path: root/75461-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75461 ***


The Case of Miss Elliott

by Baroness Orczy

Published 1909, Greening & Co., Ltd. (London)



Contents.

    I. The Case of Miss Elliott
   II. The Hocussing of Cigarette
  III. The Tragedy in Dartmoor Terrace
   IV. Who Stove the Black Diamonds?
    V. The Murder of Miss Pebmarsh
   VI. The Lisson Grove Mystery
  VII. The Tremarn Case
 VIII. The Fate of the “Artemis”
   IX. The Disappearance of Count Collini
    X. The Ayrsham Mystery
   XI. The Affair at the Novelty Theatre
  XII. The Tragedy of Barnsdale Manor



[Frontispiece: A horse-drawn hansom cab at night-time. In the shadowy
interior of the cab sits a man in evening dress, leaning against the
side of the cab as if dozing. Another man stands beside the cab,
tentatively reaching in. Caption: “’E was dead and no mistake.”]



I. The Case of Miss Elliott

Chapter I

The man in the corner was watching me over the top of his great
bone-rimmed spectacles.

“Well?” he asked, after a little while.

“Well?” I repeated with some acerbity. I had been wondering for the
last ten minutes how many more knots he would manage to make in that
same bit of string, before he actually started undoing them again.

“Do I fidget you?” he asked apologetically, whilst his long bony
fingers buried themselves, string, knots, and all, into the capacious
pockets of his magnificent tweed ulster.

“Yes, that is another awful tragedy,” he said quietly, after a while.
“Lady doctors are having a pretty bad time of it just now.”

This was only his usual habit of speaking in response to my thoughts.
There was no doubt that at the present moment my mind was filled with
that extraordinary mystery which was setting all Scotland Yard by the
ears, and had completely thrown into the shade the sad story of Miss
Hickman’s tragic fate.

The _Daily Telegraph_ had printed two columns headed “Murder or
Suicide?” on the subject of the mysterious death of Miss Elliott,
matron of the Convalescent Home, in Suffolk Avenue—and I must confess
that a more profound and bewildering mystery had never been set before
our able detective department.

“It has puzzled them this time, and no mistake,” said the man in the
corner, with one of his most gruesome chuckles, “but I daresay the
public is quite satisfied that there is no solution to be found, since
the police have found none.”

“Can you find one?” I retorted with withering sarcasm.

“Oh, my solution would only be sneered at,” he replied. “It is far too
simple—and yet how logical! There was Miss Elliott, a good-looking,
youngish, lady-like woman, fully qualified in the medical profession
and in charge of the Convalescent Home in Suffolk Avenue, which is a
private institution largely patronised by the benevolent.

“For some time, already, there had appeared vague comments and rumours
in various papers, that the extensive charitable contributions did not
all go towards the up-keep of the Home. But, as is usual in
institutions of that sort, the public was not allowed to know anything
very definite, and contributions continued to flow in, whilst the
Honorary Treasurer of the great Convalescent Home kept up his
beautiful house in Hamilton Terrace, in a style which would not have
shamed a peer of the realm.

“That is how matters stood, when on 2nd November last the morning
papers contained the brief announcement that at a quarter past
midnight two workmen walking along Blomfield Road, Maida Vale,
suddenly came across the body of a young lady, lying on her face,
close to the wooden steps of the narrow foot-bridge which at this
point crosses the canal.

“This part of Maida Vale is, as you know, very lonely at all times,
but at night it is usually quite deserted. Blomfield Road, with its
row of small houses and bits of front gardens, faces the canal, and
beyond the foot-bridge is continued in a series of small riverside
wharves, which is practically unknown ground to the average Londoner.
The foot-bridge itself, with steps at right angles and high wooden
parapet, would offer excellent shelter at all hours of the night for
any nefarious deed.

“It was within its shadows that the men had found the body, and to
their credit be it said, they behaved like good and dutiful
citizens—one of them went off in search of the police, whilst the
other remained beside the corpse.

“From papers and books found upon her person, it was soon ascertained
that the deceased was Miss Elliott, the young matron of the Suffolk
Avenue Convalescent Home; and as she was very popular in her
profession and had a great many friends, the terrible tragedy caused a
sensation, all the more acute as very quickly the rumour gained ground
that the unfortunate young woman had taken her own life in a most
gruesome and mysterious manner.

“Preliminary medical and police investigation had revealed
the fact that Miss Elliott had died through a deep and
scientifically-administered gash in the throat, whilst the surgical
knife with which the deadly wound was inflicted still lay tightly
grasped in her clenched hand.”



Chapter II

The man in the corner, ever conscious of any effect he produced upon
my excited imagination, had paused for a while, giving me time, as it
were, to co-ordinate in my mind the few simple facts he had put before
me. I had no wish to make a remark, knowing of old that my one chance
of getting the whole of his interesting argument was to offer neither
comment nor contradiction.

“When a young, good-looking woman in the heyday of her success in an
interesting profession,” he began at last, “is alleged to have
committed suicide, the outside public immediately want to know the
reason why she did such a thing, and a kind of freemasonic, amateur
detective work goes on, which generally brings a few important truths
to light. Thus, in the case of Miss Elliott, certain facts had begun
to leak out, even before the inquest, with its many sensational
developments. Rumours concerning the internal administration, or
rather maladministration of the Home began to take more definite form.

“That its finances had been in a very shaky condition for some time
was known to all those who were interested in its welfare. What was
not so universally known was that few hospitals had had more
munificent donations and subscriptions showered upon them in recent
years, and yet it was openly spoken of by all the nurses that Miss
Elliott had on more than one occasion petitioned for actual
necessities for the patients—necessities which were denied to her on
the plea of necessary economy.

“The Convalescent Home was, as sometimes happens in institutions of
this sort, under the control of a committee of benevolent and
fashionable people who understood nothing about business, and less
still about the management of a hospital. Dr. Kinnaird, President of
the institution, was a young, eminently successful consultant; he had
recently married the daughter of a peer, who had boundless ambitions
for herself and her husband.

“Dr. Kinnaird, by adding the prestige of his name to the Home, no
doubt felt that he had done enough for its welfare. Against that, Dr.
Stapylton, Honorary Secretary and Treasurer of the Home, threw himself
heart and soul into the work connected with it, and gave a great deal
of his time to it. All subscriptions and donations went, of course,
through his hands, the benevolent and fashionable committee being only
too willing to shift all their financial responsibilities on to his
willing shoulders. He was a very popular man in society—a bachelor
with a magnificent house in Hamilton Terrace, where he entertained the
more eminent and fashionable clique in his own profession.

“It was the evening papers, however, which contained the most
sensational development of this tragic case. It appears that on the
Saturday afternoon Mary Dawson, one of the nurses in the Home was
going to the house surgeon’s office with a message from the head
nurse, when her attention was suddenly arrested in one of the passages
by the sound of loud voices proceeding from one of the rooms. She
paused to listen for a moment and at once recognised the voices of
Miss Elliott and of Dr. Stapylton, the Honorary Treasurer and Chairman
of Committee.

“The subject of conversation was evidently that of the eternal
question of finance. Miss Elliott spoke very indignantly, and Nurse
Dawson caught the words:

“‘Surely you must agree with me that Dr. Kinnaird ought to be informed
at once.’

“Dr. Stapylton’s voice in reply seems to have been at first bitingly
sarcastic, then threatening. Dawson heard nothing more after that, and
went on to deliver her message. On her way back she stopped in the
passage again, and tried to listen. This time it seemed to her as if
she could hear the sound of some one crying bitterly, and Dr.
Stapylton’s voice speaking very gently.

“‘You may be right, Nellie,’ he was saying. ‘At any rate, wait a few
days before telling Kinnaird. You know what he is—he’ll make a
frightful fuss and——’

“Whereupon Miss Elliott interrupted him.

“‘It isn’t fair to Dr. Kinnaird to keep him in ignorance any longer.
Whoever the thief may be it is your duty or mine to expose him, and if
necessary bring him to justice.’

“There was a good deal of discussion at the time, if you remember, as
to whether Nurse Dawson had overheard and repeated this speech
accurately: whether, in point of fact, Miss Elliott had used the words
‘_or_ mine’ or ‘_and_ mine.’ You see the neat little point, don’t
you?” continued the man in the corner. “The little word ‘and’ would
imply that she considered herself at one with Dr. Stapylton in the
matter, but ‘or’ would mean that she was resolved to act alone if he
refused to join her in unmasking the thief.

“All these facts, as I remarked before, had leaked out, as such facts
have a way of doing. No wonder, therefore, that on the day fixed for
the inquest the coroner’s court was filled to overflowing, both with
the public—ever eager for new sensations—and with the many friends of
the deceased lady, among whom young medical students of both sexes and
nurses in uniform were most conspicuous.

“I was there early, and therefore had a good seat, from which I could
comfortably watch the various actors in the drama about to be
performed. People who seemed to be in the know pointed out various
personages to one another, and it was a matter of note that, in spite
of professional engagements, the members of the staff of the
Convalescent Home were present in full force and stayed on almost the
whole time. The personages who chiefly arrested my attention were,
firstly, Dr. Kinnaird, a good-looking Irishman of about forty, and
President of the institution; also Dr. Earnshaw, a rising young
consultant, with boundless belief in himself written all over his
pleasant rubicund countenance.

“The expert medical evidence was once again thoroughly gone into.
There was absolutely no doubt that Miss Elliott had died from having
her throat cut with the surgical knife which was found grasped in her
right hand. There was absolutely no signs of a personal struggle in
the immediate vicinity of the body, and rigid examination proved that
there was no other mark of violence upon the body; there was nothing
therefore, to prove that the poor girl had not committed suicide in a
moment of mental aberration or of great personal grief.

“Of course, it was strange that she should have chosen this curious
mode of taking her own life. She had access to all kinds of poisons,
amongst which her medical knowledge could prompt her to choose the
least painful and most efficacious ones. Therefore, to have walked out
on a Sunday night to a wretched and unfrequented spot and there
committed suicide in that grim fashion seemed almost the work of a mad
woman. And yet the evidence of her family and friends all tended to
prove that Miss Elliott was a peculiarly sane, large-minded, and happy
individual.

“However, the suicide theory was at this stage of the proceedings
taken as being absolutely established, and when Police-Constable Fiske
came forward to give his evidence no one in the court was prepared for
a statement which suddenly revealed this case to be as mysterious as
it was tragic.

“Fiske’s story was this: Close upon midnight on that memorable Sunday
night he was walking down Blomfield Road along the side of the canal
and towards the foot-bridge, when he overtook a lady and gentleman who
were walking in the same direction as himself. He turned to look at
them, and noticed that the gentleman was in evening dress and wore a
high hat, and that the lady was crying.

“Blomfield Road is at best very badly lighted, especially on the side
next to the canal, where there are no lamps at all. Fiske, however,
was prepared to swear positively that the lady was the deceased. As
for the gentleman, he might know him again or he might not.

“Fiske then crossed the foot-bridge, and walked on towards the Harrow
Road. As he did so, he heard St. Mary Magdalen’s church clock chime
the hour of midnight. It was a quarter of an hour after that, that the
body of the unfortunate girl was found, and clasping in her hand the
knife with which that awful deed had been done. By whom? Was it really
by her own self? But if so, why did not that man in evening dress who
had last seen her alive come forward and throw some light upon this
fast thickening veil of mystery?

“It was Mr. James Elliott, brother of the deceased, however, who first
mentioned a name then in open court, which has ever since in the minds
of every one been associated with Miss Elliott’s tragic fate.

“He was speaking in answer to a question of the coroner’s anent his
sister’s disposition and recent frame of mind.

“‘She was always extremely cheerful,’ he said, ‘but recently had been
peculiarly bright and happy. I understood from her that this was
because she believed that a man for whom she had a great regard was
also very much attached to her, and meant to ask her to be his wife.’

“‘And do you know who this man was?’ asked the coroner.

“‘Oh, yes,’ replied Mr. Elliott, ‘it was Dr. Stapylton.’

“Every one had expected that name of course, for every one remembered
Nurse Dawson’s story, yet when it came, there crept over all those
present an undescribable feeling that something terrible was
impending.

“‘Is Dr. Stapylton here?’

“But Dr. Stapylton had sent in an excuse. A professional case of the
utmost urgency had kept him at a patient’s bedside. But Dr. Kinnaird,
the President of the institution, came forward.

“Questioned by the coroner, Dr. Kinnaird, however, who evidently had a
great regard for his colleague, repudiated any idea that the funds of
the institution had ever been tampered with by the Treasurer.

“‘The very suggestion of such a thing,’ he said, ‘was an outrage upon
one of the most brilliant men in the profession.’

“He further added that, although he knew that Dr. Stapylton thought
very highly of Miss Elliott, he did not think that there was any
actual engagement, and most decidedly he (Dr. Kinnaird) had heard
nothing of any disagreement between them.

“‘Then did Dr. Stapylton never tell you that Miss Elliott had often
chafed under the extraordinary economy practised in the richly-endowed
Home?’ asked the coroner again.

“‘No,’ replied Dr. Kinnaird.

“‘Was not that rather strange reticence?’

“‘Certainly not. I am only the Honorary President of the
institution—Stapylton has chief control of its finances.’

“‘Ah!’ remarked the coroner blandly.

“However, it was clearly no business of his at this moment to enter
into the financial affairs of the Home. His duty at this point was to
try and find out if Dr. Stapylton and the man in evening dress were
one and the same person.

“The men who found the body testified to the hour: a quarter past
midnight. As Fiske had seen the unfortunate girl alive a little before
twelve, she must have been murdered or had committed suicide between
midnight and a quarter past. But there was something more to come.

“How strange and dramatic it all was!” continued the man in the
corner, with a bland smile, altogether out of keeping with the
poignancy of his narrative; “all these people in that crowded court
trying to reconstruct the last chapter of that bright young matron’s
life and then—but I must not anticipate.

“One more witness was to be heard—one whom the police, with a totally
unconscious sense of what is dramatic, had reserved for the last. This
was Dr. Earnshaw, one of the staff of the Convalescent Home. His
evidence was very short, but of deeply momentous import. He explained
that he had consulting rooms in Weymouth Street, but resided in
Westbourne Square. On Sunday, 1st November, he had been dining out in
Maida Vale, and returning home a little before midnight saw a woman
standing close by the steps of the foot-bridge in the Blomfield Road.

“‘I had been coming down Formosa Street and had not specially taken
notice of her, when just as I reached the corner of Blomfield Road she
was joined by a man in evening dress and high hat. Then I crossed the
road, and recognised both Miss Elliott and——’

“The young doctor paused, almost as if hesitating before the enormity
of what he was about to say, whilst the excitement in court became
almost painful.

“‘And——?’ urged the coroner.

“‘And Dr. Stapylton,’ said Dr. Earnshaw at last, almost under his
breath.

“‘You are quite sure?’ asked the coroner.

“‘Absolutely positive. I spoke to them both, and they spoke to me.’

“‘What did you say?’

“‘Oh, the usual, “Hello, Stapylton,” to which he replied, “Hello!” I
then said “Good-night” to them both, and Miss Elliott also said
“Good-night.” I saw her face more clearly then, and thought that she
looked very tearful and unhappy, and Stapylton looked ill-tempered. I
wondered why they had chosen that unhallowed spot for a midnight
walk.’

“‘And you say the hour was——?’ asked the coroner.

“‘Ten minutes to twelve. I looked at my watch as I crossed the
foot-bridge, and had heard a quarter to twelve strike five minutes
before.’

“Then it was that the coroner adjourned the inquest. Dr. Stapylton’s
attendance had become absolutely imperative. According to Dr.
Earnshaw’s testimony, he had been with deceased certainly a quarter of
an hour before she met her terrible death. Fiske had seen them
together ten minutes later; she was then crying bitterly. There was as
yet no actual charge against the fashionable and rich doctor, but
already the ghostly bird of suspicion had touched him with its ugly
wing.”



Chapter III

“As for the next day,” continued the man in the corner after a slight
pause, “I can assure you that there was not a square foot of standing
room in the coroner’s court for the adjourned inquest. It was timed
for eleven a.m., and at six o’clock on that cold winter’s morning the
pavement outside the court was already crowded. As for me, I always
manage to get a front seat, and I did on that occasion, too. I fancy
that I was the first among the general public to note Dr. Stapylton as
he entered the room accompanied by his solicitor, and by Dr. Kinnaird,
with whom he was chatting very cheerfully and pleasantly.

“Mind you, I am a great admirer of the medical profession, and I think
a clever and successful doctor usually has a most delightful air about
him—the consciousness of great and good work done—with profit to
himself—which is quite unique and quite admirable.

“Dr. Stapylton had that air even to a greater extent than his
colleague, and from the affectionate way in which Dr. Kinnaird finally
shook him by the hand, it was quite clear that the respected chief of
the Convalescent Home, at any rate, refused to harbour any suspicion
of the integrity of its Treasurer.

“Well, I must not weary you by dwelling on the unimportant details of
this momentous inquest. Constable Fiske, who was asked to identify the
gentleman in evening dress whom he had seen with the deceased at a few
minutes before twelve, failed to recognise Dr. Stapylton very
positively: pressed very closely, he finally refused to swear either
way. Against that, Dr. Earnshaw repeated clearly and categorically,
looking his colleague straight in the face the while, the damnatory
evidence he had given the day before.

“‘I saw Dr. Stapylton, I spoke to him, and he spoke to me,’ he
repeated most emphatically.

“Every one in that court was watching Dr. Stapylton’s face, which wore
an air of supreme nonchalance, even of contempt, but certainly neither
of guilt nor of fear.

“Of course, by that time _I_ had fully made up my mind as to where the
hitch lay in this extraordinary mystery; but no one else had, and
every one held their breath as Dr. Stapylton quietly stepped into the
box, and after a few preliminary questions the coroner asked him very
abruptly:

“‘You were in the company of the deceased a few minutes before she
died, Dr. Stapylton?’

“‘Pardon me,’ replied the latter quietly, ‘I last saw Miss Elliott
alive on Saturday afternoon, just before I went home from my work.’

“This calm reply, delivered without a tremor, positively made every
one gasp. For the moment coroner and jury were alike staggered.

“‘But we have two witnesses here who saw you in the company of the
deceased within a few minutes of twelve o’clock on the Sunday night!’
the coroner managed to gasp out at last.

“‘Pardon me,’ again interposed the doctor, ‘these witnesses were
mistaken.’

“‘Mistaken!’

“I think every one would have shouted out the word in boundless
astonishment had they dared to do so.

“‘Dr. Earnshaw was mistaken,’ reiterated Dr. Stapylton quietly. ‘He
neither saw me nor did he speak to me.’

“‘You can substantiate that, of course?’ queried the coroner.

“‘Pardon me,’ once more said the doctor, with utmost calm, ‘it is
surely Dr. Earnshaw who should substantiate _his_ statement.’

“‘There is Constable Fiske’s corroborative evidence for that,’
retorted the coroner, somewhat nettled.

