "My
case!" he repeated. "You speak as if I were some
rare and curious sort of criminal lunatic. However,
I'm glad you find me amusing. It's more than I find
myself."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't say amusing; I said interesting. I view
you with deep respect as the central figure of a stirring
drama. And I am not the only person who regards
you in that light. Do you remember my speaking to
you of Doctor Thorndyke?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, of course I do."
</p>
<p>
"Well, oddly enough, I met him this afternoon and
we had a long talk at his chambers. I took the liberty
of mentioning that I had made your acquaintance.
Did I do wrong?"
</p>
<p>
"No. Certainly not. Why shouldn't you tell him?
Did he remember my infernal case, as you call it?"
</p>
<p>
"Perfectly, in all its details. He is quite an enthusiast,
you know, and uncommonly keen to hear how
the case develops."
</p>
<p>
"So am I, for that matter," said Mr. Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
"I wonder," said I, "if you would mind my telling
him what you have told me to-night. It would interest
him enormously."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham reflected awhile with his eyes fixed
on the empty grate. Presently he looked up, and said
slowly:
</p>
<p>
"I don't know why I should. It's no secret; and
if it were, I hold no monopoly in it. No; tell him, if
you think he'd care to hear about it."
</p>
<p>
"You needn't be afraid of his talking," I said. "He
is as close as an oyster; and the facts may mean more
to him than to us. He may be able to give a useful
hint or two."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I'm not going to pick his brains," Mr. Bellingham
said quickly and with some wrath. "I'm not the
sort of man who goes round cadging for free professional
advice. Understand that clearly, Doctor."
</p>
<p>
"I do," I answered hastily. "That wasn't what I
meant at all. Is that Miss Bellingham coming in?
I heard the front door shut."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, that will be my girl, I expect; but don't run
away. You're not afraid of her, are you?" he added
as I hurriedly picked up my hat.
</p>
<p>
"I'm not sure that I'm not," I answered. "She is
a rather majestic young lady."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham chuckled and smothered a yawn,
and at that moment his daughter entered the room;
and, in spite of her shabby black dress and a shabbier
handbag that she carried, I thought her appearance
and manner fully justified my description.
</p>
<p>
"You come in, Miss Bellingham," I said as she
shook my hand with cool civility, "to find your father
yawning and me taking my departure. So I have my
uses, you see. My conversation is the infallible cure
for insomnia."
</p>
<p>
Miss Bellingham smiled. "I believe I am driving you
away," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Not at all," I replied hastily. "My mission was
accomplished, that was all."
</p>
<p>
"Sit down for a few minutes, Doctor," urged Mr.
Bellingham, "and let Ruth sample the remedy. She
will be affronted if you run away as soon as she comes
in."
</p>
<p>
"Well, you mustn't let me keep you up," I said.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I'll let you know when I fall asleep," he replied,
with a chuckle; and with this understanding I
sat down again&mdash;not at all unwillingly.
</p>
<p>
At this moment Miss Oman entered with a small
tray and a smile of which I should not have supposed
her to be capable.
</p>
<p>
"You'll take your toast and cocoa while they're hot,
dear, won't you?" she said coaxingly.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I will, Phyllis, thank you," Miss Bellingham
answered. "I am only just going to take off my hat,"
and she left the room, followed by the astonishingly
transfigured spinster.
</p>
<p>
She returned almost immediately as Mr. Bellingham
was in the midst of a profound yawn, and sat down to
her frugal meal, when her father mystified me considerably
by remarking:
</p>
<p>
"You're late to-night, chick. Have the Shepherd
Kings been giving trouble?"
</p>
<p>
"No," she replied; "but I thought I might as well
get them done. So I dropped in at the Ormond Street
library on my way home and finished them."
</p>
<p>
"Then they are ready for stuffing now?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes." As she answered she caught my astonished
eye (for a stuffed Shepherd King is undoubtedly a
somewhat surprising phenomenon) and laughed softly.
</p>
<p>
"We mustn't talk in riddles like this," she said,
"before Doctor Berkeley, or he will turn us both into
pillars of salt. My father is referring to my work," she
explained to me.
</p>
<p>
"Are you a taxidermist, then?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
She hastily set down the cup that she was raising to
her lips and broke into a ripple of quiet laughter.
</p>
<p>
"I am afraid my father has misled you with his
irreverent expressions. He will have to atone by explaining."
</p>
<p>
"You see, Doctor," said Mr. Bellingham, "Ruth is
a literary searcher&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, don't call me a 'searcher'!" Miss Bellingham
protested. "It suggests the female searcher at a
police-station. Say investigator."
</p>
<p>
"Very well, investigator or investigatrix, if you like.
She hunts up references and bibliographies at the
Museum for people who are writing books. She looks
up everything that has been written on a given subject,
and then, when she has crammed herself to bursting-point
with facts, she goes to her client and disgorges
and crams him or her, and he or she finally disgorges
into the Press."
</p>
<p>
"What a disgusting way to put it!" said his daughter.
"However, that is what it amounts to. I am a
literary jackal, a collector of provender for the literary
lions. Is that quite clear?"
</p>
<p>
"Perfectly. But I don't think that, even now, I
quite understand about the stuffed Shepherd Kings."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, it was not the Shepherd Kings who were to be
stuffed. It was the author! That was mere obscurity
of speech on the part of my father. The position is
this: A venerable archdeacon wrote an article on the
patriarch Joseph&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"And didn't know anything about him," interrupted
Mr. Bellingham, "and got tripped up by a specialist
who did, and then got shirty&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Nothing of the kind," said Miss Bellingham. "He
knew as much as venerable archdeacons ought to know;
but the expert knew more. So the archdeacon commissioned
me to collect the literature on the state of
Egypt at the end of the seventeenth dynasty, which I
have done; and to-morrow I shall go and stuff him,
as my father expresses it, and then&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"And then," Mr. Bellingham interrupted, "the archdeacon
will rush forth and pelt that expert with Shepherd
Kings and Seqenen-Ra and the whole tag-rag and
bobtail of the seventeenth dynasty. Oh, there'll be
wigs on the green, I can tell you."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I expect there will be quite a lively little
skirmish," said Miss Bellingham. And thus dismissing
the subject, she made an energetic attack on the toast
while her father refreshed himself with a colossal
yawn.
</p>
<p>
I watched her with furtive admiration and deep and
growing interest. In spite of her pallor, her weary
eyes, and her drawn and almost haggard face, she was
an exceedingly handsome girl; and there was in her
aspect a suggestion of purpose, of strength and character
that marked her off from the rank and file of
womanhood. I noted this as I stole an occasional
glance at her or turned to answer some remark addressed
to me; and I noted, too, that her speech, despite
a general undertone of depression, was yet not without
a certain caustic, ironical humour. She was certainly
a rather enigmatical young person, but very decidedly
interesting.
</p>
<p>
When she had finished her repast she put aside the
tray and, opening the shabby handbag, asked:
</p>
<p>
"Do you take any interest in Egyptian history?
We are as mad as hatters on the subject. It seems to
be a family complaint."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know much about it," I answered. "Medical
studies are rather engrossing and don't leave much
time for general reading."
</p>
<p>
"Naturally," she said. "You can't specialise in
everything. But if you would care to see how the
business of a literary jackal is conducted, I will show
you my notes."
</p>
<p>
I accepted the offer eagerly (not, I fear, from pure
enthusiasm for the subject), and she brought forth
from the bag four blue-covered, quarto note-books, each
dealing with one of the four dynasties from the fourteenth
to the seventeenth. As I glanced through the
neat and orderly extracts with which they were filled
we discussed the intricacies of the peculiarly difficult
and confused period that they covered, gradually lowering
our voices as Mr. Bellingham's eyes closed and his
head fell against the back of his chair. We had just
reached the critical reign of Apepa II when a resounding
snore broke in upon the studious quiet of the room
and sent us both into a fit of silent laughter.
</p>
<p>
"Your conversation has done its work," she whispered
as I stealthily picked up my hat, and together
we stole on tiptoe to the door, which she opened without
a sound. Once outside, she suddenly dropped her
bantering manner and said quite earnestly:
</p>
<p>
"How kind it was of you to come and see him to-night!
You have done him a world of good, and I am
most grateful. Good night!"
</p>
<p>
She shook hands with me really cordially, and I took
my way down the creaking stairs in a whirl of happiness
that I was quite at a loss to account for.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH5"><!-- CH5 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER V
</h2>

<h3>
THE WATERCRESS-BED
</h3>
<p>
Barnard's practice, like most others, was subject to
those fluctuations that fill the struggling practitioner
alternately with hope and despair. The work came in
paroxysms with intervals of almost complete stagnation.
One of these intermissions occurred on the day
after my visit to Nevill's Court, with the result that by
half-past eleven I found myself wondering what I
should do with the remainder of the day. The better
to consider this weighty problem, I strolled down to the
Embankment, and, leaning on the parapet, contemplated
the view across the river; the grey stone bridge
with its perspective of arches, the picturesque pile of
the shot-towers, and beyond, the shadowy shapes of
the Abbey and St. Stephen's.
</p>
<p>
It was a pleasant scene, restful and quiet, with a
touch of life and a hint of sober romance, when a barge
swept down through the middle arch of the bridge with
a lugsail hoisted to a jury mast and a white-aproned
woman at the tiller. Dreamily I watched the craft
creep by upon the moving tide, noted the low freeboard,
almost awash, the careful helmswoman, and the
dog on the forecastle yapping at the distant shore&mdash;and
thought of Ruth Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
What was there about this strange girl that had made
so deep an impression on me? That was the question
that I propounded to myself, and not for the first time.
Of the fact itself there was no doubt. But what was
the explanation? Was it her unusual surroundings?
Her occupation and rather recondite learning? Her
striking personality and exceptional good looks? Or
her connection with the dramatic mystery of her lost
uncle?
</p>
<p>
I concluded that it was all of these. Everything
connected with her was unusual and arresting; but
over and above these circumstances there was a certain
sympathy and personal affinity of which I was
strongly conscious and of which I dimly hoped that she,
perhaps, was a little conscious, too. At any rate, I was
deeply interested in her; of that there was no doubt
whatever. Short as our acquaintance had been, she
held a place in my thoughts that had never been held
by any other woman.
</p>
<p>
From Ruth Bellingham my reflections passed by a
natural transition to the curious story that her father
had told me. It was a queer affair, that ill-drawn will,
with the baffled lawyer protesting in the background.
It almost seemed as if there must be something behind
it all, especially when I remembered Mr. Hurst's very
singular proposal. But it was out of <i>my</i> depth; it was
a case for a lawyer, and to a lawyer it should go. This
very night, I resolved, I would go to Thorndyke and
give him the whole story as it had been told to me.
</p>
<p>
And then there happened one of those coincidences
at which we all wonder when they occur, but which are
so frequent as to have become enshrined in a proverb.
For, even as I formed the resolution, I observed two
men approaching from the direction of Blackfriars,
and recognised in them my quondam teacher and his
junior.
</p>
<p>
"I was just thinking about you," I said as they
came up.
</p>
<p>
"Very flattering," replied Jervis; "but I thought
you had to talk of the devil."
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps," suggested Thorndyke, "he was talking
to himself. But why were you thinking of us, and what
was the nature of your thoughts?"
</p>
<p>
"My thoughts had reference to the Bellingham case.
I spent the whole of last evening at Nevill's Court."
</p>
<p>
"Ha! And are there any fresh developments?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, by Jove! there are. Bellingham gave me a
full and detailed description of the will; and a pretty
document it seems to be."
</p>
<p>
"Did he give you permission to repeat the details
to me?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. I asked specifically if I might and he had no
objection whatever."
</p>
<p>
"Good. We are lunching at Soho to-day as Polton
has his hands full. Come with us and share our table
and tell us your story as we go. Will that suit
you?"
</p>
<p>
It suited me admirably in the present state of the
practice, and I accepted the invitation with undissembled
glee.
</p>
<p>
"Very well," said Thorndyke; "then let us walk
slowly and finish with matters confidential before we
plunge into the madding crowd."
</p>
<p>
We set forth at a leisurely pace along the broad
pavement and I commenced my narration. As well as I
could remember, I related the circumstances that had
led up to the present disposition of the property and
then proceeded to the actual provisions of the will;
to all of which my two friends listened with rapt
interest, Thorndyke occasionally stopping me to jot
down a memorandum in his pocket-book.
</p>
<p>
"Why, the fellow must have been a stark lunatic!"
Jervis exclaimed, when I had finished. "He seems to
have laid himself out with the most devilish ingenuity
to defeat his own ends."
</p>
<p>
"That is not an uncommon peculiarity with testators,"
Thorndyke remarked. "A direct and perfectly
intelligible will is rather the exception. But we can
hardly judge until we have seen the actual document.
I suppose Bellingham hasn't a copy?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," said I; "but I will ask him."
</p>
<p>
"If he has one, I should like to look through it,"
said Thorndyke. "The provisions are very peculiar,
and, as Jervis says, admirably calculated to defeat the
testator's wishes if they have been correctly reported.
And, apart from that, they have a remarkable bearing
on the circumstances of the disappearance. I daresay
you noticed that."
</p>
<p>
"I noticed that it is very much to Hurst's advantage
that the body has not been found."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, of course. But there are some other points
that are very significant. However, it would be
premature to discuss the terms of the will until we have
seen the actual document or a certified copy."
</p>
<p>
"If there is a copy extant," I said, "I will try to get
hold of it. Bellingham is terribly afraid of being
suspected of a desire to get professional advice
gratis."
</p>
<p>
"That," said Thorndyke, "is natural enough, and
not discreditable. But you must overcome his scruples
somehow. I expect you will be able to. You are a
plausible young gentleman, as I remember of old, and
you seem to have established yourself as quite the
friend of the family."
</p>
<p>
"They are rather interesting people," I explained;
"very cultivated and with a strong leaning towards
archaeology. It seems to be in the blood."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Thorndyke; "a family tendency,
probably due to contact and common surroundings rather
than heredity. So you like Godfrey Bellingham?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. He is a trifle peppery and impulsive, but
quite an agreeable, genial old buffer."
</p>
<p>
"And the daughter," said Jervis, "what is she
like?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, she is a learned lady; works up bibliographies
and references at the Museum."
</p>
<p>
"Ah!" Jervis exclaimed, with deep disfavour, "I
know the breed. Inky fingers; no chest to speak of;
all side and spectacles."
</p>
<p>
I rose artlessly at the gross and palpable bait.
</p>
<p>
"You're quite wrong," I exclaimed indignantly,
contrasting Jervis's hideous presentment with the comely
original. "She is an exceedingly good-looking girl,
and her manners all that a lady's should be. A little
stiff, perhaps, but then I am only an acquaintance&mdash;almost a stranger."
</p>
<p>
"But," Jervis persisted, "what is she like, in
appearance I mean. Short? fat? sandy? Give us
intelligible details."
</p>
<p>
I made a rapid mental inventory, assisted by my
recent cogitations.
</p>
<p>
"She is about five feet seven, slim but rather plump,
very erect in carriage and graceful in movements;
black hair, loosely parted in the middle and falling very
prettily away from the forehead; pale, clear
complexion, dark grey eyes, straight eyebrows, straight,
well-shaped nose, short mouth, rather full; round chin&mdash;what
the deuce are you grinning at, Jervis?" For
my friend had suddenly unmasked his batteries and
now threatened, like the Cheshire Cat, to dissolve into
a mere abstraction of amusement.
</p>
<p>
"If there is a copy of that will, Thorndyke," he said,
"we shall get it. I think you agree with me, reverend
senior?"
</p>
<p>
"I have already said," was the reply, "that I put
my trust in Berkeley. And now let us dismiss professional
topics. This is our hostelry."
</p>
<p>
He pushed open an unpretentious glazed door and
we followed him into the restaurant, whereof the atmosphere
was pervaded by an appetising meatiness
mingled with less agreeable suggestions of the destructive
distillation of fat.
</p>
<p>
It was some two hours later when I wished my friends
adieu under the golden-leaved plane trees of King's
Bench Walk.
</p>
<p>
"I won't ask you to come in now," said Thorndyke,
"as we have some consultations this afternoon. But
come in and see us soon; don't wait for that copy of
the will."
</p>
<p>
"No," said Jervis. "Drop in in the evening when
your work is done; unless, of course, there is more
attractive society elsewhere&mdash;Oh, you needn't turn that
colour, my dear child; we have all been young once;
there is even a tradition that Thorndyke was young
some time back in the pre-dynastic period."
</p>
<p>
"Don't take any notice of him, Berkeley," said
Thorndyke. "The egg-shell is sticking to his head
still. He'll know better when he is my age."
</p>
<p>
"Methuselah!" exclaimed Jervis; "I hope I shan't
have to wait as long as that!"
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke smiled benevolently at his irrepressible
junior, and, shaking my hand cordially, turned into the
entry.
</p>
<p>
From the Temple I wended northward to the adjacent
College of Surgeons, where I spent a couple of
profitable hours examining the "pickles," and refreshing
my memory on the subjects of pathology and
anatomy; marvelling afresh (as every practical anatomist
must marvel) at the incredibly perfect technique
of the dissections, and inwardly paying a respectful
tribute to the founder of the collection. At length, the
warning of the clock, combined with an increasing craving
for tea, drove me forth and bore me towards the
scene of my, not very strenuous, labours. My mind
was still occupied with the contents of the cases and
the great glass jars, so that I found myself at the corner
of Fetter Lane without a very clear idea of how
I had got there. But at that point I was aroused from
my reflections rather abruptly by a raucous voice in
my ear.
</p>
<p>
"'Orrible discovery at Sidcup!"
</p>
<p>
I turned wrathfully&mdash;for a London street-boy's yell,
let off at point-blank range, is, in effect, like the smack
of an open hand&mdash;but the inscription on the staring
yellow poster that was held up for my inspection
changed my anger into curiosity.
</p>
<p>
"Horrible discovery in a watercress-bed!"
</p>
<p>
Now, let, prigs deny it if they will, but there is something
very attractive in a "horrible discovery." It
hints at tragedy, at mystery, at romance. It promises
to bring into our grey and commonplace life that element
of the dramatic which is the salt that our existence
is savoured withal. "In a watercress-bed," too! The
rusticity of the background seemed to emphasise the
horror of the discovery, whatever it might be.
</p>
<p>
I bought a copy of the paper, and, tucking it under
my arm, hurried on to the surgery, promising myself
a mental feast of watercress; but as I opened the door
I found myself confronted by a corpulent woman of
piebald and pimply aspect who saluted me with a deep
groan. It was the lady from the coal shop in Fleur-de-Lys
Court.
</p>
<p>
"Good evening, Mrs. Jablett," I said briskly; "not
come about yourself, I hope."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I have," she answered, rising and following
me gloomily into the consulting-room; and then, when
I had seated her in the patient's chair and myself at the
writing-table, she continued: "It's my inside, you
know, Doctor."
</p>
<p>
The statement lacked anatomical precision and
merely excluded the domain of the skin specialist. I
accordingly waited for enlightenment and speculated on
the watercress-beds, while Mrs. Jablett regarded me
expectantly with a dim and watery eye.
</p>
<p>
"Ah!" I said, at length; "it's your&mdash;your inside,
is it, Mrs. Jablett?"
</p>
<p>
"Yus. <i>And</i> my 'ead," she added, with a voluminous
sigh that filled the apartment with odorous reminiscences
of "unsweetened."
</p>
<p>
"Your head aches, does it?"
</p>
<p>
"Somethink chronic!" said Mrs. Jablett. "Feels
as if it was a-opening and a-shutting, a-opening and
a-shutting, and when I sit down I feel as if I should
<i>bust</i>."
</p>
<p>
This picturesque description of her sensations&mdash;not
wholly inconsistent with her figure&mdash;gave the clue to
Mrs. Jablett's sufferings. Resisting a frivolous impulse
to reassure her as to the elasticity of the human integument,
I considered her case in exhaustive detail, coasting
delicately round the subject of "unsweetened," and
finally sent her away, revived in spirits and grasping
a bottle of Mist. Sodae cum Bismutho from Barnard's
big stock-jar. Then I went back to investigate the
Horrible Discovery; but before I could open the paper,
another patient arrived (<i>Impetigo contagiosa</i>, this time,
affecting the "wide and arch&egrave;d-front sublime" of a
juvenile Fetter Laner), and then yet another, and so
on through the evening until, at last, I forgot the
watercress-beds altogether. It was only when I had purified
myself from the evening consultations with hot water
and a nail-brush and was about to sit down to a frugal
supper, that I remembered the newspaper and fetched
it from the drawer of the consulting-room table, where
it had been hastily thrust out of sight. I folded it into
a convenient form, and, standing it upright against the
water-jug, read the report at my ease as I supped.
</p>
<p>
There was plenty of it. Evidently the reporter had
regarded it as a "scoop," and the editor had backed
him up with ample space and hair-raising head-lines.
</p>
<p><b>
"HORRIBLE DISCOVERY IN A WATERCRESS-BED AT SIDCUP!
</b></p>
<p>
"A startling discovery was made yesterday afternoon
in the course of clearing out a watercress-bed near
the erstwhile rural village of Sidcup in Kent; a
discovery that will occasion many a disagreeable qualm
to those persons who have been in the habit of regaling
themselves with this refreshing esculent. But before
proceeding to a description of the circumstances of the
actual discovery or of the objects found&mdash;which, however,
it may be stated at once, are nothing more or less
than the fragments of a dismembered human body&mdash;it
will be interesting to trace the remarkable chain of
coincidences by virtue of which the discovery was made.
</p>
<p>
"The beds in question have been laid out in a small
artificial lake fed by a tiny streamlet which forms one
of the numerous tributaries of the River Cray. Its
depth is greater than is usual in watercress-beds, otherwise
the gruesome relics could never have been concealed
beneath its surface, and the flow of water
through it, though continuous, is slow. The tributary
streamlet meanders through a succession of pasture
meadows, in one of which the beds themselves are situated,
and here throughout most of the year the fleecy
victims of the human carnivore carry on the industry
of converting grass into mutton. Now it happened some
years ago that the sheep frequenting these pastures
became affected with the disease known as 'liver-rot';
and here we must make a short digression into the
domain of pathology.
</p>
<p>
"'Liver-rot' is a disease of quite romantic antecedents.
Its cause is a small, flat worm&mdash;the liver-fluke&mdash;which
infests the liver and bile-ducts of the affected
sheep.
</p>
<p>
"Now how does the worm get into the sheep's liver?
That is where the romance comes in. Let us see.
</p>
<p>
"The cycle of transformations begins with the deposit
of the eggs of the fluke in some shallow stream or
ditch running through pasture lands. Now each egg
has a sort of lid, which presently opens and lets out a
minute, hairy creature who swims away in search of a
particular kind of water-snail&mdash;the kind called by
naturalists <i>Limnaea truncatula</i>. If he finds a snail, he
bores his way into its flesh and soon begins to grow and
wax fat. Then he brings forth a family&mdash;of tiny worms
quite unlike himself, little creatures called <i>rediae</i>, which
soon give birth to families of young <i>rediae</i>. So they
may go on for several generations, but at last there
comes a generation of <i>rediae</i> which, instead of giving
birth to fresh <i>rediae</i>, produce families of totally different
offspring; big-headed, long-tailed creatures like miniature
tadpoles, called by the learned <i>cercariae</i>. The
<i>cercariae</i> soon wriggle their way out of the body of the
snail, and then complications arise: for it is the habit
of this particular snail to leave the water occasionally
and take a stroll in the fields. Thus the <i>cercariae</i>, escaping
from the snail, find themselves on the grass, whereupon
they promptly drop their tails and stick themselves
to the grass-blades. Then comes the unsuspecting
sheep to take his frugal meal, and, cropping the
grass, swallows it, <i>cercariae</i> and all. But the latter,
when they find themselves in the sheep's stomach, make
their way straight to the bile-ducts, up which they
travel to the liver. Here, in a few weeks, they grow up
into full-blown flukes and begin the important business
of producing eggs.
</p>
<p>
"Such is the pathological romance of 'liver-rot';
and now what is its connection with this mysterious
discovery? It is this. After the outbreak of 'liver-rot,'
above referred to, the ground landlord, a Mr.
John Bellingham, instructed his solicitor to insert a
clause in the lease of the beds directing that the latter
should be periodically cleared and examined by an expert
to make sure that they were free from the noxious
water-snails. The last lease expired about two years
ago, and since then the beds have been out of cultivation;
but, for the safety of the adjacent pastures, it
was considered necessary to make the customary periodical
inspection, and it was in the course of cleaning the
beds for this purpose that the present discovery was
made.
</p>
<p>
"The operation began two days ago. A gang of
three men proceeded systematically to grub up the
plants and collect the multitudes of water-snails that
they might be examined by the expert to see if any of
the obnoxious species were present. They had cleared
nearly half the beds when, yesterday afternoon, one
of the men working in the deepest part came upon some
bones, the appearance of which excited his suspicion.
Thereupon he called his mates, and they carefully
picked away the plants piecemeal, a process that soon
laid bare an unmistakable human hand lying on the
mud amongst the roots. Fortunately they had the
wisdom not to disturb the remains, but at once sent
off a message to the police. Very soon, an inspector
and a sergeant, accompanied by the divisional surgeon,
arrived on the scene, and were able to view the remains
lying as they had been found. And now another very
strange fact came to light; for it was seen that the
hand&mdash;a left one&mdash;lying on the mud was minus its third
finger. This is regarded by the police as a very important
fact as bearing on the question of identification,
seeing that the number of persons having the third
finger of the left hand missing must be quite small.
After a thorough examination on the spot, the bones
were carefully collected and conveyed to the mortuary,
where they now lie awaiting further inquiries.
</p>
<p>
"The divisional surgeon, Dr. Brandon, in an interview
with our representative, made the following statements:
</p>
<p>
"'The bones found are those of the left arm of a
middle-aged or elderly man about five feet eight inches
in height. All the bones of the arm are present, including
the scapula, or shoulder-blade, and the clavicle, or
collar-bone, but the three bones of the third finger are
missing.'
</p>
<p>
"'Is this a deformity or has the finger been cut
off?' our correspondent asked.
</p>
<p>
"'The finger has been amputated,' was the reply.
'If it had been absent from birth, the corresponding
hand bone, or metacarpal, would have been wanting
or deformed, whereas it is present and quite normal.'
</p>
<p>
"'How long have the bones been in the water?'
was the next question.
</p>
<p>
"'More than a year, I should say. They are quite
clean; there is not a vestige of the soft structures
left.'
</p>
<p>
"'Have you any theory as to how the arm came to
be deposited where it was found?'
</p>
<p>
"'I should rather not answer that question,' was
the guarded response.
</p>
<p>
"'One more question,' our correspondent urged.
'The ground landlord, Mr. John Bellingham; is not
he the gentleman who disappeared so mysteriously
some time ago?'
</p>
<p>
"'So I understand,' Dr. Brandon replied.
</p>
<p>
"'Can you tell me if Mr. Bellingham had lost the
third finger of his left hand?'
</p>
<p>
"'I cannot say,' said Dr. Brandon; and he added
with a smile, 'you had better ask the police.'
</p>
<p>
"That is how the matter stands at present. But we
understand that the police are making active inquiries
for any missing man who has lost the third finger of his
left hand, and if any of our readers know of such a person,
they are earnestly requested to communicate at
once, either with us or with the authorities.
</p>
<p>
"Also we believe that a systematic search is to be
made for further remains."
</p>
<p>
I laid the newspaper down and fell into a train of
reflection. It was certainly a most mysterious affair.
The thought that had evidently come to the reporter's
mind stole naturally into mine. Could these remains
be those of John Bellingham? It was obviously possible,
though I could not but see that the fact of the
bones having been found on his land, while it undoubtedly
furnished the suggestion, did not in any way
add to its probability. The connection was accidental
and in no wise relevant.
</p>
<p>
Then, too, there was the missing finger. No reference
to any such injury or deformity had been made in the
original report of the disappearance, though it could
hardly have been overlooked. But it was useless to
speculate without facts. I should be seeing Thorndyke
in the course of the next few days, and, undoubtedly,
if the discovery had any bearing upon the disappearance
of John Bellingham, I should hear of it. With
which reflection I rose from the table, and, adopting
the advice contained in the spurious Johnsonian quotation
proceeded to "take a walk in Fleet Street" before
settling down for the evening.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH6"><!-- CH6 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER VI
</h2>

<h3>
SIDELIGHTS
</h3>
<p>
The association of coal with potatoes is one upon
which I have frequently speculated, without arriving
at any more satisfactory explanation than that both
products are of the earth, earthy. Of the connection
itself Barnard's practice furnished several instances
besides Mrs. Jablett's establishment in Fleur-de-Lys
Court, one of which was a dark and mysterious cavern
a foot below the level of the street, that burrowed
under an ancient house on the west side of Fetter Lane
&mdash;a crinkly, timber house of the three-decker type that
leaned back drunkenly from the road as if about to sit
down in its own back yard.
</p>
<p>
Passing this repository of the associated products
about ten o'clock in the morning, I perceived in the
shadow of the cavern no less a person than Miss Oman.
She saw me at the same moment, and beckoned peremptorily
with a hand that held a large Spanish onion. I
approached with a deferential smile.
</p>
<p>
"What a magnificent onion, Miss Oman! and how
generous of you to offer it to me&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"I wasn't offering it to you. But there! Isn't it
just like a man&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Isn't what just like a man?" I interrupted. "If
you mean the onion&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"I don't!" she snapped; "and I wish you wouldn't
talk such a parcel of nonsense. A grown man and a
member of a serious profession, too! You ought to
know better."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose I ought," I said reflectively. And she
continued:
</p>
<p>
"I called in at the surgery just now."
</p>
<p>
"To see me?"
</p>
<p>
"What else should I come for? Do you suppose
that I called to consult the bottle-boy?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly not, Miss Oman. So you find the lady
doctor no use, after all?"
</p>
<p>
Miss Oman gnashed her teeth at me (and very fine
teeth they were, too).
</p>
<p>
"I called," she said majestically, "on behalf of Miss
Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
My facetiousness evaporated instantly. "I hope
Miss Bellingham is not ill," I said with a sudden anxiety
that elicited a sardonic smile from Miss Oman.
</p>
<p>
"No," was the reply, "she is not ill, but she has cut
her hand rather badly. It's her right hand, too, and
she can't afford to lose the use of it, not being a great,
hulking, lazy, lolloping man. So you had better go
and put some stuff on it."
</p>
<p>
With this advice, Miss Oman whisked to the right-about
and vanished into the depths of the cavern like
the Witch of Wokey, while I hurried on to the surgery
to provide myself with the necessary instruments and
materials, and thence proceeded to Nevill's Court.
</p>
<p>
Miss Oman's juvenile maid-servant, who opened the
door to me, stated the existing conditions with epigrammatic
conciseness:
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Bellingham is hout, sir; but Miss Bellingham
is hin."
</p>
<p>
Having thus delivered herself she retreated towards
the kitchen and I ascended the stairs, at the head of
which I found Miss Bellingham awaiting me with her
right hand encased in what looked like a white boxing-glove.
</p>
<p>
"I am glad you have come," she said. "Phyllis&mdash;Miss
Oman, you know&mdash;has kindly bound up my hand,
but I should like you to see that it is all right."
</p>
<p>
We went into the sitting-room, where I laid out my
paraphernalia on the table while I inquired into the
particulars of the accident.
</p>
<p>
"It is most unfortunate that it should have
happened just now," she said, as I wrestled with one of
those remarkable feminine knots that, while they seem
to defy the utmost efforts of human ingenuity to untie,
yet have a singular habit of untying themselves at
inopportune moments.
</p>
<p>
"Why just now, in particular?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Because I have some specially important work to
do. A very learned lady who is writing a historical
book has commissioned me to collect all the literature
relating to the Tell el Amarna letters&mdash;the cuneiform
tablets, you know, of Amenhotep the Fourth."
</p>
<p>
"Well," I said soothingly, "I expect your hand will
soon be well."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, but that won't do. The work has to be done
immediately. I have to send in the completed notes
not later than this day week, and it will be quite
impossible. I am dreadfully disappointed."
</p>
<p>
By this time I had unwound the voluminous
wrappings and exposed the injury&mdash;a deep gash in the
palm that must have narrowly missed a good-sized
artery. Obviously the hand would be useless for fully
a week.
</p>
<p>
"I suppose," she said, "you couldn't patch it up
so that I could write with it?"
</p>
<p>
I shook my head.
</p>
<p>
"No, Miss Bellingham. I shall have to put it on a
splint. We can't run any risks with a deep wound like
this."
</p>
<p>
"Then I shall have to give up the commission, and
I don't know how my client will get the work done in
the time. You see, I am pretty well up in the literature
of Ancient Egypt; in fact, I was to receive special
payment on that account. And it would have been
such an interesting task, too. However, it can't be
helped."
</p>
<p>
I proceeded methodically with the application of the
dressings, and meanwhile reflected. It was evident that
she was deeply disappointed. Loss of work meant loss
of money, and it needed but a glance at her rusty
black dress to see that there was little margin for that.
Possibly, too, there was some special need to be met.
Her manner seemed almost to imply that there was.
And at this point I had a brilliant idea.
</p>
<p>
"I'm not sure that it can't be helped," said I.
</p>
<p>
She looked at me inquiringly, and I continued: "I
am going to make a proposition, and I shall ask you
to consider it with an open mind."
</p>
<p>
"That sounds rather portentous," said she; "but
I promise. What is it?"
</p>
<p>
"It is this: When I was a student I acquired the
useful art of writing shorthand. I am not a lightning
reporter, you understand, but I can take matter down
from dictation at quite respectable speed."
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"Well, I have several hours free every day&mdash;usually,
the whole of the afternoon up to six or half-past&mdash;and
it occurs to me that if you were to go to the Museum
in the mornings you could get out your books, look up
passages (you could do that without using your right
hand), and put in book-marks. Then I could come
along in the afternoon and you could read out the
selected passages to me, and I could take them down in
shorthand. We should get through as much in a couple
of hours as you could in a day using longhand."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, but how kind of you, Doctor Berkeley!" she
exclaimed. "How very kind! Of course, I couldn't
think of taking up all your leisure in that way; but I
do appreciate your kindness very much."
</p>
<p>
I was rather chapfallen at this very definite refusal,
but persisted feebly:
</p>
<p>
"I wish you would. It may seem rather cheek for a
comparative stranger like me to make such a proposal
to a lady; but if you'd been a man&mdash;in these special
circumstances&mdash;I should have made it all the same, and
you would have accepted as a matter of course."
</p>
<p>
"I doubt that. At any rate, I am not a man. I
sometimes wish I were."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I am sure you are much better as you are!"
I exclaimed, with such earnestness that we both laughed.
And at this moment Mr. Bellingham entered the room
carrying several large and evidently brand-new books
in a strap.
</p>
<p>
"Well, I'm sure!" he exclaimed genially; "here
are pretty goings on. Doctor and patient giggling like
a pair of schoolgirls! What's the joke?"
</p>
<p>
He thumped his parcel of books down on the table
and listened smilingly while my unconscious witticism
was expounded.
</p>
<p>
"The Doctor's quite right," he said. "You'll do as
you are, chick; but the Lord knows what sort of man
you would make. You take his advice and let well
alone."
</p>
<p>
Finding him in this genial frame of mind, I ventured
to explain my proposition to him and to enlist his
support. He considered it with attentive approval,
and when I had finished turned to his daughter.
</p>
<p>
"What is your objection, chick?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"It would give Doctor Berkeley such a fearful lot
of work," she answered.
</p>
<p>
"It would give him a fearful lot of pleasure," I said.
"It would, really."
</p>
<p>
"Then why not?" said Mr. Bellingham. "We don't
mind being under an obligation to the Doctor, do we?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, it wasn't that!" she exclaimed hastily.
</p>
<p>
"Then take him at his word. He means it. It is a
kind action and he'll like doing it, I'm sure. That's
all right, Doctor; she accepts, don't you, chick?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, if you say so, I do; and most thankfully."
</p>
<p>
She accompanied the acceptance with a gracious
smile that was in itself a large payment on account,
and when we had made the necessary arrangements,
I hurried away in a state of the most perfect satisfaction
to finish my morning's work and order an early
lunch.
</p>
<p>
When I called for her a couple of hours later I found
her waiting in the garden with the shabby handbag,
of which I relieved her, and we set forth together,
watched jealously by Miss Oman, who had accompanied
her to the gate.
</p>
<p>
As I walked up the court with this wonderful maid
by my side I could hardly believe in my good fortune.
By her presence and my own resulting happiness the
mean surroundings became glorified and the commonest
objects transfigured into things of beauty. What a
delightful thoroughfare, for instance, was Fetter Lane,
with its quaint charm and mediaeval grace! I snuffed
the cabbage-laden atmosphere and seemed to breathe
the scent of the asphodel. Holborn was even as the
Elysian Fields; the omnibus that bore us westward
was a chariot of glory; and the people who swarmed
verminously on the pavements bore the semblance of
the children of light.
</p>
<p>
Love is a foolish thing judged by workaday standards,
and the thoughts and actions of lovers foolish
beyond measure. But the workaday standard is the
wrong one, after all; for the utilitarian mind does but
busy itself with the trivial and transitory interests of
life, behind which looms the great and everlasting reality
of the love of man and woman. There is more significance
in a nightingale's song in the hush of a summer
night than in all the wisdom of Solomon (who, by the
way, was not without his little experiences of the tender
passion).
</p>
<p>
The janitor in the little glass box by the entrance
to the library inspected us and passed us on, with a
silent benediction, to the lobby, whence (when I had
handed my stick to a bald-headed demigod and
received a talismanic disc in exchange) we entered the
enormous rotunda of the reading-room.
</p>
<p>
I have often thought that, if some lethal vapour of
highly preservative properties&mdash;such as formaldehyde,
for instance&mdash;could be shed into the atmosphere of
this apartment, the entire and complete collection of
books and bookworms would be well worth preserving,
for the enlightenment of posterity, as a sort of anthropological
appendix to the main collection of the
Museum. For, surely, nowhere else in the world are so
many strange and abnormal human beings gathered
together in one place. And a curious question that
must have occurred to many observers is: Whence do
these singular creatures come, and whither do they go
when the very distinct-faced clock (adjusted to literary
eye-sight) proclaims closing time? The tragic-faced
gentleman, for instance, with the corkscrew ringlets
that bob up and down like spiral springs as he walks?
Or the short, elderly gentleman in the black cassock and
bowler hat, who shatters your nerves by turning suddenly
and revealing himself as a middle-aged woman?
Whither do they go? One never sees them elsewhere.
Do they steal away at closing time into the depths of
the Museum and hide themselves until morning in
sarcophagi or mummy cases? Or do they creep through
spaces in the book-shelves and spend the night behind
the volumes in a congenial atmosphere of leather and
antique paper? Who can say? What I do know is
that when Ruth Bellingham entered the reading-room
she appeared in comparison with these like a creature
of another order; even as the head of Antinous, which
formerly stood (it has since been moved) amidst the
portrait-busts of the Roman Emperors, seemed like the
head of a god set in a portrait gallery of illustrious
baboons.
</p>
<p>
"What have we got to do?" I asked when we had
found a vacant seat. "Do you want to look up the
catalogue?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I have the tickets in my bag. The books are
waiting in the 'kept books' department."
</p>
<p>
I placed my hat on the leather-covered shelf, dropped
her gloves into it&mdash;how delightfully intimate and
companionable it seemed!&mdash;altered the numbers on the
tickets, and then we proceeded together to the "kept
books" desk to collect the volumes that contained the
material for our day's work.
</p>
<p>
It was a blissful afternoon. Two and a half hours of
happiness unalloyed did I spend at that shiny, leather-clad
desk, guiding my nimble pen across the pages of
the note-book. It introduced me to a new world&mdash;a
world in which love and learning, sweet intimacy and
crusted archaeology, were mingled into the oddest, most
whimsical, and most delicious confection that the mind
of man can conceive. Hitherto, these recondite
histories had been far beyond my ken. Of the wonderful
heretic, Amenhotep the Fourth, I had barely heard&mdash;at
the most he had been a mere name; the Hittites a
mythical race of undetermined habitat; while cuneiform
tablets had presented themselves to my mind merely as
an uncouth kind of fossil biscuit suited to the digestion
of a pre-historic ostrich.
</p>
<p>
Now all this was changed. As we sat with our chairs
creaking together and she whispered the story of those
stirring times into my receptive ear&mdash;talking is strictly
forbidden in the reading-room&mdash;the disjointed
fragments arranged themselves into a romance of supreme
fascination. Egyptian, Babylonian, Aramaean, Hittite,
Memphis, Babylon, Hamath, Megiddo&mdash;I swallowed
them all thankfully, wrote them down and asked for
more. Only once did I disgrace myself. An elderly
clergyman of ascetic and acidulous aspect had passed
us with a glance of evident disapproval, clearly setting
us down as intruding philanderers; and when I
contrasted the parson's probable conception of the whispered
communications that were being poured into my
ear so tenderly and confidentially with the dry reality,
I chuckled aloud. But my fair task-mistress only
paused, with her finger on the page, smilingly to rebuke
me, and then went on with the dictation. She was
certainly a Tartar for work.
</p>
<p>
It was a proud moment for me when, in response to
my interrogative "Yes?" my companion said "That
is all" and closed the book. We had extracted the
pith and marrow of six considerable volumes in two
hours and a half.
</p>
<p>
"You have been better than your word," she said.
"It would have taken me two full days of really hard
work to make the notes that you have written down
since we commenced. I don't know how to thank
you."
</p>
<p>
"There's no need to. I've enjoyed myself and polished
up my shorthand. What is the next thing? We
shall want some books for to-morrow, shan't we?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. I have made out a list, so if you will come
with me to the catalogue desk I will look out the numbers
and ask you to write the tickets."
</p>
<p>
The selection of a fresh batch of authorities occupied
us for another quarter of an hour, and then, having
handed in the volumes that we had squeezed dry, we
took our way out of the reading-room.
</p>
<p>
"Which way shall we go?" she asked as we passed
out of the gate, where stood a massive policeman, like
the guardian angel at the gate of Paradise (only, thank
Heaven! he bore no flaming sword forbidding reentry).
</p>
<p>
"We are going," I replied, "to Museum Street, where
is a milkshop in which one can get an excellent cup
of tea."
</p>
<p>
She looked as if she would have demurred, but eventually
followed obediently, and we were soon seated side
by side at a little marble-topped table, retracing the
ground that we had covered in the afternoon's work
and discussing various points of interest over a joint
teapot.
</p>
<p>
"Have you been doing this sort of work long?" I
asked as she handed me my second cup of tea.
</p>
<p>
"Professionally," she answered, "only about two
years; since we broke up our home, in fact. But long
before that I used to come to the Museum with my
Uncle John&mdash;the one who disappeared, you know, in
that dreadfully mysterious way&mdash;and help him to look
up references. We were quite good friends, he and I."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose he was a very learned man?" I suggested.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, in a certain way; in the way of the better-class
collector he was very learned indeed. He knew
the contents of every museum in the world, in so far
as they were connected with Egyptian antiquities, and
had studied them specimen by specimen. Consequently,
as Egyptology is largely a museum science, he
was a learned Egyptologist. But his real interest was
in things rather than events. Of course, he knew a
great deal&mdash;a very great deal&mdash;about Egyptian history,
but still he was, before all, a collector."
</p>
<p>
"And what will happen to his collection if he is
really dead?"
</p>
<p>
"The greater part of it goes to the British Museum
by his will, and the remainder he has left to his solicitor,
Mr. Jellicoe."
</p>
<p>
"To Mr. Jellicoe! Why, what will Mr. Jellicoe do
with Egyptian antiquities?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, he is an Egyptologist, too, and quite an enthusiast.
He has a really fine collection of scarabs and
other small objects such as it is possible to keep in
a private house. I have always thought that it was
his enthusiasm for everything Egyptian that brought
him and my uncle together on terms of such intimacy;
though I believe he is an excellent lawyer, and he is
certainly a very discreet, cautious man."
</p>
<p>
"Is he? I shouldn't have thought so, judging by
your uncle's will."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, but that was not Mr. Jellicoe's fault. He assures
us that he entreated my uncle to let him draw up
a fresh document with more reasonable provisions. But
he says Uncle John was immovable; and he really <i>was</i>
a rather obstinate man. Mr. Jellicoe repudiates any
responsibility in the matter. He washes his hands of
the whole affair, and says that it is the will of a lunatic.
And so it is. I was glancing through it only a night or
two ago, and really I cannot conceive how a sane man
could have written such nonsense."
</p>
<p>
"You have a copy, then?" I asked eagerly, remembering
Thorndyke's parting instructions.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. Would you like to see it? I know my father
has told you about it, and it is worth reading as a
curiosity of perverseness."
</p>
<p>
"I should very much like to show it to my friend,
Doctor Thorndyke," I replied. "He said that he would
be interested to read it and learn the exact provisions;
and it might be well to let him, and hear what he has
to say about it."
</p>
<p>
"I see no objection," she rejoined; "but you know
what my father is: his horror, I mean, of what he calls
'cadging for advice gratis.'"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, but he need have no scruples on that score.
Doctor Thorndyke wants to see the will because the case
interests him. He is an enthusiast, you know, and he
put the request as a personal favour to himself."
</p>
<p>
"That is very nice and delicate of him, and I will
explain the position to my father. If he is willing for
Doctor Thorndyke to see the copy, I will send or bring
it over this evening. Have we finished?"
</p>
<p>
I regretfully admitted that we had, and, when I had
paid the modest reckoning, we sallied forth, turning
back with one accord into Great Russell Street to avoid
the noise and bustle of the larger thoroughfare.
</p>
<p>
"What sort of man was your uncle?" I asked presently,
as we walked along the quiet, dignified street.
And then I added hastily: "I hope you don't think me
inquisitive, but, to my mind, he presents himself as a
kind of mysterious abstraction; the unknown quantity
of a legal problem."
</p>
<p>
"My Uncle John," she answered reflectively, "was
a very peculiar man, rather obstinate, very self-willed,
what people call 'masterful,' and decidedly wrong-headed
and unreasonable."
</p>
<p>
"That is certainly the impression that the terms
of his will convey," I said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes; and not the will only. There was the absurd
allowance that he made my father. That was a ridiculous
arrangement, and very unfair, too. He ought to
have divided up the property as my grandfather intended.
And yet he was by no means ungenerous,
only he would have his own way, and his own way was
very commonly the wrong way.
</p>
<p>
"I remember," she continued, after a short pause,
"a very odd instance of his wrong-headedness and
obstinacy. It was a small matter, but very typical of
him. He had in his collection a beautiful little ring
of the eighteenth dynasty. It was said to have belonged
to Queen Ti, the mother of our friend Amenhotep
the Fourth; but I don't think that could have
been so, because the device on it was the Eye of Osiris,
and Ti, as you know, was an Aten-worshipper. However,
it was a very charming ring, and Uncle John,
who had a queer sort of devotion to the mystical Eye
of Osiris, commissioned a very clever goldsmith to make
two exact copies of it, one for himself and one for me.
The goldsmith naturally wanted to take the measurements
of our fingers, but this Uncle John would not
hear of; the rings were to be exact copies, and an
exact copy must be the same size as the original. You
can imagine the result; my ring was so loose that
I couldn't keep it on my finger, and Uncle John's
was so tight that, though he did manage to get it on,
he was never able to get it off again. And it was only
the circumstance that his left hand was decidedly
smaller than his right that made it possible for him to
wear it at all."
</p>
<p>
"So you never wore your copy?"
</p>
<p>
"No. I wanted to have it altered to make it fit,
but he objected strongly; so I put it away, and have
it in a box still."
</p>
<p>
"He must have been an extraordinarily pig-headed
old fellow," I remarked.
</p>
<p>
"Yes; he was very tenacious. He annoyed my father
a good deal, too, by making unnecessary alterations in
the house in Queen Square when he fitted up his museum.
We have a certain sentiment with regard to that house.
Our people have lived in it ever since it was built, when
the square was first laid out in the reign of Queen Anne,
after whom the square was named. It is a dear old
house. Would you like to see it? We are quite near it
now."
</p>
<p>
I assented eagerly. If it had been a coal-shed or
a fried-fish shop I would still have visited it with
pleasure, for the sake of prolonging our walk; but I
was also really interested in this old house as a part of
the background of the mystery of the vanished John
Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
We crossed into Cosmo Place, with its quaint row
of the, now rare, cannon-shaped iron posts, and passing
through stood for a few moments looking into the
peaceful, stately old square. A party of boys disported
themselves noisily on the range of stone posts
that form a bodyguard round the ancient lamp-surmounted
pump, but otherwise the place was wrapped
in dignified repose suited to its age and station. And
very pleasant it looked on this summer afternoon, with
the sunlight gilding the foliage of its wide-spreading
plane trees and lighting up the warm-toned brick of
the house-fronts. We walked slowly down the shady
west side, near the middle of which my companion
halted.
</p>
<p>
"This is the house," she said. "It looks gloomy
and forsaken now; but it must have been a delightful
house in the days when my ancestors could look out of
the windows through the open end of the square across
the fields and meadows to the heights of Hampstead
and Highgate."
</p>
<p>
She stood at the edge of the pavement looking up
with a curious wistfulness at the old house; a very
pathetic figure, I thought, with her handsome face and
proud carriage, her threadbare dress and shabby gloves,
standing at the threshold of the home that had been
her family's for generations, that should now have been
hers, and that was shortly to pass away into the hands
of strangers.
</p>
<p>
I, too, looked up at it with a strange interest, impressed
by something gloomy and forbidding in its
aspect. The windows were shuttered from basement
to attic, and no sign of life was visible. Silent, neglected,
desolate, it breathed an air of tragedy. It
seemed to mourn in sackcloth and ashes for its lost
master. The massive door within the splendid carven
portico was crusted with grime, and seemed to have
passed out of use as completely as the ancient lamp-irons
or the rusted extinguishers wherein the footmen
were wont to quench their torches when some Bellingham
dame was borne up the steps in her gilded chair,
in the days of good Queen Anne.
</p>
<p>
It was in a somewhat sobered frame of mind that
we presently turned away and started homeward by
way of Great Ormond Street. My companion was
deeply thoughtful, relapsing for a while into that sombreness
of manner that had so impressed me when I
first met her. Nor was I without a certain sympathetic
pensiveness; as if, from the great, silent house, the
spirit of the vanished man had issued forth to bear us
company.
</p>
<p>
But still it was a delightful walk, and I was sorry
when at last we arrived at the entrance to Nevill's
Court, and Miss Bellingham halted and held out her
hand.
</p>
<p>
"Good-bye," she said; "and many, many thanks
for your invaluable help. Shall I take the bag?"
</p>
<p>
"If you want it. But I must take out the note-books."
</p>
<p>
"Why must you take them?" she asked.
</p>
<p>
"Why, haven't I got to copy the notes out into longhand?"
</p>
<p>
An expression of utter consternation spread over her
face; in fact, she was so completely taken aback that
she forgot to release my hand.
</p>
<p>
"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "How idiotic of me!
But it is impossible, Doctor Berkeley! It will take
you hours!"
</p>
<p>
"It is perfectly possible, and it is going to be done;
otherwise the notes would be useless. Do you want the
bag?"
</p>
<p>
"No, of course not. But I am positively appalled.
Hadn't you better give up the idea?"
</p>
<p>
"And is this the end of our collaboration?" I exclaimed
tragically, giving her hand a final squeeze
(whereby she became suddenly aware of its position,
and withdrew it rather hastily). "Would you throw
away a whole afternoon's work? I won't, certainly;
so, good-bye until to-morrow. I shall turn up in the
reading-room as early as I can. You had better take
the tickets. Oh, and you won't forget about the copy
of the will for Doctor Thorndyke, will you?"
</p>
<p>
"No; if my father agrees, you shall have it this
evening."
</p>
<p>
She took the tickets from me, and, thanking me yet
again, retired into the court.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH7"><!-- CH7 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER VII
</h2>