“‘Hardly, I think. You see, the constable states that he saw a
gentleman in evening dress, etc., talking to the deceased at a minute
or two before twelve o’clock, and that when he heard the clock of St.
Mary Magdalen chime the hour of midnight he was just walking away from
the foot-bridge. Now, just as that very church clock was chiming that
hour, I was stepping into a cab at the corner of Harrow Road, not a
hundred yards _in front_ of Constable Fiske.’

“‘You swear to that?’ queried the coroner in amazement.

“‘I can easily prove it,’ said Dr. Stapylton. ‘The cabman who drove me
from there to my club is here and can corroborate my statement.’

“And amidst boundless excitement, John Smith, a hansom cab-driver,
stated that he was hailed in the Harrow Road by the last witness, who
told him to drive to the Royal Clinical Club, in Mardon Street. Just
as he started off, St. Mary Magdalen’s church, close by, struck the
hour of midnight.

“At that very moment, if you remember, Constable Fiske had just
crossed the foot-bridge, and was walking towards the Harrow Road, and
he was quite sure (for he was closely questioned afterwards) that no
one overtook him from behind. Now there would be no way of getting
from one side of the canal to the other at this point except over that
foot-bridge; the nearest bridge is fully two hundred yards further
down the Blomfield Road. The girl was alive a minute _before_ the
constable crossed the foot-bridge, and it would have been absolutely
impossible for any one to have murdered a girl, placed the knife in
her hand, run a couple of hundred yards to the next bridge and another
three hundred to the corner of Harrow Road, all in the space of three
minutes.

“This _alibi_, therefore, absolutely cleared Dr. Stapylton from any
suspicion of having murdered Miss Elliott. And yet, looking on that
man as he sat there, calm, cool and contemptuous, no one could have
had the slightest doubt but that he was lying—lying when he said he
had not seen Miss Elliott that evening; lying when he denied Dr.
Earnshaw’s statement; lying when he professed himself ignorant of the
poor girl’s fate.

“Dr. Earnshaw repeated his statement with the same emphasis, but it
was one man’s word against another’s, and as Dr. Stapylton was so
glaringly innocent of the actual murder, there seemed no valid reason
at all why he should have denied having seen her that night, and the
point was allowed to drop. As for Nurse Dawson’s story of his alleged
quarrel with Miss Elliott on the Saturday night, Dr. Stapylton again
had a simple and logical explanation.

“‘People who listen at keyholes,’ he said quietly, ‘are apt to hear
only fragments of conversation, and often mistake ordinary loud voices
for quarrels. As a matter of fact, Miss Elliott and I were discussing
the dismissal of certain nurses from the Home, whom she deemed
incompetent. Nurse Dawson was among that number. She desired their
immediate dismissal, and I tried to pacify her. That was the subject
of my conversation with the deceased lady. I can swear to every word
of it.’”



Chapter IV

The man in the corner had long ceased speaking, and was placing
quietly before me a number of photographs. One by one I saw the series
of faces which had been watched so eagerly in the coroner’s court that
memorable afternoon by an excited crowd.

“So the fate of poor Miss Elliott has remained wrapt in mystery?” I
said thoughtfully at last.

“To every one,” rejoined the funny creature, “except to me.”

“Ah! What is your theory, then?”

“A simple one, dear lady: so simple that it really amazes me, that no
one, not even you, my faithful pupil, ever thought of it.”

“It may be so simple that it becomes idiotic,” I retorted with lofty
disdain.

“Well, that may be. Shall I at any rate try to make it clear.”

“If you like.”

“For this I think the best way would be, if you were to follow me
through what transpired before the inquest. But first tell me, what do
you think of Dr. Earnshaw’s statement?”

“Well,” I replied, “a good many people thought that it was he who
murdered Miss Elliott, and that his story of meeting Dr. Stapylton
with her was a lie from beginning to end.”

“Impossible!” he retorted, making an elaborate knot in his bit of
string. “Dr. Earnshaw’s friends, with whom he had been dining that
night, swore that he was _not_ in evening dress, nor wore a high hat.
And on that point—the evening dress, and the hat—Constable Fiske was
most positive.”

“Then Dr. Earnshaw was mistaken, and it was not Dr. Stapylton he met.”

“Impossible!” he shrieked, whilst another knot went to join its
fellows. “He spoke to Dr. Stapylton, and Dr. Stapylton spoke to him.”

“Very well, then,” I argued; “why should Dr. Stapylton tell a lie
about it? He had such a conclusive _alibi_ that there could be no
object in his making a false statement about that.”

“No object!” shrieked the excited creature. “Why, don’t you _see_ that
he had to tell the lie in order to set police, coroner and jury by the
ears, because he did not wish it to be even remotely hinted at, that
the man whom Dr. Earnshaw saw with Miss Elliott, and the man whom
Constable Fiske saw with her ten minutes later, were _two different
persons_.”

“Two different persons!” I ejaculated.

“Ay! two confederates in this villany. No one has ever attempted to
deny the truth of the shaky finances of the Home; no one has really
denied that Miss Elliott suspected certain defalcations and was trying
to force the hands of the Honorary Treasurer towards a full enquiry.
That the Honorary Treasurer knew where all the money went to was
pretty clear all along—his magnificent house in Hamilton Terrace fully
testifies to that. That the President of the institution was a party
to these defalcations and largely profited by them I for one am
equally convinced.”

“Dr. Kinnaird?” I ejaculated in amazement.

“Ay, Dr. Kinnaird. Do you mean to tell me that he alone among the
entire staff of that Home was ignorant of those defalcations?
Impossible! And if he knew of them, and did neither inquire into them
nor attempt to stop them, then he _must_ have been a party to them. Do
you admit that?”

“Yes, I admit that,” I replied.

“Very well, then. The rest is quite simple. Those two men, unworthy to
bear the noble appellation of doctor, must for years have quietly
stolen the money subscribed by the benevolent for the Home, and
converted it to their own use: then, they suddenly find themselves
face to face with immediate discovery in the shape of a young girl
determined to unmask the systematic frauds of the past few years. That
meant exposure, disgrace, ruin for them both, and they determine to be
rid of her.

“Under the pretence of an evening walk, her so-called lover entices
her to a lonely and suitable spot; his confederate is close by, hidden
in the shadows, ready to give him assistance if the girl struggles and
screams. But suddenly Dr. Earnshaw appears. He recognises Stapylton
and challenges him. For a moment the villains are nonplussed, then
Kinnaird—the cleverer of the two—steps forward, greets the two lovers
unconcernedly, and after two minutes’ conversation casually reminds
Stapylton of an appointment the latter is presumed to have at a club
in St. James’ Street.

“The latter understands and takes the hint, and takes a quick farewell
of the girl, leaving her in his friend’s charge, then as fast as he
can, goes off, presently takes a cab, leaving his friend to do the
deed, whilst the _alibi_ he can prove, coupled with Dr. Earnshaw’s
statement, was sure to bewilder and mislead the police and the public.

“Thus it was that though Dr. Earnshaw saw and recognised Dr.
Stapylton, Constable Fiske saw Dr. Kinnaird, whom he did _not_
recognise, on whom no suspicion had fallen, and whose name had never
been coupled with that of Miss Elliott. When Constable Fiske had
turned his back, Kinnaird murdered the girl and went off quietly,
whilst Dr. Stapylton, on whom all suspicions were bound to fasten
sooner or later, was able to prove the most perfect _alibi_ ever
concocted.

“One day I feel certain that the frauds at the Home will be
discovered, and then who knows what else may see the light?

“Think of it all quietly when I am gone, and to-morrow when we meet
tell me whether if _I_ am wrong what is _your_ explanation of this
extraordinary mystery.”

Before I could reply he had gone, and I was left wondering, gazing at
the photographs of two good-looking, highly respectable and respected
men, whom an animated scarecrow had just boldly accused of committing
one of the most dastardly crimes ever recorded in our annals.



II. The Hocussing of Cigarette

Chapter I

Quite by chance I found myself one morning sitting before a
marble-topped table in the A.B.C. shop. I really wondered for the
moment what had brought me there, and felt cross with myself for being
there at all. Having sampled my tea and roll, I soon buried myself in
the capacious folds of my _Daily Telegraph_.

“A glass of milk and a cheesecake, please,” said a well-known voice.

The next moment I was staring into the corner, straight at a pair of
mild, watery blue eyes, hidden behind great bone-rimmed spectacles,
and at ten long bony fingers, round which a piece of string was
provokingly intertwined.

There he was as usual, wearing—for it was chilly—a huge tweed ulster,
of a pattern too lofty to be described. Smiling, bland, apologetic,
and fidgety, he sat before me as the living embodiment of the reason
why I had come to the A.B.C. shop that morning.

“How do you do?” I said with as much dignity as I could command.

“I see that you are interested in Cigarette,” he remarked, pointing to
a special column in the _Daily Telegraph_.

“She is quite herself again,” I said.

“Yes, but you don’t know who tried to poison her and succeeded in
making her very ill. You don’t know whether the man Palk had anything
to do with it, whether he was bribed, or whether it was Mrs. Keeson or
the groom Cockram who told a lie, or why——?”

“No,” I admitted reluctantly; “I don’t know any of these things.”

He was fidgeting nervously in the corner, wriggling about like an
animated scarecrow. Then suddenly a bland smile illuminated his entire
face. His long bony finger had caught the end of the bit of string,
and there he was at it again, just as I had seen him a year ago,
worrying and fidgeting, making knot upon knot, and untying them again,
whilst his blue eyes peered at me over the top of his gigantic
spectacles.

“I would like to know what your theory is about the whole thing,” I
was compelled to say at last; for the case had interested me deeply,
and, after all, I had come to the A.B.C. shop for the sole purpose of
discussing the adventures of Cigarette with him.

“Oh, my theories are not worth considering,” he said meekly. “The
police would not give me five shillings for any one of them. They
always prefer a mystery to any logical conclusion, if it is arrived at
by an outsider. But you may be more lucky. The owner of Cigarette did
offer £100 reward for the elucidation of the mystery. The noble Earl
must have backed Cigarette for all he was worth. Malicious tongues go
even so far as to say that he is practically a ruined man now, and
that the beautiful Lady Agnes is only too glad to find herself the
wife of Harold Keeson, the son of the well-known trainer.

“If you ever go to Newmarket,” continued the man in the corner, after
a slight pause, during which he had been absorbed in unravelling one
of his most complicated knots, “any one will point out the Keesons’
house to you. It is called Manor House, and stands in the midst of
beautiful gardens. Mr. Keeson himself is a man of about fifty, and, as
a matter of fact, is of very good family, the Keesons having owned
property in the Midlands for the past eight hundred years. Of this
fact he is, it appears, extremely proud. His father, however, was a
notorious spendthrift, who squandered his property, and died in the
nick of time, leaving his son absolutely penniless and proud as
Lucifer.

“Fate, however, has been kind to George Keeson. His knowledge of
horses and of all matters connected with the turf stood him in good
stead; hard work and perseverance did the rest. Now, at fifty years of
age, he is a very rich man, and practically at the head of a
profession, which if not exactly that of a gentleman, is, at any rate,
highly remunerative.

“He owns Manor House, and lived there with his young wife and his only
son and heir, Harold.

“It was Mr. Keeson who had trained Cigarette for the Earl of
Okehampton, and who, of course, had charge of her during her
apprenticeship, before she was destined to win a fortune for her
owner, her trainer, and those favoured few who had got wind of her
capabilities. For Cigarette was to be kept a dark horse—not an easy
matter in these days, when the neighbourhood of every racecourse
abounds with rascals who eke out a precarious livelihood by various
methods more or less shady, of which the gleaning of early information
is perhaps the least disreputable.

“Fortunately for Mr. Keeson, however, he had in the groom, Cockram, a
trusted and valued servant, who had been in his employ for over ten
years. To say that Cockram took a special pride in Cigarette would be
but to put it mildly. He positively loved the mare, and I don’t think
that any one ever doubted that his interest in her welfare was every
bit as keen as that of the Earl of Okehampton or of Mr. Keeson.

“It was to Cockram, therefore, that Mr. Keeson entrusted the care of
Cigarette. She was lodged in the private stables adjoining the Manor
House, and during the few days immediately preceding the ‘Coronation
Stakes’ the groom practically never left her side, either night or
day. He slept in the loosebox with her, and ate all his meals in her
company; nor was any one allowed to come within measurable distance of
the living treasure, save Mr. Keeson or the Earl of Okehampton
himself.

“And yet, in spite of all these precautions, in spite of every care
that human ingenuity could devise, on the very morning of the race
Cigarette was seized with every symptom of poisoning, and although, as
you say, she is quite herself again now, she was far too ill to fulfil
her engagement, and, if rumour speaks correctly, completed thereby the
ruin of the Earl of Okehampton.”



Chapter II

The man in the corner looked at me through his bone-rimmed spectacles,
and his mild blue eyes gazed pleasantly into mine.

“You may well imagine,” he continued, after a while, “what a
thunderbolt such a catastrophe means to those whose hopes of a fortune
rested upon the fitness of the bay mare. Mr. Keeson lost his temper
for an instant, they say—but for one instant only. When he was hastily
summoned at six o’clock in the morning to Cigarette’s stables, and saw
her lying on the straw, rigid and with glassy eyes, he raised his
heavy riding-whip over the head of Cockram. Some assert that he
actually struck him, and that the groom was too wretched and too dazed
to resent either words or blows. After a good deal of hesitation he
reluctantly admitted that for the first time since Cigarette had been
in his charge he had slept long and heavily.

“‘I am such a light sleeper, you know, sir,’ he said in a tear-choked
voice. ‘Usually I could hear every noise the mare made if she stirred
at all. But there—last night I cannot say _what_ happened. I remember
that I felt rather drowsy after my supper, and must have dropped off
to sleep very quickly. Once during the night I woke up; the mare was
all right then.’

“The man paused, and seemed to be searching for something in his
mind—the recollection of a dream, perhaps. But the veterinary surgeon,
who was present at the time, having also been hastily summoned to the
stables, took up the glass which had contained the beer for Cockram’s
supper. He sniffed it, and then tasted it, and said quietly:

“‘No wonder you slept heavily, my man. This beer was drugged: it
contained opium.’

“‘Drugged!’ ejaculated Cockram, who, on hearing this fact, which in
every way exonerated him from blame, seemed more hopelessly wretched
than he had been before.

“It appears that every night Cockram’s supper was brought out to him
in the stables by one of the servants from the Manor House. On this
particular night Mrs. Keeson’s maid, a young girl named Alice Image,
had brought him a glass of beer and some bread and cheese on a tray at
about eleven o’clock.

“Closely questioned by Mr. Keeson, the girl emphatically denied all
knowledge of any drug in the beer. She had often taken the supper-tray
across to Cockram, who was her sweetheart, she said. It was usually
placed ready for her in the hall, and when she had finished attending
upon her mistress’s night toilet she went over to the stables with it.
She had certainly never touched the beer, and the tray had stood in
its accustomed place on the hall table looking just the same as usual.
‘As if I’d go and poison my Cockram!’ she said in the midst of a
deluge of tears.

“All these somewhat scanty facts crept into the evening papers that
same day. That an outrage of a peculiarly daring and cunning character
had been perpetrated was not for a moment in doubt. So much money had
been at stake, so many people would be half ruined by it, that even
the non-racing public at once took the keenest interest in the case.
All the papers admitted, of course, that for the moment the affair
seemed peculiarly mysterious, yet all commented upon one fact, which
they suggested should prove an important clue: this fact was Cockram’s
strange attitude.

“At first he had been dazed—probably owing to the after-effects of the
drug; he had also seemed too wretched even to resent Mr. Keeson’s very
natural outburst of wrath. But then, when the presence of the drug in
his beer was detected, which proved _him_ at any rate, to have been
guiltless in the matter, his answers, according to all accounts,
became somewhat confused; and all Mr. Keeson and the ‘vet.,’ who were
present, got out of him after that, was a perpetual ejaculation:
‘What’s to be done? What’s to be done?’

“Two days later the sporting papers were the first to announce, with
much glee, that, thanks to the untiring energy of the Scotland Yard
authorities, daylight seemed at last to have been brought to bear upon
the mystery which surrounded the dastardly outrage on the Earl of
Okehampton’s mare, Cigarette, and that an important arrest in
connection with it had already been effected.

“It appears that a man named Charles Palk, seemingly of no address,
had all along been suspected of having at least a hand in the outrage.
He was believed to be a bookmaker’s tout, and was a man upon whom the
police had long since kept a watchful eye. Palk had been seen loafing
round the Manor House for the past week, and had been warned off the
grounds once or twice by the grooms.

“It now transpired that on the day preceding the outrage he had hung
about the neighbourhood of the Manor House the whole afternoon, trying
to get into conversation with the stable-boys, or even with Mr.
Keeson’s indoor servants. No one, however, would have anything to do
with him, as Mr. Keeson’s orders in those respects were very strict:
he had often threatened any one of his _employés_ with instant
dismissal if he found him in company with one of these touts.

“Detective Twiss, however, who was in charge of the case, obtained the
information that Alice Image, the maid, had been seen on more than one
occasion talking to Palk, and that on the very day before the
Coronation Stakes she had been seen in his company. Closely questioned
by the detective, Alice Image at first denied her intercourse with the
tout, but finally was forced to admit that she had held conversation
with him once or twice.

“She was fond of putting a bit now and again upon a horse, but
Cockram, she added, was such a muff that he never would give her a
tip, for he did not approve of betting for young women. Palk had
always been very civil and nice-spoken she further explained.
Moreover, he came from Buckinghamshire, her own part of the country,
where she was born; anyway, she had never had cause to regret having
entrusted a half-sovereign or so of her wages to him.

“All these explanations delivered by Alice Image, with the flow of
tears peculiar to her kind, were not considered satisfactory, and the
next day she and Charles Palk were both arrested on the charge of
being concerned in the poisoning of the Earl of Okehampton’s mare
Cigarette, with intent to do her grievous bodily harm.”



Chapter III

“These sort of cases,” continued the man in the corner after a slight
pause, during which his nervous fingers toyed incessantly with that
eternal bit of string—“these sort of cases always create a great deal
of attention amongst the public, the majority of whom in this country
have very strong sporting proclivities. It was small wonder,
therefore, when Alice Image and Charles Palk were brought before the
local magistrates, that the court was crowded to overflowing, both
with Pressmen and with the general public.

“I had all along been very much interested in the case, so I went down
to Newmarket, and, in spite of the huge crowd, managed to get a good
seat, whence I could command a full view of the chief personages
concerned in this thrilling sporting drama.

“Firstly, there was the Earl of Okehampton—good-looking, but for an
unmistakable air of the broken-down sporting man about his whole
person; the trainer, Mr. Keeson—a lean, clean-shaven man, with a fine,
proud carriage, and a general air of ancient lineage and the ‘Domesday
Booke’ about him; Mrs. Keeson—a pale, nervous-looking creature, who
seemed very much out of place in this sporting set; and, finally, the
accused—Alice Image, dissolved in tears, and Charles Palk,
over-dressed, defiant, horsey, and unsympathetic.

“There was also Cockram, the groom. My short-sighted eyes had fastened
on him the moment I entered the court. A more wretched, miserable,
bewildered expression I have never seen on any man’s face.