<h3>
JOHN BELLINGHAM'S WILL
</h3>
<p>
The task upon which I had embarked so lightheartedly,
when considered in cold blood, did certainly appear,
as Miss Bellingham had said, rather appalling. The
result of two and a half hours' pretty steady work at an
average speed of nearly a hundred words a minute,
would take some time to transcribe into longhand;
and if the notes were to be delivered punctually on the
morrow, the sooner I got to work the better.
</p>
<p>
Recognising this truth, I lost no time, but, within
five minutes of my arrival at the surgery, was seated
at the writing-table with my copy before me busily converting
the sprawling, inexpressive characters into
good, legible round-hand.
</p>
<p>
The occupation was by no means unpleasant, apart
from the fact that it was a labour of love; for the
sentences, as I picked them up, were fragrant with
reminiscences of the gracious whisper in which they
had first come to me. And then the matter itself was
full of interest. I was gaining a fresh outlook on life,
was crossing the threshold of a new world (which was
<i>her</i> world); and so the occasional interruptions from
patients, while they gave me intervals of enforced rest,
were far from welcome.
</p>
<p>
The evening wore on without any sign from Nevill's
Court, and I began to fear that Mr. Bellingham's
scruples had proved insurmountable. Not, I am afraid,
that I was so much concerned for the copy of the will
as for the possibility of a visit, no matter howsoever
brief, from my fair employer; and when, on the stroke
of half-past seven, the surgery door flew open with
startling abruptness, my fears were allayed and my
hopes shattered simultaneously. For it was Miss
Oman who stalked in, holding out a blue foolscap
envelope with a warlike air as if it were an ultimatum.
</p>
<p>
"I've brought you this from Mr. Bellingham," she
said. "There's a note inside."
</p>
<p>
"May I read the note, Miss Oman?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Bless the man!" she exclaimed. "What else
would you do with it? Isn't that what I brought it
for?"
</p>
<p>
I supposed it was; and, thanking her for her gracious
permission, I glanced through the note&mdash;a few lines
authorising me to show the copy of the will to Dr.
Thorndyke. When I looked up from the paper I
found her eyes fixed on me with an expression critical
and rather disapproving.
</p>
<p>
"You seem to be making yourself mighty agreeable
in a certain quarter," she remarked.
</p>
<p>
"I make myself universally agreeable. It is my
nature to."
</p>
<p>
"Ha!" she snorted.
</p>
<p>
"Don't you find me rather agreeable?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Oily," said Miss Oman. And then, with a sour
smile at the open note-books, she remarked:
</p>
<p>
"You've got some work to do now; quite a change
for you."
</p>
<p>
"A delightful change, Miss Oman. 'For Satan
findeth'&mdash;but no doubt you are acquainted with the
philosophical works of Doctor Watts?"
</p>
<p>
"If you are referring to 'idle hands,'" she replied,
"I'll give you a bit of advice, Don't you keep that
hand idle any longer than is really necessary. I have
my suspicions about that splint&mdash;oh, you know what
I mean," and before I had time to reply, she had taken
advantage of the entrance of a couple of patients to
whisk out of the surgery with the abruptness that had
distinguished her arrival.
</p>
<p>
The evening consultations were considered to be over
by half-past eight; at which time Adolphus was wont,
with exemplary punctuality, to close the outer door
of the surgery. To-night he was not less prompt
than usual; and having performed this, his last daily
office, and turned down the surgery gas, he reported
the fact and took his departure.
</p>
<p>
As his retreating footsteps died away and the slamming
of the outer door announced his final disappearance,
I sat up and stretched myself. The envelope
containing the copy of the will lay on the table, and I
considered it thoughtfully. It ought to be conveyed
to Thorndyke with as little delay as possible, and, as
it certainly could not be trusted out of my hands, it
ought to be conveyed by me.
</p>
<p>
I looked at the note-books. Nearly two hours' work
had made a considerable impression on the matter that
I had to transcribe, but still, a great deal of the task
yet remained to be done. However, I reflected, I could
put in a couple of hours more before going to bed and
there would be an hour or two to spare in the morning.
Finally I locked the note-books, open as they were,
in the writing-table drawer, and slipping the envelope
into my pocket, set out for the Temple.
</p>
<p>
The soft chime of the Treasury clock was telling out,
in confidential tones, the third quarter as I wrapped
with my stick on the forbidding "oak" of my friends'
chambers. There was no response, nor had I perceived
any gleam of light from the windows as I approached,
and I was considering the advisability of trying the
laboratory on the next floor, when footsteps on the
stone stairs and familiar voices gladdened my ear.
</p>
<p>
"Hallo, Berkeley!" said Thorndyke, "do we find
you waiting like a Peri at the gates of Paradise?
Polton is upstairs, you know, tinkering at one of his
inventions. If you ever find the nest empty, you had
better go up and bang at the laboratory door. He's
always there in the evenings."
</p>
<p>
"I haven't been waiting long," said I, "and I was
just thinking of rousing him up when you came."
</p>
<p>
"That was right," said Thorndyke, turning up the
gas. "And what news do you bring? Do I see a
blue envelope sticking out of your pocket?"
</p>
<p>
"You do."
</p>
<p>
"Is it a copy of the will?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
I answered "yes," and added that I had full permission
to show it to him.
</p>
<p>
"What did I tell you?" exclaimed Jervis. "Didn't
I say that he would get the copy for us if it existed?"
</p>
<p>
"We admit the excellence of your prognosis," said
Thorndyke, "but there is no need to be boastful.
Have you read through the document, Berkeley?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I haven't taken it out of the envelope."
</p>
<p>
"Then it will be equally new to us all, and we shall
see if it tallies with your description."
</p>
<p>
He placed three easy chairs at a convenient distance
from the light, and Jervis, watching him with a smile,
remarked:
</p>
<p>
"Now Thorndyke is going to enjoy himself. To
him, a perfectly unintelligible will is a thing of beauty
and a joy for ever; especially if associated with some
kind of recondite knavery."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," said I, "that this will is particularly
unintelligible. The mischief seems to be that it
is rather too intelligible. However, here it is," and I
handed the envelope to Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"I suppose that we can depend on this copy," said
the latter, as he drew out the document and glanced
at it. "Oh, yes," he added, "I see it is copied by
Godfrey Bellingham, compared with the original and
certified correct. In that case I will get you to read it
out slowly, Jervis, and I will make a rough copy to
keep for reference. Let us make ourselves comfortable
and light our pipes before we begin."
</p>
<p>
He provided himself with a writing-pad, and, when
we had seated ourselves and got our pipes well alight,
Jervis opened the document, and with a premonitory
"hem!" commenced the reading.
</p>
<p>
"In the name of God Amen. This is the last will and
testament of me John Bellingham of number 141 Queen
Square in the parish of St. George Bloomsbury London
in the county of Middlesex Gentleman made this twenty
first day of September in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-two.
</p>
<p>
"1. I give and bequeath unto Arthur Jellicoe of
number 184 New Square Lincoln's Inn London in the
county of Middlesex Attorney-at-law the whole of my
collection of seals and scarabs and those my cabinets
marked B, C, and D together with the contents thereof
and the sum of two thousand pounds sterling free of
legacy duty.
</p>
<p>
"Unto the Trustees of the British Museum the
residue of my collection of antiquities.
</p>
<p>
"Unto my cousin George Hurst of The Poplars Eltham
in the county of Kent the sum of five thousand
pounds free of legacy duty and unto my brother Godfrey
Bellingham or if he should die before the occurrence
of my death unto his daughter Ruth Bellingham
the residue of my estate and effects real and personal
subject to the conditions set forth hereinafter namely:
</p>
<p>
"2. That my body shall be deposited with those of
my ancestors in the churchyard appertaining to the
church and parish of St. George the Martyr or if that
shall not be possible, in some other churchyard, cemetery,
burial ground, church, chapel or other authorised
place for the reception of the bodies of the dead situate
within or appertaining to the parishes of St. Andrew
above the Bars and St. George the Martyr or St.
George Bloomsbury and St. Giles in the Fields. But if
the conditions in this clause be not carried out then
</p>
<p>
"3. I give and devise the said residue of my estate
and effects unto my cousin George Hurst aforesaid
and I hereby revoke all wills and codicils made by me
at any time heretofore and I appoint Arthur Jellicoe
aforesaid to be the executor of this my will jointly with
the principal beneficiary and residuary legatee that is
to say with the aforesaid Godfrey Bellingham if the
conditions set forth hereinbefore in clause 2 shall be
duly carried out but with the aforesaid George Hurst
if the said conditions in the said clause 2 be not carried
out.
</p>
<center>
"JOHN BELLINGHAM.
</center>
<p>
"Signed by the said testator John Bellingham in
the presence of us present at the same time who at his
request and in his presence and in the presence of each
other have subscribed our names as witnesses.
</p>
<p>
"Frederick Wilton, 16 Medford Road, London, N.,
clerk.
</p>
<p>
"James Barker, 32 Wadbury Crescent, London,
S.W., clerk."
</p>
<p>
"Well," said Jervis, laying down the document as
Thorndyke detached the last sheet from his writing-pad,
"I have met with a good many idiotic wills, but
this one can give them all points. I don't see how it is
ever going to be administered. One of the two executors
is a mere abstraction&mdash;a sort of algebraical problem
with no answer."
</p>
<p>
"I think that difficulty could be overcome," said
Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"I don't see how," retorted Jervis. "If the body
is deposited in a certain place, A is the executor; if it
is somewhere else, B is the executor. But, as you cannot
produce the body, and no one has the least idea where
it is, it is impossible to prove either that it is or that it
is not in any specified place."
</p>
<p>
"You are magnifying the difficulty, Jervis," said
Thorndyke. "The body may, of course, be anywhere
in the entire world, but the place where it is lying is
either inside or outside the general boundary of these
two parishes. If it has been deposited within the
boundary of those two parishes, the fact must be ascertainable
by examining the burial certificates issued
since the date when the missing man was last seen alive
and by consulting the registers of those specified places
of burial. I think that if no record can be found of
any such interment within the boundary of those two
parishes, that fact will be taken by the Court as proof
that no such interment has taken place, and that therefore
the body must have been deposited elsewhere.
Such a decision would constitute George Hurst the
co-executor and residuary legatee."
</p>
<p>
"That is cheerful for your friends, Berkeley," Jervis
remarked, "for we may take it as pretty certain that
the body has not been deposited in any of the places
named."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I agreed gloomily, "I'm afraid there is very
little doubt of that. But what an ass the fellow must
have been to make such a to-do about his beastly
carcass? What the deuce could it have mattered
to him where it was dumped, when he had done
with it?"
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke chuckled softly. "Thus the irreverent
youth of to-day," said he. "But yours is hardly a fair
comment, Berkeley. Our training makes us materialists,
and puts us a little out of sympathy with those in
whom primitive beliefs and emotions survive. A worthy
priest who came to look at our dissecting-room expressed
surprise to me that students, thus constantly
in the presence of relics of mortality, should be able to
think of anything but the resurrection and the life hereafter.
He was a bad psychologist. There is nothing
so dead as a dissecting-room 'subject'; and the contemplation
of the human body in the process of being
quietly taken to pieces&mdash;being resolved into its structural
units like a worn-out clock or an old engine in the
Mr. Rapper's yard&mdash;is certainly not conducive to a vivid
realisation of the doctrine of the resurrection."
</p>
<p>
"No; but this absurd anxiety to be buried in some
particular place has nothing to do with religious belief;
it is mere silly sentiment."
</p>
<p>
"It is sentiment, I admit," said Thorndyke, "but
I wouldn't call it silly. The feeling is so widespread in
time and space that we must look on it with respect
as something inherent in human nature. Think&mdash;as
doubtless John Bellingham did&mdash;of the ancient Egyptians,
whose chief aspiration was that of everlasting
repose for the dead. See the trouble they took to
achieve it. Think of the Great Pyramid, or that of
Amenemhat the Fourth with its labyrinth of false passages
and its sealed and hidden sepulchral chamber.
Think of Jacob, borne after death all those hundreds
of weary miles in order that he might sleep with his
fathers, and then remember Shakespeare and his solemn
adjuration to posterity to let him rest undisturbed in
his grave. No, Berkeley, it is not a silly sentiment.
I am as indifferent as you as to what becomes of my
body 'when I have done with it,' to use your irreverent
phrase; but I recognise the solicitude that some other
men display on the subject as a natural feeling that has
to be taken seriously."
</p>
<p>
"But even so," I said, "if this man had a hankering
for a freehold residence in some particular bone-yard,
he might have gone about the business in a more reasonable
way."
</p>
<p>
"There I am entirely with you," Thorndyke replied.
"It is the absurd way in which this provision is worded
that not only creates all the trouble but also makes the
whole document so curiously significant in view of the
testator's disappearance."
</p>
<p>
"How significant?" Jervis demanded eagerly.
</p>
<p>
"Let us consider the provisions of the will point by
point," said Thorndyke; "and first note that the
testator commanded the services of a very capable
lawyer."
</p>
<p>
"But Mr. Jellicoe disapproved of the will," said
I; "in fact, he protested strongly against the form
of it."
</p>
<p>
"We will bear that in mind, too," Thorndyke replied.
"And now with reference to what we may call
the contentious clauses: the first thing that strikes us
is their preposterous injustice. Godfrey's inheritance
is made conditional on a particular disposal of the
testator's body. But this is a matter not necessarily
under Godfrey's control. The testator might have
been lost at sea, or killed in a fire or explosion, or have
died abroad and been buried where his grave could not
be identified. There are numerous probable contingencies
besides the improbable one that has happened,
that might prevent the body from being recovered.
</p>
<p>
"But even if the body had been recovered, there
is another difficulty. The places of burial in the
parishes named have all been closed for many years.
It would be impossible to reopen any of them without
a special faculty, and I doubt whether such a faculty
would be granted. Possibly cremation might meet the
difficulty, but even that is doubtful; and, in any case,
the matter would not be in the control of Godfrey
Bellingham. Yet, if the required interment should
prove impossible, he is to be deprived of his legacy."
</p>
<p>
"It is a monstrous and absurd injustice," I exclaimed.
</p>
<p>
"It is," Thorndyke agreed; "but this is nothing to
the absurdity that comes to light when we consider
clauses two and three in detail. Observe that the
testator presumably wished to be buried in a certain place;
also he wished that his brother should benefit under
the will. Let us take the first point and see how he
has set about securing the accomplishment of what he
desired. Now, if we read clauses two and three carefully,
we shall see that he has rendered it virtually
impossible that his wishes can be carried out. He desires
to be buried in a certain place and makes Godfrey
responsible for his being so buried. But he gives Godfrey
no power or authority to carry out the provision,
and places insuperable obstacles in his way. For until
Godfrey is an executor, he has no power or authority
to carry out the provisions: and until the provisions
are carried out, he does not become an executor."
</p>
<p>
"It is a preposterous muddle," exclaimed Jervis.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, but that is not the worst of it," Thorndyke
continued. "The moment John Bellingham dies, his
dead body has come into existence; and it is 'deposited'
for the time being, wherever he happens to
have died. But unless he should happen to have died
in one of the places of burial mentioned&mdash;which is in
the highest degree unlikely&mdash;his body will be, for the
time being, 'deposited' in some place other than those
specified. In that case clause two is&mdash;for the time
being&mdash;not complied with, and consequently George
Hurst becomes, automatically, the co-executor.
</p>
<p>
"But will George Hurst carry out the provisions of
clause two? Probably not. Why should he? The
will contains no instructions to that effect. It throws
the whole duty on Godfrey. On the other hand, if he
should carry out clause two, what happens? He ceases
to be an executor and he loses a legacy of some seventy
thousand pounds. We may be pretty certain that he
will do nothing of the kind. So that, on considering
the two clauses, we see that the wishes of the testator
could only be carried out in the unlikely event of his
dying in one of the burial-places mentioned, or his body
being conveyed immediately after death to a public
mortuary in one of the said parishes. In any other
event, it is virtually certain that he will be buried in
some place other than that which he desired, and that
his brother will be left absolutely without provision
or recognition."
</p>
<p>
"John Bellingham could never have intended that,"
I said.
</p>
<p>
"Clearly not," agreed Thorndyke; "the provisions
of the will furnish internal evidence that he did not.
You note that he bequeathed five thousand pounds to
George Hurst, in the event of clause two being carried
out; but he has made no bequest to his brother in the
event of its not being carried out. Obviously, he had
not entertained the possibility of this contingency at
all. He assumed, as a matter of course, that the conditions
of clause two would be fulfilled, and regarded
the conditions themselves as a mere formality."
</p>
<p>
"But," Jervis objected, "Jellicoe must have seen
the danger of a miscarriage and pointed it out to his
client."
</p>
<p>
"Exactly," said Thorndyke. "There is the mystery.
We understand that he objected strenuously,
and that John Bellingham was obdurate. Now it is
perfectly understandable that a man should adhere
obstinately to the most stupid and perverse disposition
of his property; but that a man should persist
in retaining a particular form of words after it has been
proved to him that the use of such form will almost
certainly result in the defeat of his own wishes; that,
I say, is a mystery that calls for very careful consideration."
</p>
<p>
"If Jellicoe had been an interested party," said
Jervis, "one would have suspected him of lying low.
But the form of clause two doesn't affect him at all."
</p>
<p>
"No," said Thorndyke; "the person who stands to
profit by the muddle is George Hurst. But we understand
that he was unacquainted with the terms of the
will, and there is certainly nothing to suggest that he
is in any way responsible for it."
</p>
<p>
"The practical question is," said I, "what is going
to happen? and what can be done for the Bellinghams?"
</p>
<p>
"The probability is," Thorndyke replied, "that the
next move will be made by Hurst. He is the party
immediately interested. He will probably apply to the
Court for permission to presume death and administer
the will."
</p>
<p>
"And what will the Court do?"
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke smiled drily. "Now you are asking a
very pretty conundrum. The decisions of Courts depend
on idiosyncrasies of temperament that no one can
foresee. But one may say that a Court does not lightly
grant permission to presume death. There will be a
rigorous inquiry&mdash;and a decidedly unpleasant one, I
suspect&mdash;and the evidence will be reviewed by the judge
with a strong predisposition to regard the testator
as being still alive. On the other hand, the known
facts point very distinctly to the probability that he
is dead; and, if the will were less complicated and all
the interested parties were unanimous in supporting the
application, I don't see why it might not be granted.
But it will clearly be to the interest of Godfrey to
oppose the application, unless he can show that the
conditions of clause two have been complied with&mdash;which
it is virtually certain that he can not; and he
may be able to bring forward reasons for believing
John to be still alive. But even if he is unable to do
this, inasmuch as it is pretty clear that he was intended
to be the chief beneficiary, his opposition is likely to
have considerable weight with the Court."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, is it?" I exclaimed eagerly. "Then that accounts
for a very peculiar proceeding on the part of
Hurst. I have stupidly forgotten to tell you about it.
He has been trying to come to a private agreement
with Godfrey Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
"Indeed!" said Thorndyke. "What sort of agreement?"
</p>
<p>
"His proposal was this: that Godfrey should support
him and Jellicoe in an application to the Court for
permission to presume death and to administer the
will, and that, if it was successful, Hurst should pay
him four hundred pounds a year for life: the arrangement
to hold good in all eventualities."
</p>
<p>
"By which he means?"
</p>
<p>
"That if the body should be discovered at any
future time, so that the conditions of clause two could
be carried out, Hurst should still retain the property
and continue to pay Godfrey the four hundred a year
for life."
</p>
<p>
"Hey ho!" exclaimed Thorndyke; "that is a queer
proposal; a very queer proposal indeed."
</p>
<p>
"Not to say fishy," added Jervis. "I don't fancy
the Court would look with approval on that little
arrangement."
</p>
<p>
"The law does not look with much favour on any
little arrangements that aim at getting behind the provisions
of a will," Thorndyke replied; "though there
would be nothing to complain of in this proposal if it
were not for the reference to 'all eventualities.' If a
will is hopelessly impracticable, it is not unreasonable
or improper for the various beneficiaries to make such
private arrangements among themselves as may seem
necessary to avoid useless litigation and delay in administering
the will. If, for instance, Hurst had proposed
to pay four hundred a year to Godfrey so long
as the body remained undiscovered on condition that,
in the event of its discovery, Godfrey should pay him
a like sum for life, there would have been nothing to
comment upon. It would have been an ordinary sporting
chance. But the reference to 'all eventualities' is
an entirely different matter. Of course, it may be mere
greediness, but all the same, it suggests some very
curious reflections."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, it does," said Jervis. "I wonder if he has
any reason to expect that the body will be found?
Of course it doesn't follow that he has. He may be
merely taking the opportunity offered by the other
man's poverty to make sure of the bulk of the property
whatever happens. But it is uncommonly sharp practice,
to say the least."
</p>
<p>
"Do I understand that Godfrey declined the proposal?"
Thorndyke asked.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, he did, very emphatically; and I fancy that
the two gentlemen proceeded to exchange opinions on
the circumstances of the disappearance with more frankness
than delicacy."
</p>
<p>
"Ah," said Thorndyke, "that is a pity. If the case
comes into Court, there is bound to be a good deal of
unpleasant discussion and still more unpleasant comment
in the newspapers. But if the parties themselves
begin to express suspicions of one another there is no
telling where the matter will end."
</p>
<p>
"No, by Jove!" said Jervis. "If they begin flinging
accusations of murder about, the fat will be in the fire
with a vengeance. That way lies the Old Bailey."
</p>
<p>
"We must try to prevent them from making an
unnecessary scandal," said Thorndyke. "It may be
that an exposure will be unavoidable, and that must
be ascertained in advance. But to return to your
question, Berkeley, as to what is to be done. Hurst
will probably make some move pretty soon. Do you
know if Jellicoe will act with him?"
</p>
<p>
"No, he won't. He declines to take any steps without
Godfrey's assent&mdash;at least, that is what he says
at present. His attitude is one of correct neutrality."
</p>
<p>
"That is satisfactory, so far," said Thorndyke,
"though he may alter his tone when the case comes
into Court. From what you said just now I gathered
that Jellicoe would prefer to have the will administered
and be quit of the whole business; which is natural
enough, especially as he benefits under the will to the
extent of two thousand pounds and a valuable collection.
Consequently, we may fairly assume that, even
if he maintains an apparent neutrality, his influence
will be exerted in favour of Hurst rather than of Bellingham;
from which it follows that Bellingham ought
certainly to be properly advised, and, when the case
goes into Court, properly represented."
</p>
<p>
"He can't afford either the one or the other," said
I. "He's as poor as an insolvent church mouse and
as proud as the devil. He wouldn't accept professional
aid that he couldn't pay for."
</p>
<p>
"H'm," grunted Thorndyke, "that's awkward. But
we can't allow the case to go 'by default,' so to speak&mdash;to
fail for the mere lack of technical assistance. Besides,
it is one of the most interesting cases that I have
ever met with, and I am not going to see it bungled.
He couldn't object to a little general advice in a
friendly, informal way&mdash;<i>amicus curiae</i>, as old Brodribb
is so fond of saying; and there is nothing to prevent us
from pushing forward the preliminary inquiries."
</p>
<p>
"Of what nature would they be?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, to begin with, we have to satisfy ourselves
that the conditions of clause two have not been complied
with: that John Bellingham has not been buried
within the parish boundaries mentioned. Of course he
has not, but we must not take anything for granted.
Then we have to satisfy ourselves that he is not still
alive and accessible. It is perfectly possible that he is,
after all, and it is our business to trace him, if he is
still in the land of the living. Jervis and I can carry out
these investigations without saying anything to Bellingham;
my learned brother will look through the register
of burials&mdash;not forgetting the cremations&mdash;in the metropolitan
area, and I will take the other matter in hand."
</p>
<p>
"You really think that John Bellingham may still
be alive?" said I.
</p>
<p>
"Since his body has not been found, it is obviously
a possibility. I think it in the highest degree improbable,
but the improbable has to be investigated
before it can be excluded."
</p>
<p>
"It sounds like a rather hopeless quest," I remarked.
"How do you propose to begin?"
</p>
<p>
"I think of beginning at the British Museum. The
people there may be able to throw some light on his
movements. I know that there are some important
excavations in progress at Heliopolis&mdash;in fact, the
Director of the Egyptian Department is out there at
the present moment; and Doctor Norbury, who is
taking his place temporarily, is an old friend of John
Bellingham's. I shall call on him and try to discover
if there is anything that might have induced Bellingham
suddenly to go abroad&mdash;to Heliopolis, for instance.
Also, he may be able to tell me what it was that took
the missing man to Paris on that last, rather mysterious
journey. That might turn out to be an important
clue. And meanwhile, Berkeley, you must endeavour
tactfully to reconcile your friend to the idea of letting
us give an eye to the case. Make it clear to him that
I am doing this entirely for the enlargement of my own
knowledge."
</p>
<p>
"But won't you have to be instructed by a solicitor?"
I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, of course, nominally; but only as a matter
of etiquette. We shall do all the actual work. Why
do you ask?"
</p>
<p>
"I was thinking of the solicitor's costs, and I was
going to mention that I have a little money of my
own&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Then keep it, my dear fellow. You'll want it when
you go into practice. There will be no difficulty about
the solicitor; I shall ask one of my friends to act
nominally as a personal favour to me&mdash;Marchmont
would take the case for us, Jervis, I am sure."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Jervis. "Or old Brodribb, if we put it
to him <i>amicus curiae</i>."
</p>
<p>
"It is excessively kind of both of you to take this
benevolent interest in the case of my friends," I said;
"and it is to be hoped that they won't be foolishly
proud and stiff-necked about it. It's rather the way
with poor gentlefolk."
</p>
<p>
"I'll tell you what!" exclaimed Jervis. "I have a
most brilliant idea. You shall give us a little supper
at your rooms and invite the Bellinghams to meet us.
Then you and I will attack the old gentleman, and
Thorndyke shall exercise his persuasive powers on the
lady. These chronic and incurable old bachelors, you
know, are quite irresistible."
</p>
<p>
"You observe that my respected junior condemns
me to lifelong celibacy," Thorndyke remarked. "But,"
he added, "his suggestion is quite a good one. Of
course, we mustn't put any sort of pressure on Bellingham
to employ us&mdash;for that is what it amounts to, even
if we accept no payment&mdash;but a friendly talk over the
supper-table would enable us to put the matter delicately
and yet convincingly."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said I, "I see that, and I like the idea immensely.
But it won't be possible for several days,
because I've got a job that takes up all my spare time&mdash;and
that I ought to be at work on now," I added,
with a sudden qualm at the way in which I had forgotten
the passage of time in the interest of Thorndyke's
analysis.
</p>
<p>
My two friends looked at me inquiringly, and I felt
it necessary to explain about the injured hand and the
Tell el Amarna tablets; which I accordingly did, rather
shyly and with a nervous eye upon Jervis. The slow
grin, however, for which I was watching, never came;
on the contrary, he not only heard me through quite
gravely, but when I had finished said with some warmth,
and using my old hospital pet name:
</p>
<p>
"I'll say one thing for you, Polly; you're a good
chum, and you always were. I hope your Nevill's
Court friends appreciate the fact."
</p>
<p>
"They are far more appreciative than the occasion
warrants," I answered. "But to return to this supper
question: how will this day week suit you?"
</p>
<p>
"It will suit me," Thorndyke answered, with a glance
at his junior.
</p>
<p>
"And me too," said the latter; "so, if it will do
for the Bellinghams, we will consider it settled; but
if they can't come you must fix another night."
</p>
<p>
"Very well," I said, rising and knocking out my
pipe, "I will issue the invitation to-morrow. And
now I must be off to have another slog at those notes."
</p>
<p>
As I walked homewards I speculated cheerfully on
the prospect of entertaining my friends under my own
(or rather Barnard's) roof, if they could be lured out
of their eremitical retirement. The idea had, in fact,
occurred to me already, but I had been deterred by
the peculiarities of Barnard's housekeeper. For Mrs.
Gummer was one of those housewives who make up
for an archaic simplicity of production by preparations
on the most portentous and alarming scale. But this
time I would not be deterred. If only the guests could
be enticed into my humble lair, it would be easy to
furnish the raw materials of the feast from outside;
and the consideration of ways and means occupied me
pleasantly until I found myself once more at my writing-table,
confronted by my voluminous notes on the incident
of the North Syrian War.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH8"><!-- CH8 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER VIII
</h2>

<h3>
A MUSEUM IDYLL
</h3>
<p>
Whether it was that practice revived a forgotten
skill on my part, or that Miss Bellingham had over-estimated
the amount of work to be done, I am unable
to say. But whichever may have been the explanation,
the fact is that the fourth afternoon saw our task
so nearly completed that I was fain to plead that a
small remainder might be left over to form an excuse
for yet one more visit to the reading-room.
</p>
<p>
Short, however, as had been the period of our
collaboration, it had been long enough to produce a
great change in our relations to one another. For there
is no friendship so intimate and satisfying as that engendered
by community of work, and none&mdash;between
man and woman, at any rate&mdash;so frank and wholesome.
</p>
<p>
Every day I had arrived to find a pile of books with
the places duly marked and the blue covered quarto
note-books in readiness. Every day we had worked
steadily at the allotted task, had then handed in the
books and gone forth together to enjoy a most companionable
tea in the milk-shop; thereafter to walk
home by way of Queen Square, talking over the day's
work and discussing the state of the world in the far-off
days when Ahkhenaten was king and the Tell el Amarna
tablets were a-writing.
</p>
<p>
It had been a pleasant time, so pleasant, that as I
handed in the books for the last time, I sighed to think
that it was over; that not only was the task finished,
but that the recovery of my fair patient's hand, from
which I had that morning removed the splint, had put
an end to the need of my help.
</p>
<p>
"What shall we do?" I asked, as we came out into
the central hall; "it is too early for tea. Shall we go
and look at some of the galleries?"
</p>
<p>
"Why not?" she answered. "We might look over
some of the things connected with what we have been
doing. For instance, there is a relief of Ahkhenaten
upstairs in the Third Egyptian Room; we might go
and look at that."
</p>
<p>
I fell in eagerly with the suggestion, placing myself
under her experienced guidance, and we started by way
of the Roman Gallery, past the long row of extremely
commonplace and modern-looking Roman Emperors.
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," she said, pausing for a moment
opposite a bust labelled "Trajan" (but obviously a
portrait of Phil May), "how I am ever even to thank
you for all that you have done? to say nothing of
repayment."
</p>
<p>
"There is no need to do either," I replied. "I
have enjoyed working with you, so I have had my
reward. But still," I added, "if you want to do me
a great kindness, you have it in your power."
</p>
<p>
"How?"
</p>
<p>
"In connection with my friend Doctor Thorndyke.
I told you he was an enthusiast. Now he is,
for some reason, most keenly interested in everything
relating to your uncle, and I happen to know that,
if any legal proceedings should take place, he would
very much like to keep a friendly eye on the case."
</p>
<p>
"And what do you want me to do?"
</p>
<p>
"I want you, if an opportunity should occur for
him to give your father advice or help of any kind,
to use your influence with your father in favour of,
rather than in opposition to, his accepting it&mdash;always
assuming that you have no real feeling against his
doing so."
</p>
<p>
Miss Bellingham looked at me thoughtfully for a
few moments, and then laughed softly.
</p>
<p>
"So the great kindness that I am to do you is to
let you do me a further kindness through your friend!"
</p>
<p>
"No," I protested; "that is where you are quite
mistaken. It isn't benevolence on Doctor Thorndyke's
part; it is professional enthusiasm."
</p>
<p>
She smiled sceptically.
</p>
<p>
"You don't believe in it," I said; "but consider
other cases. Why does a surgeon get out of bed on
a winter's night to do an emergency operation at a
hospital? He doesn't get paid for it. Do you think
it is altruism?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, of course. Isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly not. He does it because it is his job,
because it is his business to fight with disease&mdash;and
win."
</p>
<p>
"I don't see much difference," she said. "It is work
done for love instead of for payment. However, I
will do what you ask if the opportunity arises; but
I shan't suppose that I am repaying your kindness
to me."
</p>
<p>
"I don't mind, so long as you do it," I said, and we
walked on for some time in silence.
</p>
<p>
"Isn't it odd," she said presently, "how our talk
always seems to come back to my uncle? Oh, and
that reminds me that the things he gave to the Museum
are in the same room as the Ahkhenaten relief. Would
you like to see them?"
</p>
<p>
"Of course I should."
</p>
<p>
"Then we will go and look at them first." She
paused, and then, rather shyly and with a rising colour,
she continued: "And I think I should like to introduce
you to a very dear friend of mine&mdash;with your permission,
of course."
</p>
<p>
This last addition she made hastily, seeing, I suppose,
that I looked rather glum at the suggestion. Inwardly
I consigned her friend to the devil, especially if
of the masculine gender; outwardly I expressed my
felicity at making the acquaintance of any person
whom she should honour with her friendship. Whereat,
to my discomfiture, she laughed enigmatically; a very
soft laugh, low-pitched and musical, like the cooing of
a glorified pigeon.
</p>
<p>
I strolled on by her side, speculating a little anxiously
on the coming introduction. Was I being conducted
to the lair of one of the savants attached to the establishment?
and would he add a superfluous third
to our little party of two, so complete and companionable,
<i>solus cum sola</i>, in this populated wilderness?
Above all, would he turn out to be a comely young
man, and bring my aerial castles tumbling about my
ears? The shy look and the blush with which she had
suggested the introduction were ominous indications,
upon which I mused gloomily as we ascended the stairs
and passed through the wide doorway. I glanced
apprehensively at my companion, and met a quiet,
inscrutable smile; and at that moment she halted outside
a wall-case and faced me.
</p>
<p>
"This is my friend," she said. "Let me present
you to Artemidorus, late of the Fayyum. Oh, don't
smile!" she pleaded. "I am quite serious. Have you
never heard of pious Catholics who cherish a devotion
to some long-departed saint? That is my feeling towards
Artemidorus, and if you only knew what comfort
he has shed into the heart of a lonely woman; what
a quiet, unobtrusive friend he has been to me in my
solitary, friendless days, always ready with a kindly
greeting on his gentle, thoughtful face, you would like
him for that alone. And I want you to like him and
to share our silent friendship. Am I very silly, very
sentimental?"
</p>
<p>
A wave of relief had swept over me, and the mercury
of my emotional thermometer, which had shrunk almost
into the bulb, leaped up to summer heat. How charming
it was of her and how sweetly intimate, to wish
to share this mystical friendship with me! And what
a pretty conceit it was, too, and how like this strange,
inscrutable maiden, to come here and hold silent converse
with this long-departed Greek. And the pathos
of it all touched me deeply amidst the joy of this newborn
intimacy.
</p>
<p>
"Are you scornful?" she asked, with a shade of
disappointment, as I made no reply.
</p>
<p>
"No, indeed I am not," I answered earnestly. "I
want to make you aware of my sympathy and my
appreciation without offending you by seeming to exaggerate,
and I don't know how to express it."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, never mind about the expression, so long as
you feel it. I thought you would understand," and
she gave me a smile that made me tingle to my finger-tips.
</p>
<p>
We stood awhile gazing in silence at the mummy&mdash;for
such, indeed, was her friend Artemidorus. But not
an ordinary mummy. Egyptian in form, it was entirely
Greek in feeling; and brightly coloured as it
was, in accordance with the racial love of colour, the
tasteful refinement with which the decoration of the
case was treated made those around look garish and
barbaric. But the most striking feature was a charming
panel portrait which occupied the place of the
usual mask. This painting was a revelation to me.
Except that it was executed in tempera instead of
oil, it differed in no respect from modern work. There
was nothing archaic or even ancient about it. With
its freedom of handling and its correct rendering of
light and shade, it might have been painted yesterday;
indeed, enclosed in an ordinary gilt frame, it might
have passed without remark in an exhibition of modern
portraits.
</p>
<p>
Miss Bellingham observed my admiration and smiled
approvingly.
</p>
<p>
"It is a charming little portrait, isn't it?" she said;
"and such a sweet face, too; so thoughtful and human
with just a shade of melancholy. But the whole thing
is full of charm. I fell in love with it the first time
I saw it. And it is so Greek!"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, it is, in spite of the Egyptian gods and
symbols."
</p>
<p>
"Rather because of them, I think," said she. "There
we have the typical Greek attitude, the genial, cultivated
eclecticism that appreciated the fitness of even
the most alien forms of art. There is Anubis standing
beside the bier; there are Isis and Nephthys, and there
below, Horus and Tahuti. But we can't suppose that
Artemidorus worshipped or believed in those gods.
They are there because they are splendid decoration
and perfectly appropriate in character. The real feeling
of those who loved the dead man breaks out in
the inscription." She pointed to a band below the
pectoral, where, in gilt capital letters, was written the
two words, "&Alpha;&Rho;&Tau;&Epsilon;&Mu;&Iota;&Delta;&Omega;&Rho;&Epsilon;
&Epsilon;&Upsilon;&Psi;&Upsilon;&Chi;&Iota;."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I said, "it is very dignified and very human."
</p>
<p>
"And so sincere and full of real emotion," she added.
"I find it unspeakably touching. 'O Artemidorus,
farewell!' There is the real note of human grief, the
sorrow of eternal parting. How much finer it is than
the vulgar boastfulness of the Semitic epitaphs, or
our own miserable, insincere make-believe of the 'Not
lost but gone before' type. He was gone from them
for ever; they would look on his face and hear his
voice no more; they realised that this was their last
farewell. Oh, there is a world of love and sorrow in
those two simple words!"
</p>
<p>
For some time neither of us spoke. The glamour
of this touching memorial of a long-buried grief had
stolen over me, and I was content to stand silent by
my beloved companion and revive, with a certain pensive
pleasure, the ghosts of human emotions over which
so many centuries had rolled. Presently she turned
to me with a frank smile. "You have been weighed
in the balance of friendship," she said, "and not found
wanting. You have the gift of sympathy, even with
a woman's sentimental fancies."
</p>
<p>
I suspected that a good many men would have developed
this precious quality under the circumstances,
but I refrained from saying so. There is no use in
crying down one's own wares. I was glad enough to
have earned her good opinion so easily, and when she
at length turned away from the case and passed
through into the adjoining room, it was a very complacent
young man who bore her company.
</p>
<p>
"Here is Ahkhenaten&mdash;or Khu-en-aten, as the
authorities here render the hieroglyphics." She indicated
a fragment of a coloured relief labelled:
"Portion of a painted stone tablet with a portrait
figure of Amen-hetep IV," and we stopped to look at
the frail, effeminate figure of the great king, with his
large cranium, his queer, pointed chin and the Aten
rays stretching out their weird hands as if caressing
him.
</p>
<p>
"We mustn't stay here if you want to see my uncle's
gift, because this room closes at four to-day." With
this admonition she moved on to the other end of the
room, where she halted before a large floor-case containing
a mummy and a large number of other objects.
A black label with white lettering set forth the various
contents with a brief explanation as follows:
</p>
<p>
"Mummy of Sebek-hotep, a scribe of the twenty-second
dynasty, together with the objects found in
the tomb. These include the four Canopic jars, in
which the internal organs were deposited, the Ushabti
figures, tomb provisions and various articles that had
belonged to the deceased; his favourite chair, his head-rest,
his ink-palette, inscribed with his name and the
name of the king, Osorkon I, in whose reign he lived,
and other smaller articles. Presented by John Bellingham, Esq."
</p>
<p>
"They have put all the objects together in one case,"
Miss Bellingham explained, "to show the contents of
an ordinary tomb of the better class. You see that the
dead man was provided with all his ordinary comforts:
provisions, furniture, the ink-palette that he had been
accustomed to use in writing on papyri, and a staff
of servants to wait on him."
</p>
<p>
"Where are the servants?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"The little Ushabti figures," she answered; "they
were the attendants of the dead, you know, his servants
in the under-world. It was a quaint idea, wasn't it?
But it was all very complete and consistent, and quite
reasonable, too, if once one accepts the belief in the
persistence of the individual apart from the body."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I agreed, "and that is the only fair way to
judge a religious system, by taking the main beliefs
for granted. But what a business it must have been,
bringing all these things from Egypt to London."
</p>
<p>
"It was worth the trouble, though, for it is a fine
and instructive collection. And the work is all very
good of its kind. You notice that the Ushabti figures
and the heads that form the stoppers of the Canopic
jars are quite finely modelled. The mummy itself, too,
is rather handsome, though that coat of bitumen on
the back doesn't improve it. But Sebek-hotep must
have been a fine-looking man."
</p>
<p>
"The mask on the case is a portrait, I suppose?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes; in fact, it is rather more. To some extent
it is the actual face of the man himself. This mummy
is enclosed in what is called a cartonnage, that is a
case moulded on the figure. The cartonnage, was formed
of a number of layers of linen or papyrus united by
glue or cement, and when the case had been fitted
to the mummy it was moulded to the body, so that the
general form of the features and limbs was often
apparent. After the cement was dry the case was
covered with a thin layer of stucco and the face
modelled more completely, and then the decorations
and inscriptions were painted on. So that, you see,
in a cartonnage, the body was sealed up like a nut in
its shell, unlike the more ancient forms in which the
mummy was merely rolled up and enclosed in a wooden
coffin."
</p>
<p>
At this moment there smote upon our ears a politely
protesting voice announcing in sing-song tones that
it was closing time; and simultaneously a desire for
tea suggested the hospitable milk-shop. With leisurely
dignity that ignored the official who shepherded us
along the galleries, we made our way to the entrance,
still immersed in conversation on matters sepulchral.
</p>
<p>
It was rather earlier than our usual hour for leaving
the Museum and, moreover, it was our last day&mdash;for
the present. Wherefore we lingered over our tea to
an extent that caused the milk-shop lady to view us
with some disfavour, and when at length we started
homeward, we took so many short cuts that six o'clock
found us no nearer our destination than Lincoln's Inn
Fields; whither we had journeyed by a slightly indirect
route that traversed (among other places) Russell
Square, Red Lion Square, with the quaint passage of
the same name, Bedford Row, Jockey's Fields, Hand
Court, and Great Turnstile.
</p>
<p>
It was in the latter thoroughfare that our attention
was attracted by a flaming poster outside a newsvendor's
bearing the startling inscription:
</p>
<p><b>
"MORE MEMENTOES OF MURDERED MAN."
</b></p>
<p>
Miss Bellingham glanced at the poster and shuddered.
</p>
<p>
"Horrible! Isn't it?" she said. "Have you read
about them?"
</p>
<p>
"I haven't been noticing the papers the last few,
days," I replied.
</p>
<p>
"No, of course you haven't. You've been slaving
at those wretched notes. We don't very often see the
papers, at least we don't take them in, but Miss Oman
has kept us supplied during the last day or two. She
is a perfect little ghoul; she delights in horrors of
every kind, and the more horrible the better."
</p>
<p>
"But," I asked, "what is it that they have found?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, they are the remains of some poor creature
who seems to have been murdered and cut in pieces.
It is dreadful. It made me shudder to read of it, for
I couldn't help thinking of poor Uncle John, and, as
for my father, he was really quite upset."
</p>
<p>
"Are these the bones that were found in a watercress-bed
at Sidcup?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. But they have found several more. The
police have been most energetic. They seem to have
been making a systematic search, and the result has
been that they have discovered several portions of the
body, scattered about in very widely separated places&mdash;Sidcup,
Lee, St. Mary Cray; and yesterday it was
reported that an arm had been found in one of the
ponds called 'the Cuckoo Pits,' close to our old home."
</p>
<p>
"What! in Essex?" I exclaimed.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, in Epping Forest, quite near Woodford.
Isn't it dreadful to think of it? They were probably
hidden when we were living there. I think it was that
that horrified my father so much. When he read it he
was so upset that he gathered up the whole bundle
of newspapers and tossed them out of the window; and
they blew over the wall, and poor Miss Oman had to
rush out and pursue them up the court."
</p>
<p>
"Do you think he suspects that these remains may
be those of your uncle?"
</p>
<p>
"I think so, though he has said nothing to that
effect, and, of course, I have not made any such suggestion
to him. We always preserve the fiction between
ourselves of believing that Uncle John is still
alive."
</p>
<p>
"But you don't think he is, do you?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I am afraid I don't; and I feel pretty sure
that my father doesn't think so either, but he doesn't
like to admit it to me."
</p>
<p>
"Do you happen to remember what bones have been
found?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I don't. I know that an arm was found in
the Cuckoo Pits, and I think a thigh-bone was dredged
up out of a pond near St. Mary Cray. But Miss Oman
will be able to tell you all about it, if you are interested.
She will be delighted to meet a kindred spirit," Miss
Bellingham added, with a smile.
</p>
<p>
"I don't know that I want to claim spiritual kinship
with a ghoul," said I; "especially such a very sharp-tempered
ghoul."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, don't disparage her, Doctor Berkeley!" Miss
Bellingham pleaded. "She isn't really bad-tempered;
only a little prickly on the surface. I oughtn't to have
called her a ghoul; she is just the sweetest, most
affectionate, most unselfish little angelic human hedgehog
that you could find if you travelled the wide world
through. Do you know that she has been working her
fingers to the bone making an old dress of mine presentable
because she is so anxious that I shall look
nice at your little supper-party."
</p>
<p>
"You are sure to do that, in any case," I said; "but
I withdraw my remark as to her temper unreservedly.
And I really didn't mean it, you know; I have always
liked the little lady."
</p>
<p>
"That's right; and now won't you come in and have
a few minutes' chat with my father? We are quite
early, in spite of the short cuts."
</p>
<p>
I assented readily, and the more so inasmuch as I
wanted a few words with Miss Oman on the subject of
catering and did not want to discuss it before my
friends. Accordingly I went in and gossiped with Mr.
Bellingham, chiefly about the work that we had done
at the Museum, until it was time for me to return to
the surgery.
</p>
<p>
Having taken my leave, I walked down the stairs
with reflective slowness and as much creaking of my
boots as I could manage; with the result, hopefully
anticipated, that as I approached the door of Miss
Oman's room it opened and the lady's head protruded.
</p>
<p>
"I'd change my cobbler if I were you," she said.
</p>
<p>
I thought of the "angelic human hedgehog," and
nearly sniggered in her face.
</p>
<p>
"I am sure you would, Miss Oman, instantly; though,
mind you, the poor fellow can't help his looks."
</p>
<p>
"You are a very flippant young man," she said
severely. Whereat I grinned, and she regarded me
silently with a baleful glare. Suddenly I remembered
my mission and became serious and sober.
</p>
<p>
"Miss Oman," I said, "I very much want to take
your advice on a matter of some importance&mdash;to me,
at least." (That ought to fetch her, I thought.) The
"advice fly"&mdash;strangely neglected by Izaak Walton&mdash;is
guaranteed to kill in any weather. And it did fetch
her. She rose in a flash and gorged it, cock's feathers,
worsted body and all.
</p>
<p>
"What is it about?" she asked eagerly. "But don't
stand out there where everybody can hear but me.
Come in and sit down."
</p>
<p>
Now, I didn't want to discuss the matter here, and,
besides, there was not time. I therefore assumed an
air of mystery.
</p>
<p>
"I can't, Miss Oman. I'm due at the surgery now.
But if you should be passing and should have a few
minutes to spare, I should be greatly obliged if you
would look in. I really don't quite know how to act."
</p>
<p>
"No, I expect not. Men very seldom do. But
you're better than most, for you know when you are
in difficulties and have the sense to consult a woman.
But what is it about? Perhaps I might be thinking
it over."
</p>
<p>
"Well, you know," I began evasively, "it's a simple
matter, but I can't very well&mdash;no, by Jove!" I added,
looking at my watch, "I must run, or I shall keep the
multitude waiting." And with this I bustled away,
leaving her literally dancing with curiosity.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH9"><!-- CH9 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER IX
</h2>

<h3>
THE SPHINX OF LINCOLN'S INN
</h3>
<p>
At the age of twenty-six one cannot claim to have
attained to the position of a person of experience.
Nevertheless, the knowledge of human nature accumulated
in that brief period sufficed to make me feel pretty
confident that, at some time during the evening, I should
receive a visit from Miss Oman. And circumstances
justified my confidence; for the clock yet stood at two
minutes to seven when a premonitory tap at the surgery
door heralded her arrival.
</p>
<p>
"I happened to be passing," she explained, and I
forbore to smile at the coincidence, "so I thought I
might as well drop in and hear what you wanted to
ask me about."
</p>
<p>
She seated herself in the patients' chair and, laying
a bundle of newspapers on the table, glared at me
expectantly.
</p>
<p>
"Thank you, Miss Oman," I said. "It is very good
of you to look in on me. I am ashamed to give you
all this trouble about such a trifling matter."
</p>
<p>
She rapped her knuckles impatiently on the table.
</p>
<p>
"Never mind about the trouble," she exclaimed
tartly. "What&mdash;is&mdash;it&mdash;that&mdash;you&mdash;want&mdash;to&mdash;<i>ask</i>&mdash;me about?"
</p>
<p>
I stated my difficulties in respect of the supper-party,
and, as I proceeded, an expression of disgust
and disappointment spread over her countenance.
"I don't see why you need have been so mysterious
about it," she said glumly.
</p>
<p>
"I didn't mean to be mysterious; I was only anxious
not to make a mess of the affair. It's all very fine to
assume a lofty scorn of the pleasures of the table, but
there is great virtue in a really good feed, especially
when low-living and high-thinking have been the order
of the day."
</p>
<p>
"Coarsely put," said Miss Oman, "but perfectly
true."
</p>
<p>
"Very well. Now, if I leave the management to
Mrs. Gummer, she will probably provide a tepid Irish
stew with flakes of congealed fat on it, and a plastic
suet-pudding or something of that kind, and turn the
house upside-down in getting it ready. So I thought
of having a cold spread and getting the things in from
outside. But I don't want it to look as if I had been
making enormous preparations."
</p>
<p>
"They won't think the things came down from
heaven," said Miss Oman.
</p>
<p>
"No, I suppose they won't. But you know what I
mean. Now, where do you advise me to go for the raw
materials of conviviality?"
</p>
<p>
Miss Oman reflected. "You'd better let me do your
shopping and manage the whole business," was her
final verdict.
</p>
<p>
This was precisely what I had wanted, and I accepted
thankfully, regardless of the feelings of Mrs. Gummer.
I handed her two pounds, and, after some protests at
my extravagance, she bestowed them in her purse; a
process that occupied time, since that receptacle, besides
and time-stained bills, already bulged with a lading of
draper's samples, ends of tape, a card of linen buttons,
another of hooks and eyes, a lump of beeswax, a rat-eaten
stump of lead-pencil, and other trifles that I
have forgotten. As she closed the purse at the imminent
risk of wrenching off its fastenings she looked at
me severely and pursed up her lips.
</p>
<p>
"You're a very plausible young man," she remarked.
</p>
<p>
"What makes you say that?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Philandering about museums," she continued,
"with handsome young ladies on the pretence of work.
Work, indeed! Oh, I heard her telling her father
about it. She thinks you were perfectly enthralled by
the mummies and dried cats and chunks of stone and
all the other trash. She doesn't know what humbugs
men are."
</p>
<p>
"Really, Miss Oman&mdash;" I began.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, don't talk to me!" she snapped. "I can see
it all. You can't impose on <i>me</i>. I can see you staring
into those glass cases, egging her on to talk and listening
open-mouthed and bulging-eyed and sitting at her
feet&mdash;now, didn't you?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know about sitting at her feet," I said,
"though it might easily have come to that with those
infernal slippery floors; but I had a very jolly time,
and I mean to go again if I can. Miss Bellingham is
the cleverest and most accomplished woman I have ever
spoken to."
</p>
<p>
This was a poser for Miss Oman, whose admiration
and loyalty, I knew, were only equalled by my own.
She would have liked to contradict me, but the thing
was impossible. To cover her defeat she snatched up
the bundle of newspapers and began to open them out.
</p>
<p>
"What sort of stuff is 'hibernation'?" she demanded
suddenly.
</p>
<p>
"Hibernation!" I exclaimed.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. They found a patch of it on a bone that was
discovered in a pond at St. Mary Cray, and a similar
patch on one that was found at some place in Essex.
Now, I want to know what 'hibernation' is."
</p>
<p>
"You must mean 'eburnation,'" I said, after a
moment's reflection.
</p>
<p>
"The newspapers say 'hibernation,' and I suppose
they know what they are talking about. If you don't
know what it is, don't be ashamed to say so."
</p>
<p>
"Well, then, I don't."
</p>
<p>
"In that case you'd better read the papers and find
out," she said, a little illogically. And then: "Are
you fond of murders? I am, awfully."
</p>
<p>
"What a shocking little ghoul you must be!" I exclaimed.
</p>
<p>
She stuck out her chin at me. "I'll trouble you,"
she said, "to be a little more respectful in your language.
Do you realise that I am old enough to be
your mother?"
</p>
<p>
"Impossible!" I ejaculated.
</p>
<p>
"Fact," said Miss Oman.
</p>
<p>
"Well, anyhow," said I, "age is not the only qualification.
And, besides, you are too late for the billet.
The vacancy's filled."
</p>
<p>
Miss Oman slapped the papers down on the table
and rose abruptly.
</p>
<p>
"You had better read the papers and see if you can
learn a little sense," she said severely as she turned to
go. "Oh, and don't forget the finger!" she added
eagerly. "That is really thrilling."
</p>
<p>
"The finger?" I repeated.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. They found a hand with one finger missing.
The police think it is a highly important clue. I don't
know quite what they mean; but you read the account
and tell me what you think."
</p>
<p>
With this parting injunction she bustled out through
the surgery, and I followed to bid her a ceremonious
adieu on the doorstep. I watched her little figure tripping
with quick, bird-like steps down Fetter Lane,
and was about to turn back into the surgery when my
attention was attracted by the evolutions of an elderly
gentleman on the opposite side of the street. He was
a somewhat peculiar-looking man, tall, gaunt, and bony,
and the way in which he carried his head suggested
to the medical mind a pronounced degree of near sight
and a pair of "deep" spectacle glasses. Suddenly
he espied me and crossed the road with his chin thrust
forward and a pair of keen blue eyes directed at me
through the centres of his spectacles.
</p>
<p>
"I wonder if you can and will help me," said he,
with a courteous salute. "I wish to call on an acquaintance,
and I have forgotten his address. It is in
some court, but the name of that court has escaped
me for the moment. My friend's name is Bellingham.
I suppose you don't chance to know it? Doctors know
a great many people, as a rule."
</p>
<p>
"Do you mean Mr. Godfrey Bellingham?"
</p>
<p>
"Ah! Then you do know him. I have not consulted
the oracle in vain. He is a patient of yours, no
doubt?"
</p>
<p>
"A patient and a personal friend. His address is
Forty-nine Nevill's Court."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you, thank you. Oh, and as you are a
friend, perhaps you can inform me as to the customs
of the household. I am not expected, and I do not
wish to make an untimely visit. What are Mr. Bellingham's
habits as to his evening meal? Would this be
a convenient time to call?"
</p>
<p>
"I generally make my evening visits a little later
than this&mdash;say about half-past eight; they have
finished their meal by then."
</p>
<p>
"Ah! half-past eight, then? Then I suppose I had
better take a walk until that time. I don't want to
disturb them."
</p>
<p>
"Would you care to come in and smoke a cigar until
it is time to make your call? If you would, I could
walk over with you and show you the house."
</p>
<p>
"That is very kind of you," said my new acquaintance,
with an inquisitive glance at me through his spectacles.
"I think I should like to sit down. It's a dull
affair, mooning about the streets, and there isn't time
to go back to my chambers&mdash;in Lincoln's Inn."
</p>
<p>
"I wonder," said I, as I ushered him into the room
lately vacated by Miss Oman, "if you happen to be
Mr. Jellicoe?"
</p>
<p>
He turned his spectacles full on me with a keen,
suspicious glance. "What makes you think I am Mr.
Jellicoe?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, only that you live in Lincoln's Inn."
</p>
<p>
"Ha! I see. I live in Lincoln's Inn; Mr. Jellicoe
lives in Lincoln's Inn; therefore I am Mr. Jellicoe.
Ha! ha! Bad logic, but a correct conclusion. Yes,
I am Mr. Jellicoe. What do you know about
me?"
</p>
<p>
"Mighty little, excepting that you were the late
John Bellingham's man of business."
</p>
<p>
"The '<i>late</i> John Bellingham,' hey! How do you
know he is the late John Bellingham?"
</p>
<p>
"As a matter of fact, I don't; only I rather understood
that that was your own belief."
</p>
<p>
"You understood! Now, from whom did you
'understand' that? From Godfrey Bellingham?
H'm! And how did he know what I believe? I never
told him. It is a very unsafe thing, my dear sir, to
expound another man's beliefs."
</p>
<p>
"Then you think that John Bellingham is alive?"
</p>
<p>
"Do I? Who said so? I did not, you know."
</p>
<p>
"But he must be either dead or alive."
</p>
<p>
"There," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I am entirely with you.
You have stated an undeniable truth."
</p>
<p>
"It is not a very illuminating one, however," I replied,
laughing.
</p>
<p>
"Undeniable truths often are not," he retorted.
"They are apt to be extremely general. In fact, I
would affirm that the certainty of the truth of a
given proposition is directly proportional to its
generality."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose that is so," said I.
</p>
<p>
"Undoubtedly. Take an instance from your own
profession. Given a million normal human beings
under twenty, and you can say with certainty that a
majority of them will die before reaching a certain
age, that they will die in certain circumstances and of
certain diseases. Then take a single unit from that
million, and what can you predict concerning him?
Nothing. He may die to-morrow; he may live to a
couple of hundred. He may die of a cold in the head
or a cut finger, or from falling off the cross of St.
Paul's. In a particular case you can predict nothing."
</p>
<p>
"That is perfectly true," said I. And then, realising
that I had been led away from the topic of John Bellingham, I
ventured to return to it.
</p>
<p>
"That was a very mysterious affair&mdash;the disappearance
of John Bellingham, I mean."
</p>
<p>
"Why mysterious?" asked Mr. Jellicoe. "Men disappear
from time to time, and when they reappear, the
explanations that they give (when they give any) seem
to be more or less adequate."
</p>
<p>
"But the circumstances were surely rather mysterious."
</p>
<p>
"What circumstances?" asked Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"I mean the way in which he vanished from Mr.
Hurst's house."
</p>
<p>
"In what way did he vanish from it?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, of course, I don't know."
</p>
<p>
"Precisely. Neither do I. Therefore I can't say
whether that way was a mysterious one or not."
</p>
<p>
"It is not even certain that he did leave it," I remarked,
rather recklessly.
</p>
<p>
"Exactly," said Mr. Jellicoe. "And if he did not,
he is there still. And if he is there still, he has not
disappeared&mdash;in the sense understood. And if he has
not disappeared, there is no mystery."
</p>
<p>
I laughed heartily, but Mr. Jellicoe preserved a
wooden solemnity and continued to examine me through
his spectacles (which I, in my turn, inspected and
estimated at about minus five dioptres). There was
something highly diverting about this grim lawyer, with
his dry contentiousness and almost farcical caution.
His ostentatious reserve encouraged me to ply him with
fresh questions, the more indiscreet the better.
</p>
<p>
"I suppose," said I, "that, under these circumstances,
you would hardly favour Mr. Hurst's proposal
to apply for permission to presume death?"
</p>
<p>
"Under what circumstances?" he inquired.
</p>
<p>
"I was referring to the doubt you have expressed as
to whether John Bellingham is, after all, really dead."
</p>
<p>
"My dear sir," said he, "I fail to see your point.
If it were certain that the man was alive, it would be
impossible to presume that he was dead; and if it were
certain that he was dead, presumption of death would
still be impossible. You do not presume a certainty.
The uncertainty is of the essence of the transaction."
</p>
<p>
"But," I persisted, "if you really believe that he
may be alive, I should hardly have thought that you
would take the responsibility of presuming his death
and dispersing his property."
</p>
<p>
"I don't," said Mr. Jellicoe. "I take no responsibility.
I act in accordance with the decision of the
Court and have no choice in the matter."
</p>
<p>
"But the Court may decide that he is dead and he
may nevertheless be alive."
</p>
<p>
"Not at all. If the Court decides that he is presumably
dead, then he is presumably dead. As a mere
irrelevant, physical circumstance he may, it is true, be
alive. But legally speaking, and for testamentary purposes,
he is dead. You fail to perceive the distinction,
no doubt?"
</p>
<p>
"I am afraid I do," I admitted.
</p>
<p>
"Yes; members of your profession usually do. That
is what makes them such bad witnesses in a court of
law. The scientific outlook is radically different from
the legal. The man of science relies on his own knowledge
and observation and judgment, and disregards
testimony. A man comes to you and tells you he is
blind in one eye. Do you accept his statement? Not
in the least. You proceed to test his eyesight with
some infernal apparatus of coloured glasses, and you
find that he can see perfectly well with both eyes.
Then you decide that he is not blind in one eye; that
is to say, you reject his testimony in favour of facts
of your own ascertaining."
</p>
<p>
"But surely that is the rational method of coming
to a conclusion?"
</p>
<p>
"In science, no doubt. Not in law. A court of law
must decide according to the evidence which is before
it; and that evidence is of the nature of sworn testimony.
If a witness is prepared to swear that black is
white, and no evidence to the contrary is offered, the
evidence before the Court is that black is white, and
the Court must decide accordingly. The judge and the
jury may think otherwise&mdash;they may even have private
knowledge to the contrary&mdash;but they have to decide
according to the evidence."
</p>
<p>
"Do you mean to say that a judge would be justified
in giving a decision which he knew privately to be contrary
to the facts? Or that he might sentence a man
whom he knew to be innocent?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. It has been done. There is a case of a
judge who sentenced a man to death and allowed the
execution to take place, notwithstanding that he&mdash;the
judge&mdash;had actually seen the murder committed by
another man. But that was carrying correctness of
procedure to the verge of pedantry."
</p>
<p>
"It was, with a vengeance," I agreed. "But to
return to the case of John Bellingham. Supposing that
after the Court has decided that he is dead he should
turn up alive? What then?"
</p>
<p>
"Ah! It would then be his turn to make an application,
and the Court, having fresh evidence laid before
it, would probably decide that he was alive."
</p>
<p>
"And meantime his property would have been dispersed?"
</p>
<p>
"Probably. But you will observe that the presumption
of death would have arisen out of his own
proceedings. If a man acts in such a way as to create
a belief that he is dead, he must put up with the consequences."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, that is reasonable enough," said I. And then,
after a pause, I asked: "Is there any immediate likelihood
of proceedings of the kind being commenced?"
</p>
<p>
"I understood from what you said just now that
Mr. Hurst was contemplating some action of the kind.
No doubt you had your information from a reliable
quarter." This answer Mr. Jellicoe delivered without
moving a muscle, regarding me with the fixity of a
spectacled figure-head.
</p>
<p>
I smiled feebly. The operation of pumping Mr.
Jellicoe was rather like the sport of boxing with a
porcupine, being chiefly remarkable as a demonstration
of the power of passive resistance. I determined, however,
to make one more effort, rather, I think, for the
pleasure of witnessing his defensive manoeuvres than
with the expectation of getting anything out of him.
I accordingly "opened out" on the subject of the
"remains."
</p>
<p>
"Have you been following these remarkable discoveries
of human bones that have been appearing in
the papers?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
He looked at me stonily for some moments, and then
replied:
</p>
<p>
"Human bones are rather more within your province
than mine, but, now that you mention it, I think I
recall having read of some such discoveries. They were
disconnected bones, I believe?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes; evidently parts of a dismembered body."
</p>
<p>
"So I should suppose. No, I have not followed the
accounts. As we get on in life our interests tend to
settle into grooves, and my groove is chiefly connected
with conveyancing. These discoveries would be of
more interest to a criminal lawyer."
</p>
<p>
"I thought that you might, perhaps, have connected
them with the disappearance of your client."
</p>
<p>
"Why should I? What could be the nature of the
connection?"
</p>
<p>
"Well," I said, "these are the bones of a
man&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Yes; and my client was a man with bones. That
is a connection, certainly, though not a very specific
or distinctive one. But perhaps you had something
more particular in your mind."
</p>
<p>
"I had," I replied. "The fact that some of the
bones were actually found on land belonging to your
client seemed to me rather significant."
</p>
<p>
"Did it, indeed?" said Mr. Jellicoe. He reflected
for a few moments, gazing steadily at me the while,
and then continued: "In that I am unable to follow
you. It would have seemed to me that the finding of
human remains upon a certain piece of land might conceivably
throw a <i>prima facie</i> suspicion upon the owner
or occupant of that land as being the person who deposited
them. But the case that you suggest is the
one case in which this would be impossible. A man
cannot deposit his own dismembered remains."
</p>
<p>
"No, of course not. I was not suggesting that he
deposited them himself, but merely that the fact of
their being deposited on his land, in a way, connected
these remains with him."
</p>
<p>
"Again," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I fail to follow you,
unless you are suggesting that it is customary for
murderers who mutilate bodies to be punctilious in depositing
the dismembered remains upon land belonging
to their victims. In which case I am sceptical as to
your facts. I am not aware of the existence of any
such custom. Moreover, it appears that only a portion
of the body was deposited on Mr. Bellingham's land,
the remaining portions having been scattered broadcast
over a wide area. How does that agree with your
suggestion?"
</p>
<p>
"It doesn't, of course," I admitted. "But there is
another fact that I think you will admit to be more
significant. The first remains that were discovered were
found at Sidcup. Now, Sidcup is close to Eltham; and
Eltham is the place where Mr. Bellingham was last seen
alive."
</p>
<p>
"And what is the significance of this? Why do you
connect the remains with one locality rather than the
various other localities in which other portions of the
body have been found?"
</p>
<p>
"Well," I replied, rather gravelled by this very
pertinent question, "the appearances seem to suggest
that the person who deposited these remains started
from the neighbourhood of Eltham, where the missing
man was last seen."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Jellicoe shook his head. "You appear," said
he, "to be confusing the order of deposition with the
order of discovery. What evidence is there that the
remains found at Sidcup were deposited before those
found elsewhere?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know that there is any," I admitted.
</p>
<p>
"Then," said he, "I don't see how you support
your suggestion that the person started from the
neighbourhood of Eltham."
</p>
<p>
On consideration, I had to admit that I had nothing
to offer in support of my theory; and having thus shot
my last arrow in this very unequal contest, I thought
it time to change the subject.
</p>
<p>
"I called in at the British Museum the other day,"
said I, "and had a look at Mr. Bellingham's last gift
to the nation. The things are very well shown in that
central case."
</p>
<p>
"Yes. I was very pleased with the position they
have given to the exhibit, and so would my poor old
friend have been. I wished, as I looked at the case, that
he could have seen it. But perhaps he may, after all."
</p>
<p>
"I am sure I hope he will," said I, with more sincerity,
perhaps, than the lawyer gave me credit for.
For the return of John Bellingham would most effectually
have cut the Gordian knot of my friend Godfrey's
difficulties. "You are a good deal interested in Egyptology
yourself, aren't you?" I added.
</p>
<p>
"Greatly interested," replied Mr. Jellicoe, with more
animation than I had thought possible in his wooden
face. "It is a fascinating subject, the study of this
venerable civilisation, extending back to the childhood
of the human race, preserved for ever for our instruction
in its own unchanging monuments like a fly in a
block of amber. Everything connected with Egypt is
full of an impressive solemnity. A feeling of permanence,
of stability, defying time and change, pervades
it. The place, the people, and the monuments
alike breathe of eternity."
</p>
<p>
I was mightily surprised at this rhetorical outburst
on the part of this dry and taciturn lawyer. But I
liked him the better for the touch of enthusiasm that
made him human, and determined to keep him astride
of his hobby.
</p>
<p>
"Yet," said I, "the people must have changed in
the course of centuries."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, that is so. The people who fought against
Cambyses were not the race that marched into Egypt
five thousand years before&mdash;the dynastic people whose
portraits we see on the early monuments. In those fifty
centuries the blood of Hyksos and Syrians and Ethiopians
and Hittites, and who can say how many more
races, must have mingled with that of the old Egyptians.
But still the national life went on without a
break; the old culture leavened the new peoples, and
the immigrant strangers ended by becoming Egyptians.
It is a wonderful phenomenon. Looking back on it
from our own time, it seems more like a geological
period than the life-history of a single nation. Are
you at all interested in the subject?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, decidedly, though I am completely ignorant
of it. The fact is that my interest is of quite recent
growth. It is only of late that I have been sensible of
the glamour of things Egyptian."
</p>
<p>
"Since you made Miss Bellingham's acquaintance,
perhaps?" suggested Mr. Jellicoe, himself as unchanging
in aspect as an Egyptian effigy.
</p>
<p>
I suppose I must have reddened&mdash;I certainly resented
the remark&mdash;for he continued in the same even
tone: "I made the suggestion because I know that she
takes an intelligent interest in the subject and is, in
fact, quite well informed on it."
</p>
<p>
"Yes; she seems to know a great deal about the
antiquities of Egypt, and I may as well admit that your
surmise was correct. It was she who showed me her
uncle's collection."
</p>
<p>
"So I had supposed," said Mr. Jellicoe. "And a
very instructive collection it is, in a popular sense;
very suitable for exhibition in a public museum, though
there is nothing in it of unusual interest to the expert.
The tomb furniture is excellent of its kind and the
cartonnage case of the mummy is well made and rather
finely decorated."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I thought it quite handsome. But can you
explain to me why, after taking all that trouble to
decorate it, they should have disfigured it with those
great smears of bitumen?"
</p>
<p>
"Ah!" said Mr. Jellicoe, "that is quite an interesting
question. It is not unusual to find mummy-cases
smeared with bitumen; there is a mummy of a priestess
in the next gallery which is completely coated with
bitumen excepting the gilded face. Now, this bitumen
was put on for a purpose&mdash;for the purpose of obliterating
the inscriptions and thus concealing the identity of
the deceased from the robbers and desecrators of tombs.
And there is the oddity of this mummy of Sebek-hotep.
Evidently there was an intention of obliterating the
inscriptions. The whole of the back is covered thickly
with bitumen, and so are the feet. Then the workers
seem to have changed their minds and left the inscriptions
and decoration untouched. Why they intended
to cover it, and why, having commenced, they left it
partially covered only, is a mystery. The mummy was
found in its original tomb and quite undisturbed, so far
as tomb-robbers are concerned. Poor Bellingham was
greatly puzzled as to what the explanation could be."
</p>
<p>
"Speaking of bitumen," said I, "reminds me of a
question that has occurred to me. You know that this
substance has been used a good deal by modern painters
and that it has a very dangerous peculiarity; I mean
its tendency to liquefy, without any very obvious reason,
long after it has dried."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I know. Isn't there some story about a
picture of Reynolds' in which bitumen had been used?
A portrait of a lady, I think. The bitumen softened,
and one of the lady's eyes slipped down on to her
cheek; and they had to hang the portrait upside down
and keep it warm until the eye slipped back into its
place. But what was your question?"
</p>
<p>
"I was wondering whether the bitumen used by the
Egyptian artists has ever been known to soften after
this great lapse of time."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I think it has. I have heard of instances in
which the bitumen coatings of mummy cases have softened
under certain circumstances and become quite
'tacky.' But, bless my soul! here am I gossiping
with you and wasting your time, and it is nearly a
quarter to nine!"
</p>
<p>
My guest rose hastily, and I, with many apologies
for having detained him, proceeded to fulfil my promise
to guide him to his destination. As we sallied forth
together the glamour of Egypt faded by degrees, and
when he shook my hand stiffly at the gate of the Bellinghams'
house, all his vivacity and enthusiasm had
vanished, leaving the taciturn lawyer, dry, uncommunicative,
and not a little suspicious.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH10"><!-- CH10 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER X
</h2>

<h3>
THE NEW ALLIANCE
</h3>
<p>
The "Great Lexicographer"&mdash;tutelary deity of my
adopted habitat&mdash;has handed down to shuddering posterity
a definition of the act of eating which might
have been framed by a dyspeptic ghoul. "Eat: to
devour with the mouth." It is a shocking view to take
of so genial a function: cynical, indelicate, and finally
unforgivable by reason of its very accuracy. For,
after all, that is what eating amounts to, if one must
needs express it with such crude brutality. But if "the
ingestion of alimentary substances"&mdash;to ring a modern
change upon the older formula&mdash;is in itself a process
material even unto carnality, it is undeniable that it
forms a highly agreeable accompaniment to more
psychic manifestations.
</p>
<p>
And so, as the lamplight, re-enforced by accessory
candles, falls on the little table in the first-floor room
looking on Fetter Lane&mdash;only now the curtains are
drawn&mdash;the conversation is not the less friendly and
bright for a running accompaniment executed with
knives and forks, for clink of goblet and jovial gurgle
of wine-flask. On the contrary, to one of us, at least&mdash;to
wit, Godfrey Bellingham&mdash;the occasion is one of
uncommon festivity, and his boyish enjoyment of the
simple feast makes pathetic suggestions of hard
times, faced uncomplainingly, but keenly felt nevertheless.
</p>
<p>
The talk flitted from topic to topic, mainly concerning
itself with matters artistic, and never for one moment
approaching the critical subject of John Bellingham's
will. From the stepped pyramid of Sakkara
with its encaustic tiles to mediaeval church floors; from
Elizabethan woodwork to Mycaenaean pottery, and
thence to the industrial arts of the Stone Age and
the civilisation of the Aztecs. I began to suspect that
my two legal friends were so carried away by the interest
of the conversation that they had forgotten the
secret purpose of the meeting, for the dessert had been
placed on the table (by Mrs. Gummer with the manner
of a bereaved dependant dispensing funeral bakemeats),
and still no reference had been made to the "case."
But it seemed that Thorndyke was but playing a waiting
game; was only allowing the intimacy to ripen while
he watched for the opportunity. And that opportunity
came, even as Mrs. Gummer vanished spectrally with
a tray of plates and glasses.
</p>
<p>
"So you had a visitor last night, Doctor," said Mr.
Bellingham. "I mean my friend Jellicoe. He told us
he had seen you, and mighty curious he was about you.
I have never known Jellicoe to be so inquisitive before.
What did you think of him?"
</p>
<p>
"A quaint old cock. I found him highly amusing.
We entertained one another for quite a long time with
cross questions and crooked answers; I affecting eager
curiosity, he replying with a defensive attitude of
universal ignorance. It was a most diverting encounter."
</p>
<p>
"He needn't have been so close," Miss Bellingham
remarked, "seeing that all the world will be regaled
with our affairs before long."
</p>
<p>
"They are proposing to take the case into Court,
then?" said Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Mr. Bellingham. "Jellicoe came to tell
me that my cousin, Hurst, has instructed his solicitors
to make the application and to invite me to join him.
Actually he came to deliver an ultimatum from Hurst&mdash;But,
I mustn't disturb the harmony of this festive gathering
with litigious discords."
</p>
<p>
"Now, why mustn't you?" asked Thorndyke.
"Why is a subject in which we are all keenly interested
to be <i>tabu</i>? You don't mind telling us about it, do
you?"
</p>
<p>
"No, of course not. But what do you think of a
man who buttonholes a doctor at a dinner-party to
retail a list of his ailments?"
</p>
<p>
"It depends on what his ailments are," replied
Thorndyke. "If he is a chronic dyspeptic and wishes
to expound the virtues of Doctor Snaffler's Purple Pills
for Pimply People, he is merely a bore. But if he
chances to suffer from some rare and choice disease,
such as Trypanosomiasis or Acromegaly, the doctor
will be delighted to listen."
</p>
<p>
"Then are we to understand," Miss Bellingham
asked, "that we are rare and choice products, in a
legal sense?"
</p>
<p>
"Undoubtedly," replied Thorndyke. "The case of
John Bellingham is, in many respects, unique. It will
be followed with the deepest interest by the profession
at large, and especially by medical jurists."
</p>
<p>
"How gratifying that should be to us!" said Miss
Bellingham. "We may even attain undying fame in
textbooks and treatises; and yet we are not so very
much puffed up with our importance."
</p>
<p>
"No," said her father; "we could do without the
fame quite well, and so, I think, could Hurst. Did
Berkeley tell you of the proposal that he made?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Thorndyke; "and I gather from what
you say that he has repeated it."
</p>
<p>
"Yes. He sent Jellicoe to give me another chance,
and I was tempted to take it; but my daughter was
strongly against any compromise, and probably she is
right. At any rate, she is more concerned than I am."
</p>
<p>
"What view did Mr. Jellicoe take?" Thorndyke
asked.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, he was very cautious and reserved, but he
didn't disguise his feeling that I should be wise to take
a certainty in lieu of a very problematical fortune. He
would certainly like me to agree, for he naturally
wishes to get the affair settled and pocket his legacy."
</p>
<p>
"And have you definitely refused?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes; quite definitely. So Hurst will apply for
permission to presume death and prove the will, and
Jellicoe will support him; he says he has no choice."
</p>
<p>
"And you?"
</p>
<p>
"I suppose I shall oppose the application, though I
don't quite know on what grounds."
</p>
<p>
"Before you take any definite steps," said Thorndyke,
"you ought to give the matter very careful consideration.
I take it that you have very little doubt
that your brother is dead. And if he is dead, any
benefit that you may receive under the will must be
conditional on the previous assumption or proof of
death. But perhaps you have taken advice?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I have not. As our friend the Doctor has
probably told you, my means&mdash;or rather, the lack of
them&mdash;do not admit of my getting professional advice.
Hence my delicacy about discussing the case with you."
</p>
<p>
"Then do you propose to conduct your case in
person?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes; if it is necessary for me to appear in Court,
as I suppose it will be, if I oppose the application."
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke reflected for a few moments, and then
said gravely:
</p>
<p>
"You had much better not appear in person to conduct
your case, Mr. Bellingham, for several reasons.
To begin with, Mr. Hurst is sure to be represented by
a capable counsel, and you will find yourself quite unable
to meet the sudden exigencies of a contest in Court.
You will be out-manoeuvred. Then there is the judge
to be considered."
</p>
<p>
"But surely one can rely on the judge dealing fairly
with a man who is unable to afford a solicitor and
counsel?"
</p>
<p>
"Undoubtedly, as a rule, a judge will give an unrepresented
litigant every assistance and consideration.
English judges in general are high-minded men with
a deep sense of their great responsibilities. But you
cannot afford to take any chances. You must consider
the exceptions. A judge has been a counsel, and he
may carry to the bench some of the professional prejudices
of the bar. Indeed, if you consider the absurd
licence permitted to counsel in their treatment of witnesses,
and the hostile attitude adopted by some judges
towards medical and other scientific men who have to
give their evidence, you will see that the judicial mind
is not always quite as judicial as one would wish,
especially when the privileges and immunities of the
profession are concerned. Now, your appearance in
person to conduct your case must, unavoidably, cause
some inconvenience to the Court. Your ignorance of
procedure and legal details must occasion some delay;
and if the judge should happen to be an irritable man
he might resent the inconvenience and delay. I don't
say that that would affect his decision&mdash;I don't think
it would&mdash;but I am sure that it would be wise to avoid
giving offence to the judge. And, above all, it is most
desirable to be able to detect and reply to any manoeuvres
on the part of the opposing counsel, which you
certainly would not be able to do."
</p>
<p>
"This is excellent advice, Doctor Thorndyke," said
Bellingham, with a grim smile; "but I am afraid I
shall have to take my chance."
</p>
<p>
"Not necessarily," said Thorndyke. "I am going
to make a little proposal, which I will ask you to consider
without prejudice as a mutual accommodation.
You see, your case is one of exceptional interest&mdash;it
will become a textbook case, as Miss Bellingham has
prophesied; and, since it lies within my specialty, it
will be necessary for me, in any case, to follow it in
the closest detail. Now, it would be much more satisfactory
to me to study it from within than from without,
to say nothing of the credit which would accrue
to me if I should be able to conduct it to a successful
issue. I am therefore going to ask you to put your case
in my hands and let me see what can be done with it.
I know this is an unusual course for a professional man
to take, but I think it is not improper under the circumstances."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham pondered in silence for a few moments,
and then, after a glance at his daughter, began
rather hesitatingly: "It is exceedingly generous of you,
Doctor Thorndyke&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Pardon me," interrupted Thorndyke, "it is not.
My motives, as I have explained, are purely egoistic."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham laughed uneasily and again glanced
at his daughter, who, however, pursued her occupation
of peeling a pear with calm deliberation and without
lifting her eyes. Getting no help from her, he asked:
"Do you think that there is any possibility whatever
of a successful issue?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, a remote possibility&mdash;very remote, I fear, as
things look at present; but if I thought the case absolutely
hopeless I should advise you to stand aside and
let events take their course."
</p>
<p>
"Supposing the case to come to a favourable termination,
would you allow me to settle your fees in the
ordinary way?"
</p>
<p>
"If the choice lay with me," replied Thorndyke, "I
should say 'yes' with pleasure. But it does not. The
attitude of the profession is very definitely unfavourable
to 'speculative' practice. You may remember
the well-known firm of Dodson and Fogg, who gained
thereby much profit, but little credit. But why discuss
contingencies of this kind? If I bring your case to a
successful issue I shall have done very well for myself.
We shall have benefited one another mutually. Come
now, Miss Bellingham, I appeal to you. We have eaten
salt together, to say nothing of pigeon pie and other
cates. Won't you back me up, and at the same time
do a kindness to Doctor Berkeley?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, is Doctor Berkeley interested in our decision?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly he is, as you will appreciate when I tell
you that he actually tried to bribe me secretly out of
his own pocket."
</p>
<p>
"Did you?" she asked, looking at me with an expression
that rather alarmed me.
</p>
<p>
"Well, not exactly," I replied, mighty hot and uncomfortable,
and wishing Thorndyke at the devil with
his confidences. "I merely mentioned that the&mdash;the&mdash;solicitor's
costs, you know, and that sort of thing&mdash;but
you needn't jump on me, Miss Bellingham; Doctor
Thorndyke did all that was necessary in that way."
</p>
<p>
She continued to look at me thoughtfully as I stammered
out my excuses, and then said: "I wasn't going
to. I was only thinking that poverty has its compensations.
You are all so very good to us; and, for my
part, I should accept Doctor Thorndyke's generous
offer most gratefully, and thank him for making it so
easy for us."
</p>
<p>
"Very well, my dear," said Mr. Bellingham; "we
will enjoy the sweets of poverty, as you say&mdash;we have
sampled the other kind of thing pretty freely&mdash;and do
ourselves the pleasure of accepting a great kindness,
most delicately offered."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you," said Thorndyke. "You have justified
my faith in you, Miss Bellingham, and in the power
of Doctor Berkeley's salt. I understand that you place
your affairs in my hands?"
</p>
<p>
"Entirely and thankfully," replied Mr. Bellingham.
"Whatever you think best to be done we agree to
beforehand."
</p>
<p>
"Then," said I, "let us drink success to the Cause.
Port, if you please, Miss Bellingham; the vintage is
not recorded, but it is quite wholesome, and a suitable
medium for the sodium chloride of friendship." I filled
her glass, and, when the bottle had made its circuit, we
stood up and solemnly pledged the new alliance.
</p>
<p>
"There is just one thing that I would say before we
dismiss the subject for the present," said Thorndyke.
"It is a good thing to keep one's own counsel. When
you get formal notice from Mr. Hurst's solicitors that
proceedings are being commenced, you may refer them
to Mr. Marchmont of Gray's Inn, who will nominally
act for you. He will actually have nothing to do, but
we must preserve the fiction that I am instructed by a
solicitor. Meanwhile, and until the case goes into
Court, I think it very necessary that neither Mr.
Jellicoe nor anyone else should know that I am to be
connected with it. We must keep the other side in the
dark, if we can."
</p>
<p>
"We will be as secret as the grave," said Mr. Bellingham;
"and, as a matter of fact, it will be quite easy,
since it happens, by a curious coincidence, that I am
already acquainted with Mr. Marchmont. He acted for
Stephen Blackmore, you remember, in that case that
you unravelled so wonderfully. I knew the Blackmores."
</p>
<p>
"Did you?" said Thorndyke. "What a small world
it is! And what a remarkable affair that was! The
intricacies and cross-issues made it quite absorbingly
interesting; and it is noteworthy for me in another respect,
for it was one of the first cases in which I was
associated with Doctor Jervis."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, and a mighty useful associate I was," remarked
Jervis, "though I did pick up one or two facts
by accident. And, by the way, the Blackmore case had
certain points in common with your case, Mr. Bellingham.
There was a disappearance and a disputed will,
and the man who vanished was a scholar and an
antiquarian."
</p>
<p>
"Cases in our specialty are apt to have certain general
resemblances," said Thorndyke; and as he spoke
he directed a keen glance at his junior, the significance
of which I partly understood when he abruptly changed
the subject.
</p>
<p>
"The newspaper reports of your brother's disappearance,
Mr. Bellingham, were remarkably full of detail.
There were even plans of your house and that of Mr.
Hurst. Do you know who supplied the information?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I don't," replied Mr. Bellingham. "I know
that I didn't. Some newspaper men came to me for
information, but I sent them packing. So, I understand,
did Hurst; and as for Jellicoe, you might as
well cross-examine an oyster."
</p>
<p>
"Well," said Thorndyke, "the Press-men have queer
methods of getting 'copy'; but still, someone must
have given them that description of your brother and
those plans. It would be interesting to know who it
was. However, we don't know; and now let us dismiss
these legal topics, with suitable apologies for having
introduced them."
</p>
<p>
"And perhaps," said I, "we may as well adjourn to
what we will call the drawing-room&mdash;it is really Barnard's
den&mdash;and leave the housekeeper to wrestle with
the debris."
</p>
<p>
We migrated to the cheerfully shabby little apartment,
and, when Mrs. Gummer had served coffee, with
gloomy resignation (as who should say: "If you will
drink this sort of stuff I suppose you must, but don't
blame <i>me</i> for the consequences"), I settled Mr. Bellingham
in Barnard's favourite lop-sided easy chair&mdash;the
depressed seat of which suggested its customary use
by an elephant of sedentary habits&mdash;and opened the
diminutive piano.
</p>
<p>
"I wonder if Miss Bellingham would give us a little
music?" I said.
</p>
<p>
"I wonder if she could?" was the smiling response.
"Do you know," she continued, "I have not touched
a piano for nearly two years? It will be quite an interesting
experiment&mdash;to me; but if it fails, you will
be the sufferers. So you must choose."
</p>
<p>
"My verdict," said Mr. Bellingham, "is <i>fiat experimentum</i>,
though I won't complete the quotation, as
that would seem to disparage Doctor Barnard's piano.
But before you begin, Ruth, there is one rather disagreeable
matter that I want to dispose of, so that I
may not disturb the harmony with it later."
</p>
<p>
He paused, and we all looked at him expectantly.
</p>
<p>
"I suppose, Doctor Thorndyke," he said, "you read
the newspapers?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't," replied Thorndyke. "But I ascertain,
for purely business purposes, what they contain."
</p>
<p>
"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "you have probably
met with some accounts of the finding of certain human
remains, apparently portions of a mutilated body?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I have seen those reports and filed them for
future reference."
</p>
<p>
"Exactly. Well, now, it can hardly be necessary
for me to tell you that those remains&mdash;the mutilated
remains of some poor murdered creature, as there can
be no doubt they are&mdash;have seemed to have a very
dreadful significance for me. You will understand what
I mean; and I want to ask you if&mdash;if they have made
a similar suggestion to you."
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke paused before replying, with his eyes bent
thoughtfully on the floor, and we all looked at him
anxiously.
</p>
<p>
"It is very natural," he said at length, "that you
should associate these remains with the mystery of
your brother's disappearance. I should like to say
that you are wrong in doing so, but if I did I should
be uncandid. There are certain facts that do, undoubtedly,
seem to suggest a connection, and, up to
the present, there are no definite facts of a contrary
significance."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham sighed deeply and shifted uncomfortably
in his chair.
</p>
<p>
"It is a horrible affair!" he said huskily; "horrible!
Would you mind, Doctor Thorndyke, telling us just
how the matter stands in your opinion&mdash;what the
probabilities are, for and against?"
</p>
<p>
Again Thorndyke reflected awhile, and it seemed to
me that he was not very willing to discuss the subject.
However, the question had been asked pointedly, and
eventually he answered:
</p>
<p>
"At the present stage of the investigation it is not
very easy to state the balance of probabilities. The
matter is still quite speculative. The bones which have
been found hitherto (for we are dealing with a skeleton,
not with a body) have been exclusively those which
are useless for personal identification; which is, in itself,
a rather curious and striking fact. The general character
and dimensions of the bones seem to suggest a
middle-aged man of about your brother's height, and
the date of deposition appears to be in agreement with
the date of his disappearance."
</p>
<p>
"Is it known, then, when they were deposited?"
Mr. Bellingham asked.
</p>
<p>
"In the case of those found at Sidcup it seems possible
to deduce an approximate date. The watercress-bed
was cleaned out about two years ago, so they could
not have been lying there longer than that; and their
condition suggests that they could not have been there
much less than two years, as there is apparently not a
vestige of the soft structures left. Of course, I am
speaking from the newspaper reports only; I have no
direct knowledge of the matter."
</p>
<p>
"Have they found any considerable part of the body
yet? I haven't been reading the papers myself. My
little friend, Miss Oman, brought a great bundle of 'em
for me to read, but I couldn't stand it; I pitched the
whole boiling of 'em out of the window."
</p>
<p>
I thought I detected a slight twinkle in Thorndyke's
eye, but he answered quite gravely:
</p>
<p>
"I think I can give you the particulars from memory,
though I won't guarantee the dates. The original discovery
was made, apparently quite accidentally, at
Sidcup on the fifteenth of July. It consisted of a complete
left arm, minus the third finger and including the
bones of the shoulder&mdash;the shoulder-blade and collar-bone.
This discovery seems to have set the local population,
especially the juvenile part of it, searching all
the ponds and streams of the neighbourhood&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Cannibals!" interjected Mr. Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
"With the result that there was dredged up out of
a pond near St. Mary Cray, in Kent, a right thigh-bone.
There is a slight clue to identity in respect of this
bone, since the head of it has a small patch of what is
called 'eburnation'&mdash;that is a sort of porcelain-like
polish that occurs on the parts of bones that form a
joint when the natural covering of cartilage is destroyed
by disease. It is produced by the unprotected surface
of one bone grinding against the similarly unprotected
surface of another."
</p>
<p>
"And how," Mr. Bellingham asked, "would that help
the identification?"
</p>
<p>
"It would indicate," replied Thorndyke, "that the
deceased had probably suffered from rheumatoid arthritis&mdash;what
is commonly known as rheumatic gout&mdash;and he
would probably have limped slightly and complained
of some pain in the right hip."
</p>
<p>
"I am afraid that doesn't help us much," said Mr.
Bellingham; "for, you see, John had a pretty pronounced
limp from another cause, an old injury to his
left ankle; and as to complaining of pain&mdash;well, he
was a hardy old fellow and not much given to making
complaints of any kind. But don't let me interrupt
you."
</p>
<p>
"The next discovery," continued Thorndyke, "was
made near Lee, by the police this time. They seem to
have developed sudden activity in the matter, and in
searching the neighbourhood of West Kent they dragged
out of a pond near Lee the bones of a right foot. Now,
if it had been the left instead of the right we might
have had a clue, as I understand that your brother had
fractured his left ankle, and there might have been
some traces of the injury on the foot itself."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Mr. Bellingham, "I suppose there might.
The injury was described as a Pott's fracture."
</p>
<p>
"Exactly. Well, now, after this discovery at Lee
it seems that the police set on foot a systematic search
of all the ponds and small pieces of water around London,
and on the twenty-third, they found in the Cuckoo
Pits in Epping Forest, not far from Woodford, the
bones of a right arm (including those of the shoulder,
as before), which seem to be part of the same body."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Mr. Bellingham, "I heard of that.
Quite close to my old house. Horrible! horrible! It
gave me the shudders to think of it&mdash;to think that poor
old John may have been waylaid and murdered when
he was actually coming to see me. He may even have
got into the grounds by the back gate, if it was left unfastened,
and been followed in there and murdered.
You remember that a scarab from his watch-chain was
found there? But is it clear that this arm was the
fellow of the arm that was found at Sidcup?"
</p>
<p>
"It seems to agree in character and dimensions,"
said Thorndyke, "and the agreement is strongly supported
by a discovery that was made two days later."
</p>
<p>
"What is that?" Mr. Bellingham demanded.
</p>
<p>
"It is the lower half of a trunk which the police
dredged out of a rather deep pond on the skirts of the
forest at Loughton&mdash;Staple's Pond, it is called. The
bones found were the pelvis&mdash;that is, the two hipbones&mdash;and
six vertebrae, or joints of the backbone.
Having discovered these, the police dammed the stream
and pumped the pond dry, but no other bones were
found; which is rather odd, as there should have been
a pair of ribs belonging to the upper vertebra&mdash;the
twelfth dorsal vertebra. It suggests some curious questions
as to the method of dismemberment; but I mustn't
go into unpleasant details. The point is that the cavity
of the right hip-joint showed a patch of eburnation
corresponding to that on the head of the right thigh-bone
that was found at St. Mary Cray. So there can
be very little doubt that these bones are all part of
the same body."
</p>
<p>
"I see," grunted Mr. Bellingham; and he added,
after a moment's thought: "Now, the question is, Are
these bones the remains of my brother John? What
do you say, Doctor Thorndyke?"
</p>
<p>
"I say that the question cannot be answered on the
facts at present known to us. It can only be said that
they may be, and that some of the circumstances suggest
that they are. But we can only wait for further
discoveries. At any moment the police may light upon
some portion of the skeleton which will settle the question
definitely one way or the other."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose," said Mr. Bellingham, "I can't be of any
service to you in the matter of identification?"
</p>
<p>
"Indeed you can," said Thorndyke, "and I was
going to ask you to assist me. What I want you to do
is this: Write down a full description of your brother,
including every detail known to you, together with an
account of every illness or injury from which you know
him to have suffered; and also the names and, if possible,
the addresses of any doctors, surgeons, or dentists
who may have attended him at any time. The dentists
are particularly important, as their information would
be invaluable if the skull belonging to these bones
should be discovered."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham shuddered.
</p>
<p>
"It's a shocking idea," he said; "but, of course,
you are quite right. You must have the facts if you
are to form an opinion. I will write out what you want
and send it to you without delay. And now, for God's
sake, let us throw off this nightmare, for a little while,
at least! What is there, Ruth, among Doctor Barnard's
music that you can manage?"
</p>
<p>
Barnard's collection in general inclined to the severely
classical, but we disinterred from the heap a few lighter
works of an old-fashioned kind, including a volume of
Mendelssohn's <i>Lieder ohne Worte</i>, and with one of these
Miss Bellingham made trial of her skill, playing it with
excellent taste and quite adequate execution. That, at
least, was her father's verdict; for, as to me, I found
it the perfection of happiness merely to sit and look at
her&mdash;a state of mind that would have been in no wise
disturbed even by <i>Silvery Waves</i> or <i>The Maiden's
Prayer</i>.
</p>
<p>
Thus with simple, homely music, and conversation
always cheerful and sometimes brilliant, slipped away
one of the pleasantest evenings of my life, and slipped
away all too soon. St. Dunstan's clock was the fly in
the ointment, for it boomed out intrusively the hour
of eleven just as my guests were beginning thoroughly
to appreciate one another; and thereby carried the sun
(with a minor paternal satellite) out of the firmament
of my heaven. For I had, in my professional capacity,
given strict injunctions that Mr. Bellingham should on
no account sit up late; and now, in my social capacity,
I had smilingly to hear "the doctor's orders" quoted.
It was a scurvy return for all my care.
</p>
<p>
When Mr. and Miss Bellingham departed, Thorndyke
and Jervis would have gone too; but noting my
bereaved condition, and being withal compassionate and
tender of heart, they were persuaded to stay awhile
and bear me company in a consolatory pipe.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH11"><!-- CH11 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER XI
</h2>

<h3>
THE EVIDENCE REVIEWED
</h3>
<p>
"So the game has opened," observed Thorndyke, as he
struck a match. "The play has begun with a cautious
lead off by the other side. Very cautious, and not
very confident."
</p>
<p>
"Why do you say 'not very confident'?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Well, it is evident that Hurst&mdash;and, I fancy,
Jellicoe too&mdash;is anxious to buy off Bellingham's opposition,
and at a pretty long price, under the circumstances.
And when we consider how very little Bellingham
has to offer against the presumption of his
brother's death, it looks as if Hurst hadn't much to say
on his side."
</p>
<p>
"No," said Jervis, "he can't hold many trumps or
he wouldn't be willing to pay four hundred a year for
his opponent's chance; and that is just as well, for it
seems to me that our own hand is a pretty poor one."
</p>
<p>
"We must look through our hand and see what we
do hold," said Thorndyke. "Our trump card at present&mdash;a
rather small one, I am afraid&mdash;is the obvious
intention of the testator that the bulk of the property
should go to his brother."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose you will begin your inquiries now," said I.
</p>
<p>
"We began them some time ago&mdash;the day after you
brought us the will, in fact. Jervis has been through
the registers and has ascertained that no interment
under the name of John Bellingham has taken place
since the disappearance; which was just what we expected.
He has also discovered that some other person
has been making similar inquiries; which, again, is what
we expected."
</p>
<p>
"And your own investigations?"
</p>
<p>
"Have given negative results for the most part. I
found Doctor Norbury, at the British Museum, very
friendly and helpful; so friendly, in fact, that I am
thinking whether I may not be able to enlist his help
in certain private researches of my own, with reference
to the changes effected by time in the physical properties
of certain substances."
</p>
<p>
"Oh; you haven't told me about that," said Jervis.
</p>
<p>
"No: I haven't really commenced to plan my experiments
yet, and they will probably lead to nothing
when I do. It occurred to me that, possibly, in the
course of time, certain molecular changes might take
place in substances such as wood, bone, pottery, stucco,
and other common materials, and that these changes
might alter their power of conducting or transmitting
molecular vibrations. Now, if this should turn out to
be the case, it would be a fact of considerable importance,
medico-legal and otherwise; for it would be
possible to determine approximately the age of any
object of known composition by testing its reactions
to electricity, heat, light and other molecular vibrations.
I thought of seeking Doctor Norbury's assistance because
he can furnish me with materials for experiment
of such great age that the reactions, if any, should
be extremely easy to demonstrate. But to return to
our case. I learned from him that John Bellingham
had certain friends in Paris&mdash;collectors and museum
officials&mdash;whom he was in the habit of visiting for the
purpose of study and exchange of specimens. I have
made inquiries of all of these, and none of them had
seen him during his last visit. In fact, I have not yet
discovered anyone who had seen Bellingham in Paris
on this occasion. So his visit there remains a mystery
for the present."
</p>
<p>
"It doesn't seem to be of much importance, since
he undoubtedly came back," I remarked; but to this
Thorndyke demurred.
</p>
<p>
"It is impossible to estimate the importance of the
unknown," said he.
</p>
<p>
"Well, how does the matter stand," asked Jervis,
"on the evidence that we have? John Bellingham
disappeared on a certain date. Is there anything to
show what was the manner of his disappearance?"
</p>
<p>
"The facts in our possession," said Thorndyke,
"which are mainly those set forth in the newspaper
report, suggest several alternative possibilities; and in
view of the coming inquiry&mdash;for they will, no doubt,
have to be gone into in Court, to some extent&mdash;it may
be worth while to consider them. There are five conceivable
hypotheses"&mdash;here Thorndyke checked them
on his fingers as he proceeded&mdash;"First, he may still be
alive. Second, he may have died and been buried
without identification. Third, he may have been murdered
by some unknown person. Fourth, he may have
been murdered by Hurst and his body concealed. Fifth,
he may have been murdered by his brother. Let us
examine these possibilities seriatim.
</p>
<p>
"First, he may still be alive. If he is, he must either
have disappeared voluntarily, have lost his memory
suddenly and not been identified, or have been imprisoned&mdash;on
a false charge or otherwise. Let us take
the first case&mdash;that of voluntary disappearance. Obviously,
its improbability is extreme."
</p>
<p>
"Jellicoe doesn't think so," said I. "He thinks it
quite on the cards that John Bellingham is alive. He
says that it is not a very unusual thing for a man to
disappear for a time."
</p>
<p>
"Then why is he applying for a presumption of
death?"
</p>
<p>
"Just what I asked him. He says that it is the correct
thing to do; that the entire responsibility rests
on the Court."
</p>
<p>
"That is all nonsense," said Thorndyke. "Jellicoe
is the trustee for his absent client, and, if he thinks that
client is alive, it is his duty to keep the estate intact;
and he knows that perfectly well. We may take it that
Jellicoe is of the same opinion as I am: that John
Bellingham is dead."
</p>
<p>
"Still," I urged, "men do disappear from time to
time, and turn up again after years of absence."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, but for a definite reason. Either they are
irresponsible vagabonds who take this way of shuffling
off their responsibilities, or they are men who have been
caught in a net of distasteful circumstances. For instance,
a civil servant or a solicitor or a tradesman finds
himself bound for life to a locality and an occupation
of intolerable monotony. Perhaps he has an ill-tempered
wife, who, after the amiable fashion of a certain
type of woman, thinking that her husband is pinned
down without a chance of escape, gives a free rein to
her temper. The man puts up with it for years, but at
last it becomes unbearable. Then he suddenly disappears;
and small blame to him. But this was not
Bellingham's case. He was a wealthy bachelor with
an engrossing interest in life, free to go whither he
would and to do whatsoever he wished. Why should
he disappear? The thing is incredible.
</p>
<p>
"As to his having lost his memory and remained
unidentified, that, also, is incredible in the case of a
man who had visiting-cards and letters in his pocket,
whose linen was marked, and who was being inquired
for everywhere by the police. As to his being in prison,
we may dismiss that possibility, inasmuch as a prisoner,
both before and after conviction, would have full opportunity
of communicating with his friends.
</p>
<p>
"The second possibility, that he may have died suddenly
and been buried without identification, is highly
improbable; but, as it is conceivable that the body
might have been robbed and the means of identification
thus lost, it remains as a possibility that has to be
considered, remote as it is.
</p>
<p>
"The third hypothesis, that he may have been murdered
by some unknown person, is, under the circumstances,
not wildly improbable; but, as the police were
on the look out and a detailed description of the missing
man's person was published in the papers, it would
involve the complete concealment of the body. But
this would exclude the most probable form of the
crime&mdash;the casual robbery with violence. It is therefore
possible, but highly improbable.
</p>
<p>
"The fourth hypothesis is that Bellingham was
murdered by Hurst. Now the one fact which militates
against this view is that Hurst apparently had no
motive for committing the murder. We are assured
by Jellicoe that no one but himself knew the contents
of the will, and if this is so&mdash;but, mind, we have no
evidence that it is so&mdash;Hurst would have no reason to
suppose that he had anything material to gain by his
cousin's death. Otherwise the hypothesis presents no
inherent improbabilities. The man was last seen alive
at Hurst's house. He was seen to enter it and he was
never seen to leave it&mdash;we are still taking the facts as
stated in the newspapers, remember&mdash;and it now appears
that he stands to benefit enormously by that
man's death."
</p>
<p>
"But," I objected, "you are forgetting that, directly
the man was missed, Hurst and the servants together
searched the entire house."
</p>
<p>
"Yes. What did they search for?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, for Mr. Bellingham, of course."
</p>
<p>
"Exactly; for Mr. Bellingham. That is, for a living
man. Now how do you search a house for a living
man? You look in all the rooms. When you look in a
room, if he is there, you see him; if you do not see him,
you assume that he is not there. You don't look under
the sofa or behind the piano, you don't pull out large
drawers or open cupboards. You just look into the
rooms. That is what these people seem to have done.
And they did not see Mr. Bellingham. But Mr. Bellingham's
corpse might have been stowed away out of sight
in any one of the rooms that they looked into."
</p>
<p>
"That is a grim thought," said Jervis; "But it is
perfectly true. There is no evidence that the man was
not lying dead in the house at the very time of the
search."
</p>
<p>
"But even so," said I, "there was the body to be
disposed of somehow. Now how could he possibly have
got rid of the body without being observed?"
</p>
<p>
"Ah!" said Thorndyke, "now we are touching on a
point of crucial importance. If anyone should ever
write a treatise on the art of murder&mdash;not an exhibition
of literary fireworks like De Quincey's, but a genuine
working treatise&mdash;he might leave all other technical
details to take care of themselves if he could describe
some really practicable plan for disposing of the body.
That is, and always has been, the great stumbling-block
to the murderer: to get rid of the body. The human
body," he continued, thoughtfully regarding his pipe,
just as, in the days of my pupilage, he was wont to
regard the black-board chalk, "is a very remarkable
object. It presents a combination of properties that
makes it singularly difficult to conceal permanently.
It is bulky and of an awkward shape, it is heavy, it is
completely incombustible, it is chemically unstable, and
its decomposition yields great volumes of highly odorous
gases, and it nevertheless contains identifiable structures
of the highest degree of permanence. It is extremely
difficult to preserve unchanged, and it is still
more difficult completely to destroy. The essential
permanence of the human body is well shown in the
classical case of Eugene Aram; but a still more striking
instance is that of Seqenen-Ra the Third, one of the
last kings of the seventeenth Egyptian dynasty. Here,
after a lapse of some four thousand years, it has been
possible to determine, not only the cause of death and
the manner of its occurrence, but the way in which the
king fell, the nature of the weapon with which the fatal
wound was inflicted, and even the position of the assailant.
And the permanence of the body under other
conditions is admirably shown in the case of Doctor
Parkman, of Boston, U.S.A., in which identification
was actually effected by means of remains collected
from the ashes of a furnace."
</p>
<p>
"Then we may take it," said Jervis, "that the world
has not yet seen the last of John Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
"I think we may regard that as almost a certainty,"
replied Thorndyke. "The only question&mdash;and a very
important one&mdash;is as to when the reappearance may
take place. It may be to-morrow or it may be centuries
hence, when all the issues involved have been
forgotten."
</p>
<p>
"Assuming," said I, "for the sake of argument, that
Hurst did murder him and that the body was concealed
in the study at the time the search was made. How
could it have been disposed of? If you had been in
Hurst's place, how would you have gone to work?"
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke smiled at the bluntness of my question.
</p>
<p>
"You are asking me for an incriminating statement,"
said he, "delivered in the presence of a witness too.
But, as a matter of fact, there is no use in speculating
<i>a priori</i>; we should have to reconstruct a purely
imaginary situation, the circumstances of which are unknown
to us, and we should almost certainly reconstruct it
wrong. What we may fairly assume is that no reasonable
person, no matter how immoral, would find himself
in the position that you suggest. Murder is usually a
crime of impulse, and the murderer a person of feeble
self-control. Such persons are most unlikely to make
elaborate and ingenious arrangements for the disposal
of the bodies of their victims. Even the cold-blooded
perpetrators of the most carefully planned murders
appear, as I have said, to break down at this point.
The almost insuperable difficulty of getting rid of a
human body is not appreciated until the murderer suddenly
finds himself face to face with it.
</p>
<p>
"In the case that you are suggesting, the choice
would seem to lie between burial on the premises or
dismemberment and dispersal of the fragments; and
either method would be pretty certain to lead to discovery."
</p>
<p>
"As illustrated by the remains of which you were
speaking to Mr. Bellingham," Jervis remarked.
</p>
<p>
"Exactly," Thorndyke answered, "though we could
hardly imagine a reasonably intelligent criminal adopting
a watercress-bed as a hiding-place."
</p>
<p>
"No. That was certainly an error of judgment.
By the way, I thought it best to say nothing while you
were talking to Bellingham, but I noticed that, in discussing
the possibility of those being the bones of his
brother, you made no comment on the absence of the
third finger of the left hand. I am sure you didn't overlook
it, but isn't it a point of some importance?"
</p>
<p>
"As to identification? Under the present circumstances,
I think not. If there were a man missing who
had lost that finger it would, of course, be an important
fact. But I have not heard of any such man. Or,
again, if there were any evidence that the finger had
been removed before death, it would be highly important.
But there is no such evidence. It may have
been cut off after death, and there is where the real
significance of its absence lies."
</p>
<p>
"I don't quite see what you mean," said Jervis.
</p>
<p>
"I mean that, if there is no report of any missing
man who had lost that particular finger, the probability
is that the finger was removed after death. And then
arises the interesting question of motive. Why should
it have been removed? It could hardly have become
detached accidentally. What do you suggest?"
</p>
<p>
"Well," said Jervis, "it might have been a peculiar
finger; a finger, for instance, with some characteristic
deformity, such as an ankylosed joint, which would be
easy to identify."
</p>
<p>
"Yes; but that explanation introduces the same
difficulty. No person with a deformed or ankylosed
finger has been reported as missing."
</p>
<p>
Jervis puckered up his brows and looked at me.
</p>
<p>
"I'm hanged if I see any other explanation," he said.
"Do you, Berkeley?"
</p>
<p>
I shook my head.
</p>
<p>
"Don't forget which finger it is that is missing,"
said Thorndyke. "The third finger on the left
hand."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I see!" said Jervis. "The ring-finger. You
mean it may have been removed for the sake of a ring
that wouldn't come off."
</p>
<p>
"Yes. It would not be the first instance of the kind.
Fingers have been severed from dead hands&mdash;and even
from living ones&mdash;for the sake of rings that were too
tight to be drawn off. And the fact that it is the left
hand supports this suggestion; for a ring that was
inconveniently tight would be worn by preference on
the left hand, as that is usually slightly smaller than
the right. What is the matter, Berkeley?"
</p>
<p>
A sudden light had burst upon me, and I suppose
my countenance betrayed the fact.
</p>
<p>
"I am a confounded fool!" I exclaimed.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, don't say that," said Jervis. "Give your
friends a chance."
</p>
<p>
"I ought to have seen this long ago and told you
about it. John Bellingham did wear a ring, and it was
so tight that, when once he had got it on, he could
never get it off again."
</p>
<p>
"Do you happen to know on which hand he wore
it?" Thorndyke asked.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. It was the left hand; because Miss Bellingham,
who told me about it, said that he would never
have been able to get the ring on at all but for the fact
that his left hand was slightly smaller than his right."
</p>
<p>
"There it is, then," said Thorndyke. "With this
new fact in our possession, the absence of this finger
furnishes the starting-point of some very curious speculations."
</p>
<p>
"As, for instance?" said Jervis.
</p>
<p>
"Ah, under the circumstances, I must leave you to
pursue those speculations independently. I am now
acting for Mr. Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
Jervis grinned and was silent for a while, refilling his
pipe thoughtfully; but when he had got it alight he
resumed.
</p>
<p>
"To return to the question of the disappearance;
you don't consider it highly improbable that Bellingham
might have been murdered by Hurst?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, don't imagine that I am making an accusation.
I am considering the various probabilities merely in
the abstract. The same reasoning applies to the Bellinghams.
As to whether any of them did commit the
murder, that is a question of personal character. I
certainly do not suspect the Bellinghams after having
seen them, and with regard to Hurst, I know nothing,
or at least very little, to his disadvantage."
</p>
<p>
"Do you know anything?" asked Jervis.
</p>
<p>
"Well," Thorndyke said, with some hesitation, "it
seems a thought unkind to rake up the little details
of a man's past, and yet it has to be done. I have, of
course, made the usual routine inquiries concerning
the parties to this affair, and this is what they have
brought to light:
</p>
<p>
"Hurst, as you know, is a stockbroker&mdash;a man of
good position and reputation; but, about ten years
ago, he seems to have committed an indiscretion, to
put it mildly, which nearly got him into rather serious
difficulties. He appears to have speculated rather
heavily and considerably beyond his means, for when
a sudden spasm of the market upset his calculations,
it turned out that he had been employing his clients'
capital and securities. For a time it looked as if there
was going to be serious trouble; then, quite unexpectedly,
he managed to raise the necessary amount
in some way and settle all claims. Whence he got the
money has never been discovered to this day, which
is a curious circumstance, seeing that the deficiency was
rather over five thousand pounds; but the important
fact is that he did get it and that he paid up all that he
owed. So that he was only a potential defaulter, so to
speak; and, discreditable as the affair undoubtedly was,
it does not seem to have any direct bearing on this
present case."
</p>
<p>
"No," Jervis agreed, "though it makes one consider
his position with more attention than one would otherwise."
</p>
<p>
"Undoubtedly," said Thorndyke. "A reckless
gambler is a man whose conduct cannot be relied on.
He is subject to sudden vicissitudes of fortune which
may force him into other kinds of wrongdoing. Many
an embezzlement has been preceded by an unlucky
plunge on the turf."
</p>
<p>
"Assuming the responsibility for this disappearance
to lie between Hurst and&mdash;and the Bellinghams," said
I, with an uncomfortable gulp as I mentioned the name
of my friends, "to which side does the balance of
probability incline?"
</p>
<p>
"To the side of Hurst, I should say, without doubt,"
replied Thorndyke. "The case stands thus&mdash;on the
facts presented to us: Hurst appears to have had no
motive for killing the deceased (as we will call him);
but the man was seen to enter his house, was never seen
to leave it, and was never again seen alive. Bellingham,
on the other hand, had a motive, as he believed himself
to be the principal beneficiary under the will. But
the deceased was not seen at his house, and there is no
evidence that he went to the house or to the neighbourhood
of the house, excepting the scarab that was found
there. But the evidence of the scarab is vitiated by
the fact that Hurst was present when it was picked up,
and that it was found on a spot over which Hurst had
passed only a few minutes previously. Until Hurst is
cleared, it seems to me that the presence of the scarab
proves nothing against the Bellinghams."
</p>
<p>
"Then your opinions on the case," said I, "are based
entirely on the facts that have been made public."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, mainly. I do not necessarily accept those
facts just as they are presented, and I may have certain
views of my own on the case. But if I have, I do not
feel in a position to discuss them. For the present,
discussion has to be limited to the facts and inferences
offered by the parties concerned."
</p>
<p>
"There!" exclaimed Jervis, rising to knock out his
pipe, "that is where Thorndyke has you. He lets you
think you're in the very thick of the 'know' until one
fine morning you wake up and discover that you have
only been a gaping outsider; and then you are mightily
astonished&mdash;and so are the other side, too, for that
matter. But we must really be off now, mustn't we,
reverend senior?"
</p>
<p>
"I suppose we must," replied Thorndyke; and, as
he drew on his gloves, he asked: "Have you heard
from Barnard lately?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, yes," I answered. "I wrote to him at Smyrna
to say that the practice was flourishing and that I was
quite happy and contented, and that he might stay
away as long as he liked. He writes by return that he
will prolong his holiday if an opportunity offers, but
will let me know later."
</p>
<p>
"Gad," said Jervis, "it was a stroke of luck for
Barnard that Bellingham happened to have such a
magnificent daughter&mdash;there! don't mind me, old man.
You go in and win&mdash;she's worth it, isn't she, Thorndyke?"
</p>
<p>
"Miss Bellingham is a very charming young lady,"
replied Thorndyke. "I am most favourably impressed
by both the father and the daughter, and I only trust
that we may be able to be of some service to them."
With this sedate little speech Thorndyke shook my
hand, and I watched my two friends go on their way
until their fading shapes were swallowed up in the
darkness of Fetter Lane.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH12"><!-- CH12 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER XII
</h2>