“Both Alice Image and Charles Palk flatly denied the charge. Alice
declared, amid a renewed deluge of tears, that she was engaged to be
married to Cockram, that she ‘no more would have hurt him or the
pretty creature he was in charge of, for anything.’ How could she? As
for Palk—conscious, no doubt, of his own evil reputation—he merely
contented himself with shrugging his shoulders and various denials,
usually accompanied with emphatic language.

“As neither of the accused attempted to deny that they had been
together the day before the outrage, there was no occasion to call
witnesses to further prove that fact. Both, however, asserted
emphatically that their conversation was entirely confined to the
subject of Alice’s proposed flutters on the favourite for the next
day’s race.

“Thus the only really important witness was the groom Cockram. Once
again his attitude as a witness caused a great deal of surprise, and
gradually, as he gave his evidence in a peculiarly halting and nervous
manner, that surprise was changed into suspicion.

“Questioned by the magistrate, he tried his hardest to exonerate Alice
from all blame; and yet when asked whether he had cause to suspect any
one else he became more confused than ever, said, ‘No,’ emphatically
first, then, ‘Yes,’ and finally looked round the court appealingly,
like some poor animal at bay. That the man was hiding something, that
he was, in point of fact, lying, was apparent to every one. He had
drunk the beer, he said, unsuspectingly, on that fatal night; he had
then dropped off to sleep almost immediately, and never woke until
about six a.m., when a glance at the mare at once told him that there
was something very wrong.

“However, whether Cockram was lying or not—whether he suspected any
one else or was merely trying to shield his sweetheart, there was, in
the opinion of the magistrate, quite sufficient evidence to prove that
Alice Image, at any rate, had a hand in the hocussing of Cigarette,
since it was she who had brought the drugged beer to Cockram. Beyond
that there was not sufficient evidence to show either that she was a
tool in the hands of Palk, or that they both were merely instruments
in the hands of some third person.

“Anyway, the magistrate—it was Major Laverton, J.P., a great personal
friend of the Earl of Okehampton, and a remarkably clever and acute
man—tried his hardest to induce Alice to confess. He questioned the
poor girl so closely and so rigorously that gradually she lost what
little self-control she had, and every one in the court blamed Major
Laverton not a little, for he was gradually getting the poor girl into
a state of hysterics.

“As for me, I inwardly commended the learned J.P., for already I had
guessed what he was driving at, and was not the least astonished when
the dramatic incident occurred which rendered this case so memorable.

“Alice Image, namely, now thoroughly unnerved, harassed with the
Major’s questions, suddenly turned to where Cockram was sitting, and,
with a hysterical cry, she stretched out both her arms towards him.

“‘Joe! my Joe!’ she cried; ‘you know I didn’t do it! Can’t you do
anything to help me?’

“It was pathetic in the extreme: every one in the court felt deeply
moved. As for Cockram, a sudden change came over him. I am accustomed
to read the faces of my fellow men, and in that rough countenance I
saw then emerging, in response to the girl’s appeal, a quick and firm
resolution.

“‘Ay, and I will, Alice!’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘I have tried
to do my duty. If the gentlemen will hear me I will say all I know.’

“Needless to say ‘the gentlemen’ were only too ready to hear him. Like
a man who, having made up his mind, is now resolved to act upon it,
the groom Cockram began his story.

“‘I told your worship that, having drunk the beer that night, I
dropped off to sleep very fast and very heavy-like. How long I’d been
asleep I couldn’t say, when suddenly something seemed not exactly to
wake me, but to dispel my dreams, so to speak. I opened my eyes, and
at first I couldn’t see anything, as the gas in the stable was turned
on very low; but I put out my hand to feel the mare’s fetlocks, just
by way of telling her that I was there all right enough, and looking
after her—bless her! At that moment, your worship, I noticed that the
stable-door was open, and that some one—I couldn’t see who it was—was
goin’ out of it. “Who goes there!” says I, for I still felt very
sleepy and dull, when, to my astonishment, who should reply to me
but——’

“The man paused, and once more over his rough, honest face came the
old look of perplexity and misery.

“‘But——?’ queried the magistrate, whose nerves were obviously as much
on tension as those of every one else in that court.

“‘Speak, Joe—won’t you?’ appealed Alice Image pathetically.

“‘But the mistress—Mrs. Keeson, sir,’ came from the groom in an almost
inaudible whisper. ‘You know, ma’am,’ he added, while the gathering
tears choked his voice, ‘I wouldn’t ’ave spoke. But she’s my
sweetheart, ma’am; and I couldn’t bear that the shame should rest on
her.’

“There was a moment’s deadly silence in that crowded court. Every
one’s eyes wandered towards the pale face of Mrs. Keeson, which,
however, though almost livid in colour, expressed nothing but the most
boundless astonishment. As for Mr. Keeson, surprise, incredulity, then
furious wrath at the slander, could be seen chasing one another upon
his handsome face.

“‘What lie is this?’ burst involuntarily from his lips, as his fingers
closed more tightly upon the heavy riding-whip which he was holding.

“‘Silence, please!’ said the Major with authority. ‘Now, Cockram, go
on. You say Mrs. Keeson spoke to you. What did she say?’

“‘She seemed rather upset, sir,’ continued Cockram, still looking with
humble apology across at his mistress, ‘for she only stammered
something about: “Oh, it’s nothing, Cockram. I only wanted to speak to
my son—er—to Mr. Harold—I——”’

“‘Harold?’ thundered Mr. Keeson, who was fast losing his temper.

“‘I must ask you, Mr. Keeson, to be silent,’ said the Major. ‘Go on,
Cockram.’

“And Cockram continued his narrative:

“‘“Mr. Harold, ma’am?” I said. “What should ’e be doing ’ere in the
stables at this time of night?” “Oh, nothing,” says she to me, “I
thought I saw him come in here. I must have been mistaken. Never mind,
Cockram; it’s all right. Good-night.”

“‘I said good-night too, and then fell to wondering what Mr. ’Arold
could have wanted prowling round the stables at this hour of the
night. Just then the clock of St. Saviour’s struck four o’clock, and
while I was still wondering I fell asleep again, and never awoke till
six, when the mare was as sick as she could be. And that’s the whole
truth, gentlemen; and I would never have spoke—for Mr. and Mrs. Keeson
have always been good to me, and I’d have done anything to save them
the disgrace—but Alice is goin’ to be my wife, and I couldn’t bear any
shame to rest upon ’er.’

“When Cockram had finished speaking you might have heard a pin drop as
Major Laverton asked Mrs. Keeson to step into the witness-box. She
looked fragile and pale but otherwise quite self-possessed, as she
quietly kissed the book and said in a very firm tone of voice:

“‘I can only say in reply to the extraordinary story which this man
has just told that the drug in the beer must have given him peculiarly
vivid dreams. At the hour he names I was in bed fast asleep, as my
husband can testify; and the whole of Cockram’s narrative is a
fabrication from beginning to end. I may add that I am more than
willing to forgive him. No doubt his brain was clouded by the opiate;
and now he is beside himself owing to Alice Image’s predicament. As
for my son Harold, he was absent from home that night; he was spending
it with some bachelor friends at the “Stag and Mantle” hotel in
Newmarket.’

“‘Yes! By the way,’ said the magistrate, ‘where is Mr. Harold Keeson?
I have no doubt that he will be able to give a very good account of
himself on that memorable night.’

“‘My son is abroad, your worship,’ said Mrs. Keeson, while a shade of
a still more livid hue passed over her face.

“‘Abroad, is he?’ said the magistrate cheerfully. ‘Well, that settles
the point satisfactorily for him—doesn’t it? When did he go?’

“‘Last Thursday, your worship,’ replied Mrs. Keeson.

“Then there was silence again in the court, for that last Thursday was
the day of the ‘Coronation Stakes’—the day immediately following the
memorable night on which the mare Cigarette had been poisoned by an
unknown hand.”



Chapter IV

“I doubt whether in all the annals of criminal procedure there ever
occurred a more dramatic moment than that when so strange a ray of
daylight was shed on the mysterious outrage on Cigarette. The
magistrate, having dismissed Mrs. Keeson, hardly dared to look across
at the trainer, who was a personal friend of his, and who had just
received such a cruel blow through this terrible charge against his
only son—for at that moment I doubt if there were two people in that
court who did not think that Mrs. Keeson had just sworn a false oath,
and that both she and her son had been in the stables that night—for
what purpose only they and their own conscience could tell.

“Alice Image and Charles Palk were both discharged; and it is greatly
to the credit of Cockram that in the midst of his joy in seeing his
sweetheart safe he still remained very gloomy and upset. As for Mr.
Keeson, he must have suffered terribly at all this mud cast at his
only son. He had been wounded in what he worshipped more than anything
else in the world—his family honour. What was the use of money and the
old estates if such a stain rested upon his name?

“As for Mrs. Keeson, public sympathy was very much overshadowed with
contempt for her stupidity. Had she only held her tongue when Cockram
challenged her, suspicion would never have fastened upon Harold. The
fact that she had lied in the witness-box in order to try and remedy
her blunder was also very severely commented upon. The young man had
gone abroad on that memorable Thursday accompanied by two of his
bachelor friends. They had gone on a fishing expedition to Norway, and
were not expected home for three weeks. As they meant to move from
place to place they had left no address: letters and telegrams were
therefore useless.

“During those three weeks pending Harold Keeson’s return certain facts
leaked out which did not tend to improve his case. It appears that he
had long been in love with Lady Agnes Stourcliffe, the daughter of the
Earl of Okehampton. Some people asserted that the young people were
actually—though secretly—engaged. The Earl, however, seems all along
to have objected to the marriage of his daughter with the son of a
trainer, and on more than one occasion had remarked that he had not
sunk quite so low yet as to allow so preposterous a _mésalliance_. Mr.
Keeson, whose family pride was at least equal to that of the Earl, had
naturally very much resented this attitude, and had often begged his
son to give up his pretensions, since they were manifestly so
unwelcome.

“Harold Keeson, however, was deeply in love; and Lady Agnes stuck to
him with womanly constancy and devotion. Unfortunately a climax was
reached some days before the disastrous events at Newmarket. The Earl
of Okehampton suddenly took up a very firm stand on the subject of
Harold Keeson’s courtship of his daughter. Some hot words were
exchanged between the two men, ending in an open breach, the Earl
positively forbidding the young man ever to enter his house again.

“Harold was terribly unhappy at this turn of events. Pride forbade him
to take an unfair advantage of a young girl’s devotion, and, acting on
the advice of his parents, he started for his tour in Norway,
ostensibly in order to try and forget the fair Lady Agnes. This
unhappy love-affair, ending in an open and bitter quarrel between
himself and the owner of Cigarette, did—as I said before—the young
man’s case no good. At the instance of the Earl of Okehampton, who
determined to prosecute him, he was arrested on landing at Harwich.

“Well,” continued the man in the corner, “the next events must be
still fresh in your mind. When Harold Keeson appeared in the dock,
charged with such meanness as to wreak his private grievance upon a
dumb animal, public sympathy at once veered round in his favour. He
looked so handsome, so frank and honest, that at once one felt
convinced that _his_ hand, at any rate, could never have done such a
dastardly thing.

“Mr. Keeson, who was a rich man, moreover, had enlisted the services
of Sir Arthur Inglewood, who had, in the short time at his disposal,
collected all the most important evidence on behalf of his client.

“The two young men who had been travelling in Norway with Harold
Keeson had been present with him on the memorable night at a bachelor
party given by a mutual friend at the ‘Stag and Mantle.’ Both
testified that the party had played bridge until the small hours of
the morning, that between two rubbers—the rooms being very hot—they
had all strolled out to smoke a cigar in the streets. Just as they
were about to re-enter the hotel two church clocks—one of which was
St. Saviour’s—chimed out the hour—four o’clock.

“Four o’clock was the hour when Cockram said that he had spoken to
Mrs. Keeson. Harold had not left the party at the ‘Stag and Mantle’
since ten o’clock, which was an hour before Alice Image took the
drugged beer to the groom. The whole edifice of the prosecution thus
crumbled together like a house of cards, and Harold Keeson was
discharged, without the slightest suspicion clinging to him.

“Six months later he married Lady Agnes Stourcliffe. The Earl, now a
completely ruined man, offered no further opposition to the union of
his daughter with a man who, at any rate, could keep her in comfort
and luxury; for though both Mr. Keeson and his son lost heavily
through Cigarette’s illness, yet the trainer was sufficiently rich to
offer his son and his bride a very beautiful home.”

The man in the corner called to the waitress, and paid for his glass
of milk and cheesecake, whilst I remained absorbed in thought, gazing
at the _Daily Telegraph_, which, in its “London Day by Day,” had this
very morning announced that Mr. and Lady Agnes Keeson had returned to
town from “The Rookery,” Newmarket.



Chapter V

“But who poisoned Cigarette?” I asked after a while; “and why?”

“Ah, who did, I wonder?” he replied with exasperating mildness.

“Surely you have a theory,” I suggested.

“Ah, but my theories are not worth considering. The police would take
no notice of them.”

“Why did Mrs. Keeson go to the stables that night? Did she go?” I
asked.

“Cockram swears she did.”

“She swears she didn’t. If she did why should she have asked for her
son? Surely she did not wish to incriminate her son in order to save
herself?”

“No,” he replied; “women don’t save themselves usually at the expense
of their children, and women don’t usually ‘hocus’ a horse. It is not
a female crime at all—is it?”

The aggravating creature was getting terribly sarcastic; and I began
to fear that he was not going to speak, after all. He was looking
dejectedly all around him. I had one or two parcels by me. I undid a
piece of string from one of them, and handed it to him with the most
perfectly indifferent air I could command.

“I wonder if it was Cockram who told a lie?” I then said
unconcernedly.

But already he had seized on that bit of string, and, nervously now,
his long fingers began fashioning a series of complicated knots.

“Let us take things from the beginning,” he said at last. “The
beginning of the mystery was the contradictory statements made by the
groom Cockram and Mrs. Keeson respectively. Let us take, first of all,
the question of the groom. The matter is simple enough: either he saw
Mrs. Keeson or he did not. If he did not see her then he must have
told a lie, either unintentionally or by design—unintentionally if he
was mistaken; but this could not very well be since he asserted that
Mrs. Keeson spoke to him, and even mentioned her son, Mr. Harold
Keeson. Therefore, if Cockram did not see Mrs. Keeson he told a lie by
design for some purpose of his own. You follow me?”

“Yes,” I replied; “I have thought all that out for myself already.”

“Very well. Now, could there be some even remotely plausible motive
why Cockram should have told that deliberate lie?”

“To save his sweetheart, Alice Image,” I said.

“But you forget that his sweetheart was not accused at first, and
that, from the very beginning, Cockram’s manner, when questioned on
the subject of the events of that night was strange and contradictory
in the extreme.”

“He may have known from the first that Alice Image was guilty,” I
argued.

“In that case he would have merely asserted that he had seen and heard
nothing during the night, or if he wished to lie about it, he would
have said that it was Palk, the tout, who sneaked into the stables,
rather than incriminate his mistress, who had been good and kind to
him for years.”

“He may have wished to be revenged on Mrs. Keeson for some reason
which has not yet transpired.”

“How? By making a statement which, if untrue, could be so easily
disproved by Mr. Keeson himself, who, as a matter of fact, could
easily assert that his wife did not leave her bedroom that night; or
by incriminating Mr. Harold Keeson, who could prove an _alibi_? Not
much of a revenge there, you must admit. No, no; the more you reflect
seriously upon these possibilities the deeper will become your
conviction that Cockram did not lie either accidentally or on purpose;
that he did see Mrs. Keeson at that hour at the stable-door; that she
did speak to him; and that it was she who told the lie in open court.”

“But,” I asked, feeling more bewildered than before, “why should Mrs.
Keeson have gone to the stables and asked for her son when she must
have known that he was not there, but that her inquiry would make it,
to say the least, extremely unpleasant for him?”

“Why?” he shrieked excitedly, jumping up like a veritable
jack-in-the-box. “Ah, if you would only learn to reflect you might in
time become a fairly able journalist. Why did Mrs. Keeson momentarily
incriminate her son?—for it was only a momentary incrimination. Think,
think! A woman does not incriminate her child to save herself; but she
might do it to save some one else—some one who was dearer to her than
that child.”

“Nonsense!” I protested.

“Nonsense, is it?” he replied. “You have only to think of the
characters of the chief personages who figured in the drama—of the
trainer Keeson, with his hasty temper and his inordinate family pride.
Was it likely when the half-ruined Earl of Okehampton talked of
_mésalliance_, and forbade the marriage of his daughter with his
trainer’s son that the latter would not resent that insult with
terrible bitterness? and, resenting it, not think of some means of
being even with the noble Earl? Can you not imagine the proud man
boiling with indignation on hearing his son’s tale of how Lord
Okehampton had forbidden him the house? Can you not hear him saying to
himself:

“‘Well, by —— the trainer’s son _shall_ marry the Earl’s daughter!’

“And the scheme—simple and effectual—whereby the ruin of the arrogant
nobleman would be made so complete that he would be only too willing
to allow his daughter to marry any one who would give her a good home
and him a helping hand?”

“But,” I objected, “why should Mr. Keeson take the trouble to drug the
groom and sneak out to the stables at dead of night when he had access
to the mare at all hours of the day?”

“Why?” shrieked the animated scarecrow. “Why? Because Keeson was just
one of those clever criminals, with a sufficiency of brains to throw
police and public alike off the scent. Cockram, remember, spent every
moment of the day and night with the mare. Therefore, if he had been
in full possession of his senses and could positively swear that no
one had had access to Cigarette but his master and himself, suspicion
was bound to fasten, sooner or later, on Keeson. But Keeson was a bit
of a genius in the criminal line. Seemingly, he could have had no
motive for drugging the groom, yet he added that last artistic touch
to his clever crime, and thus threw a final bucketful of sand in the
eyes of the police.”

“Even then,” I argued, “Cockram might just have woke up—might just
have caught Keeson in the act.”

“Exactly. And that is, no doubt, what Mrs. Keeson feared.

“She was a brave woman, if ever there was one. Can you not picture
her, knowing her husband’s violent temper, his indomitable pride, and
guessing that he would find some means of being revenged on the Earl
of Okehampton. Can you not imagine her watching her husband and
gradually guessing, realising what he had in his mind when, in the
middle of the night, she saw him steal out of bed and out of the
house? Can you not see her following him stealthily—afraid of him,
perhaps—not daring to interfere—terrified above all things of the
consequences of his crime, of the risks of Cockram waking up, of the
exposure, the disgrace?

“Then the final tableau:—Keeson having accomplished his purpose, goes
back towards the house, and she—perhaps with a vague hope that she
might yet save the mare by taking away the poison which Keeson had
prepared—in her turn goes to the stables. But this time the groom is
half awake, and challenges her. Then her instinct—that unerring
instinct which always prompts a really good woman when the loved one
is in danger—suggests to Mrs. Keeson the clever subterfuge of
pretending that she had seen her son entering the stables.

“She asks for him, _knowing well that she could do him no harm_ since
he could so easily prove an _alibi_, but thereby throwing a veritable
cloud of dust in the eyes of the keenest enquirer, and casting over
the hocussing of Cigarette so thick a mantle of mystery that
suspicion, groping blindly round, could never fasten tightly on any
one.

“Think of it all,” he added as, gathering up his hat and umbrella, he
prepared to go, “and remember at the same time that it was Mr. Keeson
alone who could disprove that his wife never left her room that night,
that he did not do this, that he guessed what she had done and why she
had done it, and I think that you will admit that not one link is
missing in the chain of evidence which I have had the privilege of
laying before you.”

Before I could reply he had gone, and I saw his strange scarecrow-like
figure disappearing through the glass door. Then I had a good think on
the subject of the hocussing of Cigarette, and I was reluctantly bound
to admit that once again the man in the corner had found the only
possible solution to the mystery.



III. The Tragedy in Dartmoor Terrace

Chapter I

“It is not by any means the Law and Police Courts that form the only
interesting reading in the daily papers,” said the man in the corner
airily, as he munched his eternal bit of cheesecake and sipped his
glass of milk, like a frowsy old tom-cat.

“You don’t agree with me,” he added, for I offered no comment to his
obvious remark.

“No?” I answered. “I suppose you were thinking——”

“Of the tragic death of Mrs. Yule, for instance,” he replied eagerly.
“Beyond the inquest, and its very unsatisfactory verdict, very few
circumstances connected with that interesting case ever got into the
papers at all.”

“I forget what the verdict actually was,” I said, eager, too, on my
side to hear him talk about that mysterious tragedy, which, as a
matter of fact, had puzzled a good many people.

“Oh, it was as vague and as wordy as the English language would allow.
The jury found that ‘Mrs. Yule had died through falling downstairs, in
consequence of a fainting attack, but _how_ she came to fall is not
clearly shown.’

“What had happened was this: Mrs. Yule was a rich and eccentric old
lady, who lived very quietly in a small house in Kensington; No. 9
Dartmoor Terrace is, I believe, the correct address.

“She had no expensive tastes, for she lived, as I said before, very
simply and quietly in a small Kensington house, with two female
servants—a cook and a housemaid—and a young fellow whom she had
adopted as her son.

“The story of this adoption is, of course, the pivot round which all
the circumstances of the mysterious tragedy revolved. Mrs. Yule,
namely, had an only son, William, to whom she was passionately
attached, but, like many a fond mother, she had the desire of mapping
out that son’s future entirely according to her own ideas. William
Yule, on the other hand, had his own views with regard to his own
happiness, and one fine day went so far as to marry the girl of his
choice, and that in direct opposition to his mother’s wishes.

“Mrs. Yule’s chagrin and horror at what she called her son’s base
ingratitude knew no bounds; at first it was even thought that she
would never get over it.

“‘He has gone in direct opposition to my fondest wishes, and chose a
wife whom I could never accept as a daughter; he shall have none of
the property which has enriched me, and which I know he covets.’

“At first her friends imagined that she meant to leave all her money
to charitable institutions; but oh! dear me, no! Mrs. Yule was one of
those women who never did anything that other people expected her to.
Within three years of her son’s marriage she had filled up the place
which he had vacated, both in her house and in her heart. She had
adopted a son, preferring, as she said, that her money should benefit
an individual rather than an institution.

“Her choice had fallen upon the only son of a poor man—an
ex-soldier—who used to come twice a week to Dartmoor Terrace to tidy
up the small garden at the back: he was very respectable and very
honest—was born in the same part of England as Mrs. Yule, and had an
only son whose name happened to be William; he rejoiced in the surname
of Bloggs.

“‘It suits me in every way,’ explained Mrs. Yule to old Mr. Statham,
her friend and solicitor. ‘You see, I am used to the name of William,
and the boy is nice-looking and has done very well at the Board
School. Moreover, old Bloggs will die within a year or two, and
William will be left without any encumbrances.’

“Herein Mrs. Yule’s prophecy proved to be correct. Old Bloggs did die
very soon, and his son was duly adopted by the rich and eccentric old
lady, sent to a good school, and finally given a berth in the Union
Bank.

“I saw young Bloggs—it is not a euphonious name, is it?—at that
memorable inquest later on. He was very young and unassuming, and used
to keep very much out of the way of Mrs. Yule’s friends, who, mind
you, strongly disapproved of his presence in the rich old widow’s
house, to the detriment of the only legitimate son and heir.

“What happened within the intimate and close circle of 9, Dartmoor
Terrace, during the next three years of course nobody can tell.
Certain it is that by the time young Bloggs was nearing his
twenty-first birthday, he had become the very apple of his adopted
mother’s eye.

“During those three years Mr. Statham and other old friends had worked
hard in the interests of William Yule. Every one felt that the latter
was being very badly treated indeed. He had studied painting in his
younger days, and now had set up a small studio in Hampstead, and was
making perhaps a couple of hundred or so a year, and that, with much
difficulty, whilst the gardener’s son had supplanted him in his
mother’s affections, and, worse still, in his mother’s purse.

“The old lady was more obdurate than ever. In deference to the strong
feelings of her friends she had agreed to see her son occasionally,
and William Yule would call upon his mother from time to time—in the
middle of the day when Bloggs was out of the way at the Bank—stay to
tea, and part from her in frigid, though otherwise amicable, terms.

“‘I have no ill-feeling against my son,’ the old lady would say, ‘but
when he married against my wishes, he became a stranger to me—that is
all—a stranger, however, whose pleasant acquaintanceship I am pleased
to keep up.’

“That the old lady meant to carry her eccentricities in this respect
to the bitter end, became all the more evident when she sent for her
old friend and lawyer, Mr. Statham, and explained to him that she
wished to make over to young Bloggs the whole of her property by deed
of gift, during her lifetime—on condition that on his twenty-first
birthday he legally took up the name of Yule.

“Mr. Statham subsequently made public, as you know, the whole of this
interview which he had with Mrs. Yule.

“‘I tried to dissuade her, of course,’ he said, ‘for I thought it so
terribly unfair on William Yule and his children. Moreover, I had
always hoped that when Mrs. Yule grew older and more feeble she would
surely relent towards her only son. But she was terribly obstinate.’

“‘It is because I may become weak in my dotage,’ she said, ‘that I
want to make the whole thing absolutely final—I don’t want to relent.
I wish that William should suffer, where I think he will suffer most,
for he was always over fond of money. If I make a will in favour of
Bloggs, who knows I might repent it, and alter it at the eleventh
hour? One is apt to become maudlin when one is dying, and has people
weeping all round one. No!—I want the whole thing to be absolutely
irrevocable; and I shall present the deed of gift to young Bloggs on
his twenty-first birthday. I can always make it a condition that he
keeps me in moderate comfort to the end of my days. He is too big a
fool to be really ungrateful, and after all I don’t think I should
very much mind ending my life in the workhouse.’

“‘What could I do?’ added Mr. Statham. ‘If I had refused to draw up
that iniquitous deed of gift, she only would have employed some other
lawyer to do it for her. As it is, I secured an annuity of £500 a year
for the old lady, in consideration of a gift worth some £30,000 made
over absolutely to Mr. William Bloggs.’

“The deed was drawn up,” continued the man in the corner, “there is no
doubt of that. Mr. Statham saw to it. The old lady even insisted on
having two more legal opinions upon it, lest there should be the
slightest flaw that might render the deed invalid. Moreover, she
caused herself to be examined by two specialists in order that they
might testify that she was absolutely sound in mind, and in full
possession of all her faculties.

“When the deed was all that the law could wish, Mr. Statham handed it
over to Mrs. Yule, who wished to keep it by her until 3rd April—young
Bloggs’ twenty-first birthday—on which day she meant to surprise him
with it.

“Mr. Statham handed over the deed to Mrs. Yule on 14th February, and
on 28th March—that is to say, six days before Bloggs’ majority—the old
lady was found dead at the foot of the stairs in Dartmoor Terrace,
whilst her desk was found to have been broken open, and the deed of
gift had disappeared.”



Chapter II

“From the very first the public took a very great interest in the sad
death of Mrs. Yule. The old lady’s eccentricities were pretty well
known throughout all her neighbourhood, at any rate. Then, she had a
large circle of friends, who all took sides, either for the disowned
son or for the old lady’s rigid and staunch principles of filial
obedience.

“Directly, therefore, that the papers mentioned the sudden death of
Mrs. Yule, tongues began to wag, and, whilst some asserted ‘Accident,’
others had already begun to whisper ‘Murder.’

“For the moment nothing definite was known. Mr. Bloggs had sent for
Mr. Statham, and the most persevering and most inquisitive persons of
both sexes could glean no information from the cautious old lawyer.

“The inquest was to be held on the following day, and perforce
curiosity had to be bridled until then. But you may imagine how that
coroner’s court at Kensington was packed on that day. I, of course,
was at my usual place—well to the front—for I was already keenly
interested in the tragedy, and knew that a palpitating mystery lurked
behind the old lady’s death.

“Annie, the housemaid at Dartmoor Terrace, was the first, and I may
say the only really important witness during that interesting inquest.
The story she told amounted to this: Mrs. Yule, it appears, was very
religious, and, in spite of her advancing years and decided weakness
of the heart, was in the habit of going to early morning service every
day of her life at six o’clock. She would get up before any one else
in the house, and winter or summer, rain, snow, or fine, she would
walk round to St. Matthias’ Church, coming home at about a quarter to
seven, just when her servants were getting up.

“On this sad morning (28th March) Annie explained that she got up as
usual and went downstairs (the servants slept at the top of the house)
at seven o’clock. She noticed nothing wrong, her mistress’s bedroom
door was open as usual, Annie merely remarking to herself that the
mistress was later than usual from church that morning. Then suddenly,
in the hall at the foot of the stairs, she caught sight of Mrs. Yule
lying head downwards, her head on the mat, motionless.

“‘I ran downstairs as quickly as I could,’ continued Annie, ‘and I
suppose I must ’ave screamed, for cook came out of ’er room upstairs,
and Mr. Bloggs, too, shouted down to know what was the matter. At
first we thought Mrs. Yule was unconscious-like. Me and Mr. Bloggs
carried ’er to ’er room, and then Mr. Bloggs ran for the doctor.’

“The rest of Annie’s story,” continued the man in the corner, “was
drowned in a deluge of tears. As for the doctor, he could add but
little to what the public had already known and guessed. Mrs. Yule
undoubtedly suffered from a weak heart, although she had never been
known to faint. In this instance, however, she undoubtedly must have
turned giddy, as she was about to go downstairs, and fallen headlong.
She was of course very much injured, the doctor explained, but she
actually died of heart failure, brought on by the shock of the fall.
She must have been on her way to church, for her prayer book was found
on the floor close by her, also a candle—which she must have carried,
as it was a dark morning—had rolled along and extinguished itself as
it rolled. From these facts, therefore, it was gathered that the poor
old lady came by this tragic death at about six o’clock, the hour at
which she regularly started out for morning service. Both the servants
and also Mr. Bloggs slept at the top of the house, and it is a known
fact that sleep in most cases is always heaviest in the early morning
hours; there was, therefore, nothing strange in the fact that no one
heard either the fall or a scream, if Mrs. Yule uttered one, which is
doubtful.

“So far, you see,” continued the man in the corner, after a slight
pause, “there did not appear to be anything very out of the way or
mysterious about Mrs. Yule’s tragic death. But the public expected
interesting developments, and I must say their expectations were more
than fully realised.

“Jane, the cook, was the first witness to give the public an inkling
of the sensations to come.

“She deposed that on Thursday, the 27th, she was alone in the kitchen
in the evening after dinner, as it was the housemaid’s evening out,
when, at about nine o’clock, there was a ring at the bell.

“‘I went to answer the door,’ said Jane, ‘and there was a lady, all
dressed in black, as far as I could see—as the ’all gas always did
burn very badly—still, I think she was dressed dark, and she ’ad on a
big ’at and a veil with spots. She says to me: “Mrs. Yule lives ’ere?”
I says, “She do, ’m,” though I don’t think she was quite the lady, so
I don’t know why I said ’m, but——’

“‘Yes, yes!’ here interrupted the coroner somewhat impatiently, ‘it
doesn’t matter what you said. Tell us what happened.’

“‘Yes, sir,’ continued Jane, quite undisturbed, ‘as I was saying, I
asked the lady her name, and she says: “Tell Mrs. Yule I would wish to
speak with her,” then as she saw me ’esitating, for I didn’t like
leaving her all alone in the ’all, she said, “Tell Mrs. Yule that Mrs.
William Yule wishes to speak with ’er.”’

“Jane paused to take breath, for she talked fast and volubly, and all
eyes were turned to a corner of the room, where William Yule, dressed
in the careless fashion affected by artists, sat watching and
listening eagerly to everything that was going on. At the mention of
his wife’s name he shrugged his shoulders, and I thought for the
moment that he would jump up and say something; but he evidently
thought better of it, and remained as before, silent and quietly
watching.

“‘You showed the lady upstairs?’ asked the coroner, after an instant’s
most dramatic pause.

“‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jane; ‘but I went to ask the mistress first. Mrs.
Yule was sitting in the drawing-room, reading. She says to me, “Show
the lady up at once; and, Jane,” she says, “ask Mr. Bloggs to kindly
come to the drawing-room.” I showed the lady up, and I told Mr.
Bloggs, who was smoking in the library, and ’e went to the
drawing-room.

“‘When Annie come in,’ continued Jane with increased volubility, ‘I
told ’er ’oo ’ad come, and she and me was very astonished, because we
’ad often seen Mr. William Yule come to see ’is mother, but we ’ad
never seen ’is wife. “Did you see what she was like cook?” says Annie
to me. “No,” I says, “the ’all gas was burnin’ that badly, and she ’ad
a veil on.” Then Annie ups and says, “I must go up, cook,” she says,
“for my things is all wet. I never did see such rain in all my life. I
tell you my boots and petticoats is all soaked through.” Then up she
runs, and I thought then that per’aps she meant to see if she couldn’t
’ear anything that was goin’ on upstairs. Presently she come down——’

“But at this point Jane’s flow of eloquence received an unexpected
check. The coroner preferred to hear from Annie herself whatever the
latter may have overheard, and Jane, very wrathful and indignant, had
to stand aside, while Annie, who was then recalled, completed the
story.

“‘I don’t know what made me stop on the landing,’ she explained
timidly, ‘and I’m sure I didn’t mean to listen. I was going upstairs
to change my things, and put on my cap and apron, in case the mistress
wanted anything.

“‘Then, I don’t think I ever ’eard Mrs. Yule’s voice so loud and
angry.’

“‘You stopped to listen?’ asked the coroner.

“‘I couldn’t help it, sir. Mrs. Yule was shouting at the top of ’er
voice. “Out of my house,” she says; “I never wish to see you or your
precious husband inside my doors again.”’

“‘You are quite sure that you heard those very words?’ asked the
coroner earnestly.

“‘I’ll take my Bible oath on every one of them, sir,’ said Annie
emphatically. ‘Then I could ’ear some one crying and moaning: “Oh!
what have I done? Oh! what have I done?” I didn’t like to stand on the
landing then, for fear some one should come out, so I ran upstairs,
and put on my cap and apron, for I was all in a tremble, what with
what I’d heard, and the storm outside, which was coming down terrible.

“‘When I went down again, I ’ardly durst stand on the landing, but the
door of the drawing-room was ajar, and I ’eard Mr. Bloggs say: “Surely
you will not turn a human being, much less a woman, out on a night
like this?” And the mistress said, still speaking very angrily: “Very
well, you may sleep here; but remember, I don’t wish to see your face
again. I go to church at six and come home again at seven; mind you
are out of the house before then. There are plenty of trains after
seven o’clock.”’

“After that,” continued the man in the corner, “Mrs. Yule rang for the
housemaid and gave orders that the spare-room should be got ready, and
that the visitor should have some tea and toast brought to her in the
morning as soon as Annie was up.

“But Annie was rather late on that eventful morning of the 28th. She
did not go downstairs till seven o’clock. When she did, she found her
mistress lying dead at the foot of the stairs. It was not until after
the doctor had been and gone that both the servants suddenly
recollected the guest in the spare room. Annie knocked at her door,
and, receiving no answer, she walked in; the bed had not been slept
in, and the spare room was empty.

“‘There, now!’ was the housemaid’s decisive comment, ‘me and cook did
’ear some one cross the ’all, and the front door bang about an hour
after every one else was in bed.’

“Presumably, therefore, Mrs. William Yule had braved the elements and
left the house at about midnight, leaving no trace behind her, save
perhaps the broken lock of the desk that had held the deed of gift in
favour of young Bloggs.”



Chapter III

“Some say there’s a Providence that watches over us,” said the man in
the corner, when he had looked at me keenly, and had assured himself
that I was really interested in his narrative, “others use the less
poetic and more direct formula, that ‘the devil takes care of his
own.’ The impression of the general public during this interesting
coroner’s inquest was that the devil was taking special care of his
own—(‘his own’ being in this instance represented by Mrs. William
Yule, who, by the way, was not present).

“What the Evil One had done for her was this: He caused the hall gas
to burn so badly on that eventful Thursday night, 27th March, that
Jane, the cook, had not been able to see Mrs. William Yule at all
distinctly. He, moreover, decreed that when Annie went into the
drawing-room later on to take her mistress’s orders, with regard to
the spare room, Mrs. William was apparently dissolved in tears, for
she only presented the back of her head to the inquisitive glances of
the young housemaid.

“After that the two servants went to bed, and heard some one cross the
hall and leave the house about an hour or so later; but neither of
them could swear positively that they would recognise the mysterious
visitor if they set eyes on her again.

“Throughout all these proceedings, however, you may be sure that Mr.
William Yule did not remain a passive spectator. In fact I, who
watched him, could see quite clearly that he had the greatest possible
difficulty in controlling himself. Mind you, I knew by then exactly
where the hitch lay, and I could, and will presently, tell you exactly
all that occurred on Thursday evening, 27th March, at No. 9, Dartmoor
Terrace, just as if I had spent that memorable night there myself; and
I can assure you that it gave me great pleasure to watch the faces of
the two men most interested in the verdict of this coroner’s jury.

“Every one’s sympathy had by now entirely veered round to young
Bloggs, who for years had been brought up to expect a fortune, and had
then, at the last moment, been defrauded of it, through what looked
already much like a crime. The deed of gift had, of course, not been
what the lawyers call ‘completed.’ It had rested in Mrs. Yule’s desk,
and had never been ‘delivered’ by the donor to the donee, or even to
another person on his behalf.

“Young Bloggs, therefore, saw himself suddenly destined to live his
life as penniless as he had been when he was still the old gardener’s
son.

“No doubt the public felt that what lurked mostly in his mind was a
desire for revenge, and I think everyone forgave him when he gave his
evidence with a distinct tone of animosity against the woman who had
apparently succeeded in robbing him of a fortune.