<h3>
A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY
</h3>
<p>
It was some two or three mornings after my little
supper-party that, as I stood in the consulting-room
brushing my hat preparatory to starting on my morning
round, Adolphus appeared at the door to announce
two gentlemen waiting in the surgery. I told him to
bring them in, and a moment later Thorndyke entered,
accompanied by Jervis. I noted that they looked uncommonly
large in the little apartment, especially
Thorndyke, but I had no time to consider this phenomenon,
for the latter, when he had shaken my hand,
proceeded at once to explain the object of their visit.
</p>
<p>
"We have come to ask a favour, Berkeley," he said;
"to ask you to do us a very great service in the interests
of your friends, the Bellinghams."
</p>
<p>
"You know I shall be delighted," I said warmly.
"What is it?"
</p>
<p>
"I will explain. You know&mdash;or perhaps you don't&mdash;that
the police have collected all the bones that have
been discovered and deposited them in the mortuary
at Woodford, where they are to be viewed by the
coroner's jury. Now, it has become imperative that I
should have more definite and reliable information
about them than I can get from the newspapers. The
natural thing would be for me to go down and examine
them myself, but there are circumstances that make it
very desirable that my connection with the case should
not leak out. Consequently, I can't go myself, and,
for the same reason, I can't send Jervis. On the other
hand, as it is now stated pretty openly that the police
consider the bones to be almost certainly those of John
Bellingham, it would seem perfectly natural that you,
as Godfrey Bellingham's doctor, should go down to
view them on his behalf."
</p>
<p>
"I should like to go," I said. "I would give anything
to go; but how is it to be managed? It would
mean a whole day off and leaving the practice to take
care of itself."
</p>
<p>
"I think that could be arranged," said Thorndyke;
"and the matter is really important for two reasons.
One is that the inquest opens to-morrow, and someone
certainly ought to be there to watch the proceedings
on Godfrey's behalf; and the other is that our client
has received notice from Hurst's solicitors that the
application would be heard in the Probate Court in a
few days."
</p>
<p>
"Isn't that rather sudden?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"It certainly suggests that there has been a good
deal more activity than we were given to understand.
But you see the importance of the affair. The inquest
will be a sort of dress rehearsal for the Probate Court,
and it is quite essential that we should have a chance
of estimating the management."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I see that. But how are we to manage about
the practice?"
</p>
<p>
"We shall find you a substitute."
</p>
<p>
"Through a medical agent?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Jervis. "Turcival will find us a man;
in fact, he has done it. I saw him this morning; he
has a man who is waiting up in town to negotiate for
the purchase of a practice and who would do the job
for a couple of guineas. Quite a reliable man. Only
say the word, and I will run off to Adam Street and
engage him definitely."
</p>
<p>
"Very well. You engage the locum tenens, and I
will be prepared to start for Woodford as soon as he
turns up."
</p>
<p>
"Excellent!" said Thorndyke. "That is a great
weight off my mind. And if you could manage to drop
in this evening and smoke a pipe with us we could talk
over the plan of campaign and let you know what
items of information we are particularly in want of."
</p>
<p>
I promised to turn up at King's Bench Walk as soon
after half-past eight as possible, and my two friends
then took their departure, leaving me to set out in
high spirits on my scanty round of visits.
</p>
<p>
It is surprising what different aspects things present
from different points of view; how relative are our
estimates of the conditions and circumstances of life.
To the urban workman&mdash;the journeyman baker or
tailor, for instance, labouring year in year out in a
single building&mdash;a holiday ramble on Hampstead Heath
is a veritable voyage of discovery; whereas to the sailor
the shifting panorama of the whole wide world is but
the commonplace of the day's work.
</p>
<p>
So I reflected as I took my place in the train at
Liverpool Street on the following day. There had been
a time when a trip by rail to the borders of Epping
Forest would have been far from a thrilling experience;
now, after vegetating in the little world of Fetter
Lane, it was quite an adventure.
</p>
<p>
The enforced inactivity of a railway journey is
favourable to thought, and I had much to think about.
The last few weeks had witnessed momentous changes
in my outlook. New interests had arisen, new friendships
had grown up; and, above all, there had stolen
into my life that supreme influence that, for good or
for evil, according to my fortune, was to colour and
pervade it even to its close. Those few days of companionable
labour in the reading-room, with the homely
hospitalities of the milk-shop and the pleasant walks
homeward through the friendly London streets, had
called into existence a new world&mdash;a world in which
the gracious personality of Ruth Bellingham was the
one dominating reality. And thus, as I leaned back in
a corner of the railway carriage with an unlighted pipe
in my hand, the events of the immediate past, together
with those more problematical ones of the impending
future, occupied me rather to the exclusion of the business
of the moment, which was to review the remains
collected in the Woodford mortuary, until, as the train
approached Stratford, the odours of the soap and bone-manure
factories poured in at the open window and
(by a natural association of ideas) brought me back to
the object of my quest.
</p>
<p>
As to the exact purpose of this expedition, I was not
very clear; but I knew that I was acting as Thorndyke's
proxy and thrilled with pride at the thought.
But what particular light my investigations were to
throw upon the intricate Bellingham case I had no
very definite idea. With a view to fixing the course
of procedure in my mind, I took Thorndyke's written
instructions from my pocket and read them over carefully.
They were very full and explicit, making ample
allowance for my lack of experience in medico-legal
matters:&mdash;
</p>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
1. Do not appear to make minute investigations or
in any way excite remark.<br>
<br>

2. Ascertain if all the bones belonging to each region
are present, and if not, which are missing.<br>
<br>

3. Measure the extreme length of the principal bones
and compare those of opposite sides.<br>
<br>

4. Examine the bones with reference to the age, sex,
and muscular development of the deceased.<br>
<br>

5. Note the presence or absence of signs of constitutional
disease, local disease of bone or adjacent structures,
old or recent injuries, and any other departures
from the normal or usual.<br>
<br>

6. Observe the presence or absence of adipocere and
its position, if present.<br>
<br>

7. Note any remains of tendons, ligaments, or other
soft structures.<br>
<br>

8. Examine the Sidcup hand with reference to the
question as to whether the finger was separated before
or after death.<br>
<br>

9. Estimate the probable period of submersion and
note any changes (as, e.g., mineral or organic staining)
due to the character of the water or mud.<br>
<br>

10. Ascertain the circumstances (immediate and remote)
that led to the discovery of the bones and the
names of the persons concerned in those circumstances.<br>
<br>

11. Commit all information to writing as soon as
possible, and make plans and diagrams on the spot, if
circumstances permit.<br>
<br>

12. Preserve an impassive exterior; listen attentively
but without eagerness; ask as few questions as
possible; pursue any inquiry that your observations on
the spot may suggest.
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>
<p>
These were my instructions, and, considering that I
was going merely to inspect a few dry bones, they
appeared rather formidable; in fact, the more I read
them over the greater became my misgivings as to my
qualifications for the task.
</p>
<p>
As I approached the mortuary it became evident that
some, at least, of Thorndyke's admonitions were by no
means unnecessary. The place was in charge of a
police-sergeant, who watched my approach suspiciously;
and some half-dozen men, obviously newspaper
reporters, hovered about the entrance like a pack
of jackals. I presented the coroner's order which Mr.
Marchmont had obtained, and which the sergeant read
with his back against the wall, to prevent the newspaper
men from looking over his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
My credentials being found satisfactory, the door
was unlocked and I entered, accompanied by three
enterprising reporters, whom, however, the sergeant
summarily ejected and locked out, returning to usher
me into the presence and to observe my proceedings
with intelligent but highly embarrassing
interest.
</p>
<p>
The bones were laid out on a large table and covered
with a sheet, which the sergeant slowly turned back,
watching my face intently as he did so to note the impression
that the spectacle made upon me. I imagine
that he must have been somewhat disappointed by my
impassive demeanour, for the remains suggested to me
nothing more than a rather shabby set of "student's
osteology." The whole collection had been set out (by
the police-surgeon, as the sergeant informed me) in
their proper anatomical order; notwithstanding which
I counted them over carefully to make sure that none
were missing, checking them by the list with which
Thorndyke had furnished me.
</p>
<p>
"I see you have found the left thigh-bone," I remarked,
observing that this did not appear in the list.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said the sergeant; "that turned up yesterday
evening in a big pond called Baldwin's Pond in the
Sand-pit plain, near Little Monk Wood."
</p>
<p>
"Is that near here?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"In the forest up Loughton way," was the reply.
</p>
<p>
I made a note of the fact (on which the sergeant
looked as if he was sorry he had mentioned it), and
then turned my attention to a general consideration of
the bones before examining them in detail. Their
appearance would have been improved and examination
facilitated by a thorough scrubbing, for they were
just as they had been taken from their respective
resting-places, and it was difficult to decide whether
their reddish-yellow colour was an actual stain or due
to a deposit on the surface. In any case, as it affected
them all alike, I thought it an interesting feature and
made a note of it. They bore numerous traces of their
sojourn in the various ponds from which they had been
recovered, but these gave me little help in determining
the length of time during which they had been submerged.
They were, of course, encrusted with mud, and
little wisps of pond-weed stuck to them in places; but
these facts furnished only the vaguest measure of time.
</p>
<p>
Some of the traces were, indeed, more informing. To
several of the bones, for instance, there adhered the
dried egg-clusters of the common pond-snail, and in
one of the hollows of the right shoulder-blade (the
"infra-spinous fossa") was a group of the mud-built
tubes of the red river-worm. These remains gave proof
of a considerable period of submersion, and since they
could not have been deposited on the bones until all the
flesh had disappeared, they furnished evidence that
some time&mdash;a month or two, at any rate&mdash;had elapsed
since this had happened. Incidentally, too, their distribution
showed the position in which the bones had
lain, and though this appeared to be of no importance
in the existing circumstances, I made careful notes of
the situation of each adherent body, illustrating their
position by rough sketches.
</p>
<p>
The sergeant watched my proceedings with an indulgent
smile.
</p>
<p>
"You're making a regular inventory, sir," he remarked,
"as if you were going to put 'em up for auction.
I shouldn't think those snails' eggs would be much
help in identification. And all that has been done already,"
he added as I produced my measuring-tape.
</p>
<p>
"No doubt," I replied; "but my business is to make
independent observations, to check the others, if necessary."
And I proceeded to measure each of the principal
bones separately and to compare those of the
opposite sides. The agreement in dimensions and
general characteristics of the pairs of bones left little
doubt that all were parts of one skeleton, a conclusion
that was confirmed by the eburnated patch on the head
of the right thigh-bone and the corresponding patch
in the socket of the right hip-bone. When I had finished
my measurements I went over the entire series of
bones in detail, examining each with the closest attention
for any of those signs which Thorndyke had
indicated, and eliciting nothing but a monotonously
reiterated negative. They were distressingly and disappointingly
normal.
</p>
<p>
"Well, sir, and what do you make of 'em?" the
sergeant asked cheerfully as I shut up my note-book
and straightened my back. "Whose bones are they?
Are they Mr. Bellingham's, think ye?"
</p>
<p>
"I should be very sorry to say whose bones they
are," I replied. "One bone is very much like another,
you know."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose it is," he agreed; "but I thought that,
with all that measuring and all those notes, you might
have arrived at something definite." Evidently he was
disappointed in me; and I was somewhat disappointed
in myself when I contrasted Thorndyke's elaborate instructions
with the meagre result of my investigations.
For what did my discoveries amount to? And how
much was the inquiry advanced by the few entries in
my note-book?
</p>
<p>
The bones were apparently those of a man of fair
though not remarkable muscular development; over
thirty years of age, but how much older I was unable
to say. His height I judged roughly to be five feet
eight inches, but my measurements would furnish data
for a more exact estimate by Thorndyke. Beyond this
the bones were quite uncharacteristic. There were no
signs of disease either local or general, no indications
of injuries either old or recent, no departures of any
kind from the normal or usual; and the dismemberment
had been effected with such care that there was
not a single scratch on any of the separated surfaces.
Of adipocere (the peculiar waxy or soapy substance
that is commonly found in bodies that have slowly decayed
in damp situations) there was not a trace; and
the only remnant of the soft structures was a faint
indication, like a spot of dried glue, of the tendon on
the tip of the right elbow.
</p>
<p>
The sergeant was in the act of replacing the sheet,
with the air of a showman who has just given an exhibition,
when there came a sharp rapping on the
mortuary door. The officer finished spreading the sheet
with official precision, and having ushered me out into
the lobby, turned the key and admitted three persons,
holding the door open after they had entered for me to
go out. But the appearance of the new-comers inclined
me to linger. One of them was a local constable, evidently
in official charge; a second was a labouring man,
very muddy and wet, who carried a small sack; while in
the third I thought I scented a professional brother.
</p>
<p>
The sergeant continued to hold the door open.
</p>
<p>
"Nothing more I can do for you, sir?" he asked
genially.
</p>
<p>
"Is that the divisional surgeon?" I inquired.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. I am the divisional surgeon," the new-comer
answered. "Did you want anything of me?"
</p>
<p>
"This," said the sergeant, "is a medical gentleman
who has got permission from the coroner to inspect the
remains. He is acting for the family of the deceased&mdash;I
mean, for the family of Mr. Bellingham," he
added in answer to an inquiring glance from the
surgeon.
</p>
<p>
"I see," said the latter. "Well, they have found
the rest of the trunk, including, I understand, the ribs
that were missing from the other part. Isn't that so,
Davis?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," replied the constable. "Inspector Badger
says all the ribs is here, and all the bones of the neck
as well."
</p>
<p>
"The inspector seems to be an anatomist," I remarked.
</p>
<p>
The sergeant grinned. "He's a very knowing gentleman,
is Mr. Badger. He came down here this morning
quite early and spent a long time looking over the
bones and checking them by some notes in his pocket-book.
I fancy he's got something on, but he was
precious close about it."
</p>
<p>
Here the sergeant shut up rather suddenly&mdash;perhaps
contrasting his own conduct with that of his superior.
</p>
<p>
"Let us have these new bones out on the table,"
said the police-surgeon. "Take that sheet off, and
don't shoot them out as if they were coals. Hand them
out carefully."
</p>
<p>
The labourer fished out the wet and muddy bones
one by one from the sack, and as he laid them on the
table the surgeon arranged them in their proper relative
positions.
</p>
<p>
"This has been a neatly executed job," he remarked;
"none of your clumsy hacking with a chopper or a saw.
The bones have been cleanly separated at the joints.
The fellow who did this must have had some anatomical
knowledge, unless he was a butcher, which, by the way,
is not impossible. He has used his knife uncommonly
skilfully, and you notice that each arm was taken off
with the scapula attached, just as a butcher takes off a
shoulder of mutton. Are there any more bones in that
bag?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir," replied the labourer, wiping his hands
with an air of finality on the posterior aspect of his
trousers; "that's the lot."
</p>
<p>
The surgeon looked thoughtfully at the bones as
he gave a final touch to their arrangement, and remarked:
</p>
<p>
"The inspector is right. All the bones of the neck
are there. Very odd. Don't you think so?"
</p>
<p>
"You mean&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"I mean that this very eccentric murderer seems to
have given himself such an extraordinary amount of
trouble for no reason that one can see. There are
these neck vertebrae, for instance. He must have carefully
separated the skull from the atlas instead of just
cutting through the neck. Then there is the way he
divided the trunk; the twelfth ribs have just come in
with this lot, but the twelfth dorsal vertebra to which
they belong was attached to the lower half. Imagine
the trouble he must have taken to do that, and without
cutting or hacking the bones about, either. It is extraordinary.
This is rather interesting, by the way. Handle it carefully."
</p>
<p>
He picked up the breast-bone daintily&mdash;for it was
covered with wet mud&mdash;and handed it to me with the
remark: "That is the most definite piece of evidence
we have."
</p>
<p>
"You mean," I said, "that the union of the two
parts into a single mass fixes this as the skeleton of an
elderly man?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, that is the obvious suggestion, which is confirmed
by the deposit of bone in the rib-cartilages. You
can tell the inspector, Davis, that I have checked this
lot of bones and that they are all here."
</p>
<p>
"Would you mind writing it down, sir?" said the
constable. "Inspector Badger said I was to have
everything in writing."
</p>
<p>
The surgeon took out his pocket-book, and, while he
was selecting a suitable piece of paper, he asked: "Did
you form any opinion as to the height of the deceased?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I thought he would be about five feet eight"
(here I caught the sergeant's eyes fixed on me with a
knowing leer).
</p>
<p>
"I made it five eight and a half," said the police-surgeon;
"but we shall know better when we have
seen the lower leg-bones. Where was this lot found,
Davis?"
</p>
<p>
"In the pond just off the road in Lord's Bushes, sir,
and the inspector has gone off now to&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Never mind where he's gone," interrupted the
sergeant. "You just answer questions and attend to
your business."
</p>
<p>
The sergeant's reproof conveyed a hint to me on
which I was not slow to act. Friendly as my professional
colleague was, it was clear that the police were
disposed to treat me as an interloper who was to be
kept out of the "know" as far as possible. Accordingly
I thanked my colleague and the sergeant for their
courtesy, and bidding them adieu until we should meet
at the inquest, took my departure and walked away
quickly until I found an inconspicuous position from
which I could keep the door of the mortuary in view.
A few moments later I saw Constable Davis emerge
and stride away up the road.
</p>
<p>
I watched his rapidly diminishing figure until he had
gone as far as I considered desirable, and then I set
forth in his wake. The road led straight away from
the village, and in less than half a mile entered the
outskirts of the forest. Here I quickened my pace to
close up somewhat, and it was well that I did so, for
suddenly he diverged from the road into a green lane,
where for a while I lost sight of him. Still hurrying
forward, I again caught sight of him just as he turned
off into a narrow path that entered a beech wood with
a thickish undergrowth of holly, along which I followed
him for several minutes, gradually decreasing the distance
between us, until suddenly there fell on my ear
a rhythmical, metallic sound like the clank of a pump.
Soon after I caught the sound of men's voices, and then
the constable struck off the path into the wood.
</p>
<p>
I now advanced more cautiously, endeavouring to
locate the search party by the sound of the pump, and
when I had done this I made a little detour so that I
might approach from the opposite direction to that
from which the constable had appeared.
</p>
<p>
Still guided by the noise of the pump, I at length
came out into a small opening among the trees and
halted to survey the scene. The centre of the opening
was occupied by a small pond, not more than a dozen
yards across, by the side of which stood a builder's
handcart. The little two-wheeled vehicle had evidently
been used to convey the appliances which were deposited
on the ground near it, and which consisted of a large
tub&mdash;now filled with water&mdash;a shovel, a rake, a sieve,
and a portable pump, the latter being fitted with a
long delivery hose. There were three men besides the
constable, one of whom was working the handle of the
pump, while another was glancing at a paper that the
constable had just delivered to him. He looked up
sharply as I appeared, and viewed me with unconcealed
disfavour.
</p>
<p>
"Hallo, sir!" said he. "You can't come here."
</p>
<p>
Now, seeing that I actually was here, this was clearly
a mistake, and I ventured to point out the fallacy.
</p>
<p>
"Well, I can't allow you to stay here. Our business
is of a private nature."
</p>
<p>
"I know exactly what your business is, Inspector
Badger."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, do you?" said he, surveying me with a foxy
smile. "And I expect I know what yours is, too. But
we can't have any of you newspaper gentry spying on
us just at present, so you just be off."
</p>
<p>
I thought it best to undeceive him at once, and accordingly,
having explained who I was, I showed him
the coroner's permit, which he read with manifest
annoyance.
</p>
<p>
"This is all very well, sir," said he as he handed me
back the paper, "but it doesn't authorise you to come
spying on the proceedings of the police. Any remains
that we discover will be deposited in the mortuary,
where you can inspect them to your heart's content;
but you can't stay here and watch us."
</p>
<p>
I had no defined object in keeping a watch on the
inspector's proceedings; but the sergeant's indiscreet
hint had aroused my curiosity, which was further excited
by Mr. Badger's evident desire to get rid of me.
Moreover, while we had been talking, the pump had
stopped (the muddy floor of the pond being now pretty
fully exposed), and the inspector's assistant was handling
the shovel impatiently.
</p>
<p>
"Now, I put it to you, Inspector," said I, persuasively,
"is it politic of you to allow it to be said that
you refused an authorised representative of the family
facilities for verifying any statements that you may
make hereafter?"
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"I mean that if you should happen to find some bone
which could be identified as part of the body of Mr.
Bellingham, that fact would be of more importance to
his family than to anyone else. You know that there
is a very valuable estate and a rather difficult will."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't know it, and I don't see the bearing of it
now" (neither did I, for that matter); "but if you
make such a point of being present at the search, I
can't very well refuse. Only you mustn't get in our
way, that's all."
</p>
<p>
On hearing this conclusion, his assistant, who looked
like a plain-clothes officer, took up his shovel and
stepped into the mud that formed the bottom of the
pond, stooping as he went and peering among the
masses of weed that had been left stranded by the withdrawal
of the water. The inspector watched him
anxiously, cautioning him from time to time to "look
out where he was treading"; the labourer left the
pump and craned forward from the margin of the mud,
and the constable and I looked on from our respective
points of vantage. For some time the search was fruitless.
Once the searcher stooped and picked up what
turned out to be a fragment of decayed wood; then
the remains of a long-deceased jay were discovered,
examined, and rejected. Suddenly the man bent down
by the side of a small pool that had been left in one
of the deeper hollows, stared intently into the mud,
and stood up.
</p>
<p>
"There's something here that looks like a bone, sir,"
he sang out.
</p>
<p>
"Don't grub about, then," said the inspector.
"Drive your shovel right into the mud where you saw
it and bring it to the sieve."
</p>
<p>
The man followed out these instructions, and as he
came shorewards with a great pile of the slimy mud on
his shovel we all converged on the sieve, which the
inspector took up and held over the tub, directing the
constable and labourer to "lend a hand," meaning
thereby that they were to crowd round the tub and
exclude me as completely as possible. This, in fact,
they did very effectively with his assistance, for, when
the shovelful of mud had been deposited on the sieve,
the four men leaned over it and so nearly hid it from
view that it was only by craning over, first on one side
and then on the other, that I was able to catch an occasional
glimpse of it and to observe it gradually melting
away as the sieve, immersed in the water, was shaken
to and fro.
</p>
<p>
Presently the inspector raised the sieve from the
water and stooped over it more closely to examine its
contents. Apparently the examination yielded no very
conclusive results, for it was accompanied by a series
of rather dubious grunts.
</p>
<p>
At length the officer stood up, and turning to me
with a genial but foxy smile, held out the sieve for
my inspection.
</p>
<p>
"Like to see what we have found, Doctor?" said he.
</p>
<p>
I thanked him and stooped over the sieve. It contained
the sort of litter of twigs, skeleton leaves, weed,
pond-snails, dead shells, and fresh-water mussels that
one would expect to strain out from the mud of an
ancient pond; but in addition to these there were
three small bones which at the first glance gave me
quite a start until I saw what they were.
</p>
<p>
The inspector looked at me inquiringly. "H'm?"
said he.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I replied. "Very interesting."
</p>
<p>
"Those will be human bones, I fancy; h'm?"
</p>
<p>
"I should say so, undoubtedly," I answered.
</p>
<p>
"Now," said the inspector, "could you say, off-hand,
which finger those bones belong to?"
</p>
<p>
I smothered a grin (for I had been expecting this
question), and answered:
</p>
<p>
"I can say off-hand that they don't belong to any
finger. They are the bones of the left great toe."
</p>
<p>
The inspector's jaw dropped. "The deuce they
are!" he muttered. "H'm. I thought they looked
a bit stout."
</p>
<p>
"I expect," said I, "that if you go through the mud
close to where this came from you'll find the rest of
the foot."
</p>
<p>
The plain-clothes man proceeded at once to act on
my suggestion, taking the sieve with him to save time.
And sure enough, after filling it twice with the mud
from the bottom of the pool, the entire skeleton of the
foot was brought to light.
</p>
<p>
"Now you're happy, I suppose," said the inspector
when I had checked the bones and found them all
present.
</p>
<p>
"I should be more happy," I replied, "if I knew
what you were searching for in this pond. You weren't
looking for the foot, were you?"
</p>
<p>
"I was looking for anything that I might find," he
answered. "I shall go on searching until we have the
whole body. I shall go through all the streams and
ponds around here, except Connaught Water. That
I shall leave to the last, as it will be a case of dredging
from a boat and isn't so likely as the smaller ponds.
Perhaps the head will be there; it's deeper than any
of the others."
</p>
<p>
It now occurred to me that as I had learned all that
I was likely to learn, which was little enough, I might
as well leave the inspector to pursue his researches unembarrassed
by my presence. Accordingly I thanked
him for his assistance and departed by the way I had
come.
</p>
<p>
But as I retraced my steps along the shady path I
speculated profoundly on the officer's proceedings. My
examination of the mutilated hand had yielded the
conclusion that the finger had been removed either
after death or shortly before, but more probably after.
Someone else had evidently arrived at the same conclusion,
and had communicated his opinion to Inspector
Badger; for it was clear that that gentleman was in
full cry after the missing finger. But why was he
searching for it here when the hand had been found at
Sidcup? And what did he expect to learn from it
when he found it? There is nothing particularly characteristic
about a finger, or, at least, the bones of one;
and the object of the present researches was to determine
the identity of the person of whom these bones
were the remains. There was something mysterious
about the affair, something suggesting that Inspector
Badger was in possession of private information of
some kind. But what information could he have?
And whence could he have obtained it? These were
questions to which I could find no answer, and I was
still fruitlessly revolving them when I arrived at the
modest inn where the inquest was to be held, and where
I proposed to fortify myself with a correspondingly
modest lunch as a preparation for my attendance at
that inquiry.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH13"><!-- CH13 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER XIII
</h2>

<h3>
THE CROWNER'S QUEST
</h3>
<p>
The proceedings of that fine old institution, the
coroner's court, are apt to have their dignity impaired
by the somewhat unjudicial surroundings amidst which
they are conducted. The present inquiry was to be
held in a long room attached to the inn, ordinarily
devoted, as its various appurtenances testified, to gatherings
of a more convivial character.
</p>
<p>
Hither I betook myself after a protracted lunch and
a meditative pipe, and, being the first to arrive&mdash;the
jury having already been sworn and conducted to the
mortuary to view the remains&mdash;whiled away the time
by considering the habits of the customary occupants
of the room by the light of the objects contained in it.
A wooden target with one or two darts sticking in it
hung on the end wall and invited the Robin Hoods of
the village to try their skill; a system of incised marks
on the oaken table made sinister suggestions of shove-halfpenny;
and a large open box, filled with white
wigs, gaudily coloured robes and wooden spears, swords
and regalia, crudely coated with gilded paper, obviously
appertained to the puerile ceremonials of the Order of
Druids.
</p>
<p>
I had exhausted the interest of these relics and had
transferred my attentions to the picture gallery when
the other spectators and the witnesses began to arrive.
Hastily I seated myself in the only comfortable chair
besides the one placed at the head of the table, presumably
for the coroner; and I had hardly done so
when the latter entered accompanied by the jury. Immediately
after them came the sergeant, Inspector
Badger, one or two plain-clothes men, and finally the
divisional surgeon.
</p>
<p>
The coroner took his seat at the head of the table
and opened his book, and the jury seated themselves
on a couple of benches on one side of the long table.
I looked with some interest at the twelve "good men
and true." They were a representative group of British
tradesmen, quiet, attentive, and rather solemn; but
my attention was particularly attracted by a small
man with a very large head and a shock of upstanding
hair whom I had diagnosed, after a glance at his intelligent
but truculent countenance and the shiny knees
of his trousers, as the village cobbler. He sat between
the broad-shouldered foreman, who looked like a blacksmith,
and a dogged, red-faced man whose general
aspect of prosperous greasiness suggested the calling
of a butcher.
</p>
<p>
"The inquiry, gentlemen," the coroner commenced,
"upon which we are now entering concerns itself with
two questions. The first is that of identity: Who was
this person whose body we have just viewed? The
second is, How, when, and by what means did he come
by his death? We will take the identity first and begin
with the circumstances under which the body was discovered."
</p>
<p>
Here the cobbler stood up and raised an excessively
dirty hand.
</p>
<p>
"I rise, Mr. Chairman," said he, "to a point of
order." The other jurymen looked at him curiously
and some of them, I regret to say, grinned. "You
have referred, sir," he continued, "to the body which
we have just viewed. I wish to point out that we have
not viewed a body: we have viewed a collection of
bones."
</p>
<p>
"We will refer to them as the remains, if you prefer
it," said the coroner.
</p>
<p>
"I do prefer it," was the reply, and the objector sat
down.
</p>
<p>
"Very well," rejoined the coroner, and he proceeded
to call the witnesses, of whom the first was the labourer
who had discovered the bones in the watercress-bed.
</p>
<p>
"Do you happen to know how long it was since the
beds had been cleaned out previously?" the coroner
asked, when the witness had told the story of the discovery.
</p>
<p>
"They was cleaned out by Mr. Tapper's orders just
before he gave them up. That will be a little better
than two years ago. In May it were. I helped to
clean 'em. I worked on this very same place and there
wasn't no bones there then."
</p>
<p>
The coroner glanced at the jury. "Any questions,
gentlemen?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
The cobbler directed an intimidating scowl at the
witness and demanded:
</p>
<p>
"Were you searching for bones when you came on
these remains?"
</p>
<p>
"Me!" exclaimed the witness. "What should I
be searching for bones for?"
</p>
<p>
"Don't prevaricate," said the cobbler sternly; "answer
the question: Yes or no."
</p>
<p>
"No; of course I wasn't."
</p>
<p>
The juryman shook his enormous head dubiously as
though implying that he would let it pass this time
but it mustn't happen again; and the examination of
the witnesses continued, without eliciting anything that
was new to me or giving rise to any incident, until
the sergeant had described the finding of the right arm
in the Cuckoo Pits.
</p>
<p>
"Was this an accidental discovery?" the coroner
asked.
</p>
<p>
"No. We had instructions from Scotland Yard to
search any likely ponds in this neighbourhood."
</p>
<p>
The coroner discreetly forbore to press this matter
any farther, but my friend the cobbler was evidently
on the qui vive, and I anticipated a brisk cross-examination
for Mr. Badger when his turn came. The inspector
was apparently of the same opinion, for I saw
him cast a glance of the deepest malevolence at the
too inquiring disciple of St. Crispin. In fact, his turn
came next, and the cobbler's hair stood up with unholy
joy.
</p>
<p>
The finding of the lower half of the trunk in Staple's
Pond at Loughton was the inspector's own achievement,
but he was not boastful about it. The discovery,
he remarked, followed naturally on the previous one in
the Cuckoo Pits.
</p>
<p>
"Had you any private information that led you to
search this particular neighbourhood?" the cobbler
asked.
</p>
<p>
"We had no private information whatever," replied
Badger.
</p>
<p>
"Now I put it to you," pursued the juryman, shaking
a forensic, and very dirty, forefinger at the inspector;
"here are certain remains found at Sidcup; here are
certain other remains found at St. Mary Cray, and
certain others at Lee. All those places are in Kent.
Now isn't it very remarkable that you should come
straight down to Epping Forest, which is in Essex, and
search for those bones and find 'em?"
</p>
<p>
"We were making a systematic search of all likely
places," replied Badger.
</p>
<p>
"Exactly," said the cobbler, with a ferocious grin,
"that's just my point. I say, isn't it very funny that,
after finding remains in Kent some twenty miles from
here with the River Thames between, you should come
here to look for the bones and go straight to Staple's
Pond, where they happen to be&mdash;and find 'em?"
</p>
<p>
"It would have been more funny," Badger replied
sourly, "if we'd gone straight to a place where they
happened <i>not</i> to be&mdash;and found them."
</p>
<p>
A gratified snigger arose from the other eleven good
men and true, and the cobbler grinned savagely; but
before he could think of a suitable rejoinder the coroner
interposed.
</p>
<p>
"The question is not very material," he said, "and
we mustn't embarrass the police by unnecessary inquiries."
</p>
<p>
"It's my belief," said the cobbler, "that he knew
they were there all the time."
</p>
<p>
"The witness has stated that he had no private
information," said the coroner; and he proceeded to
take the rest of the inspector's evidence, watched closely
by the critical juror.
</p>
<p>
The account of the finding of the remains having been
given in full, the police-surgeon was called and sworn;
the jurymen straightened their backs with an air of
expectancy, and I turned over a page of my note-book.
</p>
<p>
"You have examined the bones at present lying in
the mortuary and forming the subject of this inquiry?"
the coroner asked.
</p>
<p>
"I have."
</p>
<p>
"Will you kindly tell us what you have observed?"
</p>
<p>
"I find that the bones are human bones, and are, in
my opinion, all parts of the same person. They form
a skeleton which is complete with the exception of the
skull, the third finger of the left hand, the knee-caps,
and the leg-bones&mdash;I mean the bones between the knees
and the ankles."
</p>
<p>
"Is there anything to account for the absence of the
missing finger?"
</p>
<p>
"No. There is no deformity and no sign of its having
been amputated during life. In my opinion it was
removed after death."
</p>
<p>
"Can you give us any description of the deceased?"
</p>
<p>
"I should say that these are the bones of an elderly
man, probably over sixty years of age, about five feet
eight and a half inches in height, of rather stout build,
fairly muscular, and well preserved. There are no signs
of disease excepting some old-standing rheumatic gout
of the right hip-joint."
</p>
<p>
"Can you form any opinion as to the cause of
death?"
</p>
<p>
"No. There are no marks of violence or signs of
injury. But it will be impossible to form any opinion
as to the cause of death until we have seen the skull."
</p>
<p>
"Did you note anything else of importance?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. I was struck by the appearance of anatomical
knowledge and skill on the part of the person who dismembered
the body. The knowledge of anatomy is
proved by the fact that the corpse has been divided
into definite anatomical regions. For instance, the
bones of the neck are complete and include the top
joint of the backbone known as the atlas; whereas a
person without anatomical knowledge would probably
take off the head by cutting through the neck. Then
the arms have been separated with the scapula (or
shoulder-blade) and clavicle (or collar-bone) attached,
just as an arm would be removed for dissection.
</p>
<p>
"The skill is shown by the neat way in which the
dismemberment has been carried out. The parts have
not been rudely hacked asunder, but have been separated
at the joints so skilfully that I have not discovered
a single scratch or mark of the knife on any
of the bones."
</p>
<p>
"Can you suggest any class of person who would be
likely to possess the knowledge and skill to which you
refer?"
</p>
<p>
"It would, of course, be possessed by a surgeon or
medical student, and possibly by a butcher."
</p>
<p>
"You think that the person who dismembered this
body may have been a surgeon or a medical student?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes; or a butcher. Someone accustomed to the
dismemberment of bodies and skilful with the knife."
</p>
<p>
Here the cobbler suddenly rose to his feet.
</p>
<p>
"I rise, Mr. Chairman," said he, "to protest against
the statement that has just been made."
</p>
<p>
"What statement?" demanded the coroner.
</p>
<p>
"Against the aspersion," continued the cobbler, with
an oratorical flourish, "that has been cast upon a
honourable calling."
</p>
<p>
"I don't understand you," said the coroner.
</p>
<p>
"Doctor Summers has insinuated that this murder
was committed by a butcher. Now a member of that
honourable calling is sitting on this jury&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"You let me alone," growled the butcher.
</p>
<p>
"I will not let you alone," persisted the cobbler.
"I desire&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, shut up, Pope!" This was from the foreman,
who, at the same moment, reached out an enormous
hairy hand with which he grabbed the cobbler's coat-tails
and brought him into a sitting posture with a
thump that shook the room.
</p>
<p>
But Mr. Pope, though seated, was not silenced. "I
desire," said he, "to have my protest put on record."
</p>
<p>
"I can't do that," said the coroner, "and I can't
allow you to interrupt the witnesses."
</p>
<p>
"I am acting," said Mr. Pope, "in the interests of
my friend here and the members of a honourable&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
But here the butcher turned on him savagely, and,
in a hoarse stage-whisper, exclaimed:
</p>
<p>
"Look here, Pope; you've got too much of what the
cat licks&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Gentlemen! gentlemen!" the coroner protested,
sternly; "I cannot permit this unseemly conduct. You
are forgetting the solemnity of the occasion and your
own responsible positions. I must insist on more decent
and decorous behaviour."
</p>
<p>
There was profound silence, in the midst of which
the butcher concluded in the same hoarse whisper:
</p>
<p>
"&mdash;licks 'er paws with."
</p>
<p>
The coroner cast a withering glance at him, and
turning to the witness, resumed the examination.
</p>
<p>
"Can you tell us, Doctor, how long a time has elapsed
since the death of the deceased?"
</p>
<p>
"I should say not less than eighteen months, but
probably more. How much more it is impossible from
inspection alone to say. The bones are perfectly clean&mdash;that
is, clean of all soft structures&mdash;and will remain
substantially in their present condition for many years."
</p>
<p>
"The evidence of the man who found the remains
in the watercress-bed suggests that they could not have
been there more than two years. Do the appearances,
in your opinion, agree with that view?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes; perfectly."
</p>
<p>
"There is one more point, Doctor; a very important
one. Do you find anything in any of the bones, or all
of them together, which would enable you to identify
them as the bones of any particular individual?"
</p>
<p>
"No," replied Dr. Summers; "I found no peculiarity
that could furnish the means of personal identification."
</p>
<p>
"The description of a missing individual has been
given to us," said the coroner; "a man, fifty-nine
years of age, five feet eight inches in height, healthy,
well preserved, rather broad in build, and having an
old Pott's fracture of the left ankle. Do the remains
that you have examined agree with that description?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, in so far as agreement is possible. There is
no disagreement."
</p>
<p>
"The remains might be those of that individual?"
</p>
<p>
"They might; but there is no positive evidence that
they are. The description would apply to a large proportion
of elderly men, except as to the fracture."
</p>
<p>
"You found no signs of such a fracture?"
</p>
<p>
"No. Pott's fracture affects the bone called the
fibula. That is one of the bones that has not yet been
found, so there is no evidence on that point. The left
foot was quite normal, but then it would be in any
case, unless the fracture had resulted in great deformity."
</p>
<p>
"You estimated the height of the deceased as half
an inch greater than that of the missing person. Does
that constitute a disagreement?"
</p>
<p>
"No; my estimate is only approximate. As the
arms are complete and the legs are not, I have based
my calculations on the width across the two arms.
But measurement of the thigh-bones gives the same
result. The length of the thigh-bones is one foot seven
inches and five-eighths."
</p>
<p>
"So the deceased might not have been taller than
five feet eight?"
</p>
<p>
"That is so: from five feet eight to five feet nine."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you. I think that is all we want to ask
you, Doctor; unless the jury wish to put any questions."
</p>
<p>
He glanced uneasily at that august body, and instantly
the irrepressible Pope rose to the occasion.
</p>
<p>
"About that finger that is missing," said the cobbler.
"You say that it was cut off after death."
</p>
<p>
"That is my opinion."
</p>
<p>
"Now, can you tell us why it was cut off?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I cannot."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, come now, Doctor Summers, you must have
formed some opinion on the subject."
</p>
<p>
Here the coroner interposed. "The Doctor is only
concerned with evidence arising out of the actual examination
of the remains. Any personal opinions or
conjectures that he may have formed are not evidence,
and he must not be asked about them."
</p>
<p>
"But, sir," objected Pope, "we want to know why
that finger was cut off. It couldn't have been took off
for no reason. May I ask, sir, if the person who is missing
had anything peculiar about that finger?"
</p>
<p>
"Nothing is stated to that effect in the written
description," replied the coroner.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps," suggested Pope, "Inspector Badger can
tell us."
</p>
<p>
"I think," said the coroner, "we had better not ask
the police too many questions. They will tell us anything
that they wish to be made public."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, very well," snapped the cobbler. "If it's a
matter of hushing it up I've got no more to say; only I
don't see how we are to arrive at a verdict if we don't
have the facts put before us."
</p>
<p>
All the witnesses having now been examined, the
coroner proceeded to sum up and address the
jury.
</p>
<p>
"You have heard the evidence, gentlemen, of the
various witnesses, and you will have perceived that it
does not enable us to answer either of the questions
that form the subject of this inquiry. We now know
that the deceased was an elderly man, about sixty years
of age, and about five feet eight or nine in height; and
that his death took place from eighteen months to two
years ago. That is all we know. From the treatment
to which the body has been subjected we may form
certain conjectures as to the circumstances of his
death. But we have no actual knowledge. We do not
know who the deceased was or how he came by his
death. Consequently, it will be necessary to adjourn
this inquiry until fresh facts are available, and as soon
as that is the case, you will receive due notice that
your attendance is required."
</p>
<p>
The silence of the Court gave place to the confused
noise of moving chairs and a general outbreak of eager
talk, amidst which I rose and made my way out into
the street. At the door I encountered Dr. Summers,
whose dog-cart was waiting close by.
</p>
<p>
"Are you going back to town now?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I answered; "as soon as I can catch a
train."
</p>
<p>
"If you jump into my cart I'll run you down in
time for the five-one. You'll miss it if you walk."
</p>
<p>
I accepted his offer thankfully, and a minute later
was spinning briskly down the road to the station.
</p>
<p>
"Queer little devil, that man, Pope," Dr. Summers
remarked. "Quite a character; socialist, labourite,
agitator, general crank; anything for a row."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I answered, "that was what his appearance
suggested. It must be trying for the coroner to get a
truculent rascal like that on a jury."
</p>
<p>
Summers laughed. "I don't know. He supplies the
comic relief. And then, you know, those fellows have
their uses. Some of his questions were pretty pertinent."
</p>
<p>
"So Badger seemed to think."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, by Jove," chuckled Summers, "Badger didn't
like him a bit; and I suspect the worthy inspector was
sailing pretty close to the wind in his answers."
</p>
<p>
"You think he really has some private information?"
</p>
<p>
"Depends upon what you mean by 'information.'
The police are not a speculative body. They wouldn't
be taking all this trouble unless they had a pretty
straight tip from somebody. How are Mr. and Miss
Bellingham? I used to know them slightly when they
lived here."
</p>
<p>
I was considering a discreet answer to this question
when we swept into the station yard. At the same
moment the train drew up at the platform, and, with
a hurried hand-shake and hastily spoken thanks, I
sprang from the dog-cart and darted into the station.
</p>
<p>
During the rather slow journey homewards I read
over my notes and endeavoured to extract from the
facts they set forth some significance other than that
which lay on the surface, but without much success.
Then I fell to speculating on what Thorndyke would
think of the evidence at the inquest and whether he
would be satisfied with the information that I had
collected. These speculations lasted me, with occasional
digressions, until I arrived at the Temple and
ran up the stairs rather eagerly to my friend's
chambers.
</p>
<p>
But here a disappointment awaited me. The nest
was empty with the exception of Polton, who appeared
at the laboratory door in his white apron, with a pair
of flat-nosed pliers in his hand.
</p>
<p>
"The Doctor has had to go down to Bristol to consult
over an urgent case," he explained, "and Doctor
Jervis has gone with him. They'll be away a day or
two, I expect, but the Doctor left this note for you."
</p>
<p>
He took a letter from a shelf, where it had been stood
conspicuously on edge, and handed it to me. It was
a short note from Thorndyke apologising for his sudden
departure and asking me to give Polton my notes with
any comments that I had to make.
</p>
<p>
"You will be interested to learn," he added, "that
the application will be heard in the Probate Court the
day after to-morrow. I shall not be present, of course,
nor will Jervis, so I should like you to attend and keep
your eyes open for anything that may happen during
the hearing and that may not appear in the notes that
Marchmont's clerk will be instructed to take. I have
retained Dr. Payne to stand by and help you with the
practice, so that you can attend the Court with a clear
conscience."
</p>
<p>
This was highly flattering and quite atoned for the
small disappointment; with deep gratification at the
trust that Thorndyke had reposed in me, I pocketed
the letter, handed my notes to Polton, wished him
"Good evening," and betook myself to Fetter Lane.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH14"><!-- CH14 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER XIV
</h2>