“He had only met Mrs. William Yule once before, he explained, but he
was ready to swear that it was she who called that night. As for the
original motive of the quarrel between the two ladies, young Bloggs
was inclined to think that it was mostly on the question of money.

“‘Mrs. William,’ continued the young man, ‘made certain peremptory
demands on Mrs. Yule, which the old lady bitterly resented.’

“But here there was an awful and sudden interruption. William Yule,
now quite beside himself with rage, had with one bound reached the
witness-box, and struck young Bloggs a violent blow in the face.

“‘Liar and cheat!’ he roared, ‘take that!’

“And he prepared to deal the young man another even more vigorous
blow, when he was overpowered and seized by the constables. Young
Bloggs had become positively livid; his face looked grey and ashen,
except there, where his powerful assailant’s fist had left a deep
purple mark.

“‘You have done your wife’s cause no good,’ remarked the coroner
drily, as William Yule, sullen and defiant, was forcibly dragged back
to his place. ‘I shall adjourn the inquest until Monday, and will
expect Mrs. Yule to be present and to explain exactly what happened
after her quarrel with the deceased, and why she left the house so
suddenly and mysteriously that night.’

“William Yule tried an explanation even then. His wife had never left
the studio in Sheriff Road, West Hampstead, the whole of that Thursday
evening. It was a fearfully stormy night, and she never went outside
the door. But the Yules kept no servant at the cheap little rooms; a
charwoman used to come in every morning only for an hour or two, to do
the rough work; there was no one, therefore, except the husband
himself to prove Mrs. William Yule’s _alibi_.

“At the adjourned inquest, on the Monday, Mrs. William Yule duly
appeared; she was a young, delicate-looking woman, with a patient and
suffering face, that had not an atom of determination or vice in it.

“Her evidence was very simple; she merely swore solemnly that she had
spent the whole evening indoors, she had never been to 9, Dartmoor
Terrace, in her life, and, as a matter of fact, would never have dared
to call on her irreconcilable mother-in-law. Neither she nor her
husband were specially in want of money either.

“‘My husband had just sold a picture at the Water Colour Institute,’
she explained, ‘we were not hard up; and certainly I should never have
attempted to make the slightest demand on Mrs. Yule.’

“There the matter had to rest with regard to the theft of the
document, for that was no business of the coroner’s or of the jury.
According to medical evidence the old lady’s death had been due to a
very natural and possible accident—a sudden feeling of giddiness—and
the verdict had to be in accordance with this.

“There was no real proof against Mrs. William Yule—only one man’s
word, that of young Bloggs; and it would no doubt always have been
felt that his evidence might not be wholly unbiased. He was therefore
well advised not to prosecute. The world was quite content to believe
that the Yules had planned and executed the theft, but he never would
have got a conviction against Mrs. William Yule just on his own
evidence.”



Chapter IV

“Then William Yule and his wife were left in full possession of their
fortune?” I asked eagerly.

“Yes, they were,” he replied; “but they had to go and travel abroad
for a while, feeling was so high against them. The deed of course, not
having been ‘delivered,’ could not be upheld in a court of law; that
was the opinion of several eminent counsel whom Mr. Statham, with a
lofty sense of justice, consulted on behalf of young Bloggs.”

“And young Bloggs was left penniless?”

“No,” said the man in the corner, as, with a weird and satisfied
smile, he pulled a piece of string out of his pocket; “the friends of
the late Mrs. Yule subscribed the sum of £1,000 for him, for they all
thought he had been so terribly badly treated, and Mr. Statham has
taken him in his office as articled pupil. No! no! young Bloggs has
not done so badly either——”

“What seems strange to me,” I remarked “is that for all she knew, Mrs.
William Yule might have committed only a silly and purposeless theft.
If Mrs. Yule had not died suddenly and accidentally the next morning,
she would, no doubt, have executed a fresh deed of gift, and all would
have been _in statu quo_.”

“Exactly,” he replied drily, whilst his fingers fidgeted nervously
with his bit of string.

“Of course,” I suggested, for I felt that the funny creature wanted
to be drawn out; “she may have reckoned on the old lady’s weak
heart, and the shock to her generally, but it was, after all, very
problematical.”

“Very,” he said, “and surely you are not still under the impression
that Mrs. Yule’s death was purely the result of an accident?”

“What else could it be?” I urged.

“The result of a slight push from the top of the stairs,” he remarked
placidly, whilst a complicated knot went to join a row of its fellows.

“But Mrs. William Yule had left the house before midnight—or, at any
rate, some one had. Do you think she had an accomplice?”

“I think,” he said excitedly, “that the mysterious visitor who left
the house that night had an instigator whose name was William Bloggs.”

“I don’t understand,” I gasped in amazement.

“Point No. 1,” he shrieked, while the row of knots followed each other
in rapid succession, “young Bloggs swore a lie when he swore that it
was Mrs. William Yule who called at Dartmoor Terrace that night.”

“What makes you say that,” I retorted.

“One very simple fact,” he replied, “so simple that it was, of course,
overlooked. Do you remember that one of the things which Annie
overheard was old Mrs. Yule’s irate words, ‘Very well, you may sleep
here; but, remember, I do not wish to see your face again. You can
leave my house before I return from church; you can get plenty of
trains after seven o’clock.’ Now what do you make of that?” he added
triumphantly.

“Nothing in particular,” I rejoined; “it was an awfully wet night,
and——”

“And High Street, Kensington Station, within two minutes’ walk of
Dartmoor Terrace, with plenty of trains to West Hampstead, and Sheriff
Road within two minutes of this latter station,” he shrieked, getting
more and more excited, “and the hour only about ten o’clock, when
there _are_ plenty of trains from one part of London to another? Old
Mrs. Yule, with her irascible temper and obstinate ways, would have
said: ‘There’s the station, not two minutes’ walk, get out of my
house, and don’t ever let me see your face again,’ wouldn’t she now?”

“It certainly seems more likely.”

“Of course it does. She only allowed the woman to stay because the
woman had either a very long way to go to get a train, or perhaps had
missed her last train—a connection on a branch line presumably—and
could not possibly get home at all that night.”

“Yes, that sounds logical,” I admitted.

“Point No. 2,” he shrieked, “young Bloggs having told a lie, had some
object in telling it. That was my starting point; from there I worked
steadily until I had reconstructed the events of that Thursday
night—nay, more, until I knew something more about young Bloggs’
immediate future, in order that I might then imagine his past.

“And this is what I found.

“After the tragic death of Mrs. Yule, young Bloggs went abroad at the
expense of some kind friends, and came home with a wife, whom he is
supposed to have met and married in Switzerland. From that point
everything became clear to me. Young Bloggs had told a lie when he
swore that it was Mrs. William Yule; therefore it was somebody who
either represented herself as such, or who believed herself to be Mrs.
William Yule.

“The first supposition,” continued the funny creature, “I soon
dismissed as impossible; young Bloggs knew Mrs. William Yule by
sight—and since he had lied, he had done so deliberately. Therefore to
my mind the lady who called herself Mrs. William Yule did so because
she believed that she had a right to that name; that she had married a
man, who, for purposes of his own, had chosen to call himself by that
name. From this point to that of guessing who that man was was simple
enough.”

“Do you mean young Bloggs himself?” I asked in amazement.

“And whom else?” he replied. “Isn’t that sort of thing done every day?
Bloggs was a hideous name, and Yule was eventually to be his own. With
William Yule’s example before him, he must have known that it would be
dangerous to broach the marriage question at all before the old lady,
and probably only meant to wait for a favourable opportunity of doing
so. But after a while the young wife would naturally become troubled
and anxious, and like most women under the same circumstances, would
become jealous and inquisitive as well.

“She soon found out where he lived, and no doubt called there,
thinking that old Mrs. Yule was her husband’s own fond mother.

“You can picture the rest. Mrs. Yule, furious at having been deceived,
herself destroys the deed of gift which she meant to present to her
adopted son, and from that hour young Bloggs sees himself penniless.

“The false Mrs. Yule left the house, and young Bloggs waited for his
opportunity on the dark landing of a small London house. One push and
the deed was done. With her weak heart, Mrs. Yule was sure to die of
the shock, if not of the fall.

“Before that, already the desk had been broken open and every
appearance of a theft given to it. After the tragedy, then, young
Bloggs retired quietly to his room. The whole thing looked so like an
accident that, even had the servants heard the fall at once, there
would still have been time enough for the young villain to sneak into
his room, and then to reappear at his door as if he, too, had been
just awakened by the noise.

“The result turned out just as he had expected. The William Yules have
been and still are suspected of the theft; and young Bloggs is a hero
of romance with whom every one is in sympathy.”



IV. Who Stole the Black Diamonds?

Chapter I

“Do you know who that is?” said the man in the corner, as he pushed a
small packet of photos across the table.

The picture on the top represented an entrancingly beautiful woman,
with bare arms and neck, and a profusion of pearl and diamond
ornaments about her head and throat.

“Surely this is the Queen of——?”

“Hush!” he broke in abruptly, with mock dismay; “you must mention no
names.”

“Why not?” I asked, laughing, for he looked so droll in his distress.

“Look closely at the photo,” he replied, “and at the necklace and
tiara that the lady is wearing.”

“Yes,” I said. “Well?”

“Do you mean to say you don’t recognise them?”

I looked at the picture more closely, and then there suddenly came
back to my mind that mysterious story of the Black Diamonds, which had
not only bewildered the police of Europe, but also some of its
diplomats.

“Ah! I see you do recognise the jewels!” said the funny creature,
after a while. “No wonder! for their design is unique, and photographs
of that necklace and tiara were circulated practically throughout the
world.

“Of course I am not going to mention names, for you know very well who
the royal heroes of this mysterious adventure were. For the purposes
of my narrative, suppose I call them the King and Queen of ‘Bohemia.’

“The value of the stones was said to be fabulous, and it was only
natural when the King of ‘Bohemia’ found himself somewhat in want of
money—a want which has made itself felt before now with even the most
powerful European monarchs—that he should decide to sell the precious
trinkets, worth a small kingdom in themselves. In order to be in
closer touch with the most likely customers, their Majesties of
‘Bohemia’ came over to England during the season of 1902—a season
memorable alike for its deep sorrow and its great joy.

“After the sad postponement of the Coronation festivities, they rented
Eton Chase, a beautiful mansion just outside Chislehurst, for the
summer months. There they entertained right royally, for the Queen was
very gracious and the King a real sportsman—there also the rumour
first got about that His Majesty had decided to sell the world-famous
_parure_ of Black Diamonds.

“Needless to say, they were not long in the market: quite a host of
American millionaires had already coveted them for their wives, and
brisk and sensational offers were made to His Majesty’s business man
both by letter and telegram.

“At last, however, Mr. Wilson, the multi-millionaire, was understood
to have made an offer, for the necklace and tiara, of £500,000, which
had been accepted.

“But a very few days later, that is to say, on the Sunday and Monday,
6th and 7th July, there appeared in the papers the short but deeply
sensational announcement that a burglary had occurred at Eton Chase,
Chislehurst, the mansion inhabited by Their Majesties the King and
Queen of ‘Bohemia’; and that among the objects stolen was the famous
_parure_ of Black Diamonds, for which a bid of half a million sterling
had just been made and accepted.

“The burglary had been one of the most daring and most mysterious ones
ever brought under the notice of the police authorities. The mansion
was full of guests at the time, among whom were many diplomatic
notabilities, and also Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, the future owners of the
gems; there were also a very large staff of servants. The burglary
must have occurred between the hours of 10 and 11.30 p.m., though the
precise moment could not be ascertained.

“The house itself stands in the midst of a large garden, and has deep
French windows opening out upon a terrace at the back. There are
ornamental iron balconies to the windows of the upper floors, and it
was to one of these, situated immediately above the dining-room, that
a rope-ladder was found to be attached.

“The burglar must have chosen a moment when the guests were dispersed
in the smoking, billiard, and drawing-rooms; the servants were having
their own meal, and the dining-room was deserted. He must have swung
his rope-ladder, and entered Her Majesty’s own bedroom by the window
which—as the night was very warm—had been left open. The jewels were
locked up in a small iron box, which stood upon the dressing-table,
and the burglar took the box bodily away with him, and then, no doubt,
returned the way he came.

“The wonderful point in this daring attempt was the fact that most of
the windows on the ground floor were slightly open that night, that
the rooms themselves were filled with guests, and that the dining-room
was not empty for more than a few minutes at a time, as the servants
were still busy clearing away after dinner.

“At nine o’clock some of the younger guests had strolled out on to the
terrace, and the last of these returned to the drawing-room at ten
o’clock; at half-past eleven one of the servants caught sight of the
rope-ladder in front of one of the dining-room windows, and the alarm
was given.

“All traces of the burglar, however, and of his princely booty had
completely disappeared.”



Chapter II

“Not only did this daring burglary cause a great deal of excitement,”
continued the man in the corner, “but it also roused a good deal of
sympathy in the public mind for the King and Queen of ‘Bohemia’ who
thus found their hope of raising half a million sterling suddenly
dashed to the ground. The loss to them would, of course, be
irreparable.

“Matters, were, however, practically at a standstill, all enquiries
from enterprising journalists only eliciting the vague information
that the police ‘held a clue.’ We all know what that means. Then all
at once a wonderful rumour got about.

“Goodness only knows how these rumours originate—sometimes solely in
the imagination of the man in the street. In this instance certainly,
that worthy gentleman had a very sensational theory. It was namely
rumoured all over London that the clue which the police held pointed
to no less a person than Mr. Wilson himself.

“What had happened was this: Minute enquiries on the part of the most
able detectives of Scotland Yard had brought to light the fact that
the burglary at Eton Chase must have occurred precisely between ten
minutes and a quarter past eleven; at every other moment of the entire
evening somebody or other had observed either the terrace or the
dining-room windows.

“I told you that until ten o’clock some of Their Majesties’ guests
were walking up and down the terrace; between ten and half-past
servants were clearing away in the dining-room, and here it was
positively ascertained beyond any doubt that no burglar could have
slung a rope-ladder and climbed up it immediately outside those
windows, for one or other of the six servants engaged in clearing away
the dinner must of necessity have caught sight of him.

“At half-past ten John Lucas, the head gardener, was walking through
the gardens with a dog at his heels, and did not get back to the lodge
until just upon eleven. He certainly did not go as far as the terrace,
and as that side of the house was in shadow he could not say
positively whether the ladder was there or not, but he certainly did
assert most emphatically that there was no burglar about the _grounds_
then, for the dog was a good watch-dog and would have barked if any
stranger was about. Lucas took the dog in with him and gave him a bit
of supper, and only fastened him to his kennel outside at a
quarter-past eleven.

“Surmising, therefore, that at half-past ten, when John Lucas started
on his round, the deed was not yet done, that quarter of an hour would
give the burglar the only possible opportunity of entering the
premises _from the outside_, without being barked at by the dog. Now,
during most of that same quarter of an hour, His Majesty the King of
‘Bohemia’ himself had retired into a small library with his private
secretary, in order to glance through certain despatches which had
arrived earlier in the evening.

“The window of this library was immediately next to the one outside
which the ladder was found, and both the secretary and His Majesty
himself think that they would have seen something or heard a noise if
the rope-ladder had been slung while they were in the room. They both,
however, returned to the drawing-room at ten minutes past eleven.

“And here,” continued the man in the corner, rubbing his long, bony
fingers together, “arose the neatest little complication I have ever
come across in a case of this kind. His Majesty had, it appears,
privately made up his mind to accept Mr. Wilson’s bid, but the
transaction had not yet been completed. Mr. Wilson and his wife came
down to stay at Eton Chase on 29th June, and directly they arrived
many of those present noticed that Mr. Wilson was obviously repenting
of his bargain. This impression had deepened day by day, Mrs. Wilson
herself often throwing out covert hints about ‘fictitious value’ and
‘fancy prices for merely notorious trinkets.’ In fact, it became
obvious that the Wilsons were really seeking a loophole for evading
the conclusion of the bargain.

“On the memorable evening of the 5th July, Mrs. Wilson had been forced
to retire to her room early in the evening, owing, she said, to a bad
headache; her room was in the west wing of the Chase, and opened out
on the same corridor as the apartments of Her Majesty the Queen. At
half-past eleven Mrs. Wilson rang for her maid—Mary Pritchard, who, on
entering her mistress’s room, met Mr. Wilson just coming out of it,
and the girl heard him say: ‘Oh, don’t worry! I’ll have the whole
reset when we get back.’

“The detectives, on the other hand, had obtained information that two
or three days previously Mr. Wilson had sustained a very severe loss
on the ’Change, and that he had subsequently remarked to two or three
business friends that the Black Diamonds had become a luxury which he
had no right to afford.

“Be this as it may, certain it is that within a week of the notorious
burglary the rumour was current in every club in London that James S.
Wilson, the reputed American millionaire, having found himself unable
to complete the purchase of the Black Diamonds, had found this other
very much less legitimate means of gaining possession of the gems.

“You must admit that the case looked black enough against him—all
circumstantial, of course, for there was absolutely nothing to prove
that he had the jewels in his possession; in fact no trace of them
whatever had been found, but the public argued that Mr. Wilson would
lie low with them for a while, and then have them reset when he
returned to America.

“Of course, ugly rumours of that description don’t become general
about a man without his getting some inkling of them. Mr. Wilson very
soon found his position in London absolutely intolerable: his friends
ignored him at the club, ladies ceased to call upon his wife, and one
fine day he was openly cut by Lord Barnsdale, an M.F.H., in the
hunting field.

“Then Mr. Wilson thought it high time to take action. He placed the
whole matter in the hands of an able if not very scrupulous solicitor
who promised within a given time to find him a defendant with plenty
of means, against whom he could bring a sensational libel suit, with
thundering damages.

“The solicitor was as good as his word. He bribed some of the waiters
at the Carlton, and so laid his snares that within six months, Lord
and Lady Barnsdale had been overheard to say in public what everybody
now thought in private, namely, that Mr. James S. Wilson, finding
himself unable to purchase the celebrated Black Diamonds, had thought
it more profitable to steal them.

“Two days later Mr. James S. Wilson entered an action in the High
Courts for slander against Lord and Lady Barnsdale, claiming damages
to the tune of £50,000.”



Chapter III

“Still the mystery of the lost jewels was no nearer to its solution.
Their Majesties the King and Queen of ‘Bohemia,’ had left England soon
after the disastrous event which deprived them of what amounted to a
small fortune.

“It was expected that the sensational slander case would come on in
the autumn, or rather more than sixteen months after the mysterious
disappearance of the Black Diamonds.

“This last season was not a very brilliant one, if you remember; the
wet weather, I believe, had quite a good deal to do with the fact;
nevertheless London, that great world centre, was, as usual, full of
distinguished visitors, among whom Mrs. Vanderdellen, who arrived the
second week in July, was perhaps the most interesting.

“Her enormous wealth spread a positive halo round her, it being
generally asserted that she was the richest woman in the world. Add to
this that she was young, strikingly handsome, and a widow, and you
will easily understand what a _furore_ her appearance during this
London season caused in all high social circles.