<h3>
WHICH CARRIES THE READER INTO THE PROBATE COURT
</h3>
<p>
The Probate Court wore an air of studious repose
when I entered with Miss Bellingham and her father.
Apparently the great and inquisitive public had not
become aware of the proceedings that were about to
take place, or had not realised their connection with
the sensational "Mutilation Case"; but barristers and
Press-men, better informed, had gathered in some
strength, and the hum of their conversation filled the
air like the droning of the voluntary that ushers in a
cathedral service.
</p>
<p>
As we entered, a pleasant-faced, elderly gentleman
rose and came forward to meet us, shaking Mr. Bellingham's
hand cordially and saluting Miss Bellingham
with a courtly bow.
</p>
<p>
"This is Mr. Marchmont, Doctor," said the former,
introducing me; and the solicitor, having thanked me
for the trouble I had taken in attending at the inquest,
led us to a bench, at the farther end of which was
seated a gentleman whom I recognised as Mr. Hurst.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bellingham recognised him at the same moment
and glared at him wrathfully.
</p>
<p>
"I see that scoundrel is here!" he exclaimed in a
distinctly audible voice, "pretending that he doesn't
see me, because he is ashamed to look me in the face,
but&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Hush! hush! my dear sir," exclaimed the horrified
solicitor; "we mustn't talk like that, especially
in this place. Let me beg you&mdash;let me entreat you to
control your feelings, to make no indiscreet remarks;
in fact, to make no remarks at all," he added, with the
evident conviction that any remarks that Mr. Bellingham
might make would be certain to be indiscreet.
</p>
<p>
"Forgive me, Marchmont," Mr. Bellingham replied
contritely. "I will control myself; I will really be
quite discreet. I won't even look at him again&mdash;because,
if I do, I shall probably go over and pull his
nose."
</p>
<p>
This particular form of discretion did not appear to
be quite to Mr. Marchmont's liking, for he took the
precaution of insisting that Miss Bellingham and I
should sit on the farther side of his client, and thus
effectually separate him from his enemy.
</p>
<p>
"Who's the long-nosed fellow talking to Jellicoe?"
Mr. Bellingham asked.
</p>
<p>
"That is Mr. Loram, K.C., Mr. Hurst's counsel; and
the convivial-looking gentleman next to him is our
counsel, Mr. Heath, a most able man and"&mdash;here Mr.
Marchmont whispered behind his hand&mdash;"fully instructed
by Doctor Thorndyke."
</p>
<p>
At this juncture the judge entered and took his
seat; the usher proceeded with great rapidity to swear
in the jury, and the Court gradually settled down into
that state of academic quiet which it maintained
throughout the proceedings, excepting when the noisy
swing-doors were set oscillating by some bustling clerk
or reporter.
</p>
<p>
The judge was a somewhat singular-looking old gentleman,
very short as to his face and very long as to
his mouth; which peculiarities, together with a pair
of large and bulging eyes (which he usually kept
closed), suggested a certain resemblance to a frog.
And he had a curious frog-like trick of flattening his
eyelids&mdash;as if in the act of swallowing a large beetle&mdash;which
was the only outward and visible sign of emotion
that he ever displayed.
</p>
<p>
As soon as the swearing-in of the jury was completed
Mr. Loram rose to introduce the case; whereupon his
lordship leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes,
as if bracing himself for a painful operation.
</p>
<p>
"The present proceedings," Mr. Loram explained,
"are occasioned by the unaccountable disappearance
of Mr. John Bellingham, of 141 Queen Square, Bloomsbury,
which occurred about two years ago, or, to be
more precise, on the twenty-third of November, nineteen
hundred and two. Since that date nothing has
been heard of Mr. Bellingham, and, as there are certain
substantial reasons for believing him to be dead, the
principal beneficiary under his will, Mr. George Hurst,
is now applying to the Court for permission to presume
the death of the testator and prove the will. As the
time which has elapsed since the testator was last seen
alive is only two years, the application is based upon
the circumstances of the disappearance, which were, in
many respects, very singular, the most remarkable
feature of that disappearance being, perhaps, its suddenness
and completeness."
</p>
<p>
Here the judge remarked in a still, small voice that
"It would, perhaps, have been even more remarkable
if the testator had disappeared gradually and incompletely."
</p>
<p>
"No doubt, my Lord," agreed Mr. Loram; "but the
point is that the testator, whose habits had always been
regular and orderly, disappeared on the date mentioned
without having made any of the usual provisions
for the conduct of his affairs, and has not since then
been seen or heard of."
</p>
<p>
With this preamble Mr. Loram proceeded to give a
narrative of the events connected with the disappearance
of John Bellingham, which was substantially
identical with that which I had read in the newspapers;
and having laid the actual facts before the jury, he
went on to discuss their probable import.
</p>
<p>
"Now, what conclusion," he asked, "will this
strange, this most mysterious train of events suggest
to an intelligent person who shall consider it impartially?
Here is a man who steps forth from the house
of his cousin or his brother, as the case may be, and
forthwith, in the twinkling of an eye, vanishes from
human ken. What is the explanation? Did he steal
forth and, without notice or hint of his intention, take
train to some seaport, thence to embark for some distant
land, leaving his affairs to take care of themselves
and his friends to speculate vainly as to his whereabouts?
Is he now in hiding abroad, or even at home,
indifferent alike to the safety of his own considerable
property and the peace of mind of his friends? Or is
it that death has come upon him unawares by sickness,
by accident, or, more probably, by the hand of some
unknown criminal? Let us consider the probabilities.
</p>
<p>
"Can he have disappeared by his own deliberate act?
Why not? it may be asked. Men undoubtedly do
disappear from time to time, to be discovered by
chance or to reappear voluntarily after intervals of
years and find their names almost forgotten and their
places filled by new-comers. Yes; but there is always
some reason for a disappearance of this kind, even
though it be a bad one. Family discords that make
life a weariness; pecuniary difficulties that make life
a succession of anxieties; distaste for particular circumstances
and surroundings from which there seems
no escape; inherent restlessness and vagabond tendencies,
and so on.
</p>
<p>
"Do any of these explanations apply to the present
case? No, they do not. Family discords&mdash;at least
those capable of producing chronic misery&mdash;appertain
exclusively to the married state. But the testator was
a bachelor with no encumbrances whatever. Pecuniary
anxieties can be equally excluded. The testator was in
easy, in fact, in affluent circumstances. His mode of
life was apparently agreeable and full of interest and
activity, and he had full liberty to change it if he
wished. He had been accustomed to travel, and could
do so again without absconding. He had reached an
age when radical changes do not seem desirable. He
was a man of fixed and regular habits, and his regularity
was of his own choice and not due to compulsion
or necessity. When last seen by his friends, as I shall
prove, he was proceeding to a definite destination with
the expressed intention of returning for purposes of his
own appointing. He did return and then vanished,
leaving those purposes unachieved.
</p>
<p>
"If we conclude that he has voluntarily disappeared
and is at present in hiding, we adopt an opinion that is
entirely at variance with all these weighty facts. If,
on the other hand, we conclude that he has died suddenly,
or has been killed by an accident or otherwise,
we are adopting a view that involves no inherent improbabilities
and that is entirely congruous with the
known facts; facts that will be proved by the testimony
of the witnesses whom I shall call. The supposition
that the testator is dead is not only more probable
than that he is alive; I submit that it is the only reasonable
explanation of the circumstances of his disappearance.
</p>
<p>
"But this is not all. The presumption of death
which arises so inevitably out of the mysterious and
abrupt manner in which the testator disappeared has
recently received most conclusive and dreadful confirmation.
On the fifteenth of July last there were
discovered at Sidcup the remains of a human arm&mdash;a
left arm, gentlemen, from the hand of which the
third, or ring, finger was missing. The doctor who has
examined that arm will tell you that that finger was
cut off either after death or immediately before; and
his evidence will prove conclusively that that arm must
have been deposited in the place where it was found
just about the time when the testator disappeared.
Since that first discovery, other portions of the same
mutilated body have come to light; and it is a strange
and significant fact that they have all been found in
the immediate neighbourhood of Eltham or Woodford.
You will remember, gentlemen, that it was either at
Eltham or Woodford that the testator was last seen
alive.
</p>
<p>
"And now observe the completeness of the coincidence.
These human remains, as you will be told
presently by the experienced and learned medical gentleman
who has examined them most exhaustively, are
those of a man of about sixty years of age, about
five feet eight inches in height, fairly muscular and
well preserved, apparently healthy, and rather stoutly
built. Another witness will tell you that the missing
man was about sixty years of age, about five feet eight
inches in height, fairly muscular and well preserved,
apparently healthy, and rather stoutly built. And&mdash;another
most significant and striking fact&mdash;the testator
was accustomed to wear upon the third finger of his
left hand&mdash;the very finger that is missing from the
remains that were found&mdash;a most peculiar ring, which
fitted so tightly that he was unable to get it off after
once putting it on; a ring, gentlemen, of so peculiar a
pattern that had it been found on the body must have
instantly established the identity of the remains. In a
word, gentlemen, the remains which have been found
are those of a man exactly like the testator; they differ
from him in no respect whatever; they display a mutilation
which suggests an attempt to conceal an identifying
peculiarity which he undoubtedly presented; and
they were deposited in their various hiding-places about
the time of the testator's disappearance. Accordingly,
when you have heard these facts proved by the sworn
testimony of competent witnesses, together with the
facts relating to the disappearance, I shall ask you for
a verdict in accordance with that evidence."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Loram sat down, and adjusting a pair of pince-nez,
rapidly glanced over his brief while the usher was
administering the oath to the first witness.
</p>
<p>
This was Mr. Jellicoe, who stepped into the box and
directed a stony gaze at the (apparently) unconscious
judge. The usual preliminaries having been gone
through, Mr. Loram proceeded to examine him.
</p>
<p>
"You were the testator's solicitor and confidential
agent, I believe?"
</p>
<p>
"I was&mdash;and am."
</p>
<p>
"How long have you known him?"
</p>
<p>
"Twenty-seven years."
</p>
<p>
"Judging from your experience of him, should you
say that he was a person likely to disappear voluntarily
and suddenly to cease to communicate with his
friends?"
</p>
<p>
"No."
</p>
<p>
"Kindly give your reasons for that opinion."
</p>
<p>
"Such conduct on the part of the testator would be
entirely opposed to his habits and character as they
are known to me. He was exceedingly regular and
business-like in his dealings with me. When travelling
abroad he always kept me informed as to his whereabouts,
or, if he was likely to be beyond reach of communications,
he always advised me beforehand. One
of my duties was to collect a pension which he drew
from the Foreign Office, and on no occasion, previous
to his disappearance, has he ever failed to furnish me
punctually with the necessary documents."
</p>
<p>
"Had he, so far as you know, any reasons for wishing
to disappear?"
</p>
<p>
"No."
</p>
<p>
"When and where did you last see him alive?"
</p>
<p>
"At six o'clock in the evening, on the fourteenth of
October, nineteen hundred and two, at 141 Queen
Square, Bloomsbury."
</p>
<p>
"Kindly tell us what happened on that occasion."
</p>
<p>
"The testator had called for me at my office at a
quarter past three, and asked me to come with him to
his house to meet Doctor Norbury. I accompanied
him to 141 Queen Square, and shortly after we arrived
Doctor Norbury came to look at some antiquities that
the testator proposed to give to the British Museum.
The gift consisted of a mummy with the four Canopic
jars and other tomb-furniture, which the testator
stipulated should be exhibited together in a single case
and in the state in which they were then presented.
Of these objects, the mummy only was ready for inspection.
The tomb-furniture had not yet arrived in
England, but was expected within a week. Doctor
Norbury accepted the gift on behalf of the Museum,
but could not take possession of the objects until he
had communicated with the Director and obtained his
formal authority. The testator accordingly gave me
certain instructions concerning the delivery of the gift,
as he was leaving England that evening."
</p>
<p>
"Are those instructions relevant to the subject of
this inquiry?"
</p>
<p>
"I think they are. The testator was going to Paris,
and perhaps from thence to Vienna. He instructed
me to receive and unpack the tomb-furniture on its
arrival, and to store it, with the mummy, in a particular
room, where it was to remain for three weeks.
If he returned within that time he was to hand it over
in person to the Museum authorities; if he had not returned
within that time, he desired me to notify the
Museum authorities that they were at liberty to take
possession of and remove the collection at their convenience.
From these instructions I gathered that the
testator was uncertain as to the length of his absence
from England and the extent of his journey."
</p>
<p>
"Did he state precisely where he was going?"
</p>
<p>
"No. He said that he was going to Paris and perhaps
to Vienna, but he gave no particulars and I asked
for none."
</p>
<p>
"Do you, in fact, know where he went?"
</p>
<p>
"No. He left the house at six o'clock wearing a long,
heavy overcoat and carrying a suit-case and an umbrella.
I wished him 'Good-bye' at the door and
watched him walk away as if going towards Southampton
Row. I have no idea where he went, and I
never saw him again."
</p>
<p>
"Had he no other luggage than the suit-case?"
</p>
<p>
"I do not know, but I believe not. He was accustomed
to travel with the bare necessaries, and to buy
anything further that he wanted <i>en route</i>."
</p>
<p>
"Did he say nothing to the servants as to the probable
date of his return?"
</p>
<p>
"There were no servants excepting the caretaker.
The house was not used for residential purposes. The
testator slept and took his meals at his club, though
he kept his clothes at the house."
</p>
<p>
"Did you receive any communication from him after
he left?"
</p>
<p>
"No. I never heard from him again in any way. I
waited for three weeks as he had instructed me, and
then notified the Museum authorities that the collection
was ready for removal. Five days later Doctor
Norbury came and took formal possession of it, and it
was transferred to the Museum forthwith."
</p>
<p>
"When did you next hear of the testator?"
</p>
<p>
"On the twenty-third of November following at a
quarter past seven in the evening. Mr. George Hurst
came to my rooms, which are over my office, and informed
me that the testator had called at his house
during his absence and had been shown into the study
to wait for him. That on his&mdash;Mr. Hurst's&mdash;arrival it
was found that the testator had disappeared without
acquainting the servants with his intended departure,
and without being seen by anyone to leave the house.
Mr. Hurst thought this so remarkable that he had
hastened up to town to inform me. I also thought it a
remarkable circumstance, especially as I had received
no communication from the testator, and we both decided
that it was advisable to inform the testator's
brother, Godfrey, of what had happened.
</p>
<p>
"Accordingly Mr. Hurst and I proceeded as quickly
as possible to Liverpool Street and took the first train
available to Woodford, where Mr. Godfrey Bellingham
then resided. We arrived at his house at five minutes
to nine, and were informed by the servant that he was
not at home, but that his daughter was in the library,
which was a detached building situated in the grounds.
The servant lighted a lantern and conducted us through
the grounds to the library, where we found Mr. Godfrey
Bellingham and Miss Bellingham. Mr. Godfrey had
only just come in and had entered by the back gate,
which had a bell that rang in the library. Mr. Hurst
informed Mr. Godfrey of what had occurred, and then
we all left the library to walk up to the house. A few
paces from the library I noticed by the light of the
lantern, which Mr. Godfrey was carrying, a small object
lying on the lawn. I pointed it out to him and he
picked it up, and then we all recognised it as a scarab
that the testator was accustomed to wear on his watch-chain.
It was fitted with a gold wire passed through
the suspension hole and a gold ring. Both the wire and
the ring were in position, but the ring was broken.
We went to the house and questioned the servants as
to visitors; but none of them had seen the testator,
and they all agreed that no visitor whatsoever had
come to the house during the afternoon, or evening.
Mr. Godfrey and Miss Bellingham both declared that
they had neither seen nor heard anything of the
testator, and were both unaware that he had returned
to England. As the circumstances were somewhat disquieting,
I communicated, on the following morning,
with the police and requested them to make inquiries;
which they did, with the result that a suit-case, bearing
the initials 'J.B.', was found to be lying unclaimed in
the cloak-room at Charing Cross Station. I was able
to identify the suit-case as that which I had seen the
testator carry away from Queen Square. I was also
able to identify some of the contents. I interviewed
the cloak-room attendant, who informed me that the
suit-case had been deposited on the twenty-third at
about 4.15 P.M. He had no recollection of the person
who deposited it. It remained unclaimed in the possession
of the railway company for three months, and
was then surrendered to me."
</p>
<p>
"Were there any marks or labels on it showing the
route by which it had travelled?"
</p>
<p>
"There were no labels on it and no marks other
than the initials 'J.B.'"
</p>
<p>
"Do you happen to know the testator's age?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. He was fifty-nine on the eleventh of October,
nineteen hundred and two."
</p>
<p>
"Can you tell us what his height was?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. He was exactly five feet eight inches."
</p>
<p>
"What sort of health had he?"
</p>
<p>
"So far as I know his health was good. I am not
aware that he suffered from any disease. I am only
judging by his appearance, which was that of a healthy
man."
</p>
<p>
"Should you describe him as well preserved or otherwise?"
</p>
<p>
"I should describe him as a well-preserved man for
his age."
</p>
<p>
"How should you describe his figure?"
</p>
<p>
"I should describe him as rather broad and stout
in build, and fairly muscular, though not exceptionally
so."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Loram made a rapid note of these answers, and
then said:
</p>
<p>
"You have told us, Mr. Jellicoe, that you have known
the testator intimately for twenty-seven years. Now,
did you ever notice whether he was accustomed to
wear any rings upon his fingers?"
</p>
<p>
"He wore upon the third finger of his left hand a
copy of an antique ring which bore the device of the
Eye of Osiris. That was the only ring he ever wore as
far as I know."
</p>
<p>
"Did he wear it constantly?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, necessarily; because it was too small for him,
and having once squeezed it on he was never able to
get it off again."
</p>
<p>
This was the sum of Mr. Jellicoe's evidence, and at
its conclusion the witness glanced inquiringly at Mr.
Bellingham's counsel. But Mr. Heath remained seated,
attentively considering the notes that he had just made,
and finding that there was to be no cross-examination,
Mr. Jellicoe stepped down from the box. I leaned back
on my bench, and, turning my head, observed Miss
Bellingham deep in thought.
</p>
<p>
"What do you think of it?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"It seems very complete and conclusive," she replied.
And then, with a sigh, she murmured: "Poor
old Uncle John! How horrid it sounds to talk of him
in this cold-blooded, business-like way, as 'the testator,'
as if he were nothing but a sort of algebraical sign."
</p>
<p>
"There isn't much room for sentiment, I suppose,
in the proceedings of the Probate Court," I replied.
To which she assented, and then asked: "Who is this
lady?"
</p>
<p>
"This lady" was a fashionably dressed young woman
who had just bounced into the witness-box and was
now being sworn. The preliminaries being finished,
she answered Miss Bellingham's question and Mr.
Loram's by stating that her name was Augustina
Gwendoline Dobbs, and that she was housemaid to Mr.
George Hurst, of "The Poplars," Eltham.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Hurst lives alone, I believe?" said Mr. Loram.
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what you mean by that," Miss Dobbs
began; but the barrister explained:
</p>
<p>
"I mean that I believe he is unmarried?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, and what about it?" the witness demanded
tartly.
</p>
<p>
"I am asking you a question."
</p>
<p>
"I know that," said the witness viciously; "and I
say that you've no business to make any such insinuations
to a respectable young lady when there's a cook-housekeeper
and a kitchenmaid living in the house,
and him old enough to be my father&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
Here his lordship flattened his eyelids with startling
effect, and Mr. Loram interrupted: "I make no insinuations.
I merely ask, Is your employer, Mr. Hurst,
an unmarried man, or is he not?"
</p>
<p>
"I never asked him," said the witness sulkily.
</p>
<p>
"Please answer my question&mdash;yes or no?"
</p>
<p>
"How can I answer your question? He may be
unmarried or he may not. How do I know? I'm not a
private detective."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Loram directed a stupefied gaze at the witness,
and in the ensuing silence a plaintive voice came from
the bench:
</p>
<p>
"Is the point material?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly, my lord," replied Mr. Loram.
</p>
<p>
"Then, as I see that you are calling Mr. Hurst, perhaps
you had better put the question to him. He will
probably know."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Loram bowed, and as the judge subsided into
his normal state of coma he turned to the triumphant
witness.
</p>
<p>
"Do you remember anything remarkable occurring
on the twenty-third of November the year before last?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. Mr. John Bellingham called at our house."
</p>
<p>
"How did you know he was Mr. John Bellingham?"
</p>
<p>
"I didn't; but he said he was, and I supposed he
knew."
</p>
<p>
"At what time did he arrive?"
</p>
<p>
"At twenty minutes past five in the evening."
</p>
<p>
"What happened then?"
</p>
<p>
"I told him that Mr. Hurst had not come home yet,
and he said he would wait for him in the study and
write some letters; so I showed him into the study and
shut the door."
</p>
<p>
"What happened next?"
</p>
<p>
"Nothing. Then Mr. Hurst came home at his usual
time&mdash;a quarter to six&mdash;and let himself in with his
key. He went straight through into the study, where
I supposed Mr. Bellingham still was, so I took no
notice, but laid the table for two. At six o'clock Mr.
Hurst came into the dining-room&mdash;he has tea in the
City and dines at six&mdash;and when he saw the table laid
for two he asked the reason. I said I thought Mr.
Bellingham was staying to dinner.
</p>
<p>
"'Mr. Bellingham!' says he. 'I didn't know he was
here. Why didn't you tell me?' he says. 'I thought
he was with you, sir,' I said. 'I showed him into the
study,' I said. 'Well, he wasn't there when I came
in,' he said, 'and he isn't there now,' he said. 'Perhaps
he has gone to wait in the drawing-room,' he said.
So we went and looked in the drawing-room, but he
wasn't there. Then Mr. Hurst said he thought Mr.
Bellingham must have got tired of waiting and gone
away; but I told him I was quite sure he hadn't, because
I had been watching all the time. Then he asked
me if Mr. Bellingham was alone or whether his daughter
was with him, and I said that it wasn't that Mr. Bellingham
at all, but Mr. John Bellingham, and then
he was more surprised than ever. I said we had better
search the house to make sure whether he was there or
not, and Mr. Hurst said he would come with me; so we
went all over the house and looked in all the rooms, but
there was not a sign of Mr. Bellingham in any of them.
Then Mr. Hurst got very nervous and upset, and when
he had just snatched a little dinner he ran off to catch
the six-thirty train up to town."
</p>
<p>
"You say that Mr. Bellingham could not have left
the house because you were watching all the time.
Where were you while you were watching?"
</p>
<p>
"I was in the kitchen. I could see the front gate
from the kitchen window."
</p>
<p>
"You say that you laid the table for two. Where
did you lay it?"
</p>
<p>
"In the dining-room, of course."
</p>
<p>
"Could you see the front gate from the dining-room?"
</p>
<p>
"No, but I could see the study door. The study is
opposite the dining-room."
</p>
<p>
"Do you have to come upstairs to get from the
kitchen to the dining-room?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, of course you do!"
</p>
<p>
"Then might not Mr. Bellingham have left the house
while you were coming up the stairs?"
</p>
<p>
"No, he couldn't have done."
</p>
<p>
"Why not?"
</p>
<p>
"Because it would have been impossible."
</p>
<p>
"But why would it have been impossible?"
</p>
<p>
"Because he couldn't have done it."
</p>
<p>
"I suggest that Mr. Bellingham left the house quietly
while you were on the stairs?"
</p>
<p>
"No, he didn't."
</p>
<p>
"How do you know he did not?"
</p>
<p>
"I am quite sure he didn't."
</p>
<p>
"What makes you feel sure he did not?"
</p>
<p>
"I am quite certain he didn't."
</p>
<p>
"But how can you be certain?"
</p>
<p>
"Because I should have seen him if he had."
</p>
<p>
"But I mean when you were on the stairs."
</p>
<p>
"He was in the study when I was on the stairs."
</p>
<p>
"How do you know he was in the study?"
</p>
<p>
"Because I showed him in there and he hadn't come
out."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Loram paused and took a deep breath, and his
lordship flattened his eyelids.
</p>
<p>
"Is there a side gate to the premises?" the barrister
resumed wearily.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. It opens into a narrow lane at the side of
the house."
</p>
<p>
"And there is a French window in the study, is there
not?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes; it opens on to the small grass plot opposite
the side gate."
</p>
<p>
"Were the window and the gate locked, or would
it have been possible for Mr. Bellingham to let himself
out into the lane?"
</p>
<p>
"The window and the gate both have catches on the
inside. He could have got out that way, but, of course,
he didn't."
</p>
<p>
"Why not?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, no gentleman would go creeping out by the
back way like a thief."
</p>
<p>
"Did you look to see if the French window was shut
and fastened after you missed Mr. Bellingham?"
</p>
<p>
"I looked at it when we shut the house up for the
night. It was then shut and fastened on the inside."
</p>
<p>
"And the side gate?"
</p>
<p>
"That was shut and latched. You have to slam
the gate to make the latch fasten, so no one could have
gone out of that gate without being heard."
</p>
<p>
Here the examination-in-chief ended, and Mr. Loram
sat down with an audible sigh of relief. Miss Dobbs
was about to step down from the witness-box when Mr.
Heath rose to cross-examine.
</p>
<p>
"Did you see Mr. Bellingham in a good light?" he
asked.
</p>
<p>
"Pretty good. It was dark outside, but the hall-lamp
was alight."
</p>
<p>
"Kindly look at this"&mdash;here a small object was
passed across to the witness. "It is a trinket that Mr.
Bellingham is stated to have carried suspended from
his watch-guard. Can you remember if he was wearing
it in that manner when he came to the house?"
</p>
<p>
"No, he was not."
</p>
<p>
"You are sure of that?"
</p>
<p>
"Quite sure."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you. And now I want to ask you about
the search that you have mentioned. You say that
you went all over the house. Did you go into the
study?"
</p>
<p>
"No&mdash;at least, not until Mr. Hurst had gone to
London."
</p>
<p>
"When you did go in, was the window fastened?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"Could it have been fastened from the outside?"
</p>
<p>
"No; there is no handle outside."
</p>
<p>
"What furniture is there in the study?"
</p>
<p>
"There is a writing-table, a revolving-chair, two easy
chairs, two large bookcases, and a wardrobe that Mr.
Hurst keeps his overcoats and hats in."
</p>
<p>
"Does the wardrobe lock?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"Was it locked when you went in?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure I don't know. I don't go about trying
the cupboards and drawers."
</p>
<p>
"What furniture is there in the drawing-room?"
</p>
<p>
"A cabinet, six or seven chairs, a Chesterfield sofa,
a piano, a silver-table, and one or two occasional
tables."
</p>
<p>
"Is the piano a grand or an upright."
</p>
<p>
"It is an upright grand."
</p>
<p>
"In what position is it placed?"
</p>
<p>
"It stands across a corner near the window."
</p>
<p>
"Is there sufficient room behind it for a man to
conceal himself?"
</p>
<p>
Miss Dobbs was amused and did not dissemble.
"Oh, yes," she sniggered, "there's plenty of room for
a man to hide behind it."
</p>
<p>
"When you searched the drawing-room, did you look
behind the piano?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I didn't!" Miss Dobbs replied scornfully.
</p>
<p>
"Did you look under the sofa?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly not!"
</p>
<p>
"What did you do, then?"
</p>
<p>
"We opened the door and looked into the room.
We were not looking for a cat or a monkey; we were
looking for a middle-aged gentleman."
</p>
<p>
"And am I to take it that your search over the rest
of the house was conducted in a similar manner?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. We looked into the rooms, but we did
not search under the beds or in the cupboards."
</p>
<p>
"Are all the rooms in the house in use as living or
sleeping rooms?"
</p>
<p>
"No; there is one room on the second floor that is
used as a store and lumber room, and one on the first
floor that Mr. Hurst uses to store trunks and things
that he is not using."
</p>
<p>
"Did you look in those rooms when you searched
the house?"
</p>
<p>
"No."
</p>
<p>
"Have you looked in them since?"
</p>
<p>
"I have been in the lumber-room since, but not in
the other. It is always kept locked."
</p>
<p>
At this point an ominous flattening became apparent
in his lordship's eyelids, but these symptoms passed off
when Mr. Heath sat down and indicated that he had
no further questions to ask.
</p>
<p>
Miss Dobbs once more prepared to step down from
the witness-box, when Mr. Loram shot up like a jack-in-the-box.
</p>
<p>
"You have made certain statements," said he, "concerning
the scarab which Mr. Bellingham was accustomed
to wear suspended from his watch-guard. You
say that he was not wearing it when he came to Mr.
Hurst's house on the twenty-third of November, nineteen
hundred and two. Are you quite sure of
that?"
</p>
<p>
"Quite sure."
</p>
<p>
"I must ask you to be very careful in your statement
on this point. The question is a highly important one.
Do you swear that the scarab was not hanging from
his watch-guard?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I do."
</p>
<p>
"Did you notice the watch-guard particularly?"
</p>
<p>
"No, not particularly."
</p>
<p>
"Then what makes you so sure that the scarab was
not attached to it?"
</p>
<p>
"It couldn't have been."
</p>
<p>
"Why could it not?"
</p>
<p>
"Because if it had been there I should have seen it."
</p>
<p>
"What kind of a watch-guard was Mr. Bellingham
wearing?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, an ordinary sort of watch-guard."
</p>
<p>
"I mean, was it a chain or a ribbon or a strap?"
</p>
<p>
"A chain, I think&mdash;or perhaps a ribbon&mdash;or it might
have been a strap."
</p>
<p>
His lordship flattened his eyelids, but made no further
sign, and Mr. Loram continued:
</p>
<p>
"Did you or did you not notice what kind of watch-guard
Mr. Bellingham was wearing?"
</p>
<p>
"I did not. Why should I? It was no business of
mine."
</p>
<p>
"But yet you are sure about the scarab?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, quite sure."
</p>
<p>
"You noticed that, then?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I didn't. How could I when it wasn't there?"
</p>
<p>
Mr. Loram paused and looked helplessly at the witness;
a suppressed titter arose from the body of the
Court, and a faint voice from the bench inquired:
</p>
<p>
"Are you <i>quite</i> incapable of giving a straightforward
answer?"
</p>
<p>
Miss Dobbs' only reply was to burst into tears;
whereupon Mr. Loram abruptly sat down and abandoned
his re-examination.
</p>
<p>
The witness-box vacated by Miss Dobbs was occupied
successively by Dr. Norbury, Mr. Hurst, and the
cloak-room attendant, none of whom contributed any
new facts, but merely corroborated the statements
made by Mr. Jellicoe and the housemaid. Then came
the labourer who discovered the bones at Sidcup, and
who repeated the evidence that he had given at the
inquest, showing that the remains could not have been
lying in the watercress-bed more than two years.
Finally Dr. Summers was called, and, after he had given
a brief description of the bones that he had examined,
was asked by Mr. Loram:
</p>
<p>
"You have heard the description that Mr. Jellicoe
has given of the testator?"
</p>
<p>
"I have."
</p>
<p>
"Does that description apply to the person whose
remains you examined?"
</p>
<p>
"In a general way, it does."
</p>
<p>
"I must ask you for a direct answer&mdash;yes or no.
Does it apply?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. But I ought to say that my estimate of the
height of the deceased is only approximate."
</p>
<p>
"Quite so. Judging from your examination of those
remains and from Mr. Jellicoe's description, might those
remains be the remains of the testator, John Bellingham?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, they might."
</p>
<p>
On receiving this admission Mr. Loram sat down,
and Mr. Heath immediately rose to cross-examine.
</p>
<p>
"When you examined these remains, Doctor Summers,
did you discover any personal peculiarities which
would enable you to identify them as the remains of
any one individual rather than any other individual of
similar size, age, and proportions?"
</p>
<p>
"No. I found nothing that would identify the remains
as those of any particular individual."
</p>
<p>
As Mr. Heath asked no further questions, the witness
received his dismissal, and Mr. Loram informed the
Court that that was his case. The judge bowed somnolently,
and then Mr. Heath rose to address the Court
on behalf of the respondent. It was not a long speech,
nor was it enriched by any displays of florid rhetoric;
it concerned itself exclusively with a rebutment of the
arguments of the counsel for the petitioner.
</p>
<p>
Having briefly pointed out that the period of absence
was too short to give rise of itself to the presumption
of death, Mr. Heath continued:
</p>
<p>
"The claim therefore rests upon evidence of a positive
character. My learned friend asserts that the
testator is presumably dead, and it is for him to prove
what he has affirmed. Now, has he done this? I submit
that he has not. He has argued with great force
and ingenuity that the testator, being a bachelor, a
solitary man without wife or child, dependent or master,
public or private office or duty, or any bond, responsibility,
or any other condition limiting his freedom of
action, had no reason or inducement for absconding.
This is my learned friend's argument, and he has conducted
it with so much skill and ingenuity that he has
not only succeeded in proving his case; he has proved
a great deal too much. For if it is true, as my learned
friend so justly argues, that a man thus unfettered by
obligations of any kind has no reason for disappearing,
is it not even more true that he has no reason for <i>not</i>
disappearing? My friend has urged that the testator
was at liberty to go where he pleased, when he pleased,
and how he pleased; and that therefore there was no
need for him to abscond. I reply, if he was at liberty
to go away, whither, when, and how he pleased, why do
we express surprise that he has made use of his liberty?
My learned friend points out that the testator notified
to nobody his intention of going away and has acquainted
no one with his whereabouts; but, I ask, whom
should he have notified? He was responsible to nobody;
there was no one dependent upon him; his presence or
absence was the concern of nobody but himself. If
circumstances suddenly arising made it desirable that he
should go abroad, why should he not go? I say there
was no reason whatever.
</p>
<p>
"My learned friend has said that the testator went
away leaving his affairs to take care of themselves.
Now, gentlemen, I ask you if this can fairly be said of
a man whose affairs are, as they have been for
years, in the hands of a highly capable, completely
trustworthy agent who is better acquainted with them
than the testator himself? Clearly it cannot.
</p>
<p>
"To conclude this part of the argument: I submit
that the circumstances of the so-called disappearance
of the testator present nothing out of the ordinary.
The testator is a man of ample means, without any
responsibilities to fetter his movements and has been
in the constant habit of travelling, often into remote
and distant regions. The mere fact that he has been
absent somewhat longer than usual affords no ground
whatever for the drastic proceeding of presuming his
death and taking possession of his property.
</p>
<p>
"With reference to the human remains which have
been mentioned in connection with the case I need say
but little. The attempt to connect them with the
testator has failed completely. You yourselves have
heard Doctor Summers state on oath that they cannot
be identified as the remains of any particular person.
That would seem to dispose of them effectually. I must
remark upon a very singular point that has been raised
by the learned counsel for the petitioner, which is this:
</p>
<p>
"My learned friend points out that these remains
were discovered near Eltham and near Woodford and
that the testator was last seen alive at one of these
two places. This he considers for some reason to be
a highly significant fact. But I cannot agree with him.
If the testator had been last seen alive at Woodford
and the remains had been found at Woodford, or if he
had disappeared from Eltham and the remains had
been found at Eltham, that would have had some significance.
But he can only have been last seen at one
of the places, whereas the remains have been found at
both places. Here again my learned friend seems to
have proved too much."
</p>
<p>
"But I need not occupy your time further. I repeat
that, in order to justify us in presuming the death of
the testator, clear and positive evidence would be necessary.
That no such evidence has been brought forward.
Accordingly, seeing that the testator may return at
any time and is entitled to find his property intact, I
shall ask you for a verdict that will secure to him this
measure of ordinary justice."
</p>
<p>
At the conclusion of Mr. Heath's speech the judge,
as if awakening from a refreshing nap, opened his eyes;
and uncommonly shrewd, intelligent eyes they were,
when the expressive eyelids were duly tucked up out
of the way. He commenced by reading over a part of
the will and certain notes&mdash;which he appeared to have
made in some miraculous fashion with his eyes shut&mdash;and
then proceeded to review the evidence and the
counsels' arguments for the instruction of the jury.
</p>
<p>
"Before considering the evidence which you have
heard, gentlemen," he said, "it will be well for me to
say a few words to you on the general legal aspects of
the case which is occupying our attention."
</p>
<p>
"If a person goes abroad or disappears from his
home and his ordinary places of resort and is absent
for a long period of time, the presumption of death
arises at the expiration of seven years from the date
on which he was last heard of. That is to say, that
the total disappearance of an individual for seven years
constitutes presumptive evidence that the said individual
is dead; and the presumption can be set aside
only by the production of evidence that he was alive
at some time within that period of seven years. But
if, on the other hand, it is sought to presume the death
of a person who has been absent for a shorter period
than seven years, it is necessary to produce such evidence
as shall make it highly probable that the said
person is dead. Of course, presumption implies supposition
as opposed to actual demonstration; but,
nevertheless, the evidence in such a case must be of a
kind that tends to create a very strong belief that
death has occurred; and I need hardly say that the
shorter the period of absence, the more convincing must
be the evidence.
</p>
<p>
"In the present case, the testator, John Bellingham,
has been absent somewhat under two years. This is a
relatively short period, and in itself gives rise to no
presumption of death. Nevertheless, death has been
presumed in a case where the period of absence was
even shorter and the insurance recovered; but here
the evidence supporting the belief in the occurrence of
death was exceedingly weighty.
</p>
<p>
"The testator in this case was a shipmaster, and his
disappearance was accompanied by the disappearance
of the ship and the entire ship's company in the course
of a voyage from London to Marseilles. The loss of
the ship and her crew was the only reasonable explanation
of the disappearance, and, short of actual demonstration,
the facts offered convincing evidence of the
death of all persons on board. I mention this case as
an illustration. You are not dealing with speculative
probabilities. You are contemplating a very momentous
proceeding, and you must be very sure of your
ground. Consider what it is that you are asked to do.
</p>
<p>
"The petitioner asks permission to presume the
death of the testator in order that the testator's property
may be distributed among the beneficiaries under
the will. The granting of such permission involves us in
the gravest responsibility. An ill-considered decision
might be productive of a serious injustice to the testator,
an injustice that could never be remedied. Hence
it is incumbent upon you to weigh the evidence with the
greatest care, to come to no decision without the profoundest
consideration of all the facts.
</p>
<p>
"The evidence that you have heard divides itself into
two parts&mdash;that relating to the circumstances of the
testator's disappearance, and that relating to certain
human remains. In connection with the latter I can
only express my surprise and regret that the application
was not postponed until the completion of the
coroner's inquest, and leave you to consider the evidence.
You will bear in mind that Doctor Summers has stated
explicitly that the remains cannot be identified as those
of any particular individual, but that the testator and
the unknown deceased had so many points of resemblance
that they might possibly be one and the same
person.
</p>
<p>
"With reference to the circumstances of the disappearance,
you have heard the evidence of Mr. Jellicoe
to the effect that the testator has on no previous occasion
gone abroad without informing him as to his proposed
destination. But in considering what weight you
are to give to this statement you will bear in mind
that when the testator set out for Paris after his interview
with Doctor Norbury he left Mr. Jellicoe without
any information as to his specific destination, his address
in Paris, or the precise date when he should
return, and that Mr. Jellicoe was unable to tell us
where the testator went or what was his business. Mr.
Jellicoe was, in fact, for a time without any means of
tracing the testator or ascertaining his whereabouts.
</p>
<p>
"The evidence of the housemaid, Dobbs, and of Mr.
Hurst is rather confusing. It appears that the testator
came to the house, was shown into a certain room, and
when looked for later was not to be found. A search
of the premises showed that he was not in the house,
whence it seems to follow that he must have left it;
but since no one was informed of his intention to leave,
and he had expressed the intention of staying to see
Mr. Hurst, his conduct in thus going away surreptitiously
must appear somewhat eccentric. The point
that you have to consider, therefore, is whether a person
who is capable of thus departing in a surreptitious and
eccentric manner from a house, without giving notice
to the servants, is capable also of departing in a surreptitious
and eccentric manner from his usual places
of resort without giving notice to his friends or thereafter
informing them of his whereabouts.
</p>
<p>
"The questions, then, gentlemen, that you have to
ask yourselves before deciding on your verdict are two:
first, Are the circumstances of the testator's disappearance
and his continued absence incongruous with his
habits and personal peculiarities as they are known to
you? and second, Are there any facts which indicate
in a positive manner that the testator is dead? Ask
yourselves these questions, gentlemen, and the answers
to them, furnished by the evidence that you have heard,
will guide you to your decision."
</p>
<p>
Having delivered himself of the above instructions,
the judge applied himself to the perusal of the will with
professional gusto, in which occupation he was presently
disturbed by the announcement of the foreman
of the jury that a verdict had been agreed upon.
</p>
<p>
The judge sat up and glanced at the jury-box, and
when the foreman proceeded to state that "We find
no sufficient reason for presuming the testator, John
Bellingham, to be dead," he nodded approvingly. Evidently
that was his opinion, too, as he was careful to
explain when he conveyed to Mr. Loram the refusal
of the Court to grant the permission applied for.
</p>
<p>
The decision was a great relief to me, and also, I
think, to Miss Bellingham; but most of all to her
father, who, with instinctive good manners, since he
could not suppress a smile of triumph, rose hastily
and stumped out of the Court, so that the discomfited
Hurst should not see him. His daughter and I followed,
and as we left the Court she remarked, with a
smile:
</p>
<p>
"So our pauperism is not, after all, made absolute.
There is still a chance for us in the Chapter of Accidents&mdash;and
perhaps even for poor old Uncle John."
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH15"><!-- CH15 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER XV
</h2>

<h3>
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
</h3>
<p>
The morning after the hearing saw me setting forth
on my round in more than usually good spirits. The
round itself was but a short one, for my list contained
only a couple of "chronics," and this, perhaps, contributed
to my cheerful outlook on life. But there were
other reasons. The decision of the Court had come as
an unexpected reprieve and the ruin of my friends'
prospects was at least postponed. Then, I had learned
that Thorndyke was back from Bristol and wished me
to look in on him; and, finally, Miss Bellingham had
agreed to spend this very afternoon with me, browsing
round the galleries at the British Museum.
</p>
<p>
I had disposed of my two patients by a quarter to
eleven, and three minutes later was striding down Mitre
Court, all agog to hear what Thorndyke had to say
with reference to my notes on the inquest. The "oak"
was open when I arrived at his chambers, and a modest
flourish on the little brass knocker of the inner door
was answered by my quondam teacher himself.
</p>
<p>
"How good of you, Berkeley," he said, shaking
hands genially, "to look me up so early. I am all
alone, just looking through the report of the evidence
in yesterday's proceedings."
</p>
<p>
He placed an easy chair for me, and, gathering up a
bundle of type-written papers, laid them aside on the
table.
</p>
<p>
"Were you surprised at the decision?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"No," he answered. "Two years is a short period
of absence; but still, it might easily have gone the other
way. I am greatly relieved. The respite gives us
time to carry out our investigations without undue
hurry."
</p>
<p>
"Did you find my notes of any use?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Heath did. Polton handed them to him, and they
were invaluable to him for his cross-examination. I
haven't seen them yet; in fact, I have only just got
them back from him. Let us go through them together
now."
</p>
<p>
He opened a drawer, and taking from it my note-book,
seated himself, and began to read through my
notes with grave attention, while I stood and looked
shyly over his shoulder. On the page that contained
my sketches of the Sidcup arm, showing the distribution
of the snails' eggs on the bones, he lingered with a
faint smile that made me turn hot and red.
</p>
<p>
"Those sketches look rather footy," I said; "but
I had to put something in my note-book."
</p>
<p>
"You didn't attach any importance, then, to the
facts that they illustrated?"
</p>
<p>
"No. The egg-patches were there, so I noted the
fact. That's all."
</p>
<p>
"I congratulate you, Berkeley. There is not one
man in twenty who would have the sense to make a
careful note of what he considers an unimportant or
irrelevant fact; and the investigator who notes only
those things that appear significant is perfectly useless.
He gives himself no material for reconsideration. But
you don't mean that these egg-patches and worm-tubes
appeared to you to have no significance at all?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, of course, they show the position in which the
bones were lying."
</p>
<p>
"Exactly. The arm was lying, fully extended, with
the dorsal side uppermost. There is nothing remarkable
in that. But we also learn from these egg-patches
that the hand had been separated from the arm before
it was thrown into the pond; and there is something
very remarkable in that."
</p>
<p>
I leaned over his shoulder and gazed at my sketches,
amazed at the rapidity with which he had reconstructed
the limb from my rough drawings of the individual
bones.
</p>
<p>
"I don't quite see how you arrived at it, though,"
I said.
</p>
<p>
"Well, look at your drawings. The egg-patches
are on the dorsal surface of the scapula, the humerus,
and the bones of the fore-arm. But here you have
shown six of the bones of the hand: two metacarpals,
the os magnum, and three phalanges; and they all have
egg-patches on the <i>palmar</i> surface. Therefore the
hand was lying palm upwards."
</p>
<p>
"But the hand may have been pronated."
</p>
<p>
"If you mean pronated in relation to the arm, that
is impossible, for the position of the egg-patches shows
clearly that the bones of the arm were lying in the
position of supination. Thus the dorsal surface of the
arm and the palmar surface of the hand respectively
were uppermost, which is an anatomical impossibility
so long as the hand is attached to the arm."
</p>
<p>
"But might not the hand have become detached after
lying in the pond some time?"
</p>
<p>
"No. It could not have been detached until the
ligaments had decayed, and if it had been separated
after the decay of the soft parts, the bones would have
been thrown into disorder. But the egg-patches are
all on the palmar surface, showing that the bones were
still in their normal relative positions. No, Berkeley,
that hand was thrown into the pond separately from
the arm."
</p>
<p>
"But why should it have been?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Ah, there is a very pretty little problem for you to
consider. And, meantime, let me tell you that your
expedition has been a brilliant success. You are an
excellent observer. Your only fault is that when you
have noted certain facts you don't seem fully to appreciate
their significance&mdash;which is merely a matter of
inexperience. As to the facts that you have collected,
several of them are of prime importance."
</p>
<p>
"I am glad you are satisfied," said I, "though I
don't see that I have discovered much excepting those
snails' eggs; and they don't seem to have advanced
matters very much."
</p>
<p>
"A definite fact, Berkeley, is a definite asset. Perhaps
we may presently find a little space in our Chinese
puzzle which this fact of the detached hand will just
drop into. But, tell me, did you find nothing unexpected
or suggestive about those bones&mdash;as to their
number and condition, for instance?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, I thought it a little queer that the scapula
and clavicle should be there. I should have expected
him to cut the arm off at the shoulder-joint."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Thorndyke; "so should I; and so it
has been done in every case of dismemberment that I
am acquainted with. To an ordinary person, the arm
seems to join on to the trunk at the shoulder-joint,
and that is where he would naturally sever it. What
explanation do you suggest of this unusual mode of
severing the arm?"
</p>
<p>
"Do you think the fellow could have been a
butcher?" I asked, remembering Dr. Summers' remark.
"This is the way a shoulder of mutton is taken
off."
</p>
<p>
"No," replied Thorndyke. "A butcher includes the
scapula in a shoulder of mutton for a specific purpose,
namely, to take off a given quantity of meat. And
also, as a sheep has no clavicle, it is the easiest way
to detach the limb. But I imagine a butcher would
find himself in difficulties if he attempted to take off
a man's arm in that way. The clavicle would be a new
and perplexing feature. Then, too, a butcher does not
deal very delicately with his subject; if he has to divide
a joint, he just cuts through it and does not trouble
himself to avoid marking the bones. But you note here
that there is not a single scratch or score on any one
of the bones, not even where the finger was removed.
Now, if you have ever prepared bones for a museum,
as I have, you will remember the extreme care that is
necessary in disarticulating joints to avoid disfiguring
the articular ends of the bones with cuts and scratches."
</p>
<p>
"Then you think that the person who dismembered
this body must have had some anatomical knowledge
and skill?"
</p>
<p>
"That is what has been suggested. The suggestion
is not mine."
</p>
<p>
"Then I infer that you don't agree?"
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke smiled. "I am sorry to be so cryptic,
Berkeley, but you understand that I can't make statements.
Still, I am trying to lead you to make certain
inferences from the facts that are in your possession."
</p>
<p>
"If I make the right inference, will you tell me?"
I asked.
</p>
<p>
"It won't be necessary," he answered, with the same
quiet smile. "When you have fitted a puzzle together
you don't need to be told that you have done it."
</p>
<p>
It was most infernally tantalising. I pondered on the
problem with a scowl of such intense cogitation that
Thorndyke laughed outright.
</p>
<p>
"It seems to me," I said, at length, "that the identity
of the remains is the primary question and that
is a question of fact. It doesn't seem any use to speculate
about it."
</p>
<p>
"Exactly. Either these bones are the remains of
John Bellingham or they are not. There will be no
doubt on the subject when all the bones are assembled&mdash;if
ever they are. And the settlement of that question
will probably throw light on the further question: Who
deposited them in the places in which they were found?
But to return to your observations: did you gather
nothing from the other bones? From the complete
state of the neck vertebrae, for instance?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, it did strike me as rather odd that the fellow
should have gone to the trouble of separating the atlas
from the skull. He must have been pretty handy with
the scalpel to have done it as cleanly as he seems to
have done; but I don't see why he should have gone
about the business in the most inconvenient way."
</p>
<p>
"You notice the uniformity of method. He has
separated the head from the spine, instead of cutting
through the spine lower down, as most persons would
have done: he removed the arms with the entire shoulder-girdle,
instead of simply cutting them off at the
shoulder-joints. Even in the thighs the same peculiarity
appears; for in neither case was the knee-cap
found with the thigh-bone, although it seems to have
been searched for. Now the obvious way to divide the
leg is to cut through the patellar ligament, leaving
the knee-cap attached to the thigh. But in this case,
the knee-cap appears to have been left attached to the
shank. Can you explain why this person should have
adopted this unusual and rather inconvenient method?
Can you suggest a motive for this procedure, or can
you think of any circumstances which might lead a
person to adopt this method by preference?"
</p>
<p>
"It seems as if he wished, for some reason, to divide
the body into definite anatomical regions."
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke chuckled. "You are not offering that
suggestion as an explanation, are you? Because it
would require more explaining than the original problem.
And it is not even true. Anatomically speaking,
the knee-cap appertains to the thigh rather than to
the shank. It is a sesamoid bone belonging to the thigh
muscles; yet in this case it has been left attached,
apparently, to the shank. No, Berkeley, that cat won't
jump. Our unknown operator was not preparing a
skeleton as a museum specimen; he was dividing a body
up into convenient-sized portions for the purpose of
conveying them to various ponds. Now what circumstances
might have led him to divide it in this peculiar
manner?"
</p>
<p>
"I am afraid I have no suggestion to offer. Have
you?"
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke suddenly lapsed into ambiguity. "I
think," he said, "it is possible to conceive such circumstances,
and so, probably, will you if you think it
over."
</p>
<p>
"Did you gather anything of importance from the
evidence at the inquest?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"It is difficult to say," he replied. "The whole of
my conclusions in this case are based on what is virtually
circumstantial evidence. I have not one single
fact of which I can say that it admits only of a single
interpretation. Still, it must be remembered that even
the most inconclusive facts, if sufficiently multiplied,
yield a highly conclusive total. And my little pile of
evidence is growing, particle by particle; but we mustn't
sit here gossiping at this hour of the day; I have to
consult with Marchmont and you say that you have
an early afternoon engagement. We can walk together
as far as Fleet Street."
</p>
<p>
A minute or two later we went our respective ways,
Thorndyke towards Lombard Street and I to Fetter
Lane, not unmindful of those coming events that were
casting so agreeable a shadow before them.
</p>
<p>
There was only one message awaiting me, and when
Adolphus had delivered it (amidst mephitic fumes that
rose from the basement, premonitory of fried plaice), I
pocketed my stethoscope and betook myself to Gunpowder
Alley, the aristocratic abode of my patient,
joyfully threading the now familiar passages of Gough
Square and Wine Office Court, and meditating pleasantly
on the curious literary flavour that pervades these
little-known regions. For the shade of the author of
<i>Rasselas</i> still seems to haunt the scenes of his Titanic
labours and his ponderous but homely and temperate
rejoicings. Every court and alley whispers of books
and of the making of books; forms of type, trundled
noisily on trollies by ink-smeared boys, salute the wayfarer
at odd corners; piles of strawboard, rolls or
bales of paper, drums of printing-ink or roller-composition
stand on the pavement outside dark entries;
basement windows give glimpses into Hadean caverns
tenanted by legions of printer's devils; and the very
air is charged with the hum of press and with odours of
glue and paste and oil. The entire neighbourhood is
given up to the printer and binder; and even my patient
turned out to be a guillotine-knife grinder&mdash;a ferocious
and revolutionary calling strangely at variance with
his harmless appearance and meek bearing.
</p>
<p>
I was in good time at my tryst, despite the hindrances
of fried plaice and invalid guillotinists; but, early as
I was, Miss Bellingham was already waiting in the
garden&mdash;she had been filling a bowl with flowers&mdash;ready
to sally forth.
</p>
<p>
"It is quite like old times," she said, as we turned
into Fetter Lane, "to be going to the Museum together.
It brings back the Tell el Amarna tablets and all your
kindness and unselfish labour. I suppose we shall walk
there to-day?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly," I replied; "I am not going to
share your society with the common mortals who
ride in omnibuses. That would be sheer, sinful
waste. Besides, it is more companionable to
walk."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, it is; and the bustle of the streets makes one
more appreciative of the quiet of the Museum. What
are we going to look at when we get there?"
</p>
<p>
"You must decide that," I replied. "You know
the collection much better than I do."
</p>
<p>
"Well, now," she mused, "I wonder what you would
like to see; or, in other words, what I should like you
to see. The old English pottery is rather fascinating,
especially the Fulham ware. I rather think I shall take
you to see that."
</p>
<p>
She reflected awhile, and then, just as we reached
the gate of Staple Inn, she stopped and looked thoughtfully
down the Gray's Inn Road.
</p>
<p>
"You have taken a great interest in our 'case,' as
Doctor Thorndyke calls it. Would you like to see the
churchyard where Uncle John wished to be buried? It
is a little out of our way, but we are not in a hurry,
are we?"
</p>
<p>
I, certainly, was not. Any deviation that might
prolong our walk was welcome, and, as to the place&mdash;why,
all places were alike to me if only she were by my
side. Besides, the churchyard was really of some interest,
since it was undoubtedly the "exciting cause" of
the obnoxious paragraph two of the disputed will. I
accordingly expressed a desire to make its acquaintance,
and we crossed to the entrance to Gray's Inn Road.
</p>
<p>
"Do you ever try," she asked, as we turned down
the dingy thoroughfare, "to picture to yourself familiar
places as they looked a couple of hundred years ago?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I answered, "and very difficult I find it.
One has to manufacture the materials for reconstruction,
and then the present aspect of the place will keep
obtruding itself. But some places are easier to reconstitute
than others."
</p>
<p>
"That is what I find," said she. "Now Holborn,
for example, is quite easy to reconstruct, though I
daresay the imaginary form isn't a bit like the original.
But there are fragments left, like Staple Inn and the
front of Gray's Inn; and then one has seen prints of
the old Middle Row and some of the taverns, so that
one has some material with which to help out one's
imagination. But this road that we are walking in
always baffles me. It looks so old and yet is, for the
most part, so new that I find it impossible to make a
satisfactory picture of its appearance, say, when Sir
Roger de Coverley might have strolled in Gray's Inn
Walks, or farther back, when Francis Bacon had
chambers in the Inn."
</p>
<p>
"I imagine," said I, "that part of the difficulty is
in the mixed character of the neighbourhood. Here,
on the one side, is old Gray's Inn, not much changed
since Bacon's time&mdash;his chambers are still to be seen,
I think, over the gateway; and there, on the Clerkenwell
side, is a dense and rather squalid neighbourhood
which has grown up over a region partly rural and
wholly fugitive in character. Places like Bagnigge
Wells and Hockley in the Hole would not have had
many buildings that were likely to survive; and in the
absence of surviving specimens the imagination hasn't
much to work from."
</p>
<p>
"I daresay you are right," said she. "Certainly,
the purlieus of old Clerkenwell present a very confused
picture to me; whereas, in the case of an old street
like, say, Great Ormond Street, one has only to sweep
away the modern buildings and replace them with
glorious old houses like the few that remain, dig up the
roadway and pavements and lay down cobble-stones,
plant a few wooden posts, hang up one or two oil-lamps,
and the transformation is complete. And a very delightful
transformation it is."
</p>
<p>
"Very delightful; which, by the way, is a melancholy
thought. For we ought to be doing better work than
our forefathers; whereas what we actually do is to pull
down the old buildings, clap the doorways, porticoes,
panelling, and mantels in our museums, and then run
up something inexpensive and useful and deadly uninteresting
in their place."
</p>
<p>
My companion looked at me and laughed softly.
"For a naturally cheerful, and even gay young man,"
said she, "you are most amazingly pessimistic. The
mantle of Jeremiah&mdash;if he ever wore one&mdash;seems to
have fallen on you, but without in the least impairing
your good spirits excepting in regard to matters architectural."
</p>
<p>
"I have much to be thankful for," said I. "Am I
not taken to the Museum by a fair lady? And does
she not stay me with mummy cases and comfort me
with crockery?"
</p>
<p>
"Pottery," she corrected; and then, as we met a
party of grave-looking women emerging from a side-street,
she said: "I suppose those are lady medical
students."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, on their way to the Royal Free Hospital.
Note the gravity of their demeanour and contrast it
with the levity of the male student."
</p>
<p>
"I was doing so," she answered, "and wondering
why professional women are usually so much more
serious than men."
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps," I suggested, "it is a matter of selection.
A peculiar type of woman is attracted to the professions,
whereas every man has to earn his living as a
matter of course."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I daresay that is the explanation. This is
our turning."
</p>
<p>
We passed into Heathcote Street, at the end of
which was an open gate giving entrance to one of those
disused and metamorphosed burial-grounds that are to
be met with in the older districts of London; in which
the dispossessed dead are jostled into corners to make
room for the living. Many of the headstones were
still standing, and others, displaced to make room for
asphalted walks and seats, were ranged around by the
walls, exhibiting inscriptions made meaningless by their
removal. It was a pleasant enough place on this summer
afternoon, contrasted with the dingy street whence
we had come, though its grass was faded and yellow
and the twitter of the birds in the trees mingled with
the hideous Board-school drawl of the children who
played around the seats and the few remaining tombs.
</p>
<p>
"So this is the last resting-place of the illustrious
house of Bellingham," said I.
</p>
<p>
"Yes; and we are not the only distinguished people
who repose in this place. The daughter of no less a
person than Richard Cromwell is buried here; the tomb
is still standing&mdash;but perhaps you have been here before,
and know it."
</p>
<p>
"I don't think I have ever been here before; and
yet there is something about the place that seems
familiar." I looked around, cudgelling my brains for
the key to the dimly reminiscent sensations that the
place evoked; until, suddenly, I caught sight of a group
of buildings away to the west, enclosed within a wall
heightened by a wooden trellis.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, of course!" I exclaimed. "I remember the
place now. I have never been in this part before, but
in that enclosure beyond which opens at the end of
Henrietta Street, there used to be and may be still, for
all I know, a school of anatomy, at which I attended
in my first year; in fact, I did my first dissection
there."
</p>
<p>
"There was a certain gruesome appropriateness in
the position of the school," remarked Miss Bellingham.
"It would have been really convenient in the days of
the resurrection men. Your material would have been
delivered at your very door. Was it a large school?"
</p>
<p>
"The attendance varied according to the time of the
year. Sometimes I worked there quite alone. I used
to let myself in with a key and hoist my subject out
of a sort of sepulchral tank by means of a chain tackle.
It was a ghoulish business. You have no idea how
awful the body used to look, to my unaccustomed eyes,
as it rose slowly out of the tank. It was like the resurrection
scenes that you see on some old tombstones,
where the deceased is shown rising out of his coffin
while the skeleton, Death, falls vanquished with his
dart shattered and his crown toppling off.
</p>
<p>
"I remember, too, that the demonstrator used to
wear a blue apron, which created a sort of impression
of a cannibal butcher's shop. But I am afraid I am
shocking you."
</p>
<p>
"No, you are not. Every profession has its unpresentable
aspects, which ought not to be seen by out-siders.
Think of a sculptor's studio and of the sculptor
himself when he is modelling a large figure or group
in the clay. He might be a bricklayer or a road-sweeper
if you judge by his appearance. This is the
tomb I was telling you about."
</p>
<p>
We halted before the plain coffer of stone, weathered
and wasted by age, but yet kept in decent repair by
some pious hands, and read the inscription, setting
forth with modest pride, that here reposed Anna, sixth
daughter of Richard Cromwell, "The Protector." It
was a simple monument and commonplace enough, with
the crude severity of the ascetic age to which it belonged.
But still, it carried the mind back to those
stirring times when the leafy shades of Gray's Inn
Lane must have resounded with the clank of weapons
and the tramp of armed men; when this bald recreation-ground
was a rustic churchyard, standing amidst green
fields and hedgerows, and countrymen leading their
pack-horses into London through the Lane would stop
to look in over the wooden gate.
</p>
<p>
Miss Bellingham looked at me critically as I stood
thus reflecting, and presently remarked, "I think you
and I have a good many mental habits in common."
</p>
<p>
I looked up inquiringly, and she continued: "I notice
that an old tombstone seems to set you meditating.
So it does me. When I look at an ancient monument,
and especially an old headstone, I find myself almost
unconsciously retracing the years to the date that is
written on the stone. Why do you think that is? Why
should a monument be so stimulating to the imagination?
And why should a common headstone be more
so than any other?"
</p>
<p>
"I suppose it is," I answered reflectively, "that a
churchyard monument is a peculiarly personal thing
and appertains in a peculiar way to a particular time.
And the circumstance that it has stood untouched by
the passing years while everything around has changed,
helps the imagination to span the interval. And the
common headstone, the memorial of some dead and
gone farmer or labourer who lived and died in the
village hard by, is still more intimate and suggestive.
The rustic, childish sculpture of the village mason and
the artless doggerel of the village schoolmaster, bring
back the time and place and the conditions of life much
more vividly than the more scholarly inscriptions and
the more artistic enrichments of monuments of greater
pretensions. But where are your own family tombstones?"
</p>
<p>
"They are over in that farther corner. There is an
intelligent, but inopportune, person apparently copying
the epitaphs. I wish he would go away. I want
to show them to you."
</p>
<p>
I now noticed, for the first time, an individual engaged,
note-book in hand, in making a careful survey
of a group of old headstones. Evidently he was making
a copy of the inscriptions, for not only was he poring
attentively over the writing on the face of the stone,
but now and again he helped out his vision by running
his fingers over the worn lettering.
</p>
<p>
"That is my grandfather's tombstone that he is
copying now," said Miss Bellingham; and even as she
spoke, the man turned and directed a searching glance
at us with a pair of keen, spectacled eyes.
</p>
<p>
Simultaneously we uttered an exclamation of surprise;
for the investigator was Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH16"><!-- CH16 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER XVI
</h2>