“Though she was still in slight mourning for her husband, she was
asked everywhere, went everywhere, and was courted and admired by
everybody, including some of the highest in the land; her dresses and
jewellery were the talk of the ladies’ papers, her style and charm the
gossip of all the clubs. And no doubt that, although the July evening
Court promised to be very brilliant, every one thought that it would
be doubly so, since Mrs. Vanderdellen had been honoured with an
invitation, and would presumably be present.

“I like to picture to myself that scene at Buckingham Palace,”
continued the man in the corner, as his fingers toyed lovingly with a
beautiful and brand-new bit of string. “Of course, I was not present
actually, but I can see it all before me; the lights, the crowds, the
pretty women, the glistening diamonds; then, in the midst of the
chatter, a sudden silence fell as ‘Mrs. Vanderdellen’ was announced.

“All women turned to look at the beautiful American as she entered,
because her dress—on this her first appearance at the English
Court—was sure to be a vision of style and beauty. But for once nobody
noticed the dress from Felix, nobody even gave a glance at the
exquisitely lovely face of the wearer. Every one’s eyes had fastened
on one thing only, and every one’s lips framed but one exclamation,
and that an ‘Oh!’ half of amazement and half of awe.

“For round her neck and upon her head Mrs. Vanderdellen was wearing a
gorgeously magnificent _parure_ composed of black diamonds.”



Chapter IV

“I don’t know how the case of Wilson _v._ Barnsdale was settled, for
it never came into court. There were many people in London who owed
the Wilsons an apology, and it is to be hoped that these were tendered
in full.

“As for Mrs. Vanderdellen, she seemed quite unaware why her appearance
at Their Majesties’ Court had caused quite so much sensation. No one,
of course, broached the subject of the diamonds to her, and she no
doubt attributed those significant ‘Oh’s’ to her own dazzling beauty.

“The next day, however, Detective Marsh, of Scotland Yard, had a very
difficult task before him. He had to go and ask a beautiful, rich, and
refined woman how she happened to be in possession of stolen
jewellery.

“Luckily for Marsh, however, he had to deal with a woman who was also
charming, and who met his polite enquiry with an equally pleasant
reply:

“‘My husband gave me the Black Diamonds,’ she said, ‘a year ago on his
return from Europe. I had them set in Vienna last Spring, and wore
them for the first time last night. Will you please tell me the reason
of this strange enquiry?’

“‘Your husband?’ echoed Marsh, ignoring her question, ‘Mr.
Vanderdellen?’

“‘Oh, yes,’ she replied sweetly, ‘I dare say you have never heard of
him. His name is very well known in America, where they call him the
“Petrol King.” One of his hobbies was the collection of gems, which he
was very fond of seeing me wear, and he gave me some magnificent
jewels. The Black Diamonds certainly are very handsome. May I now
request you to tell me,’ she repeated, with a certain assumption of
hauteur, ‘the reason of all these enquiries?’

“‘The reason is simple enough, madam,’ replied the detective abruptly,
‘those diamonds were the property of Her Majesty the Queen of
“Bohemia,” and were stolen from Their Majesties’ residence, Eton
Chase, Chislehurst, on the 5th of July last year.’

“‘Stolen!’ she repeated, aghast and obviously incredulous.

“‘Yes, stolen,’ said old Marsh. ‘I don’t wish to distress you
unnecessarily, Madam, but you will see how imperative it is that you
should place me in immediate communication with Mr. Vanderdellen, as
an explanation from him has become necessary.’

“‘Unfortunately, that is impossible,’ said Mrs. Vanderdellen, who
seemed under the spell of a strong emotion.

“‘Impossible?’

“‘Mr. Vanderdellen has been dead just over a year. He died three days
after his return to New York, and the Black Diamonds were the last
present he ever made me.’

“There was a pause after that. Marsh—experienced detective though he
was—was literally at his wits’ ends what to do. He said afterwards
that Mrs. Vanderdellen, though very young and frivolous outwardly,
seemed at the same time an exceedingly shrewd, farseeing business
woman. To begin with, she absolutely refused to have the matter hushed
up, and to return the jewels until their rightful ownership had been
properly proved.

“‘It would be tantamount,’ she said, ‘to admitting that my husband had
come by them unlawfully.’

“At the same time she offered the princely reward of £10,000 to any
one who found the true solution of the mystery; for, mind you, the
late Mr. Vanderdellen sailed from Havre for New York on July the 8th,
1902, that is to say, three clear days after the theft of the diamonds
from Eton Chase, and he presented his wife with the loose gems
immediately on his arrival in New York. Three days after that he died.

“It was difficult to suppose that Mr. Vanderdellen purchased those
diamonds not knowing that they must have been stolen, since, directly
after the burglary the English police telegraphed to all their
Continental colleagues, and within four-and-twenty hours a description
of the stolen jewels was circulated throughout Europe.

“It was, to say the least of it, very strange that an experienced
business man and shrewd collector like Mr. Vanderdellen should have
purchased such priceless gems without making some enquiries as to
their history, more especially as they must have been offered to him
in a more or less ‘hole-in-the-corner’ way.

“Still, Mrs. Vanderdellen stuck to her guns, and refused to give up
the jewels pending certain enquiries she wished to make. She declared
that she wished to be sued for the diamonds in open court, charged
with wilfully detaining stolen goods if necessary, for the more
publicity was given to the whole affair the better she would like it,
so firmly did she believe in her husband’s innocence.

“The matter was indeed brought to the High Courts, and the sensational
action brought against Mrs. Vanderdellen by the representative of His
Majesty the King of ‘Bohemia’ for the recovery of the Black Diamonds
is, no doubt, still fresh in your memory.

“No one was allowed to know what witnesses Mrs. Vanderdellen would
bring forward in her defence. She had engaged the services of Sir
Arthur Inglewood, and of some of the most eminent counsel at the Bar.
The court was packed with the most fashionable crowd ever seen inside
the Law Courts; and both days that the action lasted Mrs. Vanderdellen
appeared in exquisite gowns and ideal hats.

“The evidence for the Royal plaintiff was simple enough. It all went
to prove that the very day after the burglary not a jeweller,
pawnbroker, or diamond merchant throughout the whole of Europe could
have failed to know that a unique _parure_ of black diamonds had been
stolen, and would probably be offered for sale. The Black Diamonds in
themselves, and out of their setting, were absolutely unique, and if
the late Mr. Vanderdellen purchased them in Paris from some private
individual, he must at least have very strongly suspected that they
were stolen.

“Throughout the whole of that first day Mrs. Vanderdellen sat in
court, absolutely calm and placid. She listened to the evidence, made
little notes, and chatted with two or three American friends—elderly
men—who were with her.

“Then came the turn of the defence.

“Everybody had expected something sensational, and listened more
eagerly than ever as the name of Mr. Albert V. B. Sedley was called.
He was a tall, elderly man, the regular angular type of the American,
with his nasal twang and reposeful manner.

“His story was brief and simple. He was a great friend of the late Mr.
Vanderdellen, and had gone on a European tour with him in the early
spring of 1902. They were together in Vienna in the month of March,
staying at the Hotel Imperial, when one day Vanderdellen came to his
room with a remarkable story.

“‘He told me,’ continued Mr. Albert V. B. Sedley, ‘that he had just
purchased some very beautiful diamonds, which he meant to present to
his wife on his return to New York. He would not tell me where he
bought them, nor would he show them to me, but he spoke about the
beauty and rarity of the stones, which were that rarest of all things,
beautiful black diamonds.

“‘As the whole story sounded to me a little bit queer and mysterious,
I gave him a word of caution, but he was quite confident as to the
integrity of the vendor of the jewels, since the latter had made a
somewhat curious bargain. Vanderdellen was to have the diamonds in his
keeping for three months without paying any money, merely giving a
formal receipt for them; then, if after three months he was quite
satisfied with his bargain, and there had been no suspicion or rumour
of any kind that the diamonds were stolen, then only was the money,
£500,000, to be paid.

“‘Vanderdellen thought this very fair and above-board, and so it
sounded to me. The only thing I didn’t like about it all was that the
vendor had given what I thought was a false name and no address; the
money was to be paid over to him in French notes when the three months
had expired, at an hotel in Paris, where Vanderdellen would be staying
at the time, and where he would call for it.

“‘I heard nothing more about the mysterious diamonds and their still
more mysterious vendor,’ continued Mr. Sedley, amidst intense
excitement, ‘for Vanderdellen and I soon parted company after that, he
going one way and I another. But at the beginning of July I met him in
Paris, and on the 4th I dined with him at the Elysee Palace Hotel,
where he was staying.

“‘Mr. Cornelius R. Shee was there too, and Vanderdellen related to him
during dinner the history of his mysterious purchase of the Black
Diamonds, adding that the vendor had called upon him that very day as
arranged, and that he (Vanderdellen) had had no hesitation in handing
him over the agreed price of £500,000, which he thought a very low
one. Both Mr. Shee and I agreed that the whole thing must have been
clear and above-board, for jewels of such fabulous value could not
have been stolen since last spring without the hue and cry being in
every paper in Europe.

“‘It is my opinion, therefore,’ said Mr. Albert V. B. Sedley, at the
conclusion of this remarkable evidence, ‘that Mr. Vanderdellen bought
those diamonds in perfect good faith. He would never have wittingly
subjected his wife to the indignity of being seen in public with
stolen jewels round her neck. If after 5th July he did happen to hear
that a _parure_ of black diamonds had been stolen in England at the
date, he could not possibly think that there could be the slightest
connection between these and those he had purchased more than three
months ago.’

“And, amidst indescribable excitement, Mr. Albert V. B. Sedley stepped
back into his place.

“That he had spoken the truth from beginning to end no one could doubt
for a single moment. His own social position, wealth, and important
commercial reputation placed him above any suspicion of committing
perjury, even for the sake of a dead friend. Moreover, the story told
by Vanderdellen at the dinner in Paris was corroborated by Mr.
Cornelius R. Shee in every point.

“But there! a dead man’s words are _not_ evidence in a court of law.
Unfortunately, Mr. Vanderdellen had not shown the diamonds to his
friends at the time. He had certainly drawn enormous sums of money
from his bank about the end of June and beginning of July, amounting
in all to just over a million sterling; and there was nothing to prove
which special day he had paid away a sum of £500,000, whether _before_
or _after_ the burglary at Eton Chase.

“He had made extensive purchases in Paris of pictures, furniture, and
other works of art, all of priceless value, for the decoration of his
new palace in Fifth Avenue, and no diary of private expenditure was
produced in court. Mrs. Vanderdellen herself had said that after her
husband’s death, as all his affairs were in perfect order, she had
destroyed his personal and private diaries.

“Thus the counsel for the plaintiff was able to demolish the whole
edifice of the defence bit by bit, for it rested on but very ephemeral
foundations: a story related by a dead man.

“Judgment was entered for the plaintiff, although every one’s
sympathy, including that of judge and of jury, was entirely for the
defendant, who had so nobly determined to vindicate her husband’s
reputation.

“But Mrs. Vanderdellen proved to the last that she was no ordinary and
everyday woman. She had kept one final sensation up her sleeve. Two
days after she had legally been made to give up the Black Diamonds,
she offered to purchase them back for £500,000. Her bid was accepted,
and during last autumn, on the occasion of the last Royal visit to
London and the consequent grand society functions, no one was more
admired, more _fêted_ and envied, than beautiful Mrs. Vanderdellen as
she entered a drawing-room exquisitely gowned, and adorned with the
_parure_ of which an Empress might have been proud.”

The man in the corner had paused, and was idly tapping his fingers on
the marble-topped table of the A.B.C. shop.

“It was a curious story, wasn’t it?” said the funny creature, after a
while. “More like a romance than a reality.”

“It is absolutely bewildering,” I said.

“What is your theory?” he asked.

“What about?” I retorted.

“Well, there are so many points, aren’t there, of which only one is
quite clear, namely, that the _parure_ of Black Diamonds disappeared
from Eton Chase, Chislehurst, on 5th July, 1902, and that the next
time they were seen they were on the neck and head of Mrs.
Vanderdellen, the widow of one of the richest men of modern times,
whilst the story of how her husband came by them was, to all intents
and purposes, _legally_ disbelieved.”

“Then,” I argued, “the only logical conclusions to arrive at in all
this is that the Black Diamonds, owned by His Majesty the King of
‘Bohemia,’ were not unique, and that Mr. Vanderdellen bought some
duplicate ones.”

“If you knew anything about diamonds,” he said irritably, “you would
also know that your statement is an absurdity. There are no such
things as ‘duplicate’ diamonds.”

“Then what _is_ the only logical conclusion to arrive at?” I retorted,
for he had given up playing with the photos and was twisting and
twining that bit of string as if his brain was contained inside it and
he feared it might escape.

“Well, to me,” he said, “the only logical conclusion of the affair is
that the Black Diamonds which Mrs. Vanderdellen wore were the only and
original ones belonging to the Crown of ‘Bohemia.’”

“Then you think that a man in Mr. Vanderdellen’s position would have
been fool enough to buy gems worth £500,000 at the very moment when
there was a hue and cry for them all over Europe?”

“No, I don’t,” he replied quietly.

“But then——” I began.

“No?” he repeated once again, as his long fingers completed knot
number one in that eternal piece of string. “The Black Diamonds which
Mrs. Vanderdellen wore were bought by her husband in all good faith
from the mysterious vendor in Vienna, in March, 1902.”

“Impossible!” I retorted. “Her Majesty the Queen of ‘Bohemia’ wore
them regularly during the months of May and June, and they were stolen
from Eton Chase on July the 5th.”

“Her Majesty the Queen of ‘Bohemia’ wore a _parure_ of Black Diamonds
during those months, and those certainly were stolen on July the 5th,”
he said excitedly; “but what was there to prove that _those_ were the
genuine stones?”

“Why!——” I ejaculated.

“Point No. 2,” he said, jumping about like a monkey on a stick;
“although Mr. Wilson was acknowledged to be innocent of the theft of
the diamonds, isn’t it strange that no one has ever been proved guilty
of it?”

“But I don’t understand——”

“Yet it is simple as daylight. I maintain that His Majesty the King
of ‘Bohemia’ being short, very short, of money, decided to sell
the celebrated Black Diamonds; to avoid all risks the stones are
taken out of their settings, and a trusted and secret emissary is
then deputed to find a possible purchaser; his choice falls on the
multi-millionaire Vanderdellen, who is travelling in Europe, is
a noted collector of rare jewellery, and has a beautiful young
wife—three attributes, you see, which make him a very likely
purchaser.

“The emissary then seeks him out, and offers him the diamonds for
sale. Mr. Vanderdellen at first hesitates, wondering how such valuable
gems had come in the vendor’s possession, but the bargain suggested by
the latter—the three months during which the gems are to be held on
trust by the purchaser—seems so fair and above-board, that Mr.
Vanderdellen’s objections fall to the ground; he accepts the bargain,
and three months later completes the purchase.”

“But I don’t understand,” I repeated again, more bewildered than
before. “You say the King of ‘Bohemia’ sold the loose gems originally
to Mr. Vanderdellen; then, what about the _parure_ worn by the Queen
and offered for sale to Mr. and Mrs. Wilson? What about the theft at
Eton Chase?”

“Point No. 3,” he shrieked excitedly, as another series of complicated
knots went to join its fellows. “I told you that the King of ‘Bohemia’
was _very_ short of money, every one knows _that_. He sells the Black
Diamonds to Mr. Vanderdellen, but before he does it, he causes
duplicates of them to be made, but this time in exquisite, beautiful,
perfect Parisian imitation, and has these mounted into the original
settings by some trusted man who, you may be sure, was well paid to
hold his tongue. Then it is given out that the _parure_ is for sale; a
purchaser is found, and a few days later the false diamonds are
stolen.”

“By whom?”

“By the King of ‘Bohemia’s’ valued and trusted friend, who has helped
in the little piece of villainy throughout; it is he who drops a
rope-ladder through Her Majesty’s bedroom window on to the terrace
below, and then hands the imitation _parure_ to his Royal master, who
sees to its complete destruction and disappearance. Then there is a
hue and cry for the _real_ stones, and after a year or so they are
found on the person of a lady, who is legally forced to give them up.
And thus His Majesty the King of ‘Bohemia’ got one solid million for
the Black Diamonds, instead of half that sum, for if Mrs. Vanderdellen
had not purchased the jewels, some one else would have done so.”

And he was gone, leaving me to gaze at the pictures of three lovely
women, and wondering if indeed it was the Royal lady herself who could
best solve the mystery of who stole the Black Diamonds.



V. The Murder of Miss Pebmarsh

Chapter I

“You must admit,” said the man in the corner to me one day, as I
folded up and put aside my _Daily Telegraph_, which I had been reading
with great care, “that it would be difficult to find a more
interesting plot, or more thrilling situations, than occurred during
the case of Miss Pamela Pebmarsh. As for downright cold-blooded
villainy, commend me to some of the actors in that real drama.

“The facts were simple enough; Miss Lucy Ann Pebmarsh was an old maid
who lived with her young niece Pamela and an elderly servant in one of
the small, newly-built houses not far from the railway station at
Boreham Wood. The fact that she kept a servant at all, and that the
little house always looked very spick and span, was taken by the
neighbours to mean that Miss Pebmarsh was a lady of means; but she
kept very much to herself, seldom went to church, and never attended
any of the mothers’ meetings, parochial teas, and other social
gatherings for which that popular neighbourhood has long been famous.

“Very little, therefore, was known of the Pebmarsh household, save
that the old lady had seen better days, that she had taken her niece
to live with her recently, and that the latter had had a somewhat
checkered career before she had found her present haven of refuge;
some more venturesome gossips went so far as to hint—but only just
above a whisper—that Miss Pamela Pebmarsh had been on the stage.

“Certain it is that that young lady seemed to chafe very much under
the restraint imposed upon her by her aunt, who seldom allowed her out
of her sight, and evidently kept her very short of money, for, in
spite of Miss Pamela’s obvious love of fine clothes, she had latterly
been constrained to wear the plainest of frocks and most unbecoming of
hats.

“All very commonplace and uninteresting, you see, until that memorable
Wednesday in October, after which the little house in Boreham Wood
became a nine days’ wonder throughout newspaper-reading England.

“On that day Miss Pebmarsh’s servant, Jemima Gadd, went over to Luton
to see a sick sister; she was not expected back until the next
morning. On that same afternoon Miss Pamela—strangely enough—seems
also to have elected to go up to town, leaving her aunt all alone in
the house, and not returning home until the late train, which reaches
Boreham Wood a few minutes before one.

“It was about five minutes past one that the neighbours in the quiet
little street were roused from their slumbers by most frantic and
agonised shrieks. The next moment Miss Pamela was seen to rush out of
her aunt’s house and then to hammer violently at the door of one of
her neighbours, still uttering piercing shrieks. You may imagine what
a commotion such a scene at midnight would cause in a place like
Boreham Wood. Heads were thrust out of the windows; one or two
neighbours in hastily-donned miscellaneous attire came running out;
and very soon the news spread round like wild-fire that Miss Pamela on
coming home had found her aunt lying dead in the sitting-room.

“Mr. Miller, the local greengrocer, was the first to pluck up
sufficient courage to effect an entrance into the house. Miss Pamela
dared not follow him; she had become quite hysterical, and was
shrieking at the top of her voice that her aunt had been murdered. The
sight that greeted Mr. Miller and those who had been venturesome
enough to follow him, was certainly calculated to unhinge any young
girl’s mind.

“In the small bow-window of the sitting-room stood a writing-table,
with drawers open and papers scattered all over and around it; in a
chair in front of it, half sitting and half lying across the table,
face downwards, and with arms outstretched, was the dead body of Miss
Pebmarsh. There was sufficient indications to show to the most casual
observer that, undoubtedly, the unfortunate lady had been murdered.

“One of the neighbours, who possessed a bicycle, had in the meantime
had the good sense to ride over to the police station. Very soon two
constables were on the spot; they quickly cleared the room of
gossiping neighbours, and then endeavoured to obtain from Miss Pamela
some lucid information as to the terrible event.

“At first she seemed quite unable to answer coherently the many
questions which were being put to her; however, with infinite patience
and wonderful kindness, Sergeant Evans at last managed to obtain from
her the following statement.

“‘I had had an invitation to go to the theatre this evening; it was an
old invitation, and my aunt had said long ago that I might accept it.
When Jemima Gadd wanted to go to Luton, I didn’t see why I should give
up the theatre and offend my friend, just because of her. My aunt and
I had some words about it, but I went. . . . I came back by the last
train, and walked straight home from the station. I had taken the
latch-key with me, and went straight into the sitting-room; the lamp
was alight, and—and——’

“The rest was chaos in the poor girl’s mind; she was only conscious of
having seen something awful and terrible, and of having rushed out
screaming for help. Sergeant Evans asked her no further questions
then; a kind neighbour had offered to take charge of Pamela for the
night, and took her away with her, the constable remaining in charge
of the body and the house until the arrival of higher authorities.”



Chapter II

“Although, as you may well suppose,” continued the man in the corner,
after a pause, “the excitement was intense at Boreham Wood, it had not
as yet reached the general newspaper-reading public. As the tragic
event had occurred at one o’clock in the morning, the papers the
following day only contained a brief announcement that an old lady had
been found murdered at Boreham Wood under somewhat mysterious
circumstances. Later on, the evening editions added that the police
were extremely reticent, but that it was generally understood that
they held an important clue.

“The following day had been fixed for the inquest, and I went down
myself in the morning, for somehow I felt that this case was going to
be an interesting one. A murder which at first seems absolutely
purposeless always, in my experience, reveals, sooner or later, an
interesting trait in human nature.

“As soon as I arrived at Boreham Wood, I found that the murder of Miss
Pebmarsh and the forthcoming inquest seemed to be the sole subjects of
gossip and conversation. After I had been in the place half an hour
the news began to spread like wild-fire that the murderer had been
arrested; five minutes later the name of the murderer was on
everybody’s lips.

“It was that of the murdered woman’s niece, Miss Pamela Pebmarsh.

“‘Oh, oh!’ I said to myself, ‘my instincts have not deceived me: this
case is indeed going to be interesting.’

“It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when I at last managed to
find my way to the little police station, where the inquest was to be
held. There was scarcely standing room, I can tell you, and I had some
difficulty in getting a front place from which I could see the
principal actors in this village drama.

“Pamela Pebmarsh was there in the custody of two constables—she, a
young girl scarcely five-and-twenty, stood there accused of having
murdered, in a peculiarly brutal way, an old lady of seventy, her
relative who had befriended her and given her a home.”

The man in the corner paused for a moment, and from the capacious
pocket of his magnificent ulster he drew two or three small photos,
which he placed before me.

“This is Miss Pamela Pebmarsh,” he said, pointing to one of these;
“tall and good-looking, in spite of the shabby bit of mourning with
which she had contrived to deck herself. Of course, this photo does
not give you an idea of what she looked like that day at the inquest.
Her face then was almost ashen in colour; her large eyes were staring
before her with a look of horror and of fear; and her hands were
twitching incessantly, with spasmodic and painful nervousness.

“It was pretty clear that public feeling went dead against her from
the very first. A murmur of disapproval greeted her appearance, to
which she seemed to reply with a look of defiance. I could hear many
uncharitable remarks spoken all round me; Boreham Wood found it
evidently hard to forgive Miss Pamela her good looks and her unavowed
past.

“The medical evidence was brief and simple. Miss Pebmarsh had been
stabbed in the back with some sharp instrument, the blade of which had
pierced the left lung. She had evidently been sitting in the chair in
front of her writing-table when the murderer had caught her unawares.
Death had ensued within the next few seconds.

“The medical officer was very closely questioned upon this point by
the coroner; it was evident that the latter had something very serious
in his mind, to which the doctor’s replies would give confirmation.

“‘In your opinion,’ he asked, ‘would it have been possible for Miss
Pebmarsh to do anything after she was stabbed. Could she have moved,
for instance?’

“‘Slightly, perhaps,’ replied the doctor; ‘but she did not attempt to
rise from her chair.’

“‘No; but could she have tried to reach the hand-bell, for instance,
which was on the table, or—the pen and ink—and written a word or two?’

“‘Well, yes,’ said the doctor thoughtfully; ‘she might have done that,
if pen and ink, or the hand-bell, were _very_ close to her hand. I
doubt, though, if she could have written anything very clearly, but
still it is impossible to say quite definitely—anyhow, it could only
have been a matter of a few seconds.’

“Delightfully vague, you see,” continued the man in the corner, “as
these learned gentlemen’s evidence usually is.

“Sergeant Evans then repeated the story which Pamela Pebmarsh had
originally told him, and from which she had never departed in any
detail. She had gone to the theatre, leaving her aunt all alone in the
house; she had arrived home at one o’clock by the late Wednesday night
train, and had gone straight into the sitting-room, where she had
found her aunt dead before her writing-table.

“That she travelled up to London in the afternoon was easily proved;
the station-master and the porters had seen her go. Unfortunately for
her _alibi_, however, those late ‘theatre’ trains on that line are
always very crowded; the night had been dark and foggy, and no one at
or near the station could swear positively to having seen her arrive
home again by the train she named.

“There was one thing more; although the importance of it had been
firmly impressed upon Pamela Pebmarsh, she absolutely refused to name
the friends with whom she had been to the theatre that night, and who,
presumably, might have helped her to prove at what hour she left
London for home.

“Whilst all this was going on, I was watching Pamela’s face intently.
That the girl was frightened—nay more, terrified—there could be no
doubt; the twitching of her hands, her eyes dilated with terror, spoke
of some awful secret which she dare not reveal, but which she felt was
being gradually brought to light. Was that secret the secret of a
crime—a crime so horrible, so gruesome, that surely so young a girl
would be incapable of committing?

“So far, however, what struck every one mostly during this inquest was
the seeming purposelessness of this cruel murder. The old lady, as far
as could be ascertained, had no money to leave, so why should Pamela
Pebmarsh have deliberately murdered the aunt who provided her, at any
rate, with the comforts of a home? But the police, assisted by one of
the most able detectives on the staff, had not effected so sensational
an arrest without due cause; they had a formidable array of witnesses
to prove their case up to the hilt. One of these was Jemima Gadd, the
late Miss Pebmarsh’s servant.

“She came forward attired in deep black, and wearing a monumental
crape bonnet crowned with a quantity of glistening black beads. With
her face the colour of yellow wax, and her thin lips pinched tightly
together, she stood as the very personification of puritanism and
uncharitableness.

“She did not look once towards Pamela, who gazed at her like some
wretched bird caught in a net, which sees the meshes tightening round
it more and more.

“Replying to the coroner, Jemima Gadd explained that on the Wednesday
morning she had had a letter from her sister at Luton, asking her to
come over and see her some day.

“‘As there was plenty of cold meat in the ’ouse,’ she said, ‘I asked
the mistress if she could spare me until the next day, and she said
yes, she could. Miss Pamela and she could manage quite well.’

“‘She said nothing about her niece going out, too, on the same day?’
asked the coroner.

“‘No,’ replied Jemima acidly, ‘she did not. And later on, at
breakfast, Miss Pebmarsh said to Miss Pamela before me: “Pamela,” she
says, “Jemima is going to Luton, and won’t be back until to-morrow.
You and I will be alone in the ’ouse until then.”’

“‘And what did the accused say?’

“‘She says, “All right, aunt.”’

“‘Nothing more?’

“‘No, nothing more.’

“‘There was no question, then, of the accused going out also, and
leaving Miss Pebmarsh all alone in the house?’

“‘None at all,’ said Jemima emphatically. ‘If there ’ad been I’d ’ave
’eard of it. I needn’t ’ave gone that day. Any day would ’ave done for
me.’

“She closed her thin lips with a snap, and darted a vicious look at
Pamela. There was obviously some old animosity lurking beneath that
gigantic crape monument on the top of Jemima’s wax-coloured head.

“‘You know nothing, then, about any disagreement between the deceased
and the accused on the subject of her going to the theatre that day?’
asked the coroner, after a while.

“‘No, not about _that_,’ said Jemima curtly, ‘but there was plenty of
disagreements between those two, I can tell you.’

“‘Ah! what about?’

“‘Money, mostly. Miss Pamela was over-fond of fine clothes, but Miss
Pebmarsh, who was giving ’er a ’ome and daily bread, ’adn’t much money
to spare for fallalery. Miss Pebmarsh ’ad a small pension from a lady
of the haristocracy, but it wasn’t much—a pound a week it was. Miss
Pebmarsh might ’ave ’ad a lot more if she’d wanted to.’

“‘Oh?’ queried the coroner, ‘how was that?’

“‘Well, you see, that fine lady ’ad not always been as good as she
ought to be. She’d been Miss Pamela’s friend when they were both on
the stage together, and pretty goings on, I can tell you, those two
were up to, and——’

“‘That’ll do,’ interrupted the coroner sternly. ‘Confine yourself,
please, to telling the jury about the pension Miss Pebmarsh had from a
lady.’

“‘I was speaking about that,’ said Jemima, with another snap of her
thin lips. ‘Miss Pebmarsh knew a thing or two about this fine lady,
and she had some letters which she often told me that fine lady would
not care for her ’usband or her fine friends to read. Miss Pamela got
to know about these letters, and she worried her poor aunt to death,
for she wanted to get those letters and sell them to the fine lady for
’undreds of pounds. I ’ave ’eard ’er ask for those letters times and
again, but Miss Pebmarsh wouldn’t give them to ’er, and they were
locked up in the writing-table drawer, and Miss Pamela wanted those
letters, for she wanted to get ’undreds of pounds from the fine lady,
and my poor mistress was murdered for those letters—and she was
murdered by that wicked girl ’oo eat her bread and ’oo would ’ave
starved but for ’er. And so I tell you, and I don’t care ’oo ’ears me
say it.’

“No one had attempted to interrupt Jemima Gadd as she delivered
herself of this extraordinary tale, which so suddenly threw an
unexpected and lurid light upon the mystery of poor Miss Pebmarsh’s
death.

“That the tale was a true one, no one doubted for a single instant.
One look at the face of the accused was sufficient to prove it beyond
question. Pamela Pebmarsh had become absolutely livid; she tottered
almost as if she would fall, and the constable had to support her
until a chair was brought forward for her.

“As for Jemima Gadd, she remained absolutely impassive. Having given
her evidence, she stepped aside automatically like a yellow waxen
image, which had been wound up and had now run down. There was silence
for a while. Pamela Pebmarsh, more dead than alive, was sipping a
glass of brandy and water, which alone prevented her from falling in a
dead faint.

“Detective Inspector Robinson now stepped forward. All the spectators
there could read on his face the consciousness that his evidence would
be of the most supreme import.

“‘I was telegraphed for from the Yard,’ he said, in reply to the
coroner, ‘and came down here by the first train on the Thursday
morning. Beyond the short medical examination the body had not been
touched; as the constables know, we don’t like things interfered with
in cases of this kind. When I went up to look at deceased, the first
thing I saw was a piece of paper just under her right hand. Sergeant
Evans had seen it before, and pointed it out to me. Deceased had a pen
in her hand, and the ink-bottle was close by. This is the paper I
found, sir.’

“And amidst a deadly silence, during which nothing could be heard but
the scarcely-perceptible rustle of the paper, the inspector handed a
small note across to the coroner. The latter glanced at it for a
moment, and his face became very grave and solemn as he turned towards
the jury.

“‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ he said, ‘these are the contents of the
paper which the inspector found under the hand of the deceased.’

“He paused once more before he began to read, whilst we all in that
crowded court held our breath to listen:

“‘_I am dying. My murderess is my niece, Pam_——’

“‘That is all, gentlemen,’ added the coroner, as he folded up the
note. ‘Death overtook the unfortunate woman in the very act of writing
down the name of her murderess.’

“Then there was a wild and agonised shriek of horror. Pamela Pebmarsh,
with hair dishevelled and eyes in which the light of madness had begun
to gleam, threw up her hands, and without a groan, fell down senseless
upon the floor.”



Chapter III

“Yes,” said the man in the corner with a chuckle, “there was enough
evidence there to hang twenty people, let alone that one fool of a
girl who had run her neck so madly into a noose. I don’t suppose that
any one left the court that day with the slightest doubt in their
minds as to what the verdict would be; for the coroner had adjourned
the inquest, much to the annoyance of the jury, who had fully made up
their minds and had their verdict pat on the tips of their tongues:
‘Wilful murder against Pamela Pebmarsh.’

“But this was a case which to the last kept up its reputation for
surprises. By the next morning rumour had got about that ‘the lady of
the aristocracy’ referred to by Jemima Gadd, and who was supposed to
have paid a regular pension to Miss Pebmarsh, was none other than Lady
de Chavasse.

“When the name was first mentioned every one—especially the fair
sex—shrugged their shoulders, and said: ‘Of course what else _could_
one expect?’

“As a matter of fact, Lady de Chavasse, _née_ Birdie Fay, was one of
the most fashionable women in society; she was at the head of a dozen
benevolent institutions, was a generous patron of hospitals, and her
house was one of the most exclusive houses in London. True, she had
been on the stage in her younger days, and when Sir Percival de
Chavasse married her, his own relations looked somewhat askance at the
showy, handsome girl who had so daringly entered the ancient country
family.

“Sir Percival himself was an extraordinarily proud man—proud of his
lineage, of his social status, of the honour of his name. His very
pride had forced his relations, had forced society to accept his
beautiful young wife, and to Lady de Chavasse’s credit be it said, not
one breath of scandal as to her past life had ever become public
gossip. No one could assert that they _knew_ anything derogatory to
Birdie Fay before she became the proud baronet’s wife. As a matter of
fact, all society asserted that Sir Percival would never have married
her and introduced her to his own family circle if there had been any
gossip about her.

“Now suddenly the name of Lady de Chavasse was on everybody’s tongue.
People at first spoke it under their breath, for every one felt great
sympathy with her. She was so rich, and entertained so lavishly. She
was very charming, too; most fascinating in her ways; deferential to
her austere mother-in-law; not a little afraid of her proud husband;
very careful lest by word or look she betrayed her early connection
with the stage before him.

“On the following day, however, we had further surprises in store for
us. Pamela Pebmarsh, advised by a shrewd and clear-headed solicitor,
had at last made up her mind to view her danger a little more coolly,
and to speak rather more of the truth than she had done hitherto.

“Still looking very haggard, but perhaps a little less scared, she now
made a statement which, when it was fully substantiated, as she stated
it could be, would go far towards clearing her of the terrible
imputation against her. Her story was this: On the memorable day in
question, she did go up to town, intending to go to the theatre. At
the station she purchased an evening paper, which she began to read.
This paper in its fashionable columns contained an announcement which
arrested her attention; this was that Sir Percival and Lady de
Chavasse had returned to their flat in town at 51, Marsden Mansions,
Belgravia, from ‘The Chase,’ Melton Mowbray.

“‘De Chavasse,’ continued Pamela, ‘was the name of the lady who paid
my aunt the small pension on which she lived. I knew her years ago,
when she was on the stage, and I suddenly thought I would like to go
and see her, just to have a chat over old times. Instead of going to
the theatre I went and had some dinner at Slater’s, in Piccadilly, and
then I thought I would take my chance, and go and see if Lady de
Chavasse was at home. I got to 51, Marsden Mansions, about eight
o’clock, and was fortunate enough to see Lady de Chavasse at once. She
kept me talking some considerable time; so much, in fact, that I
missed the 11 from St. Pancras. I only left Marsden Mansions at a
quarter to eleven, and had to wait at St. Pancras until twenty minutes
past midnight.’

“This was all reasonable and clear enough, and as her legal adviser
had subpœnaed Lady de Chavasse as a witness, Pamela Pebmarsh seemed to
have found an excellent way out of her terrible difficulties, the only
question being whether Lady de Chavasse’s testimony alone would, in
view of her being Pamela’s friend, be sufficient to weigh against the
terrible overwhelming evidence of Miss Pebmarsh’s dying accusation.

“But Lady de Chavasse settled this doubtful point in the way least
expected by any one. Exquisitely dressed, golden-haired, and brilliant
complexioned, she looked strangely out of place in this fusty little
village court, amidst the local dames in their plain gowns and
antiquated bonnets. She was, moreover, extremely self-possessed, and
only cast a short, very haughty, look at the unfortunate girl whose
life probably hung upon that fashionable woman’s word.

“‘Yes,’ she said sweetly, in reply to the coroner, ‘she was the wife
of Sir Percival de Chavasse, and resided at 51, Marsden Mansions,
Belgravia.’

“‘The accused, I understand, has been known to you for some time?’
continued the coroner.

“‘Pardon me,’ rejoined Lady de Chavasse, speaking in a beautiful
modulated voice, ‘I did know this young—hem—person, years ago, when I
was on the stage, but, of course, I had not seen her for years.’

“‘She called on you on Wednesday last at about nine o’clock?’

“‘Yes, she did, for the purpose of levying blackmail upon me.’

“There was no mistaking the look of profound aversion and contempt
which the fashionable lady now threw upon the poor girl before her.

“‘She had some preposterous story about some letters which she alleged
would be compromising to my reputation,’ continued Lady de Chavasse
quietly. ‘These she had the kindness to offer me for sale for a
hundred pounds. At first her impudence staggered me, as, of course, I
had no knowledge of any such letters. She threatened to take them to
my husband, however, and I then—rather foolishly, perhaps—suggested
that she should bring them to me first. I forget how the conversation
went on, but she left me with the understanding that she would get the
letters from her aunt, Miss Pebmarsh, who, by the way, had been my
governess when I was a child, and to whom I paid a small pension in
consideration of her having been left absolutely without means.’

“And Lady de Chavasse, conscious of her own disinterested benevolence,
pressed a highly-scented bit of cambric to her delicate nose.

“‘Then the accused did spend the evening with you on that Wednesday?’
asked the coroner, while a great sigh of relief seemed to come from
poor Pamela’s breast.

“‘Pardon me,’ said Lady de Chavasse, ‘she spent a little time with me.
She came about nine o’clock.’

“‘Yes. And when did she leave?’