<h3>
"O! ARTEMIDORUS, FAREWELL!"
</h3>
<p>
Whether or not Mr. Jellicoe was surprised to see us,
it is impossible to say. His countenance (which served
the ordinary purposes of a face, inasmuch as it contained
the principal organs of special sense, with the
inlets to the alimentary and respiratory tracts) was,
as an apparatus for the expression of the emotions, a
total failure. To a thought-reader it would have been
about as helpful as the face carved upon the handle
of an umbrella; a comparison suggested, perhaps, by
a certain resemblance to such an object. He advanced,
holding his open note-book and pencil, and having
saluted us with a stiff bow and an old-fashioned flourish
of his hat, shook hands rheumatically and waited for
us to speak.
</p>
<p>
"This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Jellicoe," said
Miss Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
"It is very good of you to say so," he
replied.
</p>
<p>
"And quite a coincidence&mdash;that we should all happen
to come here on the same day."
</p>
<p>
"A coincidence, certainly," he admitted; "and if
we had all happened not to come&mdash;which must have
occurred frequently&mdash;that also would have been a
coincidence."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose it would," said she, "but I hope we are
not interrupting you."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you, no. I had just finished when I had
the pleasure of perceiving you."
</p>
<p>
"You were making some notes in reference to the
case, I imagine," said I. It was an impertinent question,
put with malice aforethought for the mere pleasure
of hearing him evade it.
</p>
<p>
"The case?" he repeated. "You are referring,
perhaps, to Stevens versus the Parish Council?"
</p>
<p>
"I think Doctor Berkeley was referring to the case
of my uncle's will," Miss Bellingham said quite gravely,
though with a suspicious dimpling about the corners
of her mouth.
</p>
<p>
"Indeed," said Mr. Jellicoe. "There is a case, is
there; a suit?"
</p>
<p>
"I mean the proceedings instituted by Mr. Hurst."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, but that was merely an application to the
Court, and is, moreover, finished and done with. At
least, so I understand. I speak, of course, subject to
correction; I am not acting for Mr. Hurst, you will
be pleased to remember. As a matter of fact," he
continued, after a brief pause, "I was just refreshing
my memory as to the wording of the inscriptions on
these stones, especially that of your grandfather, Francis
Bellingham. It has occurred to me that if it should
appear by the finding of the coroner's jury that your
uncle is deceased, it would be proper and decorous that
some memorial should be placed here. But, as the
burial-ground is closed, there might be some difficulty
about erecting a new monument, whereas there would
probably be none in adding an inscription to one already
existing. Hence these investigations. For if
the inscription on your grandfather's stone had set
forth that 'here rests the body of Francis Bellingham,'
it would have been manifestly improper to add 'also
that of John Bellingham, son of the above.' Fortunately
the inscription was more discreetly drafted,
merely recording the fact that this monument is
'sacred to the memory of the said Francis,' and not
committing itself as to the whereabouts of the remains.
But perhaps I am interrupting you?"
</p>
<p>
"No, not at all," replied Miss Bellingham (which
was grossly untrue; he was interrupting <i>me</i> most intolerably);
"we were going to the British Museum and
just looked in here on our way."
</p>
<p>
"Ha," said Mr. Jellicoe, "now, I happen to be going
to the Museum too, to see Doctor Norbury. I suppose
that is another coincidence?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly it is," Miss Bellingham replied; and then
she asked: "Shall we walk there together?" and the
old curmudgeon actually said "yes"&mdash;confound
him!
</p>
<p>
We returned to the Gray's Inn Road, where, as there
was now room for us to walk abreast, I proceeded to
indemnify myself for the lawyer's unwelcome company
by leading the conversation back to the subject of the
missing man.
</p>
<p>
"Was there anything, Mr. Jellicoe, in Mr. John
Bellingham's state of health that would make it probable
that he might die suddenly?"
</p>
<p>
The lawyer looked at me suspiciously for a few moments
and then remarked:
</p>
<p>
"You seem to be greatly interested in John Bellingham
and his affairs."
</p>
<p>
"I am. My friends are deeply concerned in them,
and the case itself is of more than common interest
from a professional point of view."
</p>
<p>
"And what is the bearing of this particular question?"
</p>
<p>
"Surely it is obvious," said I. "If a missing man
is known to have suffered from some affection, such
as heart disease, aneurism, or arterial degeneration,
likely to produce sudden death, that fact will surely be
highly material to the question as to whether he is
probably dead or alive."
</p>
<p>
"No doubt you are right," said Mr. Jellicoe. "I
have little knowledge of medical affairs, but doubtless
you are right. As to the question itself, I am Mr.
Bellingham's lawyer, not his doctor. His health is a
matter that lies outside my jurisdiction. But you
heard my evidence in Court, to the effect that the testator
appeared, to my untutored observation, to be a
healthy man. I can say no more now."
</p>
<p>
"If the question is of any importance," said Miss
Bellingham, "I wonder they did not call his doctor
and settle it definitely. My own impression is that he
was&mdash;or is&mdash;rather a strong and sound man. He certainly
recovered very quickly and completely after his
accident."
</p>
<p>
"What accident was that?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, hasn't my father told you? It occurred while
he was staying with us. He slipped from a high kerb
and broke one of the bones of the left ankle&mdash;somebody's
fracture&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Pott's?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, that was the name&mdash;Pott's fracture; and he
broke both his knee-caps as well. Sir Morgan Bennet
had to perform an operation, or he would have been a
cripple for life. As it was, he was about again in a few
weeks, apparently none the worse excepting for a slight
weakness of the left ankle."
</p>
<p>
"Could he walk upstairs?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, yes; and play golf and ride a bicycle."
</p>
<p>
"You are sure he broke both knee-caps?"
</p>
<p>
"Quite sure. I remember that it was mentioned as
an uncommon injury, and that Sir Morgan seemed
quite pleased with him for doing it."
</p>
<p>
"That sounds rather libellous; but I expect he was
pleased with the result of the operation. He might
well be."
</p>
<p>
Here there was a brief lull in the conversation, and,
even as I was trying to think of a poser for Mr. Jellicoe,
that gentleman took the opportunity to change the
subject.
</p>
<p>
"Are you going to the Egyptian Rooms?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"No," replied Miss Bellingham; "we are going to
look at the pottery."
</p>
<p>
"Ancient or modern?"
</p>
<p>
"The old Fulham ware is what chiefly interests us
at present; that of the seventeenth century. I don't
know whether you would call that ancient or
modern."
</p>
<p>
"Neither do I," said Mr. Jellicoe. "Antiquity and
modernity are terms that have no fixed connotation.
They are purely relative and their application in a particular
instance has to be determined by a sort of sliding
scale. To a furniture collector, a Tudor chair or a
Jacobean chest is ancient; to an architect, their period
is modern, whereas an eleventh-century church is
ancient; but to an Egyptologist, accustomed to remains
of a vast antiquity, both are products of modern
periods separated by an insignificant interval. And, I
suppose," he added, reflectively, "that to a geologist,
the traces of the very earliest dawn of human history
appertain only to the recent period. Conceptions of
time, like all other conceptions, are relative."
</p>
<p>
"You appear to be a disciple of Herbert Spencer,"
I remarked.
</p>
<p>
"I am a disciple of Arthur Jellicoe, sir," he retorted.
And I believed him.
</p>
<p>
By the time we had reached the Museum he had
become almost genial; and, if less amusing in this
frame, he was so much more instructive and entertaining
that I refrained from baiting him, and permitted
him to discuss his favourite topic unhindered, especially
since my companion listened with lively interest. Nor,
when we entered the great hall, did he relinquish possession
of us, and we followed submissively, as he led
the way past the winged bulls of Nineveh and the great
seated statues, until we found ourselves, almost without
the exercise of our volition, in the upper room
amidst the glaring mummy cases that had witnessed
the birth of my friendship with Ruth Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
"Before I leave you," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I should
like to show you that mummy that we were discussing
the other evening; the one, you remember, that my
friend, John Bellingham, presented to the Museum a
little time before his disappearance. The point that
I mentioned is only a trivial one, but it may become
of interest hereafter if any plausible explanation should
be forthcoming." He led us along the room until we
arrived at the case containing John Bellingham's gift,
where he halted and gazed in at the mummy with the
affectionate reflectiveness of the connoisseur.
</p>
<p>
"The bitumen coating was what we were discussing,
Miss Bellingham," said he. "You have seen it, of
course."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," she answered. "It is a dreadful disfigurement,
isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
"Aesthetically it is to be deplored, but it adds a
certain speculative interest to the specimen. You notice
that the black coating leaves the principal decoration
and the whole of the inscription untouched, which
is precisely the part that one would expect to find
covered up; whereas the feet and the back, which
probably bore no writing, are quite thickly encrusted.
If you stoop down, you can see that the bitumen was
daubed freely into the lacings of the back, where it
served no purpose, so that even the strings are embedded."
He stooped, as he spoke, and peered up
inquisitively at the back of the mummy, where it was
visible between the supports.
</p>
<p>
"Has Doctor Norbury any explanation to offer?"
asked Miss Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
"None whatever," replied Mr. Jellicoe. "He finds
it as great a mystery as I do. But he thinks that we
may get some suggestion from the Director when he
comes back. He is a very great authority, as you
know, and a practical excavator of great experience
too. But I mustn't stay here talking of these things,
and keeping you from your pottery. Perhaps I have
stayed too long already. If I have I ask your pardon,
and I will now wish you a very good afternoon." With
a sudden return to his customary wooden impassivity,
he shook hands with us, bowed stiffly, and took himself
off towards the curator's office.
</p>
<p>
"What a strange man that is," said Miss Bellingham,
as Mr. Jellicoe disappeared through the doorway
at the end of the room, "or perhaps I should say,
a strange being, for I can hardly think of him as a
man. I have never met any other human creature at
all like him."
</p>
<p>
"He is certainly a queer old fogey," I agreed.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, but there is something more than that. He
is so emotionless, so remote and aloof from all mundane
concerns. He moves among ordinary men and women,
but as a mere presence, an unmoved spectator of their
actions, quite dispassionate and impersonal."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, he is astonishingly self-contained; in fact, he
seems, as you say, to go to and fro among men, enveloped
in a sort of infernal atmosphere of his own, like
Marley's ghost. But he is lively and human enough
as soon as the subject of Egyptian antiquities is
broached."
</p>
<p>
"Lively, but not human. He is always, to me, quite
unhuman. Even when he is most interested, and even
enthusiastic, he is a mere personification of knowledge.
Nature ought to have furnished him with an ibis' head
like Tahuti; then he would have looked his part."
</p>
<p>
"He would have made a rare sensation in Lincoln's
Inn if she had," said I; and we both laughed heartily
at the imaginary picture of Tahuti Jellicoe, slender-beaked
and top-hatted, going about his business in
Lincoln's Inn and the Law Courts.
</p>
<p>
Insensibly, as we talked, we had drawn near to the
mummy of Artemidorus, and now my companion halted
before the case with her thoughtful grey eyes bent
dreamily on the face that looked out at us. I watched
her with reverent admiration. How charming she
looked as she stood with her sweet, grave face turned
so earnestly to the object of her mystical affection!
How dainty and full of womanly dignity and grace!
And then, suddenly, it was borne in upon me that a
great change had come over her since the day of our
first meeting. She had grown younger, more girlish,
and more gentle. At first she had seemed much older
than I; a sad-faced woman, weary, solemn, enigmatic,
almost gloomy, with a bitter, ironic humour and a bearing
distant and cold. Now she was only maidenly and
sweet; tinged, it is true, with a certain seriousness,
but frank and gracious and wholly lovable.
</p>
<p>
Could the change be due to our growing friendship?
As I asked myself the question, my heart leaped with
a new-born hope. I yearned to tell her all that she was
to me&mdash;all that I hoped we might be to one another
in the years to come.
</p>
<p>
At length I ventured to break in upon her reverie.
</p>
<p>
"What are you thinking about so earnestly, fair
lady?"
</p>
<p>
She turned quickly with a bright smile and sparkling
eyes that looked frankly into mine. "I was wondering,"
said she, "if he was jealous of my new friend.
But what a baby I am to talk such nonsense!"
</p>
<p>
She laughed softly and happily with just an adorable
hint of shyness.
</p>
<p>
"Why should he be jealous?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Well, you see, before&mdash;we were friends, he had me
all to himself. I have never had a man-friend before&mdash;except
my father&mdash;and no really intimate friend at
all. And I was very lonely in those days, after our
troubles had befallen. I am naturally solitary, but
still, I am only a girl; I am not a philosopher. So
when I felt very lonely, I used to come here and look
at Artemidorus and make believe that he knew all the
sadness of my life and sympathised with me. It was
very silly, I know, but yet, somehow it was a real
comfort to me."
</p>
<p>
"It was not silly of you at all. He must have been
a good man, a gentle, sweet-faced man who had won
the love of those who knew him, as this beautiful
memorial tells us; and it was wise and good of you to
sweeten the bitterness of your life with the fragrance
of this human love that blossoms in the dust after the
lapse of centuries. No, you were not silly, and Artemidorus
is not jealous of your new friend."
</p>
<p>
"Are you sure?" She still smiled as she asked the
question, but her glance was soft&mdash;almost tender&mdash;and
there was a note of whimsical anxiety in her voice.
</p>
<p>
"Quite sure. I give you my confident assurance."
</p>
<p>
She laughed gaily. "Then," said she, "I am satisfied,
for I am sure you know. But here is a mighty
telepathist who can read the thoughts even of a mummy.
A most formidable companion. But tell me how you
know."
</p>
<p>
"I know, because it is he who gave you to me to be
my friend. Don't you remember?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I remember," she answered, softly. "It was
when you were so sympathetic with my foolish whim
that I felt we were really friends."
</p>
<p>
"And I, when you confided your pretty fancy to me,
thanked you for the gift of your friendship, and
treasured it, and do still treasure it, above everything
on earth."
</p>
<p>
She looked at me quickly with a sort of nervousness
in her manner, and cast down her eyes. Then, after a
few moments' almost embarrassed silence, as if to bring
our talk back to a less emotional plane, she said:
</p>
<p>
"Do you notice the curious way in which this memorial
divides itself up into two distinct parts?"
</p>
<p>
"How do you mean?" I asked, a little disconcerted
by the sudden descent.
</p>
<p>
"I mean that there is a part of it that is purely
decorative and a part that is expressive or emotional.
You notice that the general design and scheme of
decoration, although really Greek in feeling, follows
rigidly the Egyptian conventions. But the portrait
is entirely in the Greek manner, and when they came
to that pathetic farewell, it had to be spoken in their
own tongue, written in their own familiar characters."
</p>
<p>
"Yes. I have noticed that and admired the taste
with which they have kept the inscription so inconspicuous
as not to clash with the decoration. An obtrusive
inscription in Greek characters would have
spoiled the consistency of the whole scheme."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, it would." She assented absently as if she
were thinking of something else, and once more gazed
thoughtfully at the mummy. I watched her with deep
content: noted the lovely contour of her cheek, the
soft masses of hair that strayed away so gracefully
from her brow, and thought her the most wonderful
creature that had ever trod the earth. Suddenly she
looked at me reflectively.
</p>
<p>
"I wonder," she said, "what made me tell you about
Artemidorus. It was a rather silly, childish sort of
make-believe, and I wouldn't have told anyone else for
the world; not even my father. How did I know that
you would sympathise and understand?"
</p>
<p>
She asked the question in all simplicity with her
serious, grey eyes looking inquiringly into mine. And
the answer came to me in a flash, with the beating of
my own heart.
</p>
<p>
"I will tell you how you knew, Ruth," I whispered
passionately. "It was because I loved you more than
anyone in the world has ever loved you, and you felt
my love in your heart and called it sympathy."
</p>
<p>
I stopped short, for she had blushed scarlet and then
turned deathly pale. And now she looked at me wildly,
almost with terror.
</p>
<p>
"Have I shocked you, Ruth, dearest?" I exclaimed
penitently, "have I spoken too soon? If I have, forgive
me. But I had to tell you. I have been eating my
heart out for love of you for I don't know how long.
I think I have loved you from the first day we met.
Perhaps I shouldn't have spoken yet, but, Ruth, dear,
if you only knew what a sweet girl you are, you
wouldn't blame me."
</p>
<p>
"I don't blame you," she said, almost in a whisper;
"I blame myself. I have been a bad friend to you,
who have been so loyal and loving to me. I ought not
to have let this happen. For it can't be, Paul; I can't
say what you want me to say. We can never be anything
more to one another than friends."
</p>
<p>
A cold hand seemed to grasp my heart&mdash;a horrible
fear that I had lost all that I cared for&mdash;all that made
life desirable.
</p>
<p>
"Why can't we?" I asked. "Do you mean that&mdash;that
the gods have been gracious to some other
man?"
</p>
<p>
"No, no," she answered, hastily&mdash;almost indignantly,
"of course I don't mean that."
</p>
<p>
"Then it is only that you don't love me yet. Of
course you don't. Why should you? But you will,
dear, some day. And I will wait patiently until that
day comes and not trouble you with entreaties. I will
wait for you as Jacob waited for Rachel; and as the
long years seemed to him but as a few days because
of the love he bore her, so it shall be with me, if only
you will not send me away quite without hope."
</p>
<p>
She was looking down, white-faced, with a hardening
of the lips as if she were in bodily pain. "You don't
understand," she whispered. "It can't be&mdash;it can
never be. There is something that makes it impossible,
now and always. I can't tell you more than
that."
</p>
<p>
"But, Ruth, dearest," I pleaded despairingly, "may
it not become possible some day? Can it not be made
possible? I can wait, but I can't give you up. Is there
no chance whatever that this obstacle may be removed?"
</p>
<p>
"Very little, I fear. Hardly any. No, Paul; it is
hopeless, and I can't bear to talk about it. Let me
go now. Let us say good-bye here and see one another
no more for a while. Perhaps we may be friends again
some day&mdash;when you have forgiven me."
</p>
<p>
"Forgiven you, dearest!" I exclaimed. "There is
nothing to forgive. And we are friends, Ruth. Whatever
happens, you are the dearest friend I have on
earth, or can ever have."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you, Paul," she said faintly. "You are
very good to me. But let me go, please. I must go.
I must be alone."
</p>
<p>
She held out a trembling hand, and, as I took it, I
was shocked to see how terribly agitated and ill she
looked.
</p>
<p>
"May I not come with you, dear?" I pleaded.
</p>
<p>
"No, no!" she exclaimed breathlessly; "I must go
away by myself. I want to be alone. Good-bye!"
</p>
<p>
"Before I let you go, Ruth&mdash;if you must go&mdash;I
must have a solemn promise from you."
</p>
<p>
Her sad grey eyes met mine and her lips quivered
with an unspoken question.
</p>
<p>
"You must promise me," I went on, "that if ever
this barrier that parts us should be removed, you will
let me know instantly. Remember that I love you
always, and that I am waiting for you always on this
side of the grave."
</p>
<p>
She caught her breath in a little quick sob, and
pressed my hand.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," she whispered: "I promise. Good-bye."
She pressed my hand again and was gone; and, as I
gazed at the empty doorway through which she had
passed, I caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass
case on the landing, where she had paused for a moment
to wipe her eyes. I felt it, in a manner, indelicate to
have seen her, and turned away my head quickly;
and yet I was conscious of a certain selfish satisfaction
in the sweet sympathy that her grief bespoke.
</p>
<p>
But now that she was gone a horrible sense of desolation
descended on me. Only now, by the consciousness
of irreparable loss, did I begin to realise the meaning
of this passion of love that had stolen unawares
into my life. How it had glorified the present and
spread a glamour of delight over the dimly considered
future: how all pleasures and desires, all hopes and
ambitions, had converged upon it as a focus; how it
had stood out as the one great reality behind which
the other circumstances of life were as a background,
shimmering, half seen, immaterial, and unreal. And
now it was gone&mdash;lost, as it seemed, beyond hope; and
that which was left to me was but the empty frame
from which the picture had vanished.
</p>
<p>
I have no idea how long I stood rooted to the spot
where she had left me, wrapped in a dull consciousness
of pain, immersed in a half-numb reverie. Recent
events flitted, dream-like, through my mind; our happy
labours in the reading-room; our first visit to the
Museum; and this present day that had opened so
brightly and with such joyous promise. One by one
these phantoms of a vanished happiness came and went.
Occasional visitors sauntered into the room&mdash;but the
galleries were mostly empty that day&mdash;gazed inquisitively
at my motionless figure, and went their way.
And still the dull, intolerable ache in my breast went
on, the only vivid consciousness that was left to me.
</p>
<p>
Presently I raised my eyes and met those of the
portrait. The sweet, pensive face of the old Greek
settler looked out at me wistfully as though he would
offer comfort; as though he would tell me that he,
too, had known sorrow when he lived his life in the
sunny Fayyum. And a subtle consolation, like the
faint scent of old rose leaves, seemed to exhale from
that friendly face that had looked on the birth of my
happiness and had seen it wither and fade. I turned
away, at last, with a silent farewell; and when I looked
back, he seemed to speed me on my way with gentle
valediction.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH17"><!-- CH17 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER XVII
</h2>

<h3>
THE ACCUSING FINGER
</h3>
<p>
Of my wanderings after I left the Museum on that
black and dismal <i>dies irae</i>, I have but a dim recollection.
But I must have travelled a quite considerable distance,
since it wanted an hour or two to the time for
returning to the surgery, and I spent the interval walking
swiftly through streets and squares, unmindful of
the happenings around, intent only on my present misfortune,
and driven by a natural impulse to seek relief
in bodily exertion. For mental distress sets up, as it
were, a sort of induced current of physical unrest; a
beneficent arrangement, by which a dangerous excess
of emotional excitement may be transformed into motor
energy, and so safely got rid of. The motor apparatus
acts as a safety-valve to the psychical; and if the engine
races for a while, with the onset of bodily fatigue
the emotional pressure-gauge returns to a normal reading.
</p>
<p>
And so it was with me. At first I was conscious of
nothing but a sense of utter bereavement, of the shipwreck
of all my hopes. But, by degrees, as I threaded
my way among the moving crowds, I came to a better
and more worthy frame of mind. After all, I had lost
nothing that I had ever had. Ruth was still all that
she had ever been to me&mdash;perhaps even more; and if
that had been a rich endowment yesterday, why not
to-day also? And how unfair it would be to her if I
should mope and grieve over a disappointment that
was no fault of hers and for which there was no remedy!
Thus I reasoned with myself, and to such purpose that,
by the time I reached Fetter Lane, my dejection had
come to quite manageable proportions and I had formed
the resolution to get back to the <i>status quo ante bellum</i>
as soon as possible.
</p>
<p>
About eight o'clock, as I was sitting alone in the
consulting-room, gloomily persuading myself that I was
now quite resigned to the inevitable, Adolphus brought
me a registered packet, at the handwriting on which
my heart gave such a bound that I had much ado to
sign the receipt. As soon as Adolphus had retired
(with undissembled contempt of the shaky signature)
I tore open the packet, and as I drew out a letter a
tiny box dropped on the table.
</p>
<p>
The letter was all too short, and I devoured it over
and over again with the eagerness of a condemned man
reading a reprieve:&mdash;
</p>
<p>
"My Dear Paul,
</p>
<p>
"Forgive me for leaving you so abruptly this
afternoon, and leaving you so unhappy, too. I am more
sane and reasonable now, and so send you greeting and
beg you not to grieve for that which can never be. It
is quite impossible, dear friend, and I entreat you, as
you care for me, never to speak of it again; never
again to make me feel that I can give so little when
you have given so much. And do not try to see me
for a little while. I shall miss your visits, and so will
my father, who is very fond of you; but it is better
that we should not meet, until we can take up the old
relations&mdash;if that can ever be.
</p>
<p>
"I am sending you a little keepsake in case we
should drift apart on the eddies of life. It is the ring
that I told you about&mdash;the one that my uncle gave
me. Perhaps you may be able to wear it as you
have a small hand, but in any case keep it in remembrance
of our friendship. The device on it is the Eye
of Osiris, a mystic symbol for which I have a sentimentally
superstitious affection, as also had my poor
uncle, who actually bore it tattooed in scarlet on his
breast. It signifies that the great judge of the dead
looks down on men to see that justice is done and that
truth prevails. So I commend you to the good Osiris;
may his eye be upon you, ever watchful over your
welfare in the absence of
</p>
<p>
"Your affectionate friend
</p>
<center>
"RUTH."
</center>
<p>
It was a sweet letter, I thought, even if it carried
little comfort; quiet and reticent like its writer, but
with an undertone of sincere affection. I laid it down
at length, and, taking the ring from its box, examined
it fondly. Though but a copy, it had all the quaintness
and feeling of the antique original, and, above all,
it was fragrant with the spirit of the giver. Dainty
and delicate, wrought of silver and gold, with an inlay
of copper, I would not have exchanged it for the Koh-i-noor;
and when I had slipped it on my finger its tiny
eye of blue enamel looked up at me so friendly and
companionable that I felt the glamour of the old-world
superstition stealing over me, too.
</p>
<p>
Not a single patient came in this evening, which was
well for me (and also for the patient), as I was able
forthwith to write in reply a long letter; but this I
shall spare the long-suffering reader excepting its concluding
paragraph:&mdash;
</p>
<p>
"And now, dearest, I have said my say; once for
all, I have said it, and I will not open my mouth on
the subject again (I am not actually opening it now)
'until the times do alter.' And if the times do never
alter&mdash;if it shall come to pass, in due course, that we
two shall sit side by side, white-haired, and crinkly-nosed,
and lean our poor old chins upon our sticks and
mumble and gibber amicably over the things that might
have been if the good Osiris had come up to the
scratch&mdash;I will still be content, because your friendship,
Ruth, is better than another woman's love. So
you see, I have taken my gruel and come up to time
smiling&mdash;if you will pardon the pugilistic metaphor&mdash;and
I promise you loyally to do your bidding and never
again to distress you.
</p>
<p>
"Your faithful and loving friend,
</p>
<center>
"PAUL."
</center>
<p>
This letter I addressed and stamped, and then, with
a wry grimace which I palmed off on myself (but not
on Adolphus) as a cheerful smile, I went out and
dropped it into the post-box; after which I further
deluded myself by murmuring <i>Nunc dimittis</i> and assuring
myself that the incident was now absolutely closed.
</p>
<p>
But, despite this comfortable assurance, I was, in
the days that followed, an exceedingly miserable young
man. It is all very well to write down troubles of this
kind as trivial and sentimental. They are nothing of
the kind. When a man of an essentially serious nature
has found the one woman of all the world who fulfils
his highest ideals of womanhood, who is, in fact, a
woman in ten thousand, to whom he has given all that
he has to give of love and worship, the sudden wreck
of all his hopes is no small calamity. And so I found
it. Resign myself as I would to the bitter reality, the
ghost of the might-have-been haunted me night and
day, so that I spent my leisure wandering abstractedly
about the streets, always trying to banish thought and
never for an instant succeeding. A great unrest was
upon me; and when I received a letter from Dick
Barnard announcing his arrival at Madeira, homeward
bound, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had no plans for
the future, but I longed to be rid of the, now irksome,
routine of the practice&mdash;to be free to come and go
when and how I pleased.
</p>
<p>
One evening, as I sat consuming with little appetite
my solitary supper, there fell on me a sudden sense of
loneliness. The desire that I had hitherto felt to be
alone with my own miserable reflections gave place to
a yearning for human companionship. That, indeed,
which I craved for most was forbidden, and I must
abide by my lady's wishes; but there were my friends
in the Temple. It was more than a week since I had
seen them; in fact, we had not met since the morning
of that unhappiest day of my life. They would be
wondering what had become of me. I rose from the
table, and, having filled my pouch from a tin of
tobacco, set forth for King's Bench Walk.
</p>
<p>
As I approached the entry of No. 5A in the gathering
darkness I met Thorndyke himself emerging, encumbered
with two deck-chairs, a reading-lantern, and a
book.
</p>
<p>
"Why, Berkeley!" he exclaimed, "is it indeed thou?
We have been wondering what had become of you."
</p>
<p>
"It <i>is</i> a long time since I looked you up," I
admitted.
</p>
<p>
He scrutinised me attentively by the light of the
entry lamp, and then remarked: "Fetter Lane doesn't
seem to be agreeing with you very well, my son. You
are looking quite thin and peaky."
</p>
<p>
"Well, I've nearly done with it. Barnard will be
back in about ten days. His ship is putting in at
Madeira to coal and take in some cargo, and then he is
coming home. Where are you going with those
chairs?"
</p>
<p>
"I am going to sit down at the end of the Walk by
the garden railings. It's cooler there than indoors.
If you will wait a moment I will fetch another chair
for Jervis, though he won't be back for a little while."
He ran up the stairs, and presently returned with a
third chair, and we carried our impedimenta down to
the quiet corner at the bottom of the Walk.
</p>
<p>
"So your term of servitude is coming to an end,"
said he when we had placed the chairs and hung the
lantern on the railings. "Any other news?"
</p>
<p>
"No. Have you any?"
</p>
<p>
"I am afraid I have not. All my inquiries have
yielded negative results. There is, of course, a considerable
body of evidence, and it all seems to point
one way. But I am unwilling to make a decisive move
without something more definite. I am really waiting
for confirmation or otherwise of my ideas on the subject;
for some new item of evidence."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't know there was any evidence."
</p>
<p>
"Didn't you?" said Thorndyke. "But you know
as much as I know. You have all the essential facts;
but apparently you haven't collated them and extracted
their meaning. If you had, you would have found
them curiously significant."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose I mustn't ask what their significance is?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I think not. When I am conducting a case I
mention my surmises to nobody&mdash;not even to Jervis.
Then I can say confidently that there has been no
leakage. Don't think I distrust you. Remember that
my thoughts are my client's property, and that the
essence of strategy is to keep the enemy in the dark."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I see that. Of course, I ought not to have
asked."
</p>
<p>
"You ought not to need to ask," Thorndyke replied,
with a smile; "you should put the facts together
and reason from them yourself."
</p>
<p>
While we had been talking I had noticed Thorndyke
glance at me inquisitively from time to time. Now,
after an interval of silence, he asked suddenly:
</p>
<p>
"Is anything amiss, Berkeley? Are you worrying
about your friends' affairs?"
</p>
<p>
"No, not particularly; though their prospects don't
look very rosy."
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps they are not quite so bad as they look,"
said he. "But I am afraid something is troubling you.
All your gay spirits seem to have evaporated." He
paused for a few moments, and then added: "I don't
want to intrude on your private affairs, but if I can
help you by advice or otherwise, remember that we are
old friends and that you are my academic offspring."
</p>
<p>
Instinctively, with a man's natural reticence, I began
to mumble a half-articulate disclaimer; and then I
stopped. After all, why should I not confide in him?
He was a good man and a wise man, full of human
sympathy, as I knew, though so cryptic and secretive
in his professional capacity. And I wanted a friend
badly just now.
</p>
<p>
"I am afraid," I began shyly, "it is not a matter
that admits of much help, and it's hardly the sort of
thing that I ought to worry you by talking about&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"If it is enough to make you unhappy, my dear
fellow, it is enough to merit serious consideration by
your friend; so, if you don't mind telling me&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Of course I don't, sir!" I exclaimed.
</p>
<p>
"Then fire away; and don't call me 'sir.' We are
brother practitioners now."
</p>
<p>
Thus encouraged, I poured out the story of my little
romance; bashfully at first and with halting phrases,
but, later, with more freedom and confidence. He
listened with grave attention, and once or twice put a
question when my narrative became a little disconnected.
When I had finished he laid his hand softly
on my arm.
</p>
<p>
"You have had rough luck, Berkeley. I don't wonder
that you are miserable. I am more sorry than I
can tell you."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you," I said. "It's exceedingly good of
you to listen so patiently, but it's a shame for me to
pester you with my sentimental troubles."
</p>
<p>
"Now, Berkeley, you don't think that, and I hope
you don't think that I do. We should be bad biologists
and worse physicians if we should under-estimate the
importance of that which is Nature's chiefest care.
The one salient biological truth is the paramount importance
of sex; and we are deaf and blind if we do
not hear and see it in everything that lives when we
look abroad upon the world; when we listen to the
spring song of the birds, or when we consider the lilies
of the field. And as is man to the lower organisms, so
is human love to their merely reflex manifestations of
sex. I will maintain, and you will agree with me, I
know, that the love of a serious and honourable man
for a woman who is worthy of him is the most momentous
of all human affairs. It is the foundation of social
life, and its failure is a serious calamity, not only to
those whose lives may be thereby spoilt, but to society
at large."
</p>
<p>
"It's a serious enough matter for the parties concerned,"
I agreed; "but that is no reason why they
should bore their friends."
</p>
<p>
"But they don't. Friends should help one another
and think it a privilege."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I shouldn't mind coming to you for help, knowing
you as I do. But no one can help a poor devil in
a case like this&mdash;and certainly not a medical jurist."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, come, Berkeley!" he protested, "don't rate
us too low. The humblest of creatures has its uses&mdash;'even
the little pismire,' you know, as Isaak Walton
tells us. Why, I have got substantial help from a
stamp-collector. And then reflect upon the motor-scorcher
and the earthworm and the blow-fly. All these
lowly creatures play their parts in the scheme of Nature;
and shall we cast out the medical jurist as nothing
worth?"
</p>
<p>
I laughed dejectedly at my teacher's genial irony.
</p>
<p>
"What I meant," said I, "was that there is nothing
to be done but wait&mdash;perhaps for ever. I don't know
why she isn't able to marry me, and I mustn't ask her.
She can't be married already."
</p>
<p>
"Certainly not. She told you explicitly that there
was no man in the case."
</p>
<p>
"Exactly. And I can think of no other valid reason,
excepting that she doesn't care enough for me. That
would be a perfectly sound reason, but then it would
only be a temporary one, not the insuperable obstacle
that she assumes to exist, especially as we really got
on excellently together. I hope it isn't some confounded
perverse feminine scruple. I don't see how it could be;
but women are most frightfully tortuous and wrong-headed
at times."
</p>
<p>
"I don't see," said Thorndyke, "why we should cast
about for perversely abnormal motives when there is a
perfectly reasonable explanation staring us in the face."
</p>
<p>
"Is there?" I exclaimed. "I see none."
</p>
<p>
"You are, not unnaturally, overlooking some of the
circumstances that affect Miss Bellingham; but I don't
suppose she has failed to grasp their meaning. Do you
realise what her position really is? I mean with regard
to her uncle's disappearance?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't think I quite understand you."
</p>
<p>
"Well, there is no use in blinking the facts," said
Thorndyke. "The position is this: If John Bellingham
ever went to his brother's house at Woodford, it
is nearly certain that he went there after his visit to
Hurst. Mind, I say '<i>if</i> he went'; I don't say that I
believe he did. But it is stated that he appears to
have gone there; and if he did go, he was never seen
alive afterwards. Now, he did not go in at the front
door. No one saw him enter the house. But there
was a back gate, which John Bellingham knew, and
which had a bell which rang in the library. And you
will remember that, when Hurst and Jellicoe called,
Mr. Bellingham had only just come in. Previous to
that time Miss Bellingham had been alone in the
library; that is to say, she was alone in the library at
the very time when John Bellingham is said to have
made his visit. That is the position, Berkeley. Nothing
pointed has been said up to the present. But,
sooner or later, if John Bellingham is not found, dead
or alive, the question will be opened. Then it is certain
that Hurst, in self-defence, will make the most of any
facts that may transfer suspicion from him to someone
else. And that someone else will be Miss Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
I sat for some moments literally paralysed with
horror. Then my dismay gave place to indignation.
"But, damn it!" I exclaimed, starting up&mdash;"I beg
your pardon&mdash;but could anyone have the infernal
audacity to insinuate that that gentle, refined lady
murdered her uncle?"
</p>
<p>
"That is what will be hinted, if not plainly asserted;
and she knows it. And that being so, is it difficult to
understand why she should refuse to allow you to be
publicly associated with her? To run the risk of dragging
your honourable name into the sordid transactions
of the police-court or the Old Bailey? To invest
it, perhaps, with a dreadful notoriety?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, don't! for God's sake! It is too horrible!
Not that I would care for myself. I would be proud
to share her martyrdom of ignominy, if it had to be;
but it is the sacrilege, the blasphemy of even thinking
of her in such terms, that enrages me."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Thorndyke; "I understand and sympathise
with you. Indeed, I share your righteous indignation
at this dastardly affair. So you mustn't
think me brutal for putting the case so plainly."
</p>
<p>
"I don't. You have only shown me the danger that
I was fool enough not to see. But you seem to imply
that this hideous position has been brought about deliberately."
</p>
<p>
"Certainly I do! This is no chance affair. Either
the appearances indicate the real events&mdash;which I am
sure they do not&mdash;or they have been created of a set
purpose to lead to false conclusions. But the circumstances
convince me that there has been a deliberate
plot; and I am waiting&mdash;in no spirit of Christian
patience, I can tell you&mdash;to lay my hand on the wretch
who has done this."
</p>
<p>
"What are you waiting for?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"I am waiting for the inevitable," he replied; "for
the false move that the most artful criminal invariably
makes. At present he is lying low; but presently he
must make a move, and then I shall have him."
</p>
<p>
"But he may go on lying low. What will you do
then?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, that is the danger. We may have to deal
with the perfect villain who knows when to leave well
alone. I have never met him, but he may exist, nevertheless."
</p>
<p>
"And then we should have to stand by and see our
friends go under."
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps," said Thorndyke; and we both subsided
into gloomy and silent reflection.
</p>
<p>
The place was peaceful and quiet, as only a backwater
of London can be. Occasional hoots from far-away
tugs and steamers told of the busy life down
below in the crowded Pool. A faint hum of traffic was
borne in from the streets outside the precincts, and the
shrill voices of newspaper boys came in unceasing
chorus from the direction of Carmelite Street. They
were too far away to be physically disturbing, but the
excited yells, toned down as they were by distance,
nevertheless stirred the very marrow in my bones, so
dreadfully suggestive were they of those possibilities
of the future at which Thorndyke had hinted. They
seemed like the sinister shadows of coming misfortunes.
</p>
<p>
Perhaps they called up the same association of ideas
in Thorndyke's mind, for he remarked presently:
"The newsvendor is abroad to-night like a bird of ill-omen.
Something unusual has happened: some public
or private calamity, most likely, and these yelling ghouls
are out to feast on the remains. The newspaper men
have a good deal in common with the carrion-birds
that hover over a battle-field."
</p>
<p>
Again we subsided into silence and reflection. Then,
after an interval, I asked:
</p>
<p>
"Would it be possible for me to help in any way in
this investigation of yours?"
</p>
<p>
"That is exactly what I have been asking myself,"
replied Thorndyke. "It would be right and proper
that you should, and I think you might."
</p>
<p>
"How?" I asked eagerly.
</p>
<p>
"I can't say off-hand; but Jervis will be going away
for his holiday almost at once&mdash;in fact, he will go off
actual duty to-night. There is very little doing; the
long vacation is close upon us, and I can do without
him. But if you would care to come down here and
take his place, you would be very useful to me; and
if there should be anything to be done in the Bellinghams'
case, I am sure you would make up in enthusiasm
for any deficiency in experience."
</p>
<p>
"I couldn't really take Jervis's place," said I, "but
if you would let me help you in any way it would be
a great kindness. I would rather clean your boots than
be out of it altogether."
</p>
<p>
"Very well. Let us leave it that you come here as
soon as Barnard has done with you. You can have
Jervis's room, which he doesn't often use nowadays,
and you will be more happy here than elsewhere, I
know. I may as well give you my latchkey now. I
have a duplicate upstairs, and you understand that my
chambers are yours too from this moment."
</p>
<p>
He handed me the latchkey and I thanked him
warmly from my heart, for I felt sure that the suggestion
was made, not for any use that I should be to
him, but for my own peace of mind. I had hardly
finished speaking when a quick step on the paved walk
caught my ear.
</p>
<p>
"Here is Jervis," said Thorndyke. "We will let
him know that there is a locum tenens ready to step
into his shoes when he wants to be off." He flashed
the lantern across the path, and a few moments later
his junior stepped up briskly with a bundle of newspapers
tucked under his arm.
</p>
<p>
It struck me that Jervis looked at me a little queerly
when he recognised me in the dim light; also that he
was a trifle constrained in his manner, as if my presence
were an embarrassment. He listened to Thorndyke's
announcement of our newly made arrangement
without much enthusiasm and with none of his customary
facetious comments. And again I noticed a
quick glance at me, half curious, half uneasy, and
wholly puzzling to me.
</p>
<p>
"That's all right," he said when Thorndyke had
explained the situation. "I daresay you'll find Berkeley
as useful as me, and, in any case, he'll be better
here than staying on with Barnard." He spoke with
unwonted gravity, and there was in his tone a solicitude
for me that attracted my notice and that of Thorndyke
as well, for the latter looked at him curiously, though
he made no comment. After a short silence, however,
he asked: "And what news does my learned brother
bring? There is a mighty shouting among the outer
barbarians, and I see a bundle of newspapers under
my learned friend's arm. Has anything in particular
happened?"
</p>
<p>
Jervis looked more uncomfortable than ever. "Well&mdash;yes,"
he replied hesitatingly, "something has happened&mdash;there!
It's no use beating about the bush;
Berkeley may as well learn it from me as from those
yelling devils outside." He took a couple of papers
from his bundle and silently handed one to me and
the other to Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
Jervis's ominous manner, naturally enough, alarmed
me not a little. I opened the paper with a nameless
dread. But whatever my vague fears, they fell far
short of the occasion; and when I saw those yells from
without crystallised into scare headlines and flaming
capitals I turned for a moment sick and dizzy with fear.
</p>
<p>
The paragraph was only a short one, and I read it
through in less than a minute:
</p>
<p><b>
"THE MISSING FINGER
</b></p>
<p><b>
"DRAMATIC DISCOVERY AT WOODFORD.
</b></p>
<p>
"The mystery that has surrounded the remains of a
mutilated human body, portions of which have been
found in various places in Kent and Essex, has received
a partial and very sinister solution. The police have,
all along, suspected that these remains were those of
a Mr. John Bellingham who disappeared under circumstances
of some suspicion about two years ago. There
is now no doubt upon the subject, for the finger which
was missing from the hand that was found at Sidcup
has been discovered at the bottom of a disused well
<i>together with a ring</i>, which has been identified as one
habitually worn by Mr. John Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
"The house in the garden of which the well is situated
was the property of the murdered man, and was
occupied at the time of the disappearance by his
brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham. But the latter left
it very soon after, and it has been empty ever since.
Just lately it has been put in repair, and it was in this
way that the well came to be emptied and cleaned out.
It seems that Detective-Inspector Badger, who was
searching the neighbourhood for further remains, heard
of the emptying of the well and went down in the
bucket to examine the bottom, where he found the three
bones and the ring.
</p>
<p>
"Thus the identity of the body is established beyond
all doubt, and the question that remains is, Who killed
John Bellingham? It may be remembered that a
trinket, apparently broken from his watch-chain, was
found in the grounds of this house on the day that he
disappeared, and that he was never again seen alive.
What may be the import of these facts time will show."
</p>
<p>
That was all; but it was enough. I dropped the
paper to the ground and glanced round furtively at
Jervis, who sat gazing gloomily at the toes of his boots.
It was horrible; It was incredible! The blow was so
crushing that it left my faculties numb, and for a while
I seemed unable even to think intelligibly.
</p>
<p>
I was aroused by Thorndyke's voice&mdash;calm, business-like,
composed:
</p>
<p>
"Time will show, indeed! But meanwhile we must
go warily. And don't be unduly alarmed, Berkeley.
Go home, take a good dose of bromide with a little
stimulant, and turn in. I am afraid this has been
rather a shock to you."
</p>
<p>
I rose from my chair like one in a dream and held
out my hand to Thorndyke; and even in the dim light
and in my dazed condition I noticed that his face bore
a look that I had never seen before: the look of a
granite mask of Fate&mdash;grim, stern, inexorable.
</p>
<p>
My two friends walked with me as far as the gateway
at the top of Inner Temple Lane, and as we reached
the entry a stranger, coming quickly up the Lane, overtook
and passed us. In the glare of the lamp outside
the porter's lodge he looked at us quickly over his
shoulder, and though he passed on without halt or
greeting, I recognised him with a certain dull surprise
which I did not understand then and do not understand
now. It was Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
I shook hands once more with my friends and strode
out into Fleet Street, but as soon as I was outside the
gate I made direct for Nevill's Court. What was in
my mind I do not know; only that some instinct of
protection led me there, where my lady lay unconscious
of the hideous menace that hung over her. At the
entrance to the court a tall, powerful man was lounging
against the wall, and he seemed to look at me
curiously as I passed; but I hardly noticed him and
strode forward into the narrow passage. By the shabby
gateway of the house I halted and looked up at such
of the windows as I could see over the wall. They
were all dark. All the inmates, then, were in bed.
Vaguely comforted by this, I walked on to the New
Street end of the court and looked out. Here, too,
a man&mdash;a tall, thick-set man&mdash;was loitering; and, as
he looked inquisitively into my face, I turned and reentered
the court, slowly retracing my steps. As I
again reached the gate of the house I stopped to look
up once more at the windows, and turning, I found the
man whom I had last noticed close behind me. Then,
in a flash of dreadful comprehension, I understood.
These two men were plain-clothes policemen.
</p>
<p>
For a moment a blind fury possessed me. An insane
impulse urged me to give battle to this intruder; to
avenge upon his person the insult of his presence.
Fortunately the impulse was but momentary, and I
recovered myself without making any demonstration.
But the appearance of those two policemen brought
the peril into the immediate present, imparted to it a
horrible actuality. A chilly sweat of terror stood on
my forehead, and my ears were ringing when I walked
with faltering steps out into Fetter Lane.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH18"><!-- CH18 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER XVIII
</h2>

<h3>
JOHN BELLINGHAM
</h3>
<p>
The next few days were a very nightmare of horror
and gloom. Of course, I repudiated my acceptance of
the decree of banishment that Ruth had passed upon
me. I was her friend, at least, and in time of peril
my place was at her side. Tacitly&mdash;though thankfully
enough, poor girl!&mdash;she had recognised the fact and
made me once more free of the house.
</p>
<p>
For there was no disguising the situation. Newspaper
boys yelled the news up and down Fleet Street
from morning to night; soul-shaking posters grinned
on gaping crowds; and the newspapers fairly wallowed
in the "Shocking details." It is true that no direct
accusations were made; but the original reports of the
disappearance were reprinted with such comments as
made me gnash my teeth with fury.
</p>
<p>
The wretchedness of those days will live in my memory
until my dying day. Never can I forget the dread
that weighed me down, the horrible suspense, the fear
that clutched at my heart as I furtively scanned the
posters in the streets. Even the wretched detectives
who prowled about the entrances to Nevill's Court became
grateful to my eyes, for, embodying as they did
the hideous menace that hung over my dear lady, their
presence at least told me that the blow had not yet
fallen. Indeed, we came, after a time, to exchange
glances of mutual recognition, and I thought that they
seemed to be sorry for her and for me, and had no great
liking for their task. Of course, I spent most of my
leisure at the old house, though my heart ached more
there than elsewhere; and I tried, with but poor success,
I fear, to maintain a cheerful, confident manner,
cracking my little jokes as of old, and even essaying
to skirmish with Miss Oman. But this last experiment
was a dead failure; and when she had suddenly broken
down in a stream of brilliant repartee to weep hysterically
on my breast, I abandoned the attempt and did
not repeat it.
</p>
<p>
A dreadful gloom had settled down upon the old
house. Poor Miss Oman crept silently but restlessly
up and down the ancient stairs with dim eyes and a
tremulous chin, or moped in her room with a parliamentary
petition (demanding, if I remember rightly,
the appointment of a female judge to deal with divorce
and matrimonial causes) which lay on her table languidly
awaiting signatures that never came. Mr. Bellingham,
whose mental condition at first alternated
between furious anger and absolute panic, was fast
sinking into a state of nervous prostration that I
viewed with no little alarm. In fact, the only really
self-possessed person in the entire household was Ruth
herself, and even she could not conceal the ravages of
sorrow and suspense and overshadowing peril. Her
manner was almost unchanged; or rather, I should
say, she had gone back to that which I had first known&mdash;quiet,
reserved, taciturn, with a certain bitter
humour showing through her unvarying amiability.
When she and I were alone, indeed, her reserve melted
away and she was all sweetness and gentleness. But it
wrung my heart to look at her, to see how, day by
day, she grew ever more thin and haggard; to watch
the growing pallor of her cheek; to look into her
solemn grey eyes, so sad and tragic and yet so brave
and defiant of fate.
</p>
<p>
It was a terrible time; and through it all the dreadful
questions haunted me continually: When will the
blow fall? What is it that the police are waiting for?
And when they do strike, what will Thorndyke have
to say?
</p>
<p>
So things went on for four dreadful days. But on
the fourth day, just as the evening consultations were
beginning and the surgery was filled with waiting
patients, Polton appeared with a note, which he insisted,
to the indignation of Adolphus, on delivering
into my own hands. It was from Thorndyke, and was
to the following effect:&mdash;&mdash;
</p>
<p>
"I learn from Dr. Norbury that he has recently
heard from Herr Lederbogen, of Berlin&mdash;a learned
authority on Oriental antiquities&mdash;who makes some
reference to an English Egyptologist whom he met in
Vienna about a year ago. He cannot recall the Englishman's
name, but there are certain expressions in
the letter which make Dr. Norbury suspect that he is
referring to John Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
"I want you to bring Mr. and Miss Bellingham to
my chambers this evening at 8.30, to meet Dr. Norbury
and talk over this letter; and in view of the importance
of the matter, I look to you not to fail me."
</p>
<p>
A wave of hope and relief swept over me. It was
still possible that this Gordian knot might be cut; that
the deliverance might come before it was too late. I
wrote a hasty note in reply to Thorndyke and another
to Ruth, making the appointment; and having given
them both to the trusty Polton, returned somewhat
feverishly to my professional duties. To my profound
relief, the influx of patients ceased, and the practice
sank into its accustomed torpor; whereby I was able,
without base and mendacious subterfuge, to escape in
good time to my tryst.
</p>
<p>
It was near upon eight o'clock when I passed through
the archway into Nevill's Court. The warm afternoon
light had died away, for the summer was running out
apace. The last red glow of the setting sun had faded
from the ancient roofs and chimney-stacks, and down
in the narrow court the shades of evening had begun
to gather in nooks and corners. I was due at eight,
and, as it still wanted some minutes to the hour, I
sauntered slowly down the court, looking reflectively
on the familiar scene and the well-known friendly faces.
</p>
<p>
The day's work was drawing to a close. The little
shops were putting up their shutters; lights were beginning
to twinkle in parlour windows; a solemn hymn
arose in the old Moravian chapel, and its echoes stole
out through the dark entry that opens into the court
under the archway.
</p>
<p>
Here was Mr. Finneymore (a man of versatile gifts,
with a leaning towards paint and varnish) sitting,
white-aproned and shirt-sleeved, on a chair in his
garden, smoking his pipe with a complacent eye on
his dahlias. There at an open window a young man,
with a brush in his hand and another behind his ear,
stood up and stretched himself while an older lady
deftly rolled up a large map. The barber was turning
out the gas in his little saloon; the greengrocer was
emerging with a cigarette in his mouth and an aster
in his button-hole, and a group of children were escorting
the lamplighter on his rounds.
</p>
<p>
All these good, homely folk were Nevill's Courtiers
of the genuine breed; born in the court, as had been
their fathers before them for generations. And of such
to a great extent was the population of the place. Miss
Oman herself claimed aboriginal descent and so did
the sweet-faced Moravian lady next door&mdash;a connection
of the famous La Trobes of the old Conventicle, whose
history went back to the Gordon Riots; and as to the
gentleman who lived in the ancient timber-and-plaster
house at the bottom of the court, it was reported that
his ancestors had dwelt in that very house since the
days of James the First.
</p>
<p>
On these facts I reflected as I sauntered down the
court: on the strange phenomenon of an old-world
hamlet with its ancient population lingering in the very
heart of the noisy city; an island of peace set in
an ocean of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and
ferment.
</p>
<p>
My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in
the high wall, and as I raised the latch and pushed it
open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of the house
talking to Miss Oman. She was evidently waiting for
me, for she wore her sombre black cloak and hat and
a black veil, and when she saw me she came out, closing
the door after her and holding out her hand.
</p>
<p>
"You are punctual," said she. "St. Dunstan's
clock is striking now."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I answered. "But where is your father?"
</p>
<p>
"He has gone to bed, poor old dear. He didn't
feel well enough to come, and I did not urge him. He
is really very ill. This dreadful suspense will kill him
if it goes on much longer."
</p>
<p>
"Let us hope it won't," I said, but with little conviction,
I fear, in my tone. It was harrowing to see
her torn by anxiety for her father, and I yearned to
comfort her. But what was there to say? Mr. Bellingham
was breaking up visibly under the stress of the
terrible menace that hung over his daughter, and no
words of mine could make the fact less manifest.
</p>
<p>
We walked silently up the court. The lady at the
window greeted us with a smiling salutation, Mr.
Finneymore removed his pipe and raised his cap, receiving
a gracious bow from Ruth in return, and then
we passed through the covered way into Fetter Lane,
where my companion paused and looked about her.
</p>
<p>
"What are you looking for?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"The detective," she answered quietly. "It would
be a pity if the poor man should miss me after waiting
so long. However, I don't see him"; and she turned
away towards Fleet Street. It was an unpleasant surprise
to me that her sharp eyes had detected the secret
spy upon her movements; and the dry, sardonic tone
of her remark pained me, too, recalling, as it did, the
frigid self-possession that had so repelled me in the
early days of our acquaintance. And yet I could not
but admire the cool unconcern with which she faced
her horrible peril.
</p>
<p>
"Tell me a little more about this conference," she
said, as we walked down Fetter Lane. "Your note was
rather more concise than lucid; but I suppose you
wrote it in a hurry."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I did. And I can't give you any details now.
All I know is that Doctor Norbury has had a letter
from a friend of his in Berlin, an Egyptologist, as I
understand, named Lederbogen, who refers to an English
acquaintance of his and Norbury's whom he saw
in Vienna about a year ago. He cannot remember the
Englishman's name, but from some of the circumstances
Norbury seems to think that he is referring to your
Uncle John. Of course, if this should turn out to be
really the case, it would set everything straight; so
Thorndyke was anxious that you and your father
should meet Norbury and talk it over."
</p>
<p>
"I see," said Ruth. Her tone was thoughtful but
by no means enthusiastic.
</p>
<p>
"You don't seem to attach much importance to the
matter," I remarked.
</p>
<p>
"No. It doesn't seem to fit the circumstances.
What is the use of suggesting that poor Uncle John is
alive&mdash;and behaving like an imbecile, which he certainly
was not&mdash;when his dead body has actually been
found?"
</p>
<p>
"But," I suggested lamely, "there may be some
mistake. It may not be his body after all."
</p>
<p>
"And the ring?" she asked, with a bitter smile.
</p>
<p>
"That may be just a coincidence. It was a copy of
a well-known form of antique ring. Other people may
have had copies made as well as your uncle. Besides,"
I added, with more conviction, "we haven't seen the
ring. It may not be his at all."
</p>
<p>
She shook her head. "My dear Paul," she said
quietly, "it is useless to delude ourselves. Every known
fact points to the certainty that it is his body. John
Bellingham is dead: there can be no doubt of that.
And to everyone except his unknown murderer and
one or two of my own loyal friends, it must seem that
his death lies at my door. I realised from the beginning
that the suspicion lay between George Hurst and me;
and the finding of the ring fixes it definitely on me.
I am only surprised that the police have made no move
yet."
</p>
<p>
The quiet conviction of her tone left me for a while
speechless with horror and despair. Then I recalled
Thorndyke's calm, even confident attitude, and I
hastened to remind her of it.
</p>
<p>
"There is one of your friends," I said, "who is still
undismayed. Thorndyke seems to anticipate no difficulties."
</p>
<p>
"And yet," she replied, "he is ready to consider a
forlorn hope like this. However, we shall see."
</p>
<p>
I could think of nothing more to say, and it was in
gloomy silence that we pursued our way down Inner
Temple Lane and through the dark entries and tunnel-like
passages that brought us out, at length, by the
Treasury.
</p>
<p>
"I don't see any light in Thorndyke's chambers,"
I said, as we crossed King's Bench Walk; and I pointed
out the row of windows all dark and blank.
</p>
<p>
"No: and yet the shutters are not closed. He must
be out."
</p>
<p>
"He can't be after making an appointment with you
and your father. It is most mysterious. Thorndyke
is so very punctilious about his engagements."
</p>
<p>
The mystery was solved, when we reached the landing,
by a slip of paper fixed by a tack on the iron-bound
"oak."
</p>
<p>
"A note for P.B. is on the table," was the laconic
message: on reading which I inserted my key, swung
the heavy door outward, and opened the lighter inner
door. The note was lying on the table and I brought
it out to the landing to read by the light of the staircase
lamp.
</p>
<p>
"Apologise to our friends," it ran, "for the slight
change of programme. Norbury is anxious that I
should get my experiments over before the Director
returns, so as to save discussion. He has asked me to
begin to-night and says he will see Mr. and Miss Bellingham
here, at the Museum. Please bring them along
at once. The hall porters are instructed to admit you
and bring you to us. I think some matters of importance
may transpire at the interview.&mdash;J.E.T."
</p>
<hr>
<p>
"I hope you don't mind," I said apologetically,
when I had read the note to Ruth.
</p>
<p>
"Of course I don't," she replied. "I am rather
pleased. We have so many associations with the dear
old Museum, haven't we?" She looked at me for a
moment with a strange and touching wistfulness and
then turned to descend the stone stairs.
</p>
<p>
At the Temple gate, I hailed a hansom and we were
soon speeding westward and north to the soft tinkle
of the horse's bell.
</p>
<p>
"What are these experiments that Doctor Thorndyke
refers to?" she asked presently.
</p>
<p>
"I can only answer you rather vaguely," I replied.
"Their object, I believe, is to ascertain whether the
penetrability of organic substances by the X-rays becomes
altered by age; whether, for instance, an ancient
block of wood is more or less transparent to the rays
than a new block of the same size."
</p>
<p>
"And of what use would the knowledge be, if it were
obtained?"
</p>
<p>
"I can't say. Experiments are made to obtain
knowledge without regard to its utility. The use appears
when the knowledge has been acquired. But in
this case, if it should be possible to determine the age
of any organic substance by its reaction to X-rays, the
discovery might be of some value in legal practice&mdash;as
in demonstrating a new seal on an old document,
for instance. But I don't know whether Thorndyke
has anything definite in view; I only know that the
preparations have been on a most portentous scale."
</p>
<p>
"How do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"In regard to size. When I went into the workshop
yesterday morning, I found Polton erecting a kind of
portable gallows about nine feet high, and he had just
finished varnishing a pair of enormous wooden trays,
each over six feet long. It looked as if he and Thorndyke
were contemplating a few private executions with
subsequent post-mortems on the victims."
</p>
<p>
"What a horrible suggestion!"
</p>
<p>
"So Polton said, with his quaint, crinkly smile. But
he was mighty close about the use of the apparatus
all the same. I wonder if we shall see anything of the
experiments, when we get there. This is Museum
Street, isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes." As she spoke, she lifted the flap of one of
the little windows in the back of the cab and peered out.
Then, closing it with a quiet, ironic smile, she said:
</p>
<p>
"It is all right; he hasn't missed us. It will be
quite a nice little change for him."
</p>
<p>
The cab swung round into Great Russell Street, and,
glancing out as it turned, I saw another hansom following;
but before I had time to inspect its solitary
passenger, we drew up at the Museum gates.
The gate-porter, who seemed to expect us, ushered
us up the drive to the great portico and into the
Central Hall, where he handed us over to another
official.
</p>
<p>
"Doctor Norbury is in one of the rooms adjoining
the Fourth Egyptian Room," the latter stated in
answer to our inquiries: and, providing himself with
a wire-guarded lantern, he prepared to escort us
thither.
</p>
<p>
Up the great staircase, now wrapped in mysterious
gloom, we passed in silence with bitter-sweet memories
of that day of days when we had first trodden its steps
together: through the Central Saloon, the Mediaeval
Room and the Asiatic Saloon, and so into the long
range of the Ethnographical Galleries.
</p>
<p>
It was a weird journey. The swaying lantern shot
its beams abroad into the darkness of the great, dim
galleries, casting instantaneous flashes on the objects
in the cases, so that they leaped into being and vanished
in the twinkling of an eye. Hideous idols with round,
staring eyes started forth from the darkness, glared
at us for an instant and were gone. Grotesque masks,
suddenly revealed by the shimmering light, took on the
semblance of demon faces that seemed to mow and
gibber at us as we passed. As for the life-sized models&mdash;realistic
enough by daylight&mdash;their aspect was positively
alarming; for the moving light and shadow endowed
them with life and movement, so that they seemed
to watch us furtively, to lie in wait and to hold themselves
in readiness to steal out and follow us. The
illusion evidently affected Ruth as well as me, for she
drew nearer to me and whispered:
</p>
<p>
"These figures are quite startling. Did you see that
Polynesian? I really felt as if he were going to spring
out on us."
</p>
<p>
"They are rather uncanny," I admitted, "but the
danger is over now. We are passing out of their sphere
of influence."
</p>
<p>
We came out on a landing as I spoke and then turned
sharply to the left along the North Gallery, from the
centre of which we entered the Fourth Egyptian Room.
</p>
<p>
Almost immediately, a door in the opposite wall
opened; a peculiar, high-pitched humming sound became
audible, and Jervis came out on tiptoe with his
hand raised.
</p>
<p>
"Tread as lightly as you can," he said. "We are
just making an exposure."
</p>
<p>
The attendant turned back with his lantern, and
we followed Jervis into the room from whence he had
come. It was a large room, and little lighter than the
galleries, for the single glow-lamp that burned at the
end where we entered left the rest of the apartment
in almost complete obscurity. We seated ourselves at
once on the chairs that had been placed for us, and,
when the mutual salutations had been exchanged, I
looked about me. There were three people in the room
besides Jervis: Thorndyke, who sat with his watch
in his hand, a grey-headed gentleman whom I took to
be Dr. Norbury, and a smaller person at the dim farther
end&mdash;undistinguishable, but probably Polton. At our
end of the room were the two large trays that I had
seen in the workshop, now mounted on trestles and each
fitted with a rubber drain-tube leading down to a
bucket. At the farther end of the room the sinister
shape of the gallows reared itself aloft in the gloom;
only now I could see that it was not a gallows at all.
For affixed to the top cross-bar was a large, bottomless
glass basin, inside which was a glass bulb that
glowed with a strange green light; and in the heart of
the bulb a bright spot of red.
</p>
<p>
It was all clear enough so far. The peculiar sound
that filled the air was the hum of the interrupter; the
bulb was, of course, a Crookes tube, and the red spot
inside it, the glowing red-hot disc of the anti-cathode.
Clearly an X-ray photograph was being made; but
of what? I strained my eyes, peering into the gloom
at the foot of the gallows, but though I could make out
an elongated object lying on the floor directly under
the bulb, I could not resolve the dimly seen shape into
anything recognisable. Presently, however, Dr. Norbury
supplied the clue.
</p>
<p>
"I am rather surprised," said he, "that you chose
so composite an object as a mummy to begin on. I
should have thought that a simpler object, such as a
coffin or a wooden figure, would have been more instructive."
</p>
<p>
"In some ways it would," replied Thorndyke, "but
the variety of materials that the mummy gives us has
its advantages. I hope your father is not ill, Miss
Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
"He is not at all well," said Ruth, "and we agreed
that it was better for me to come alone. I knew Herr
Lederbogen quite well. He stayed with us for a time
when he was in England."
</p>
<p>
"I trust," said Dr. Norbury, "that I have not
troubled you for nothing. Herr Lederbogen speaks
of 'our erratic English friend with the long name that
I can never remember,' and it seemed to me that he
might be referring to your uncle."
</p>
<p>
"I should hardly have called my uncle erratic,"
said Ruth.
</p>
<p>
"No, no. Certainly not," Dr. Norbury agreed
hastily. "However, you shall see the letter presently
and judge for yourself. We mustn't introduce irrelevant
topics while the experiment is in progress, must
we, Doctor?"
</p>
<p>
"You had better wait until we have finished," said
Thorndyke, "because I am going to turn out the light.
Switch off the current, Polton."
</p>
<p>
The green light vanished from the bulb, the hum
of the interrupter swept down an octave or two and
died away. Then Thorndyke and Dr. Norbury rose
from their chairs and went towards the mummy, which
they lifted tenderly while Polton drew from beneath it
what presently turned out to be a huge black-paper
envelope. The single glow-lamp was switched off, leaving
the room in total darkness, until there burst out
suddenly a bright orange-red light immediately above
one of the trays.
</p>
<p>
We all gathered round to watch, as Polton&mdash;the high-priest
of these mysteries&mdash;drew from the black envelope
a colossal sheet of bromide paper, laid it carefully in
the tray and proceeded to wet it with a large brush
which he had dipped in a pail of water.
</p>
<p>
"I thought you always used plates for this kind of
work," said Dr. Norbury.
</p>
<p>
"We do, by preference; but a six-foot plate would
be impossible, so I had a special paper made to the size."
</p>
<p>
There is something singularly fascinating in the appearance
of a developing photograph; in the gradual,
mysterious emergence of the picture from the blank,
white surface of plate or paper. But a skiagraph, or
X-ray photograph, has a fascination all its own. Unlike
an ordinary photograph, which yields a picture of
things already seen, it gives a presentment of objects
hitherto invisible; and hence, when Polton poured the
developer on the already wet paper, we all craned
over the tray with the keenest curiosity.
</p>
<p>
The developer was evidently a very slow one. For
fully half a minute no change could be seen in the
uniform surface. Then, gradually, almost insensibly,
the marginal portion began to darken, leaving the
outline of the mummy in pale relief. The change, once
started, proceeded apace. Darker and darker grew
the margin of the paper until from slaty grey it had
turned to black; and still the shape of the mummy,
now in strong relief, remained an elongated patch of
bald white. But not for long. Presently the white
shape began to be tinged with grey, and, as the colour
deepened, there grew out of it a paler form that seemed
to steal out of the enshrouding grey like an apparition,
spectral, awesome, mysterious. The skeleton was coming
into view.
</p>
<p>
"It is rather uncanny," said Dr. Norbury. "I feel
as if I were assisting at some unholy rite. Just look
at it now!"
</p>
<p>
The grey shadow of the cartonnage, the wrappings
and the flesh was fading away into the black background
and the white skeleton stood out in sharp contrast.
And it certainly was a rather weird spectacle.
</p>
<p>
"You'll lose the bones if you develop much farther,"
said Dr. Norbury.
</p>
<p>
"I must let the bones darken," Thorndyke replied,
"in case there are any metallic objects. I have three
more papers in the envelope."
</p>
<p>
The white shape of the skeleton now began to grey
over and, as Dr. Norbury had said, its distinctness
became less and yet less. Thorndyke leaned over the
tray with his eyes fixed on a point in the middle of the
breast and we all watched him in silence. Suddenly
he rose. "Now, Polton," he said sharply; "get the
hypo on as quickly as you can."
</p>
<p>
Polton, who had been waiting with his hand on the
stop-cock of the drain-tube, rapidly ran off the developer
into the bucket and flooded the paper with the
fixing solution.
</p>
<p>
"Now we can look at it at our leisure," said Thorndyke.
After waiting a few seconds, he switched on one
of the glow-lamps, and as the flood of light fell on the
photograph, he added: "You see we haven't quite lost
the skeleton."
</p>
<p>
"No." Dr. Norbury put on a pair of spectacles and
bent down over the tray; and at this moment I felt
Ruth's hand touch my arm, lightly, at first, and then
with a strong, nervous grasp; and I could feel that her
hand was trembling. I looked round at her anxiously
and saw that she had turned deathly pale.
</p>
<p>
"Would you rather go out into the gallery?" I
asked; for the room with its tightly shut windows was
close and hot.
</p>
<p>
"No," she replied quietly, "I will stay here. I am
quite well." But still she kept hold of my arm.
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke glanced at her keenly and then looked
away as Dr. Norbury turned to him to ask a question.
</p>
<p>
"Why is it, think you, that some of the teeth show
so much whiter than others?"
</p>
<p>
"I think the whiteness of the shadows is due to the
presence of metal," Thorndyke replied.
</p>
<p>
"Do you mean that the teeth have metal fillings?"
asked Dr. Norbury.
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"Really! This is very interesting. The use of gold
stoppings&mdash;and artificial teeth, too&mdash;by the ancient
Egyptians is well known, but we have no examples
in the Museum. This mummy ought to be unrolled.
Do you think all those teeth are filled with the same
metal? They are not equally white."
</p>
<p>
"No," replied Thorndyke. "Those teeth that are
perfectly white are undoubtedly filled with gold, but
that greyish one is probably filled with tin."
</p>
<p>
"Very interesting," said Dr. Norbury. "<i>Very</i>
interesting! And what do you make of that faint mark
across the chest, near the top of the sternum?"
</p>
<p>
It was Ruth who answered his question.
</p>
<p>
"It is the Eye of Osiris!" she exclaimed, in a hushed
voice.
</p>
<p>
"Dear me!" exclaimed Dr. Norbury, "so it is.
You are quite right. It is the Utchat&mdash;the Eye of
Horus&mdash;or Osiris, if you prefer to call it so. That, I
presume, will be a gilded device on some of the wrappings."
</p>
<p>
"No: I should say it is a tattoo mark. It is too
indefinite for a gilded device. And I should say further
that the tattooing is done in vermilion, as carbon
tattooing would cast no visible shadow."
</p>
<p>
"I think you must be mistaken about that," said
Dr. Norbury, "but we shall see, if the Director allows
us to unroll the mummy. By the way, those little
objects in front of the knees are metallic, I suppose?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, they are metallic. But they are not in front
of the knees; they are <i>in</i> the knees. They are pieces
of silver wire which have been used to repair fractured
knee-caps."
</p>
<p>
"Are you sure of that?" exclaimed Dr. Norbury,
peering at the little white marks with ecstasy; "because,
if you are, and if these objects are what you say
they are, the mummy of Sebek-hotep is an absolutely
unique specimen."
</p>
<p>
"I am quite certain of it," said Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"Then," said Dr. Norbury, "we have made a discovery,
thanks to your inquiring spirit. Poor John
Bellingham! He little knew what a treasure he was
giving us! How I wish he could have known! How
I wish he could have been here with us to-night!"
</p>
<p>
He paused once more to gaze in rapture at the photograph.
And then Thorndyke, in his quiet, impassive
way, said:
</p>
<p>
"John Bellingham is here, Doctor Norbury. This
is John Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
Dr. Norbury started back and stared at Thorndyke
in speechless amazement.
</p>
<p>
"You don't mean," he exclaimed, after a long pause,
"that this mummy is the body of John Bellingham!"
</p>
<p>
"I do, indeed. There is no doubt of it."
</p>
<p>
"But it is impossible! The mummy was here in the
gallery a full three weeks before he disappeared."
</p>
<p>
"Not so," said Thorndyke. "John Bellingham was
last seen alive by you and Mr. Jellicoe on the fourteenth
of October, more than three weeks before the mummy
left Queen Square. After that date he was never seen
alive or dead by any person who knew him and could
identify him."
</p>
<p>
Dr. Norbury reflected awhile in silence. Then, in
a faint voice, he asked: "How do you suggest that
John Bellingham's body came to be inside that cartonnage?"
</p>
<p>
"I think Mr. Jellicoe is the most likely person to
be able to answer that question," Thorndyke replied
drily.
</p>
<p>
There was another interval of silence, and then Dr.
Norbury asked suddenly:
</p>
<p>
"But what do you suppose has become of Sebek-hotep?
The real Sebek-hotep, I mean?"
</p>
<p>
"I take it," said Thorndyke, "that the remains of
Sebek-hotep, or at least a portion of them, are at
present lying in the Woodford mortuary awaiting an
adjourned inquest."
</p>
<p>
As Thorndyke made this statement a flash of belated
intelligence, mingled with self-contempt, fell on me.
Now that the explanation was given, how obvious it
was! And yet I, a competent anatomist and physiologist
and actually a pupil of Thorndyke's, had mistaken
those ancient bones for the remains of a recent
body!
</p>
<p>
Dr. Norbury considered the last statement for some
time in evident perplexity. "It is all consistent enough,
I must admit," said he, at length, "and yet&mdash;are you
quite sure there is no mistake? It seems so incredible."
</p>
<p>
"There is no mistake, I assure you," Thorndyke
answered. "To convince you, I will give you the facts
in detail. First, as to the teeth. I have seen John
Bellingham's dentist and obtained particulars from
his case-book. There were in all five teeth that had
been filled. The right upper wisdom-tooth, the molar
next to it, and the second lower molar on the left side,
had all extensive gold fillings. You can see them all
quite plainly in the skiagraph. The left lower lateral
incisor had a very small gold filling, which you can see
as a nearly circular white dot. In addition to these, a
filling of tin amalgam had been inserted while the
deceased was abroad, in the second left upper bicuspid,
the rather grey spot that we have already noticed.
These would, by themselves, furnish ample means of
identification. But in addition, there is the tattooed
device of the Eye of Osiris&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Horus," murmured Dr. Norbury.
</p>
<p>
"Horus, then&mdash;in the exact locality in which it was
borne by the deceased and tattooed, apparently, with
the same pigment. There are, further, the suture wires
in the knee-caps; Sir Morgan Bennet, having looked
up the notes of the operation, informs me that he
introduced three suture wires into the left patella and
two into the right; which is what the skiagraph shows.
Lastly, the deceased had an old Pott's fracture on
the left side. It is not very apparent now, but I saw
it quite distinctly just now when the shadows of the
bones were whiter. I think that you may take it that
the identification is beyond all doubt or question."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," agreed Dr. Norbury, with gloomy resignation,
"it sounds, as you say, quite conclusive. Well,
well, it is a most horrible affair. Poor old John Bellingham!
It looks uncommonly as if he had met with foul
play. Don't you think so?"
</p>
<p>
"I do," replied Thorndyke. "There was a mark
on the right side of the skull that looked rather like a
fracture. It was not very clear, being at the side, but
we must develop up the next negative to show it."
</p>
<p>
Dr. Norbury drew his breath in sharply through his
teeth. "This is a gruesome business, Doctor," said he.
"A terrible business. Awkward for our people, too.
By the way, what is our position in the matter? What
steps ought we to take?"
</p>
<p>
"You should give notice to the coroner&mdash;I will
manage the police&mdash;and you should communicate with
one of the executors of the will."
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Jellicoe?"
</p>
<p>
"No, not Mr. Jellicoe, under the peculiar circumstances.
You had better write to Mr. Godfrey Bellingham."
</p>
<p>
"But I rather understood that Mr. Hurst was the
co-executor," said Dr. Norbury.
</p>
<p>
"He is surely, as matters stand," said Jervis.
</p>
<p>
"Not at all," replied Thorndyke. "He <i>was</i> as
matters <i>stood</i>; but he is not now. You are forgetting
the conditions of clause two. That clause sets forth
the conditions under which Godfrey Bellingham shall
inherit the bulk of the estate and become the co-executor;
and those conditions are: 'that the body of
the testator shall be deposited in some authorised place
for the reception of the bodies of the dead, situate
within the boundaries of, or appertaining to some place
of worship within, the parish of St. George, Bloomsbury,
and St. Giles in the Fields or St. Andrew above
the Bars and St. George the Martyr.' Now Egyptian
mummies are the bodies of the dead, and this Museum
is an authorised place for their reception; and this
building is situate within the boundaries of the parish
of St. George, Bloomsbury. Therefore the provisions
of clause two have been duly carried out and therefore
Godfrey Bellingham is the principal beneficiary under
the will, and the co-executor, in accordance with the
wishes of the testator. Is that quite clear?"
</p>
<p>
"Perfectly," said Dr. Norbury; "and a most astonishing
coincidence&mdash;but, my dear young lady, had you
not better sit down? You are looking very ill."
</p>
<p>
He glanced anxiously at Ruth, who was pale to the
lips and was now leaning heavily on my arm.
</p>
<p>
"I think, Berkeley," said Thorndyke, "you had
better take Miss Bellingham out into the gallery, where
there is more air. This has been a tremendous climax
to all the trials that she has borne so bravely. Go out
with Berkeley," he added gently, laying his hand on
her shoulder, "and sit down while we develop the other
negatives. You mustn't break down now, you know,
when the storm has passed and the sun is beginning
to shine." He held the door open, and as we passed
out his face softened into a smile of infinite kindness.
"You won't mind my locking you out," said he; "this
is a photographic dark-room at present."
</p>
<p>
The key grated in the lock and we turned away into
the dim gallery. It was not quite dark, for a beam
of moonlight filtered in here and there through the
blinds that covered the sky-lights. We walked on
slowly, her arm linked in mine, and for a while neither
of us spoke. The great rooms were very silent and
peaceful and solemn. The hush, the stillness, the
mystery of the half-seen forms in the cases around,
were all in harmony with the deeply-felt sense of a
great deliverance that filled our hearts.
</p>
<p>
We had passed through into the next room before
either of us broke the silence. Insensibly our hands
had crept together, and as they met and clasped with
mutual pressure, Ruth exclaimed: "How dreadful and
tragic it is! Poor, poor Uncle John! It seems as if
he had come back from the world of shadows to tell
us of this awful thing. But, O God! what a relief
it is!" She caught her breath in one or two quick
sobs and pressed my hand passionately.
</p>
<p>
"It is over, dearest," I said. "It is gone for ever.
Nothing remains but the memory of your sorrow and
your noble courage and patience."
</p>
<p>
"I can't realise it yet," she murmured. "It has
been like a frightful, interminable dream."
</p>
<p>
"Let us put it away," said I, "and think only of
the happy life that is opening."
</p>
<p>
She made no reply, and only a quick catch in her
breath, now and again, told of the long agony that she
had endured with such heroic calm.
</p>
<p>
We walked on slowly, scarcely disturbing the silence
with our soft foot-falls, through the wide doorway into
the second room. The vague shapes of the mummy-cases
standing erect in the wall-cases, loomed out dim
and gigantic, silent watchers keeping their vigil with
the memories of untold centuries locked in their shadowy
breasts. They were an awesome company. Reverend
survivors from a vanished world, they looked out
from the gloom of their abiding-place, but with no
shade of menace or of malice in their silent presence;
rather with a solemn benison on the fleeting creatures
of to-day.
</p>
<p>
Half-way along the room a ghostly figure, somewhat
aloof from its companions, showed a dim, pallid blotch
where its face would have been. With one accord we
halted before it.
</p>
<p>
"Do you know who it is, Ruth?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Of course I do," she answered. "It is Artemidorus."
</p>
<p>
We stood, hand in hand, facing the mummy, letting
our memories fill in the vague silhouette with its well-remembered
details. Presently I drew her nearer to
me and whispered:
</p>
<p>
"Ruth! do you remember when we last stood here?"
</p>
<p>
"As if I could ever forget!" she answered passionately.
"Oh, Paul! The sorrow of it! The misery!
How it wrung my heart to tell you! Were you <i>very</i>
unhappy when I left you?"
</p>
<p>
"Unhappy! I never knew, until then, what real,
heart-breaking sorrow was. It seemed as if the light
had gone out of my life for ever. But there was just
one little spot of brightness left."
</p>
<p>
"What was that?"
</p>
<p>
"You made me a promise, dear&mdash;a solemn promise;
and I felt&mdash;at least I hoped&mdash;that the day would come,
if I only waited patiently, when you would be able to
redeem it."
</p>
<p>
She crept closer to me and yet closer, until her head
nestled on my shoulder and her soft cheek lay against
mine.
</p>
<p>
"Dear heart," I whispered, "is it now? Is the time
fulfilled?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, dearest," she murmured softly. "It is now&mdash;and
for ever."
</p>
<p>
Reverently I folded her in my arms; gathered her
to the heart that worshipped her utterly. Henceforth
no sorrows could hurt us, no misfortunes vex; for we
should walk hand in hand on our earthly pilgrimage
and find the way all too short.
</p>
<p>
Time, whose sands run out with such unequal swiftness
for the just and the unjust, the happy and the
wretched, lagged, no doubt, with the toilers in the room
that we had left. But for us its golden grains trickled
out apace and left the glass empty before we had begun
to mark their passage. The turning of a key and the
opening of a door aroused us from our dream of perfect
happiness. Ruth raised her head to listen, and our
lips met for one brief moment. Then, with a silent
greeting to the friend who had looked on our grief and
witnessed our final happiness, we turned and retraced
our steps quickly, filling the great, empty rooms with
chattering echoes.
</p>
<p>
"We won't go back into the dark-room&mdash;which
isn't dark now," said Ruth.
</p>
<p>
"Why not?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Because&mdash;when I came out I was very pale; and
I'm&mdash;well, I don't think I am very pale now. Besides,
poor Uncle John is in there&mdash;and&mdash;I should be ashamed
to look at him with my selfish heart overflowing with
happiness."
</p>
<p>
"You needn't be," said I. "It is the day of our
lives and we have a right to be happy. But you shan't
go in, if you don't wish to," and I accordingly steered
her adroitly past the beam of light that streamed from
the open door.
</p>
<p>
"We have developed four negatives," said Thorndyke,
as he emerged with the others, "and I am leaving
them in the custody of Doctor Norbury, who will sign
each when they are dry, as they may have to be put
in evidence. What are you going to do?"
</p>
<p>
I looked at Ruth to see what she wished.
</p>
<p>
"If you won't think me ungrateful," said she, "I
should rather be alone with my father to-night. He
is very weak, and&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, I understand," I said hastily. And I did.
Mr. Bellingham was a man of strong emotions and
would probably be somewhat overcome by the sudden
change of fortune and the news of his brother's tragic
death.
</p>
<p>
"In that case," said Thorndyke, "I will bespeak
your services. Will you go on and wait for me
at my chambers, when you have seen Miss Bellingham
home?"
</p>
<p>
I agreed to this, and we set forth under the guidance
of Dr. Norbury (who carried an electric lamp) to return
by the way we had come; two of us, at least, in
a vastly different frame of mind. The party broke up
at the entrance gates, and as Thorndyke wished my
companion "Good night," she held his hand and looked
up in his face with swimming eyes.
</p>
<p>
"I haven't thanked you, Doctor Thorndyke," she
said, "and I don't feel that I ever can. What you
have done for me and my father is beyond all thanks.
You have saved his life and you have rescued me from
the most horrible ignominy. Good-bye! and God bless
you!"
</p>
<p>
The hansom that bowled along eastward&mdash;at most
unnecessary speed&mdash;bore two of the happiest human
beings within the wide boundaries of the town. I looked
at my companion as the lights of the street shone into
the cab, and was astonished at the transformation.
The pallor of her cheek had given place to a rosy pink;
the hardness, the tension, the haggard self-repression
that had aged her face, were all gone, and the girlish
sweetness that had so bewitched me in the early days
of our love had stolen back. Even the dimple was
there when the sweeping lashes lifted and her eyes met
mine in a smile of infinite tenderness. Little was said
on that brief journey. It was happiness enough to
sit, hand clasped in hand, and know that our time of
trial was past; that no cross of Fate could ever part
us now.
</p>
<p>
The astonished cabman set us down, according to
instructions, at the entrance to Nevill's Court, and
watched us with open mouth as we vanished into the
narrow passage. The court had settled down for the
night, and no one marked our return; no curious eye
looked down on us from the dark house-front as we
said "Good-bye" just inside the gate.
</p>
<p>
"You will come and see us to-morrow, dear, won't
you?" she asked.
</p>
<p>
"Do you think it possible that I could stay away,
then?"
</p>
<p>
"I hope not. But come as early as you can. My
father will be positively frantic to see you; because
I shall have told him, you know. And, remember, that
it is you who have brought us this great deliverance.
Good night, Paul."
</p>
<p>
"Good night, sweetheart."
</p>
<p>
She put up her face frankly to be kissed and then
ran up to the ancient door; whence she waved me a
last good-bye. The shabby gate in the wall closed
behind me and hid her from my sight; but the light
of her love went with me and turned the dull street
into a path of glory.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH19"><!-- CH19 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER XIX
</h2>

<h3>
A STRANGE SYMPOSIUM
</h3>
<p>
It came upon me with something of a shock of surprise
to find the scrap of paper still tacked to the oak of
Thorndyke's chambers. So much had happened since I
had last looked on it that it seemed to belong to another
epoch of my life. I removed it thoughtfully and picked
out the tack before entering, and then, closing the
inner door, but leaving the oak open, I lit the gas and
fell to pacing the room.
</p>
<p>
What a wonderful episode it had been! How the
whole aspect of the world had been changed in a moment
by Thorndyke's revelation! At another time,
curiosity would have led me to endeavour to trace back
the train of reasoning by which the subtle brain of my
teacher had attained this astonishing conclusion. But
now my own happiness held exclusive possession of my
thoughts. The image of Ruth filled the field of my
mental vision. I saw her again as I had seen her in
the cab with her sweet, pensive face and downcast eyes;
I felt again the touch of her soft cheek and the parting
kiss by the gate, so frank and simple, so intimate and
final.
</p>
<p>
I must have waited quite a long time, though the
golden minutes sped unreckoned, for when my two
colleagues arrived they tendered needless apologies.
</p>
<p>
"And I suppose," said Thorndyke, "you have been
wondering what I wanted you for."
</p>
<p>
I had not, as a matter of fact, given the matter a
moment's consideration.
</p>
<p>
"We are going to call on Mr. Jellicoe," Thorndyke
explained. "There is something behind this affair,
and until I have ascertained what it is, the case is not
complete from my point of view."
</p>
<p>
"Wouldn't it have done as well to-morrow?" I
asked.
</p>
<p>
"It might; and then it might not. There is an old
saying as to catching a weasel asleep. Mr. Jellicoe is
a somewhat wide-awake person, and I think it best to
introduce him to Inspector Badger at the earliest possible
moment."
</p>
<p>
"The meeting of a weasel and a badger suggests a
sporting interview," remarked Jervis. "But you don't
expect Jellicoe to give himself away, do you?"
</p>
<p>
"He can hardly do that, seeing that there is nothing
to give away. But I think he may make a statement.
There were some exceptional circumstances, I feel
sure."
</p>
<p>
"How long have you known that the body was in
the Museum?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"About thirty or forty seconds longer than you
have, I should say."
</p>
<p>
"Do you mean," I exclaimed, "that you didn't
know until the negative was developed?"
</p>
<p>
"My dear fellow," he replied, "do you suppose that,
if I had had certain knowledge where the body was, I
should have allowed that noble girl to go on dragging
out a lingering agony of suspense that I could have cut
short in a moment? Or that I should have made these
humbugging pretences of scientific experiments if a
more dignified course had been open to me?"
</p>
<p>
"As to the experiments," said Jervis, "Norbury
could hardly have refused if you had taken him into
your confidence."
</p>
<p>
"Indeed he could, and probably would. My 'confidence'
would have involved a charge of murder against
a highly respectable gentleman who was well known to
him. He would probably have referred me to the police,
and then what could I have done? I had plenty of
suspicions, but not a single solid fact."
</p>
<p>
Our discussion was here interrupted by hurried footsteps
on the stairs and a thundering rat-tat on our
knocker.
</p>
<p>
As Jervis opened the door, Inspector Badger burst
into the room in a highly excited state.
</p>
<p>
"What is all this, Doctor Thorndyke?" he asked.
"I see you've sworn an information against Mr. Jellicoe,
and I have a warrant to arrest him; but before anything
is done I think it right to tell you that we have
more evidence than is generally known pointing to
quite a different quarter."
</p>
<p>
"Derived from Mr. Jellicoe's information," said
Thorndyke. "But the fact is that I have just examined
and identified the body at the British Museum,
where it was deposited by Mr. Jellicoe. I don't say
that he murdered John Bellingham&mdash;though that is
what the appearances suggest&mdash;but I do say that he
will have to account for his secret disposal of the
body."
</p>
<p>
Inspector Badger was thunderstruck. Also he was
visibly annoyed. The salt which Mr. Jellicoe had so
adroitly sprinkled on the constabulary tail appeared
to develop irritating properties, for when Thorndyke
had given him a brief outline of the facts he stuck his
hands in his pockets and exclaimed gloomily:
</p>
<p>
"Well, I'm hanged! And to think of all the time
and trouble I've spent on those damned bones! I suppose
they were just a plant?"
</p>
<p>
"Don't let us disparage them," said Thorndyke.
"They have played a useful part. They represent the
inevitable mistake that every criminal makes sooner or
later. The murderer will always do a little too much.
If he would only lie low and let well alone, the detective
might whistle for a clue. But it is time we were starting."
</p>
<p>
"Are we all going?" asked the inspector, looking
at me in particular with no very gracious recognition.
</p>
<p>
"We will all come with you," said Thorndyke; "but
you will, naturally, make the arrest in the way that
seems best to you."
</p>
<p>
"It's a regular procession," grumbled the inspector;
but he made no more definite objection, and we started
forth on our quest.
</p>
<p>
The distance from the Temple to Lincoln's Inn is
not great. In five minutes we were at the gateway in
Chancery Lane, and a couple of minutes later saw us
gathered round the threshold of the stately old house
in New Square.
</p>
<p>
"Seems to be a light in the first floor front," said
Badger. "You'd better move away before I ring the
bell."
</p>
<p>
But the precaution was unnecessary. As the inspector
advanced to the bell-pull a head was thrust out of
the open window immediately above the street door.
</p>
<p>
"Who are you?" inquired the owner of the head
in a voice which I recognised as that of Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"I am Inspector Badger, of the Criminal Investigation
Department. I wish to see Mr. Arthur Jellicoe."
</p>
<p>
"Then look at me. I am Mr. Arthur Jellicoe."
</p>
<p>
"I hold a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Jellicoe. You
are charged with the murder of Mr. John Bellingham,
whose body has just been discovered in the British
Museum."
</p>
<p>
"By whom?"
</p>
<p>
"By Doctor Thorndyke."
</p>
<p>
"Indeed," said Mr. Jellicoe. "Is he here?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"Ha! And you wish to arrest me, I presume?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. That is what I am here for."
</p>
<p>
"Well, I will agree to surrender myself subject to
certain conditions."
</p>
<p>
"I can't make any conditions, Mr. Jellicoe."
</p>
<p>
"No. I will make them, and you will accept them.
Otherwise you will not arrest me."
</p>
<p>
"It's no use for you to talk like that," said Badger.
"If you don't let me in I shall have to break in. And
I may as well tell you," he added mendaciously, "that
the house is surrounded."
</p>
<p>
"You may accept my assurance," Mr. Jellicoe replied
calmly, "that you will not arrest me if you do
not accept my conditions."
</p>
<p>
"Well, what are your conditions?" demanded
Badger impatiently.
</p>
<p>
"I desire to make a statement," said Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"You can do that, but I must caution you that
anything you say may be used in evidence against
you."
</p>
<p>
"Naturally. But I wish to make the statement in
the presence of Doctor Thorndyke, and I desire to hear
a statement from him of the method of investigation
by which he discovered the whereabouts of the body.
That is to say, if he is willing."
</p>
<p>
"If you mean that we should mutually enlighten
one another, I am very willing indeed," said Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"Very well. Then my conditions, Inspector, are
that I shall hear Doctor Thorndyke's statement and
that I shall be permitted to make a statement myself,
and that until those statements are completed, with
any necessary interrogation and discussion, I shall remain
at liberty and shall suffer no molestation or interference
of any kind. And I agree that, on the conclusion
of the said proceedings, I will submit without resistance
to any course that you may adopt."
</p>
<p>
"I can't agree to that," said Badger.
</p>
<p>
"Can't you?" said Mr. Jellicoe coldly; and, after
a pause, he added: "Don't be hasty. I have given
you full warning."
</p>
<p>
There was something in Mr. Jellicoe's passionless
tone that disturbed the inspector exceedingly, for he
turned to Thorndyke and said in a low tone:
</p>
<p>
"I wonder what his game is? He can't get away,
you know."
</p>
<p>
"There are several possibilities," said Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"M'yes," said Badger, stroking his chin perplexedly.
</p>
<p>
"After all, is there any objection? His statement
might save trouble, and you'd be on the safe side. It
would take you some time to break in."
</p>
<p>
"Well," said Mr. Jellicoe, with his hand on the
window, "do you agree&mdash;yes or no?"
</p>
<p>
"All right," said Badger sulkily. "I agree."
</p>
<p>
"You promise not to molest me in any way until I
have quite finished?"
</p>
<p>
"I promise."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Jellicoe's head disappeared and the window
closed. After a short interval we heard the jar of
massive bolts and the clank of a chain, and, as the
heavy door swung open, Mr. Jellicoe stood revealed,
calm and impassive, with an old-fashioned office candlestick
in his hand.
</p>
<p>
"Who are the others?" he inquired, peering out
sharply through his spectacles.
</p>
<p>
"O, they are nothing to do with me," replied
Badger.
</p>
<p>
"They are Doctor Berkeley and Doctor Jervis,"
said Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"Ha!" said Mr. Jellicoe; "very kind and attentive
of them to call. Pray come in, gentlemen. I am sure
you will be interested to hear our little discussion."
</p>
<p>
He held the door open with a certain stiff courtesy,
and we all entered the hall led by Inspector Badger.
He closed the door softly and preceded us up the stairs
and into the apartment from the window of which he
had dictated the terms of surrender. It was a fine old
room, spacious, lofty, and dignified, with panelled walls
and a carved mantelpiece, the central escutcheon of
which bore the initials "J.W.P." with the date
"1671." A large writing-table stood at the farther
end, and behind it an iron safe.
</p>
<p>
"I have been expecting this visit," Mr. Jellicoe remarked
tranquilly as he placed four chairs opposite the
table.
</p>
<p>
"Since when?" asked Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"Since last Monday evening, when I had the pleasure
of seeing you conversing with my friend Doctor Berkeley
at the Inner Temple gate, and then inferred that
you were retained in the case. That was a circumstance
that had not been fully provided for. May I
offer you gentlemen a glass of sherry?" As he spoke
he placed on the table a decanter and a tray of glasses,
and looked at us interrogatively with his hand on the
stopper.
</p>
<p>
"Well, I don't mind if I do, Mr. Jellicoe," said
Badger, on whom the lawyer's glance had finally
settled. Mr. Jellicoe filled a glass and handed it to
him with a stiff bow; then, with the decanter still in his
hand, he said persuasively: "Doctor Thorndyke, pray
allow me to fill you a glass?"
</p>
<p>
"No, thank you," said Thorndyke, in a tone so decided
that the inspector looked round at him quickly.
And as Badger caught his eye, the glass which he was
about to raise to his lips became suddenly arrested and
was slowly returned to the table untasted.
</p>
<p>
"I don't want to hurry you, Mr. Jellicoe," said the
inspector, "but it's rather late, and I should like to
get this business settled. What is it that you wish
to do?"
</p>
<p>
"I desire," replied Mr. Jellicoe, "to make a detailed
statement of the events that have happened, and I
wish to hear from Doctor Thorndyke precisely how he
arrived at his very remarkable conclusion. When this
has been done I shall be entirely at your service; and
I suggest that it would be more interesting if Doctor
Thorndyke would give us his statement before I furnish
you with the actual facts."
</p>
<p>
"I am entirely of your opinion," said Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"Then in that case," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I suggest
that you disregard me, and address your remarks to
your friends as if I were not present."
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke acquiesced with a bow, and Mr. Jellicoe,
having seated himself in his elbow-chair behind the
table, poured himself out a glass of water, selected a
cigarette from a neat silver case, lighted it deliberately,
and leaned back to listen at his ease.
</p>
<p>
"My first acquaintance with this case," Thorndyke
began without preamble, "was made through the
medium of the daily papers about two years ago; and
I may say that, although I had no interest in it beyond
the purely academic interest of a specialist in a case
that lies in his particular specialty, I considered it with
deep attention. The newspaper reports contained no
particulars of the relations of the parties that could
furnish any hints as to motives on the part of any of
them, but merely a bare statement of the events. And
this was a distinct advantage, inasmuch as it left one
to consider the facts of the case without regard to
motive&mdash;to balance the <i>prima facie</i> probabilities with
an open mind. And it may surprise you to learn that
those <i>prima facie</i> probabilities pointed from the very
first to that solution which has been put to the test of
experiment this evening. Hence it will be well for me
to begin by giving the conclusions that I reached by
reasoning from the facts set forth in the newspapers
before any of the further facts came to my knowledge.
</p>
<p>
"From the facts as stated in the newspaper reports
it is obvious that there were four possible explanations
of the disappearance.
</p>
<p>
"1. The man might be alive and in hiding. This
was highly improbable, for the reasons that were stated
by Mr. Loram at the late hearing of the application,
and for a further reason that I shall mention presently.
</p>
<p>
"2. He might have died by accident or disease, and
his body failed to be identified. This was even more
improbable, seeing that he carried on his person abundant
means of identification, including visiting cards.
</p>
<p>
"3. He might have been murdered by some stranger
for the sake of his portable property. This was highly
improbable for the same reason: his body could hardly
have failed to be identified.
</p>
<p>
"These three explanations are what we may call the
outside explanations. They touched none of the parties
mentioned; they were all obviously improbable on general
grounds; and to all of them there was one conclusive
answer&mdash;the scarab which was found in Godfrey
Bellingham's garden. Hence I put them aside and
gave my attention to the fourth explanation. This
was that the missing man had been made away with by
one of the parties mentioned in the report. But, since
the reports mentioned three parties, it was evident that
there was a choice of three hypotheses, namely:
</p>
<p>
"(<i>a</i>) That John Bellingham had been made away
with by Hurst; or (<i>b</i>) by the Bellinghams; or (<i>c</i>) by
Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"Now, I have constantly impressed on my pupils
that the indispensable question that must be asked at
the outset of such an inquiry as this is, 'When was the
missing person last undoubtedly seen or known to be
alive?' That is the question that I asked myself after
reading the newspaper report; and the answer was,
that he was last certainly seen alive on the fourteenth
of October, nineteen hundred and two, at 141 Queen
Square, Bloomsbury. Of the fact that he was alive
at that time and place there could be no doubt whatever;
for he was seen at the same moment by two
persons, both of whom were intimately acquainted with
him, and one of whom, Doctor Norbury, was apparently
a disinterested witness. After that date he was never
seen, alive or dead, by any person who knew him and
was able to identify him. It was stated that he had
been seen on the twenty-third of November following
by the housemaid of Mr. Hurst; but as this person
was unacquainted with him, it was uncertain whether
the person whom she saw was or was not John Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
"Hence the disappearance dated, not from the
twenty-third of November, as everyone seems to have
assumed, but from the fourteenth of October; and the
question was not, 'What became of John Bellingham
after he entered Mr. Hurst's house?' but, 'What became
of him after his interview in Queen Square?'
</p>
<p>
"But as soon as I had decided that that interview
must form the real starting-point of the inquiry, a most
striking set of circumstances came into view. It became
obvious that if Mr. Jellicoe had had any reason
for wishing to make away with John Bellingham, he
had such an opportunity as seldom falls to the lot of
an intending murderer.
</p>
<p>
"Just consider the conditions. John Bellingham was
known to be setting out alone upon a journey beyond
the sea. His exact destination was not stated. He
was to be absent for an undetermined period, but at
least three weeks. His disappearance would occasion
no comment; his absence would lead to no inquiries,
at least for several weeks, during which the murderer
would have leisure quietly to dispose of the body and
conceal all traces of the crime. The conditions were,
from a murderer's point of view, ideal.
</p>
<p>
"But that was not all. During that very period of
John Bellingham's absence Mr. Jellicoe was engaged to
deliver to the British Museum what was admittedly a
dead human body; and that body was to be enclosed
in a sealed case. Could any more perfect or secure
method of disposing of a body be devised by the most
ingenious murderer? The plan would have had only
one weak point: the mummy would be known to have
left Queen Square <i>after</i> the disappearance of John
Bellingham, and suspicion might in the end have arisen.
To this point I shall return presently; meanwhile we
will consider the second hypothesis&mdash;that the missing
man was made away with by Mr. Hurst.
</p>
<p>
"Now, there seemed to be no doubt that some person,
purporting to be John Bellingham, did actually visit
Mr. Hurst's house; and he must either have left that
house or remained in it. If he left, he did so surreptitiously;
if he remained, there could be no reasonable
doubt that he had been murdered and that his body
had been concealed. Let us consider the probabilities
in each case.
</p>
<p>
"Assuming&mdash;as everyone seems to have done&mdash;that
the visitor was really John Bellingham, we are dealing
with a responsible, middle-aged gentleman, and the idea
that such a person would enter a house, announce his
intention of staying, and then steal away unobserved
is very difficult to accept. Moreover, he would appear
to have come down to Eltham by rail immediately on
landing in England, leaving his luggage in the cloak-room
at Charing Cross. This pointed to a definiteness
of purpose quite inconsistent with his casual disappearance
from the house.
</p>
<p>
"On the other hand, the idea that he might have
been murdered by Hurst was not inconceivable. The
thing was physically possible. If Bellingham had really
been in the study when Hurst came home, the murder
could have been committed&mdash;by appropriate means&mdash;and
the body temporarily concealed in the cupboard or
elsewhere. But, although possible, it was not at all
probable. There was no real opportunity. The risk
and the subsequent difficulties would be very great;
there was not a particle of positive evidence that a
murder had occurred; and the conduct of Hurst in
immediately leaving the house in possession of the servants
is quite inconsistent with the supposition that there
was a body concealed in it. So that, while it is almost
impossible to believe that John Bellingham left the
house of his own accord, it is equally difficult to believe
that he did not leave it.
</p>
<p>
"But there is a third possibility, which, strange to
say, no one seems to have suggested. Supposing that
the visitor was not John Bellingham at all, but someone
who was personating him? That would dispose of
the difficulties completely. The strange disappearance
ceases to be strange, for a personator would necessarily
make off before Mr. Hurst should arrive and discover
the imposture. But if we accept this supposition, we
raise two further questions: 'Who was the personator?'
and 'What was the object of the personation?'
</p>
<p>
"Now, the personator was clearly not Hurst himself,
for he would have been recognised by his housemaid;
he was therefore either Godfrey Bellingham or
Mr. Jellicoe or some other person; and as no other
person was mentioned in the newspaper reports I confined
my speculations to these two.
</p>
<p>
"And, first, as to Godfrey Bellingham. It did not
appear whether he was or was not known to the housemaid,
so I assumed&mdash;wrongly, as it turns out&mdash;that he
was not. Then he might have been the personator.
But why should he have personated his brother? He
could not have already committed the murder. There
had not been time enough. He would have had to leave
Woodford before John Bellingham had set out from
Charing Cross. And even if he had committed the
murder, he would have had no object in raising this
commotion. His cue would have been to remain quiet
and know nothing. The probabilities were all against
the personator being Godfrey Bellingham.
</p>
<p>
"Then could it be Mr. Jellicoe? The answer to this
question is contained in the answer to the further
question: What could have been the object of the
personation?
</p>
<p>
"What motive could this unknown person have had
in appearing, announcing himself as John Bellingham,
and forthwith vanishing? There could only have been
one motive: that, namely, of fixing the date of John
Bellingham's disappearance&mdash;of furnishing a definite
moment at which he was last seen alive.
</p>
<p>
"But who was likely to have had such a motive?
Let us see.
</p>
<p>
"I said just now that if Mr. Jellicoe had murdered
John Bellingham and disposed of the body in the
mummy-case, he would have been absolutely safe for
the time being. But there would be a weak spot in
his armour. For a month or more the disappearance
of his client would occasion no remark. But presently,
when he failed to return, inquiries would be set on foot;
and then it would appear that no one had seen him
since he left Queen Square. Then it would be noted
that the last person with whom he was seen was Mr.
Jellicoe. It might, further, be remembered that the
mummy had been delivered to the Museum some time
<i>after</i> the missing man was last seen alive. And so
suspicion might arise and be followed by disastrous
investigations. But supposing it should be made to
appear that John Bellingham had been seen alive more
than a month after his interview with Mr. Jellicoe and
some weeks after the mummy had been deposited in
the Museum? Then Mr. Jellicoe would cease to be
in any way connected with the disappearance, and
henceforth would be absolutely safe.
</p>
<p>
"Hence, after carefully considering this part of the
newspaper report, I came to the conclusion that the
mysterious occurrence at Mr. Hurst's house had only
one reasonable explanation, namely, that the visitor
was not John Bellingham, but someone personating him;
and that that someone was Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"It remains to consider the case of Godfrey Bellingham
and his daughter, though I cannot understand
how any sane person can have seriously suspected
either" (here Inspector Badger smiled a sour smile).
"The evidence against them was negligible, for there
was nothing to connect them with the affair save the
finding of the scarab on their premises; and that event,
which might have been highly suspicious under other
circumstances, was robbed of any significance by the
fact that the scarab was found on a spot which had
been passed a few minutes previously by the other
suspected party, Hurst. The finding of the scarab
did, however, establish two important conclusions;
namely, that John Bellingham had probably met with
foul play, and that of the four persons present when
it was found, one at least had had possession of the
body. As to which of the four was the one, the circumstances
furnished only a hint, which was this: If
the scarab had been purposely dropped, the most likely
person to find it was the one who dropped it. And the
person who discovered it was Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"Following up this hint, if we ask ourselves what
motive Mr. Jellicoe could have had for dropping it&mdash;assuming
him to be the murderer&mdash;the answer is
obvious. It would not be his policy to fix the crime
on any particular person, but rather to set up a complication
of conflicting evidence which would occupy
the attention of investigators and divert it from himself.
</p>
<p>
"Of course, if Hurst had been the murderer, he
would have had a sufficient motive for dropping the
scarab, so that the case against Mr. Jellicoe was not
conclusive; but the fact that it was he who found it
was highly significant.
</p>
<p>
"This completes the analysis of the evidence contained
in the original newspaper report describing the
circumstances of the disappearance. The conclusions
that followed from it were, as you will have seen:
</p>
<p>
"1. That the missing man was almost certainly dead,
as proved by the finding of the scarab after his disappearance.
</p>
<p>
"2. That he had probably been murdered by one or
more of four persons, as proved by the finding of the
scarab on the premises occupied by two of them and
accessible to the others.
</p>
<p>
"3. That, of those four persons, one&mdash;Mr. Jellicoe&mdash;was
the last person who was known to have been in
the company of the missing man; had had an exceptional
opportunity for committing the murder; and
was known to have delivered a dead body to the Museum
subsequently to the disappearance.
</p>
<p>
"4. That the supposition that Mr. Jellicoe had committed
the murder rendered all the other circumstances
of the disappearance clearly intelligible, whereas on
any other supposition they were quite inexplicable.
</p>
<p>
"The evidence of the newspaper report, therefore,
clearly pointed to the probability that John Bellingham
had been murdered by Mr. Jellicoe and his body concealed
in the mummy-case.
</p>
<p>
"I do not wish to give you the impression that I,
then and there, believed that Mr. Jellicoe was the murderer.
I did not. There was no reason to suppose
that the report contained all the essential facts, and I
merely considered it speculatively as a study in probabilities.
But I did decide that that was the only probable
conclusion from the facts that were given.
</p>
<p>
"Nearly two years passed before I heard anything
more of the case. Then it was brought to my notice
by my friend, Doctor Berkeley, and I became acquainted
with certain new facts, which I will consider
in the order in which they became known to me.
</p>
<p>
"The first new light on the case came from the will.
As soon as I had read that document I felt convinced
that there was something wrong. The testator's evident
intention was that his brother should inherit the
property, whereas the construction of the will was such
as almost certainly to defeat that intention. The devolution
of the property depended on the burial clause&mdash;clause
two; but the burial arrangements would ordinarily
be decided by the executor, who happened to be
Mr. Jellicoe. Thus the will left the disposition of the
property under the control of Mr. Jellicoe, though his
action could have been contested.
</p>
<p>
"Now, this will, although drawn up by John Bellingham,
was executed in Mr. Jellicoe's office, as is proved
by the fact that it was witnessed by two of his clerks.
He was the testator's lawyer, and it was his duty to
insist on the will being properly drawn. Evidently he
did nothing of the kind, and this fact strongly suggested
some kind of collusion on his part with Hurst,
who stood to benefit by the miscarriage of the will.
And this was the odd feature in the case; for whereas
the party responsible for the defective provisions was
Mr. Jellicoe, the party who benefited was Hurst.
</p>
<p>
"But the most startling peculiarity of the will was
the way in which it fitted the circumstances of the disappearance.
It looked as if clause two had been drawn
up with those very circumstances in view. Since, however,
the will was ten years old, this was impossible.
But if clause two could not have been devised to fit
the disappearance, could the disappearance have been
devised to fit clause two? That was by no means impossible:
under the circumstances it looked rather
probable. And if it had been so contrived, who was
the agent in that contrivance? Hurst stood to benefit,
but there was no evidence that he even knew the contents
of the will. There remained only Mr. Jellicoe,
who had certainly connived at the misdrawing of the
will for some purpose of his own&mdash;some dishonest
purpose.
</p>
<p>
"The evidence of the will, then, pointed to Mr.
Jellicoe as the agent in the disappearance, and, after
reading it, I definitely suspected him of the crime.
</p>
<p>
"Suspicion, however, is one thing and proof is another.
I had not nearly enough evidence to justify me
in laying an information, and I could not approach the
Museum officials without making a definite accusation.
The great difficulty of the case was that I could discover
no motive. I could not see any way in which
Mr. Jellicoe would benefit by the disappearance. His
own legacy was secure, whenever and however the testator
died. The murder and concealment apparently
benefited Hurst alone; and, in the absence of any
plausible motive, the facts required to be much more
conclusive than they were."
</p>
<p>
"Did you form absolutely no opinion as to motive?"
asked Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
He put the question in a quiet, passionless tone, as
if he were discussing some <i>cause c&eacute;l&egrave;bre</i> in which he
had nothing more than a professional interest. Indeed,
the calm, impersonal interest that he displayed in
Thorndyke's analysis, his unmoved attention, punctuated
by little nods of approval at each telling point in
the argument, were the most surprising features of this
astounding interview.
</p>
<p>
"I did form an opinion," replied Thorndyke, "but
it was merely speculative, and I was never able to confirm
it. I discovered that about ten years ago Mr.
Hurst had been in difficulties and that he had suddenly
raised a considerable sum of money, no one knew how
or on what security. I observed that this event coincided
in time with the execution of the will, and I surmised
that there might be some connection between
them. But that was only a surmise; and, as the proverb
has it, 'He discovers who proves.' I could prove
nothing, so that I never discovered Mr. Jellicoe's motive,
and I don't know it now."
</p>
<p>
"Don't you, really?" said Mr. Jellicoe, in something
approaching a tone of animation. He laid down the
end of his cigarette, and, as he selected another from
the silver case, he continued: "I think that is the most
interesting feature of your really remarkable analysis.
It does you great credit. The absence of motive would
have appeared to most persons a fatal objection to the
theory of, what I may call, the prosecution. Permit
me to congratulate you on the consistency and tenacity
with which you have pursued the actual, visible facts."
</p>
<p>
He bowed stiffly to Thorndyke (who returned his
bow with equal stiffness), lighted the fresh cigarette,
and once more leaned back in his chair with the calm,
attentive manner of a man who is listening to a lecture
or a musical performance.
</p>
<p>
"The evidence, then, being insufficient to act upon,"
Thorndyke resumed, "there was nothing for it but to
wait for some new facts. Now, the study of a large
series of carefully conducted murders brings into view
an almost invariable phenomenon. The cautious murderer,
in his anxiety to make himself secure, does too
much; and it is this excess of precaution that leads
to detection. It happens constantly; indeed, I may
say that it always happens&mdash;in those murders that are
detected; of those that are not we say nothing&mdash;and
I had strong hopes that it would happen in this case.
And it did.
</p>
<p>
"At the very moment when my client's case seemed
almost hopeless, some human remains were discovered
at Sidcup. I read the account of the discovery in the
evening paper, and, scanty as the report was, it recorded
enough facts to convince me that the inevitable
mistake had been made."
</p>
<p>
"Did it, indeed?" said Mr. Jellicoe. "A mere, inexpert,
hearsay report! I should have supposed it to
be quite valueless from a scientific point of view."
</p>
<p>
"So it was," said Thorndyke. "But it gave the
date of the discovery and the locality, and it also mentioned
what bones had been found. Which were all
vital facts. Take the question of time. These remains,
after lying <i>perdu</i> for two years, suddenly come to light
just as the parties&mdash;who have also been lying <i>perdu</i>&mdash;have
begun to take action in respect of the will; in
fact, within a week or two of the hearing of the application.
It was certainly a remarkable coincidence.
And when the circumstances that occasioned the discovery
were considered, the coincidence became still
more remarkable. For these remains were found on
land actually belonging to John Bellingham, and their
discovery resulted from certain operations (the clearing
of the watercress-beds) carried out on behalf of the
absent landlord. But by whose orders were those works
undertaken? Clearly by the orders of the landlord's
agent. But the landlord's agent was known to be Mr.
Jellicoe. Therefore these remains were brought to light
at this peculiarly opportune moment by the action of
Mr. Jellicoe. The coincidence, I say again, was very
remarkable.
</p>
<p>
"But what instantly arrested my attention on reading
the newspaper report was the unusual manner in
which the arm had been separated; for, besides the
bones of the arm proper, there were those of what
anatomists call the 'shoulder-girdle'&mdash;the shoulder-blade
and collar-bone. This was very remarkable. It
seemed to suggest a knowledge of anatomy, and yet
no murderer, even if he possessed such knowledge, would
make a display of it on such an occasion. It seemed
to me that there must be some other explanation.
Accordingly, when other remains had come to light and
all had been collected at Woodford, I asked my friend
Berkeley to go down there and inspect them. He did
so, and this is what he found:
</p>
<p>
"Both arms had been detached in the same peculiar
manner; both were complete, and all the bones were
from the same body. The bones were quite clean&mdash;of
soft structures, I mean. There were no cuts, scratches,
or marks on them. There was not a trace of adipocere&mdash;the
peculiar waxy soap that forms in bodies that
decay in water or in a damp situation. The right hand
had been detached at the time the arm was thrown
into the pond, and the left ring finger had been
separated and had vanished. This latter fact had attracted
my attention from the first, but I will leave its
consideration for the moment and return to it later."
</p>
<p>
"How did you discover that the hand had been
detached?" Mr. Jellicoe asked.
</p>
<p>
"By the submersion marks," replied Thorndyke.
"It was lying on the bottom of the pond in a position
which would have been impossible if it had been
attached to the arm."
</p>
<p>
"You interest me exceedingly," said Mr. Jellicoe.
"It appears that a medico-legal expert finds 'books
in the running brooks, sermons in bones, and
evidence in everything.' But don't let me interrupt
you."
</p>
<p>
"Doctor Berkeley's observations," Thorndyke resumed,
"together with the medical evidence at the inquest,
led me to certain conclusions.
</p>
<p>
"Let me first state the facts which were disclosed.
</p>
<p>
"The remains which had been assembled formed a
complete human skeleton with the exception of the
skull, one finger, and the legs from knee to ankle, including
both knee-caps. This was a very impressive
fact; for the bones that were missing included all those
which could have been identified as belonging or not
belonging to John Bellingham; and the bones that were
present were the unidentifiable remainder.
</p>
<p>
"It had a suspicious appearance of selection.
</p>
<p>
"But the parts that were present were also curiously
suggestive. In all cases the mode of dismemberment
was peculiar; for an ordinary person would have divided
the knee-joint leaving the knee-cap attached to the
thigh, whereas it had evidently been left attached to
the shin-bone; and the head would most probably have
been removed by cutting through the neck instead of
being neatly detached from the spine. And all these
bones were also entirely free from marks or scratches
such as would naturally occur in an ordinary dismemberment,
and all were quite free from adipocere.
And now as to the conclusions which I drew from these
facts. First, there was the peculiar grouping of the
bones. What was the meaning of that? Well, the
idea of a punctilious anatomist was obviously absurd,
and I put it aside. But was there any other explanation?
Yes, there was. The bones had appeared in the
natural groups that are held together by ligaments;
and they had separated at points where they were
attached principally by muscles. The knee-cap, for
instance, which really belongs to the thigh, is attached
to it by muscle, but to the shin-bone by a stout ligament.
And so with the bones of the arm; they are connected
to one another by ligaments; but to the trunk
only by muscle, excepting at one end of the collar-bone.
</p>
<p>
"But this was a very significant fact. Ligament
decays much more slowly than muscle, so that in a
body of which the muscles had largely decayed the
bones might still be held together by ligament. The
peculiar grouping therefore suggested that the body
had been partly reduced to a skeleton before it was
dismembered; that it had then been merely pulled apart
and not divided with a knife.
</p>
<p>
"This suggestion was remarkably confirmed by the
total absence of knife-cuts or scratches.
</p>
<p>
"Then there was the fact that all the bones were
quite free from adipocere. Now, if an arm or a thigh
should be deposited in water and left undisturbed to
decay, it is certain that large masses of adipocere would
be formed. Probably more than half of the flesh would
be converted into this substance. The absence of adipocere
therefore proved that the bulk of the flesh had
disappeared or been removed from the bones before
they were deposited in the pond. That, in fact, it was
not a body, but a skeleton, that had been deposited.
</p>
<p>
"But what kind of skeleton? If it was the recent
skeleton of a murdered man, then the bones had been
carefully stripped of flesh so as to leave the ligaments
intact. But this was highly improbable; for there could
be no object in preserving the ligaments. And the
absence of scratches was against this view.
</p>
<p>
"Then they did not appear to be graveyard bones.
The collection was too complete. It is very rare to find
a graveyard skeleton of which many of the small bones
are not missing. And such bones are usually more or
less weathered and friable.
</p>
<p>
"They did not appear to be bones such as may be
bought at an osteological dealer's, for these usually
have perforations to admit the macerating fluid to the
marrow cavities. Dealers' bones, too, are very seldom
all from the same body; and the small bones of the
hand are drilled with holes to enable them to be strung
on catgut.
</p>
<p>
"They were not dissecting-room bones, as there was
no trace of red-lead in the openings for the nutrient
arteries.
</p>
<p>
"What the appearances did suggest was that these
were parts of a body which had decayed in a very dry
atmosphere (in which no adipocere would be formed),
and which had been pulled or broken apart. Also that
the ligaments which held the body&mdash;or rather skeleton&mdash;together
were brittle and friable, as suggested by the
detached hand, which had probably broken off accidentally.
But the only kind of body that completely
answers this description is an Egyptian mummy. A
mummy, it is true, has been more or less preserved;
but on exposure to the air of such a climate as ours it
perishes rapidly, the ligaments being the last of the
soft parts to disappear.
</p>
<p>
"The hypothesis that these bones were parts of a
mummy naturally suggested Mr. Jellicoe. If he had
murdered John Bellingham and concealed his body in
the mummy-case, he would have a spare mummy on
his hands, and that mummy would have been exposed
to the air and to somewhat rough handling.
</p>
<p>
"A very interesting circumstance connected with
these remains was that the ring finger was missing.
Now, fingers have on sundry occasions been detached
from dead hands for the sake of the rings on them.
But in such cases the object has been to secure a valuable
ring uninjured. If this hand was the hand of
John Bellingham, there was no such object. The purpose
was to prevent identification; and that purpose
would have been more easily, and much more completely,
achieved by sacrificing the ring, by filing through it or
breaking it off the finger. The appearances, therefore,
did not quite agree with the apparent purpose.
</p>
<p>
"Then, could there be any other purpose with which
they agreed better? Yes, there could.
</p>
<p>
"If it had happened that John Bellingham were
known to have worn a ring on that finger, and especially
if that ring fitted tightly, the removal of the finger
would serve a very useful purpose. It would create
an impression that the finger had been removed on
account of a ring, to prevent identification; which impression
would, in turn, produce a suspicion that the
hand was that of John Bellingham. And yet it would
not be evidence that could be used to establish identity.
Now, if Mr. Jellicoe were the murderer and had the
body hidden elsewhere, vague suspicion would be precisely
what he would desire, and positive evidence what
he would wish to avoid.
</p>
<p>
"It transpired later that John Bellingham did wear
a ring on that finger and that the ring fitted very
tightly. Whence it followed that the absence of the
finger was an additional point tending to implicate Mr.
Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"And now let us briefly review this mass of evidence.
You will see that it consists of a multitude of items,
each either trivial or speculative. Up to the time of
the actual discovery I had not a single crucial fact,
nor any clue as to motive. But, slight as the individual
points of evidence were, they pointed with impressive
unanimity to one person&mdash;Mr. Jellicoe. Thus:
</p>
<p>
"The person who had the opportunity to commit the
murder and dispose of the body was Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"The deceased was last certainly seen alive with
Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"An unidentified human body was delivered to the
Museum by Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"The only person who could have a motive for
personating the deceased was Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"The only known person who could possibly have
done so was Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"One of the two persons who could have had a
motive for dropping the scarab was Mr. Jellicoe. The
person who found that scarab was Mr. Jellicoe,
although, owing to his defective eyesight and his
spectacles, he was the most unlikely person of those present
to find it.
</p>
<p>
"The person who was responsible for the execution
of the defective will was Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"Then as to the remains. They were apparently
not those of John Bellingham, but parts of a particular
kind of body. But the only person who was known
to have had such a body in his possession was Mr.
Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"The only person who could have had any motive
for substituting those remains for the remains of the
deceased was Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"Finally, the person who caused the discovery of
those remains at that singularly opportune moment was
Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"This was the sum of the evidence that was in my
possession up to the time of the hearing, and, indeed,
for some time after, and it was not enough to act
upon. But when the case had been heard in Court, it
was evident either that the proceedings would be abandoned&mdash;which
was unlikely&mdash;or that there would be
new developments.
</p>
<p>
"I watched the progress of events with profound
interest. An attempt had been made (by Mr. Jellicoe
or some other person) to get the will administered without
producing the body of John Bellingham; and that
attempt had failed. The coroner's jury had refused to
identify the remains; the Probate Court had refused
to presume the death of the testator. As affairs stood,
the will could not be administered.
</p>
<p>
"What would be the next move?
</p>
<p>
"It was virtually certain that it would consist in
the production of something which would identify the
unrecognised remains as those of the testator.
</p>
<p>
"But what would that something be?
</p>
<p>
"The answer to that question would contain the
answer to another question: Was my solution of the
mystery the true solution?
</p>
<p>
"If I was wrong, it was possible that some of the
undoubtedly genuine bones of John Bellingham might
presently be discovered; for instance, the skull, the
knee-cap, or the left fibula, by any of which the remains
could be positively identified.
</p>
<p>
"If I was right, only one thing could possibly happen.
Mr. Jellicoe would have to play the trump card
that he had been holding back in case the Court should
refuse the application; a card that he was evidently reluctant
to play.
</p>
<p>
"He would have to produce the bones of the
mummy's finger, together with John Bellingham's ring.
No other course was possible.
</p>
<p>
"But not only would the bones and the ring have
to be found together. They would have to be found
in a place which was accessible to Mr. Jellicoe, and so
far under his control that he could determine the exact
time when the discovery should be made.
</p>
<p>
"I waited patiently for the answer to my question.
Was I right or was I wrong?
</p>
<p>
"And in due course, the answer came.
</p>
<p>
"The bones and the ring were discovered in the well
in the grounds of Godfrey Bellingham's late house.
That house was the property of John Bellingham. Mr.
Jellicoe was John Bellingham's agent. Hence it was
practically certain that the date on which the well was
emptied was settled by Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"The Oracle had spoken.
</p>
<p>
"The discovery proved conclusively that the bones
were not those of John Bellingham (for if they had
been the ring would have been unnecessary for
identification). But if the bones were not John Bellingham's,
the ring was; from which followed the important
corollary that whoever had deposited those bones in
the well had had possession of the body of John
Bellingham. And there could be no doubt that that person
was Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"On receiving this final confirmation of my
conclusions, I applied forthwith to Doctor Norbury for
permission to examine the mummy of Sebek-hotep, with
the result that you are already acquainted with."
</p>
<p>
As Thorndyke concluded, Mr. Jellicoe regarded him
thoughtfully for a moment, and then said: "You have
given us a most complete and lucid exposition of your
method of investigation, sir. I have enjoyed it exceedingly,
and should have profited by it hereafter&mdash;under
other circumstances. Are you sure you won't allow
me to fill your glass?" He touched the stopper of
the decanter, and Inspector Badger ostentatiously consulted
his watch.
</p>
<p>
"Time is running on, I fear," said Mr. Jellicoe.
</p>
<p>
"It is, indeed," Badger assented emphatically.
</p>
<p>
"Well, I need not detain you long," said the lawyer.
"My statement is a mere narration of events. But I
desire to make it, and you, no doubt, will be interested
to hear it."
</p>
<p>
He opened the silver case and selected a fresh cigarette,
which, however, he did not light. Inspector
Badger produced a funereal notebook, which he laid
open on his knee; and the rest of us settled ourselves
in our chairs with no little curiosity to hear Mr. Jellicoe's
statement.
</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="CH20"><!-- CH20 --></a>
<h2>
	CHAPTER XX
</h2>

<h3>
THE END OF THE CASE
</h3>
<p>
A profound silence had fallen on the room and its
occupants. Mr. Jellicoe sat with his eyes fixed on the
table as if deep in thought, the unlighted cigarette in
one hand, the other grasping the tumbler of water.
Presently Inspector Badger coughed impatiently and
he looked up. "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," he
said. "I am keeping you waiting."
</p>
<p>
He took a sip from the tumbler, opened a matchbox
and took out a match, but apparently altering his
mind, laid it down and commenced:
</p>
<p>
"The unfortunate affair which has brought you here
to-night, had its origin ten years ago. At that time
my friend Hurst became suddenly involved in financial
difficulties&mdash;am I speaking too fast for you, Mr.
Badger?"
</p>
<p>
"No, not at all," replied Badger. "I am taking it
down in shorthand."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you," said Mr. Jellicoe. "He became involved
in serious difficulties and came to me for assistance.
He wished to borrow five thousand pounds to
enable him to meet his engagements. I had a certain
amount of money at my disposal, but I did not consider
Hurst's security satisfactory; accordingly I felt compelled
to refuse. But on the very next day, John Bellingham called
on me with the draft of his will which he
wished me to look over before it was executed.
</p>
<p>
"It was an absurd will, and I nearly told him so;
but then an idea occurred to me in connection with
Hurst. It was obvious to me, as soon as I had glanced
through the will, that, if the burial clause was left as
the testator had drafted it, Hurst had a very good
chance of inheriting the property; and, as I was named
as the executor, I should be able to give full effect to
that clause. Accordingly, I asked for a few days to
consider the will, and I then called upon Hurst and
made a proposal to him; which was this: That I should
advance him five thousand pounds without security;
that I should ask for no repayment, but that he should
assign to me any interest that he might have or acquire
in the estate of John Bellingham up to ten thousand
pounds, or two-thirds of any sum that he might inherit
if over that amount. He asked if John had yet made
any will, and I replied, quite correctly, that he had not.
He inquired if I knew what testamentary arrangements
John intended to make, and again I answered, quite correctly,
that I believed that John proposed to devise the
bulk of his property to his brother, Godfrey.
</p>
<p>
"Thereupon, Hurst accepted my proposal; I made
him the advance and he executed the assignment. After
a few days' delay, I passed the will as satisfactory.
The actual document was written from the draft by
the testator himself; and a fortnight after Hurst had
executed the assignment, John signed the will in my
office. By the provisions of that will I stood an excellent
chance of becoming virtually the principal beneficiary,
unless Godfrey should contest Hurst's claim
and the Court should override the conditions of clause
two.
</p>
<p>
"You will now understand the motives which governed
my subsequent actions. You will also see, Doctor
Thorndyke, how very near to the truth your reasoning
carried you; and you will understand, as I wish
you to do, that Mr. Hurst was no party to any of those
proceedings which I am about to describe.
</p>
<p>
"Coming now to the interview in Queen Square in
October, nineteen hundred and two, you are aware of
the general circumstances from my evidence in Court,
which was literally correct up to a certain point. The
interview took place in a room on the third floor, in
which were stored the cases which John had brought
with him from Egypt. The mummy was unpacked, as
were some other objects that he was not offering to
the Museum, but several cases were still unopened.
At the conclusion of the interview I accompanied Doctor
Norbury down to the street door, and we stood on the
doorstep conversing for perhaps a quarter of an hour.
Then Doctor Norbury went away and I returned upstairs.
</p>
<p>
"Now the house in Queen Square is virtually a
museum. The upper part is separated from the lower
by a massive door which opens from the hall and gives
access to the staircase, and which is fitted with a Chubb
night-latch. There are two latchkeys, of which John
used to keep one and I the other. You will find them
both in the safe behind me. The caretaker had no key
and no access to the upper part of the house unless
admitted by one of us.
</p>
<p>
"At the time when I came in, after Doctor Norbury
had left, the caretaker was in the cellar, where I
could hear him breaking coke for the hot-water furnace.
I had left John on the third floor opening some
of the packing cases by the light of a lamp with a tool
somewhat like a plasterer's hammer; that is, a hammer
with a small axe-blade at the reverse of the head.
As I stood talking to Doctor Norbury, I could hear him
knocking out the nails and wrenching up the lids; and
when I entered the doorway leading to the stairs, I
could still hear him. Just as I closed the staircase door
behind me, I heard a rumbling noise from above; then
all was still.
</p>
<p>
"I went up the stairs to the second floor, where,
as the staircase was all in darkness, I stopped to light
the gas. As I turned to ascend the next flight, I saw
a hand projecting over the edge of the half-way landing.
I ran up the stairs, and there, on the landing, I saw
John lying huddled up in a heap at the foot of the top
flight. There was a wound at the side of his forehead
from which a little blood was trickling. The case-opener
lay on the floor close by him and there was blood
on the axe-blade. When I looked up the stairs I saw
a rag of torn matting hanging over the top stair.
</p>
<p>
"It was quite easy to see what had happened. He
had walked quickly out on the landing with the case-opener
in his hand. His foot had caught in the torn
matting and he had pitched head foremost down the
stairs, still holding the case-opener. He had fallen so
that his head had come down on the upturned edge of
the axe-blade; he had then rolled over and the case-opener
had dropped from his hand.
</p>
<p>
"I lit a wax match and stooped down to look at
him. His head was in a very peculiar position, which
made me suspect that his neck was broken. There was
extremely little bleeding from the wound; he was perfectly
motionless; I could detect no sign of breathing;
and I felt no doubt that he was dead.
</p>
<p>
"It was an exceedingly regrettable affair, and it
placed me, as I perceived at once, in an extremely
awkward position. My first impulse was to send the
caretaker for a doctor and a policeman; but a moment's
reflection convinced me that there were serious
objections to this course.
</p>
<p>
"There was nothing to show that I had not, myself,
knocked him down with the case-opener. Of course,
there was nothing to show that I had; but we were
alone in the house with the exception of the caretaker,
who was down in the basement out of ear-shot.
</p>
<p>
"There would be an inquest. At the inquest, inquiries
would be made as to the will which was known to
exist. But, as soon as the will was produced, Hurst
would become suspicious. He would probably make a
statement to the coroner and I should be charged with
the murder. Or, even if I were not charged, Hurst
would suspect me and would probably repudiate the
assignment; and, under the circumstances, it would
be practically impossible for me to enforce it. He
would refuse to pay and I could not take my claim into
Court.
</p>
<p>
"I sat down on the stairs just above poor John's
body and considered the matter in detail. At the
worst, I stood a fair chance of hanging; at the best,
I stood to lose close upon fifty thousand pounds. These
were not pleasant alternatives.
</p>
<p>
"Supposing, on the other hand, I concealed the body
and gave out that John had gone to Paris. There
was, of course, the risk of discovery, in which case I
should certainly be convicted of the murder. But if
no discovery occurred, I was not only safe from suspicion,
but I secured the fifty thousand pounds. In
either case there was considerable risk, but in one there
was the certainty of loss, whereas in the other there
was a material advantage to justify the risk. The
question was whether it would be possible to conceal
the body. If it were, then the contingent profit was
worth the slight additional risk. But a human body
is a very difficult thing to dispose of, especially to a
person of so little scientific culture as myself.
</p>
<p>
"It is curious that I considered this question for a
quite considerable time before the obvious solution
presented itself. I turned over at least a dozen methods
of disposing of the body, and rejected them all as impracticable.
Then, suddenly, I remembered the mummy
upstairs.
</p>
<p>
"At first it only occurred to me as a fantastic possibility
that I could conceal the body in the mummy-case.
But as I turned over the idea, I began to see
that it was really practicable; and not only practicable
but easy; and not only easy but eminently safe. If
once the mummy-case was in the Museum, I was rid
of it for ever.
</p>
<p>
"The circumstances were, as you, sir, have justly
observed, singularly favourable. There would be no
hue and cry, no hurry, no anxiety; but ample time
for all the necessary preparations. Then the mummy-case
itself was curiously suitable. Its length was ample,
as I knew from having measured it. It was a cartonnage
of rather flexible material and had an opening
behind, secured with a lacing so that it could be opened
without injury. Nothing need be cut but the lacing,
which could be replaced. A little damage might be
done in extracting the mummy and in introducing
the deceased; but such cracks as might occur would
all be at the back and would be of no importance.
For here again Fortune favoured me. The whole of
the back of the mummy-case was coated with bitumen,
and it would be easy when once the deceased was safely
inside to apply a fresh coat, which would cover up not
only the cracks but also the new lacing.
</p>
<p>
"After careful consideration, I decided to adopt the
plan. I went downstairs and sent the caretaker on an
errand to the Law Courts. Then I returned and carried
the deceased up to one of the third-floor rooms,
where I removed his clothes and laid him out on a long
packing-case in the position in which he would lie in the
mummy-case. I folded his clothes neatly and packed
them, with the exception of his boots, in a suit-case
that he had been taking to Paris and which contained
nothing but his night-clothes, toilet articles, and a
change of linen. By the time I had done this and
thoroughly washed the oilcloth on the stairs and landing,
the caretaker had returned. I informed him that
Mr. Bellingham had started for Paris and then I went
home. The upper part of the house was, of course,
secured by the Chubb lock, but I had also&mdash;<i>ex abundanti&acirc;
cautelae</i>&mdash;locked the door of the room in which
I had deposited the deceased.
</p>
<p>
"I had, of course, some knowledge of the methods of
embalming, but principally of those employed by the
ancients. Hence, on the following day, I went to the
British Museum library and consulted the most recent
works on the subject; and exceedingly interesting they
were, as showing the remarkable improvements that
modern knowledge had effected in this ancient art. I
need not trouble you with details that are familiar
to you. The process that I selected as the simplest
for a beginner was that of formalin injection, and I
went straight from the Museum to purchase the necessary
materials. I did not, however, buy an embalming
syringe: the book stated that an ordinary anatomical
injecting syringe would answer the purpose, and I
thought it a more discreet purchase.
</p>
<p>
"I fear that I bungled the injection terribly, although
I had carefully studied the plates in a treatise
on anatomy&mdash;Gray's, I think. However, if my methods
were clumsy, they were quite effectual. I carried out
the process on the evening of the third day; and when
I locked up the house that night, I had the satisfaction
of knowing that poor John's remains were secure from
corruption and decay.
</p>
<p>
"But this was not enough. The great weight of a
fresh body as compared with that of a mummy would
be immediately noticed by those who had the handling
of the mummy-case. Moreover, the damp from the
body would quickly ruin the cartonnage and would
cause a steamy film on the inside of the glass case in
which it would be exhibited. And this would probably
lead to an examination. Clearly, then, it was necessary
that the remains of the deceased should be thoroughly
dried before they were enclosed in the cartonnage.
</p>
<p>
"Here my unfortunate deficiency in scientific knowledge
was a great drawback. I had no idea how this
result would be achieved, and in the end was compelled
to consult a taxidermist, to whom I represented that
I wished to collect small animals and reptiles and
rapidly dry them for convenience of transport. By
this person I was advised to immerse the dead animals
in a jar of methylated spirit for a week and then expose
them in a current of warm, dry air.
</p>
<p>
"But the plan of immersing the remains of the
deceased in a jar of methylated spirit was obviously
impracticable. However, I bethought me that we had
in our collection a porphyry sarcophagus, the cavity
of which had been shaped to receive a small mummy
in its case. I tried the deceased in the sarcophagus
and found that he just fitted the cavity loosely. I obtained
a few gallons of methylated spirit which I poured
into the cavity, just covering the body, and then I put
on the lid and luted it down air-tight with putty. I
trust I do not weary you with these particulars?"
</p>
<p>
"I'll ask you to cut it as short as you can, Mr. Jellicoe,"
said Badger. "It has been a long yarn and time
is running on."
</p>
<p>
"For my part," said Thorndyke, "I find these details
deeply interesting and instructive. They fill in the
outline that I had drawn by inference."
</p>
<p>
"Precisely," said Mr. Jellicoe; "then I will proceed.
</p>
<p>
"I left the deceased soaking in the spirit for a fortnight
and then took him out, wiped him dry, and laid
him on four cane-bottomed chairs just over the hot-water
pipes. I turned off the hot water in the other
rooms so as to concentrate the heat in these pipes, and
I let a free current of air pass through the room. The
result interested me exceedingly. By the end of the
third day the hands and feet had become quite dry
and shrivelled and horny&mdash;so that the ring actually
dropped off the shrunken finger&mdash;the nose looked like a
fold of parchment; and the skin of the body was so dry
and smooth that you could have engrossed a lease on
it. For the first day or two I turned the deceased at
intervals so that he should dry evenly, and then I
proceeded to get the case ready. I divided the lacing
and extracted the mummy with great care&mdash;with great
care as to the case, I mean; for the mummy suffered
some injury in the extraction. It was very badly embalmed,
and so brittle that it broke in several places
while I was getting it out; and when I unrolled it the
head separated and both the arms came off.
</p>
<p>
"On the sixth day after the removal from the sarcophagus,
I took the bandages that I had removed from
Sebek-hotep and very carefully wrapped the deceased
in them, sprinkling powdered myrrh and gum benzoin
freely on the body and between the folds of the wrappings
to disguise the faint odour of the spirit and the
formalin that still lingered about the body. When the
wrappings had been applied, the deceased really had
a most workmanlike appearance; he would have looked
quite well in a glass case even without the cartonnage,
and I felt almost regretful at having to put him out of
sight for ever.
</p>
<p>
"It was a difficult business getting him into the case
without assistance, and I cracked the cartonnage badly
in several places before he was safely enclosed. But
I got him in at last, and then, when I had closed up
the case with a new lacing, I applied a fresh layer of
bitumen which effectually covered up the cracks and
the new cord. A dusty cloth dabbed over the bitumen
when it was dry disguised its newness, and the cartonnage
with its tenant was ready for delivery. I
notified Doctor Norbury of the fact, and five days
later he came and removed it to the Museum.
</p>
<p>
"Now that the main difficulty was disposed of, I
began to consider the further difficulty to which you,
sir, have alluded with such admirable perspicuity. It
was necessary that John Bellingham should make one
more appearance in public before sinking into final
oblivion.
</p>
<p>
"Accordingly, I devised the visit to Hurst's house,
which was calculated to serve two purposes. It created
a satisfactory date for the disappearance, eliminating
me from any connection with it, and by throwing some
suspicion on Hurst it would make him more amenable&mdash;less
likely to dispute my claim when he learned the
provisions of the will.
</p>
<p>
"The affair was quite simple. I knew that Hurst
had changed his servants since I was last at his house,
and I knew his habits. On that day I took the suit-case
to Charing Cross and deposited it in the cloak-room,
called at Hurst's office to make sure that he was there,
and went from thence direct to Cannon Street and
caught the train to Eltham. On arriving at the house,
I took the precaution to remove my spectacles&mdash;the
only distinctive feature of my exterior&mdash;and was duly
shown into the study at my request. As soon as the
housemaid had left the room I quietly let myself out
by the French window, which I closed behind me but
could not fasten, went out at the side gate and closed
that also behind me, holding the bolt of the latch back
with my pocket-knife so that I need not slam the gate
to shut it.
</p>
<p>
"The other events of that day, including the dropping
of the scarab, I need not describe, as they are
known to you. But I may fitly make a few remarks
on the unfortunate tactical error into which I fell in
respect of the bones. That error arose, as you have
doubtless perceived, from the lawyer's incurable habit
of underestimating the scientific expert. I had no idea
that mere bones were capable of furnishing so much
information to a man of science.
</p>
<p>
"The way in which the affair came about was this:
The damaged mummy of Sebek-hotep, perishing gradually
by exposure to the air, was not only an eyesore
to me: it was a definite danger. It was the only remaining
link between me and the disappearance. I
resolved to be rid of it and cast about for some means
of destroying it. And then, in an evil moment, the
idea of utilising it occurred to me.
</p>
<p>
"There was an undoubted danger that the Court
might refuse to presume death after so short an interval;
and if the permission should be postponed, the will
might never be administered during my lifetime. Hence,
if these bones of Sebek-hotep could be made to simulate
the remains of the deceased testator, a definite good
would be achieved. But I knew that the entire skeleton
could never be mistaken for his. The deceased had
broken his knee-caps and damaged his ankle, injuries
which I assumed would leave some permanent trace.
But if a judicious selection of the bones were deposited
in a suitable place, together with some object clearly
identifiable as appertaining to the deceased, it seemed
to me that the difficulty would be met. I need not
trouble you with details. The course which I adopted
is known to you with the attendant circumstances, even
to the accidental detachment of the right hand&mdash;which
broke off as I was packing the arm in my handbag.
Erroneous as that course was, it would have been successful
but for the unforeseen contingency of your
being retained in the case.
</p>
<p>
"Thus, for nearly two years, I remained in complete
security. From time to time I dropped in at the
museum to see if the deceased was keeping in good condition;
and on those occasions I used to reflect with
satisfaction on the gratifying circumstance&mdash;accidental
though it was&mdash;that his wishes, as expressed (very imperfectly)
in clause two, had been fully complied with,
and that without prejudice to my interests.
</p>
<p>
"The awakening came on that evening when I saw
you at the Temple gate talking with Doctor Berkeley.
I suspected immediately that something had gone amiss
and that it was too late to take any useful action.
Since then, I have waited here in hourly expectation
of this visit. And now the time has come. You have
made the winning move and it remains only for me to
pay my debts like an honest gambler."
</p>
<p>
He paused and quietly lit his cigarette. Inspector
Badger yawned and put away his note-book.
</p>
<p>
"Have you done, Mr. Jellicoe?" the inspector asked.
"I want to carry out my contract to the letter, you
know, though it's getting devilish late."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Jellicoe took his cigarette from his mouth and
drank a glass of water.
</p>
<p>
"I forgot to ask," he said, "whether you unrolled
the mummy&mdash;if I may apply the term to the imperfectly
treated remains of my deceased client."
</p>
<p>
"I did not open the mummy-case," replied Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
"You did not!" exclaimed Mr. Jellicoe. "Then
how did you verify your suspicions?"
</p>
<p>
"I took an X-ray photograph."
</p>
<p>
"Ah! Indeed!" Mr. Jellicoe pondered for some
moments. "Astonishing!" he murmured; "and most
ingenious. The resources of science at the present day
are truly wonderful."
</p>
<p>
"Is there anything more that you want to say?"
asked Badger; "because, if you don't, time's
up."
</p>
<p>
"Anything more?" Mr. Jellicoe repeated slowly;
"anything more? No&mdash;I&mdash;think&mdash;think&mdash;the time&mdash;is&mdash;up.
Yes&mdash;the&mdash;the time&mdash;"
</p>
<p>
He broke off and sat with a strange look fixed on
Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
His face had suddenly undergone a curious change.
It looked shrunken and cadaverous and his lips had
assumed a peculiar cherry-red colour.
</p>
<p>
"Is anything the matter, Mr. Jellicoe?" Badger
asked uneasily. "Are you not feeling well, sir?"
</p>
<p>
Mr. Jellicoe did not appear to have heard the question,
for he returned no answer, but sat motionless,
leaning back in his chair, with his hands spread out
on the table and his strangely intent gaze bent on
Thorndyke.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly his head dropped on his breast and his
body seemed to collapse; and as with one accord we
sprang to our feet, he slid forward off his chair and
disappeared under the table.
</p>
<p>
"Good Lord! The man's fainted!" exclaimed
Badger.
</p>
<p>
In a moment he was down on his hands and knees,
trembling with excitement, groping under the table.
He dragged the unconscious lawyer out into the light
and knelt over him, staring into his face.
</p>
<p>
"What's the matter with him, Doctor?" he asked,
looking up at Thorndyke. "Is it apoplexy? Or is it
a heart attack, think you?"
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke shook his head, though he stooped and
put his fingers on the unconscious man's wrist. "Prussic
acid or potassium cyanide is what the appearances
suggest," he replied.
</p>
<p>
"But can't you do anything?" demanded the inspector.
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke dropped the arm, which fell limply to the
floor.
</p>
<p>
"You can't do much for a dead man," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Dead! Then he has slipped through our fingers
after all!"
</p>
<p>
"He has anticipated the sentence. That is all."
Thorndyke spoke in an even, impassive tone which
struck me as rather strange, considering the suddenness
of the tragedy, as did also the complete absence
of surprise in his manner. He seemed to treat the
occurrence as a perfectly natural one.
</p>
<p>
Not so Inspector Badger; who rose to his feet and
stood with his hands thrust into his pockets scowling
sullenly down at the dead lawyer.
</p>
<p>
"I was an infernal fool to agree to his blasted conditions,"
he growled savagely.
</p>
<p>
"Nonsense," said Thorndyke. "If you had broken
in, you would have found a dead man. As it was you
found a live man and obtained an important statement.
You acted quite properly."
</p>
<p>
"How do you suppose he managed it?" asked
Badger.
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke held out his hand. "Let us look at his
cigarette-case," said he.
</p>
<p>
Badger extracted the little silver case from the dead
man's pocket and opened it. There were five cigarettes
in it, two of which were plain, while the other three
were gold-tipped. Thorndyke took out one of each
kind and gently pinched their ends. The gold-tipped
one he returned; the plain one he tore through, about
a quarter of an inch from the end; when two little
white tabloids dropped out on the table. Badger
eagerly picked one up and was about to smell it when
Thorndyke grasped his wrist. "Be careful," said he;
and when he had cautiously sniffed at the tabloid&mdash;held
at a safe distance from his nose&mdash;he added: "Yes,
potassium cyanide. I thought so when his lips turned
that queer colour. It was in that last cigarette; you
can see that he has bitten off the end."
</p>
<p>
For some time we stood silently looking down at the
still form stretched on the floor. Presently Badger
looked up.
</p>
<p>
"As you pass the porter's lodge on your way out,"
said he, "you might just drop in and tell him to send
a constable to me."
</p>
<p>
"Very well," said Thorndyke. "And by the way,
Badger, you had better tip that sherry back into the
decanter and put it under lock and key, or else pour it
out of the window."
</p>
<p>
"Gad, yes!" exclaimed the inspector. "I'm glad
you mentioned it. We might have had an inquest on
a constable as well as a lawyer. Good night, gentlemen,
if you are off."
</p>
<p>
We went out and left him with his prisoner&mdash;passive
enough, indeed, according to his ambiguously worded
promise. As we passed through the gateway Thorndyke
gave the inspector's message, curtly and without
comment, to the gaping porter, and then we issued forth
into Chancery Lane.
</p>
<p>
We were all silent and very grave, and I thought that
Thorndyke seemed somewhat moved. Perhaps Mr. Jellicoe's
last intent look&mdash;which I suspect he knew to
be the look of a dying man&mdash;lingered in his memory
as it did in mine. Half-way down Chancery Lane he
spoke for the first time; and then it was only to ejaculate,
"Poor devil!"
</p>
<p>
Jervis took him up. "He was a consummate villain,
Thorndyke."
</p>
<p>
"Hardly that," was the reply. "I should rather
say that he was non-moral. He acted without malice
and without scruple or remorse. His conduct exhibited
a passionless expediency which was rather dreadful
because utterly unhuman. But he was a strong man&mdash;a
courageous, self-contained man, and I had been better
pleased if it could have been ordained that some other
hand than mine should let the axe fall."
</p>
<p>
Thorndyke's compunction may appear strange and
inconsistent, but yet his feeling was also my own.
Great as were the misery and suffering that this inscrutable
man had brought into the lives of those I loved,
I forgave him; and in his downfall forgot the callous
relentlessness with which he had pursued his evil purpose.
For he it was who had brought Ruth into my
life; who had opened for me the Paradise of Love into
which I had just entered. And so my thoughts turned
away from the still shape that lay on the floor of the
stately old room in Lincoln's Inn, away to the sunny
vista of the future, where I should walk hand in hand
with Ruth until my time, too, should come; until I,
too, like the grim lawyer, should hear the solemn evening
bell bidding me put out into the darkness of the
silent sea.
</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr class="full">
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10476 ***</div>
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