“‘I really couldn’t tell you—about ten o’clock, I think.’

“‘You are not sure?’ persisted the coroner. ‘Think, Lady de Chavasse,’
he added earnestly, ‘try to think—the life of a fellow-creature may,
perhaps, depend upon your memory.’

“‘I am indeed sorry,’ she replied in the same musical voice. ‘I could
not swear without being positive, could I? And I am not quite
positive.’

“‘But your servants?’

“‘They were at the back of the flat—the girl let herself out.’

“‘But your husband?’

“‘Oh! when he saw me engaged with the girl, he went out to his club,
and was not yet home when she left.’

“‘Birdie! Birdie! won’t you try and remember?’ here came in an
agonised cry from the unfortunate girl, who thus saw her last hope
vanish before her eyes.

“But Lady de Chavasse only lifted a little higher a pair of very
prettily-arched eyebrows, and having finished her evidence she stepped
on one side and presently left the court, leaving behind her a faint
aroma of violet sachet powder, and taking away with her, perhaps, the
last hope of an innocent fellow-creature.”



Chapter IV

“But Pamela Pebmarsh?” I asked after a while, for he had paused and
was gazing attentively at the photograph of a very beautiful and
exquisitely-gowned woman.

“Ah, yes, Pamela Pebmarsh,” he said with a smile. “There was yet
another act in that palpitating drama of her life—one act—the
_dénouement_ as unexpected as it was thrilling. Salvation came where
it was least expected—from Jemima Gadd, who seemed to have made up her
mind that Pamela had killed her aunt, and yet who was the first to
prove her innocence.

“She had been shown the few words which the murdered woman was alleged
to have written after she had been stabbed. Jemima, not a very good
scholar, found it difficult to decipher the words herself.

“‘Ah, well, poor dear,’ she said after a while, with a deep sigh, ‘’er
’andwriting was always peculiar, seein’ as ’ow she wrote always with
’er left ’and.’

“‘_Her left hand!!!_’ gasped the coroner, while public and jury alike,
hardly liking to credit their ears, hung upon the woman’s thin lips,
amazed, aghast, puzzled.

“‘Why, yes!’ said Jemima placidly. ‘Didn’t you know she ’ad a bad
accident to ’er right ’and when she was a child, and never could ’old
anything in it? ’Er fingers were like paralysed; the ink-pot was
always on the left of ’er writing-table. Oh! she couldn’t write with
’er right ’and at all.’

“Then a strange revulsion of feeling came over every one there.

“Stabbed in the back, with her lung pierced through and through, how
could she have done, dying, what she never did in life?

“Impossible!

“The murderer, whoever it was, had placed pen and paper to her hand,
and had written on it the cruel words which were intended to delude
justice and to send an innocent fellow-creature—a young girl not
five-and-twenty—to an unjust and ignominious death. But, fortunately
for that innocent girl, the cowardly miscreant had ignored the fact
that Miss Pebmarsh’s right hand had been paralysed for years.

“The inquest was adjourned for a week,” continued the man in the
corner, “which enabled Pamela’s solicitor to obtain further evidence
of her innocence. Fortunately for her he was enabled to find two
witnesses who had seen her in an omnibus going towards St. Pancras at
about 11.15 p.m., and a passenger on the 12.25 train, who had
travelled down with her as far as Hendon. Thus, when the inquest was
resumed, Pamela Pebmarsh left the court without a stain upon her
character.

“But the murder of Miss Pebmarsh has remained a mystery to this day—as
has also the secret history of the compromising letters. Did they
exist or not? is a question the interested spectators at that
memorable inquest have often asked themselves. Certain it is that
failing Pamela Pebmarsh, who might have wanted them for purpose of
blackmail, no one else could be interested in them except Lady de
Chavasse.”

“Lady de Chavasse!” I ejaculated in surprise. “Surely you are not
going to pretend that that elegant lady went down to Boreham Wood in
the middle of the night in order to murder Miss Pebmarsh, and then to
lay the crime at another woman’s door?”

“I only pretend what’s logic,” replied the man in the corner, with
inimitable conceit; “and in Pamela Pebmarsh’s own statement, she was
with Lady de Chavasse at 51, Marsden Mansions, until eleven o’clock,
and there is no train from St. Pancras to Boreham Wood between eleven
and twenty-five minutes past midnight. Pamela’s _alibi_ becomes that
of Lady de Chavasse, and is quite conclusive. Besides, that elegant
lady was not one to do that sort of work for herself.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Do you mean to say you never thought of the real solution of this
mystery?” he retorted sarcastically.

“I confess——” I began a little irritably.

“Confess that I have not yet taught you to think logically, and to
look at the beginning of things.”

“What do you call the beginning of this case, then?”

“Why! the compromising letters, of course.”

“But——” I argued.

“Wait a minute!” he shrieked excitedly, whilst with frantic haste he
began fidgeting, fidgeting again at that eternal bit of string. “These
did exist, otherwise why did Lady de Chavasse parley with Pamela
Pebmarsh? Why did she not order her out of the house then and there,
if she had nothing to fear from her?”

“I admit that,” I said.

“Very well; then, as she was too fine, too delicate to commit the
villainous murder of which she afterwards accused poor Miss Pamela,
who was there sufficiently interested in those letters to try and gain
possession of them for her?”

“Who, indeed?” I queried, still puzzled, still not understanding.

“Ay! who but her husband,” shrieked the funny creature, as with a
sharp snap he broke his beloved string in two.

“Her husband!” I gasped.

“Why not? He had plenty of time, plenty of pluck. In a flat it is easy
enough to overhear conversations that take place in the next room—he
was in the house at the time, remember, for Lady de Chavasse said
herself that he went out afterwards. No doubt he overheard
everything—the compromising letters, and Pamela’s attempt at levying
blackmail. What the effect of such a discovery must have been upon the
proud man I leave you to imagine—his wife’s social position ruined, a
stain upon his ancient name, his relations pointing the finger of
scorn at his folly.

“Can’t you picture him, hearing the two women’s talk in the next room,
and then resolving at all costs to possess himself of those
compromising letters? He had just time to catch the 10 train to
Boreham Wood.

“Mind you, I don’t suppose that he went down there with any evil
intent. Most likely he only meant to buy those letters from Miss
Pebmarsh. What happened, however, nobody can say but the murderer
himself.

“Who knows? But the deed done, imagine the horror of a refined
aristocratic man, face to face with such a crime as that.

“Was it this terror, or merely rage at the girl who had been the
original cause of all this, that prompted him to commit the final
villany of writing out a false accusation and placing it under the
dead woman’s hand? Who can tell?

“Then, the deed done, and the _mise-en-scène_ complete, he is able to
catch the last train—11.23—back to town. A man travelling alone would
pass practically unperceived.

“Pamela’s innocence was proved, and the murder of Miss Pebmarsh has
remained a mystery, but if you will reflect on my conclusions, you
will admit that no one else—_no one else_—could have committed that
murder, for no one else had a greater interest in the destruction of
those letters.”



VI. The Lisson Grove Mystery

Chapter I

The man in the corner ordered another glass of milk, and timidly asked
for a second cheese-cake at the same time.

“I am going down to Marylebone Police Court, to see those people
brought up before the ‘Beak,’” he remarked.

“What people?” I queried.

“What people!” he exclaimed, in the greatest excitement. “You don’t
mean to say that you have not studied the Lisson Grove Mystery?”

I had to confess that my knowledge on that subject was of the most
superficial character.

“One of the most interesting cases that has cropped up in recent
years,” he said, with an indescribable look of reproach.

“Perhaps. I did not study it in the papers because I preferred to hear
_you_ tell me all about it,” I said.

“Oh, if that’s it,” he replied, as he settled himself down in his
corner like a great bird after the rain, “then you showed more sense
than lady journalists usually possess. I can, of course, give you a
far clearer account than the newspapers have done; as for the
police—well! I never saw such a muddle as they are making of this
case.”

“I daresay it is a peculiarly difficult one,” I retorted, for I am
ever a champion of that hard-working department.

“H’m!” he said, “so, so—it is a tragedy in a prologue and three acts.
I am going down this afternoon to see the curtain fall for the third
time on what, if I mistake not, will prove a good burlesque; but it
all began dramatically enough. It was last Saturday, 21st November,
that two boys, playing in the little spinney just outside Wembley Park
Station, came across three large parcels done up in American cloth.

“With the curiosity natural to their age, they at once proceeded to
undo these parcels, and what they found so upset the little beggars
that they ran howling through the spinney and the polo ground,
straight as a dart to Wembley Park Station. Half frantic with
excitement, they told their tale to one of the porters off duty, who
walked back to the spinney with them. The three parcels, in point of
fact, contained the remains of a dismembered human body. The porter
sent one of the boys for the local police, and the remains were duly
conveyed to the mortuary, where they were kept for identification.

“Three days later—that is to say, on Tuesday, 24th November—Miss
Amelia Dyke, residing at Lisson Grove Crescent, returned from
Edinburgh, where she had spent three or four days with a friend. She
drove up from St. Pancras in a cab, and carried her small box up
herself to the door of the flat, at which she knocked loudly and
repeatedly—so loudly and so persistently, in fact, that the
inhabitants of the neighbouring flats came out on to their respective
landings to see what the noise was about.

“Miss Amelia Dyke was getting anxious. Her father, she said, must be
seriously ill, or else why did he not come and open the door to her.
Her anxiety, however, reached its culminating point when Mr. and Mrs.
Pitt, who reside in the flat immediately beneath that occupied by the
Dykes, came forward with the alarming statement that, as a matter of
fact, they had themselves been wondering if anything were wrong with
old Mr. Dyke, as they had not heard any sound overhead for the last
few days.

“Miss Amelia, now absolutely terrified, begged one of the neighbours
to fetch either the police or a locksmith, or both. Mr. Pitt ran out
at once, both police and locksmith were brought upon the scene, the
door was forcibly opened, and amidst indescribable excitement
Constable Turner, followed by Miss Dyke, who was faint and trembling
with apprehension, effected an entrance into the flat.

“Everything in it was tidy and neat to a degree, all the fires were
laid, the beds made, the floors were clean and washed, the brasses
polished, only a slight, very slight layer of dust lay over
everything, dust that could not have accumulated for more than a few
days. The flat consisted of four rooms and a bathroom; in not one of
them was there the faintest trace of old Mr. Dyke.

“In order to fully comprehend the consternation which all the
neighbours felt at this discovery,” continued the man in the corner,
“you must understand that old Mr. Dyke was a helpless cripple; he had
been a mining engineer in his young days, and a terrible blasting
accident deprived him, at the age of forty, of both legs. They had
been amputated just above the knee, and the unfortunate man—then a
widower with one little girl—had spent the remainder of his life on
crutches. He had a small—a very small pension, which, as soon as his
daughter Amelia was grown up, had enabled him to live in comparative
comfort in the small flat in Lisson Grove Crescent.

“His misfortune, however, had left him terribly sensitive; he never
could bear the looks of compassion thrown upon him, whenever he
ventured out on his crutches, and even the kindliest sympathy was
positive torture to him. Gradually, therefore, as he got on in life,
he took to staying more and more at home, and after a while gave up
going out altogether. By the time he was sixty-five years old and Miss
Amelia a fine young woman of seven-and-twenty, old Dyke had not been
outside the door of his flat for at least five years.

“And yet, when Constable Turner, aided by the locksmith, entered the
flat on that memorable 24th November, there was not a trace anywhere
of the old man.

“Miss Amelia was in the last stages of despair, and at first she
seemed far too upset and hysterical to give the police any coherent
and definite information. At last, however, from amid the chaos of
tears and of ejaculations, Constable Turner gathered the following
facts:

“Miss Amelia had some great friends in Edinburgh, whom she had long
wished to visit, her father’s crippled condition making this extremely
difficult. A fortnight ago however, in response to a very urgent
invitation, she at last decided to accept it, but in order to leave
her father altogether comfortable, she advertised in the local paper
for a respectable woman who would come to the flat every day and see
to all the work, cook his dinner, make the bed, and so on.

“She had several applications in reply to this advertisement, and
ultimately selected a very worthy-looking elderly person, who, for
seven shillings a week, undertook to come daily from seven in the
morning until about six in the afternoon, to see to all Mr. Dyke’s
comforts.

“Miss Amelia was very favourably impressed with this person’s
respectable and motherly appearance, and she left for Edinburgh by the
5.15 a.m. train on the morning of Thursday, 19th November, feeling
confident that her father would be well looked after. She certainly
had not heard from the old man while she was away, but she had not
expected to hear unless, indeed, something had been wrong.

“Miss Amelia was quite sure that something dreadful had happened to
her father, as he could not possibly have walked downstairs and out of
the house alone; certainly his crutches were nowhere to be found, but
this only helped to deepen the mystery of the old man’s disappearance.

“The constable, having got thus far with his notes, thought it best to
refer the whole matter at this stage to higher authority. He got from
Miss Amelia the name and address of the charwoman, and then went back
to the station.

“There, the very first news that greeted him was that the medical
officer of the district had just sent round to the various police
stations his report on the human remains found in Wembley Park the
previous Saturday. They had proved to be the dismembered body of an
old man between sixty and seventy years of age, the immediate cause of
whose death had undoubtedly been a violent blow on the back of the
head with a heavy instrument, which had shattered the cranium. Expert
examination further revealed the fact that deceased had had in early
life both legs removed by a surgical operation just above the knee.

“That was the end of the prologue in the Lisson Grove tragedy,”
continued the man in the corner, after a slight and dramatic pause,
“as far as the public was concerned. When the curtain was subsequently
raised upon the first act, the situation had been considerably
changed.

“The remains had been positively identified as those of old Mr. Dyke,
and a charge of wilful murder had been brought against Alfred Wyatt,
of no occupation, residing in Warlock Road, Lisson Grove, and against
Amelia Dyke for complicity in the crime. They are the two people whom
I am going to see this afternoon brought before the Beak at the
Marylebone Police Court.”



Chapter II

“Two very important bits of evidence, I must tell you, had come to
light, on the first day of the inquest, and had decided the police to
make this double arrest.

“In the first place, according to one or two of the neighbours, who
happened to know something of the Dyke household, Miss Amelia had kept
company for some time with a young man named Alfred Wyatt; he was an
electrical engineer, resided in the neighbourhood, and was some years
younger than Miss Dyke. As he was known not to be very steady, it was
generally supposed that the old man did not altogether approve of his
daughter’s engagement.

“Mrs. Pitt, residing in the flat immediately below the one occupied by
the Dykes, had stated, moreover, that on Wednesday the 18th, at about
midday, she heard very loud and angry voices proceeding from above;
Miss Amelia’s shrill tones being specially audible. Shortly afterwards
she saw Wyatt go out of the house; but the quarrel continued for some
little time without him, for the neighbours could still hear Miss
Amelia’s high-pitched voice, speaking very excitedly and volubly.

“‘An hour later,’ further explained Mrs. Pitt, ‘I met Miss Dyke on the
stairs; she seemed very flushed and looked as if she had been crying.
I suppose she saw that I noticed this, for she stopped and said to me:

“‘“All this fuss, you know, Mrs. Pitt, because Alfred asked me to go
for a drive with him this afternoon, but I am going all the same.”

“‘Later in the afternoon—it must have been quite half-past four, for
it was getting dark—young Wyatt drove up in a motor-car, and presently
I heard Miss Dyke’s voice on the stairs saying very pleasantly and
cheerfully: “All right, daddy, we shan’t be long.” Then Mr. Dyke must
have said something, which I didn’t hear, for she added. “Oh, that’s
all right; I am well wrapped up, and we have plenty of rugs.”’

“Mrs. Pitt then went to her window and saw Wyatt and Amelia Dyke start
off in a motor. She concluded that the old man had been mollified, for
both Amelia and Wyatt waved their hands affectionately up towards the
window. They returned from their drive about six o’clock; Wyatt saw
Amelia to the door, and then went off again. The next day Miss Dyke
went to Scotland.

“As you see,” continued the man in the corner, “Alfred Wyatt had
become a very important personality in this case; he was Amelia’s
sweetheart, and it was strange—to say the least of it—that she had
never as yet even mentioned his name. Therefore, when she was recalled
in order to give further evidence, you may be sure that she was pretty
sharply questioned on the subject of Alfred Wyatt.

“In her evidence before the coroner, she adhered fairly closely to her
original statement:

“‘I did not mention Mr. Wyatt’s name,’ she explained, ‘because I did
not think it was of any importance; if he knew anything about my dead
father’s mysterious fate he would have come forward at once, of
course, and helped me to find out who the cowardly murderer was who
could attack a poor, crippled old man. Mr. Wyatt was devoted to my
father, and it is perfectly ridiculous to say that daddy objected to
my engagement; on the contrary, he gave us his full consent, and we
were going to be married directly after the New Year, and continue to
live with father in the flat.’

“‘But,’ questioned the coroner, who had not by any means departed from
his severity, ‘what about this quarrel which the last witness
overheard on the subject of your going out driving with Mr. Wyatt?’

“‘Oh, that was nothing,’ replied Miss Dyke very quietly. ‘Daddy only
objected because he thought that it was rather too late to start at
four o’clock, and that I should be cold. When he saw that we had
plenty of rugs he was quite pleased for me to go.’

“‘Isn’t it rather astonishing, then,’ asked the coroner, ‘seeing that
Mr. Wyatt was on such good terms with your father, that he did not go
to see him while you were away?’

“‘Not at all,’ she replied unconcernedly; ‘Alfred went down to
Edinburgh on the Thursday evening. He couldn’t travel with me in the
morning, for he had some business to see to in town that day; but he
joined me at my friends’ house on the Friday morning, having travelled
all night.’

“‘Ah!’ remarked the coroner drily, ‘then he had not seen your father
since you left.’

“‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Amelia; ‘he called round to see dad during the
day, and found him looking well and cheerful.’

“Miss Amelia Dyke, as she gave this evidence, seemed absolutely
unconscious of saying anything that might in any way incriminate her
lover. She is a handsome, though somewhat coarse-looking woman, nearer
thirty, I should say, than she would care to own. I was present at the
inquest, mind you, for that case had too many mysteries about it from
the first for it to have eluded my observation, and I watched her
closely throughout. Her voice struck me as fine and rich, with—in this
instance, also—a shade of coarseness in it; certainly, it was very far
from being high-pitched, as Mrs. Pitt had described it.

“When she had finished her evidence she went back to her seat, looking
neither flustered nor uncomfortable, although many looks of contempt
and even of suspicion were darted at her from every corner of the
crowded court.

“Nor did she lose her composure in the slightest degree when Mr.
Parlett, clerk to Messrs. Snow and Patterson, solicitors, of Bedford
Row, in his turn came forward and gave evidence; only while the little
man spoke her full red lips curled and parted with a look of complete
contempt.

“Mr. Parlett’s story was indeed a remarkable one, inasmuch as it
suddenly seemed to tear asunder the veil of mystery which so far had
surrounded the murder of old Dyke by supplying it with a motive—a
strong motive too: the eternal greed of gain.

“In June last, namely, it appears that Messrs. Snow and Patterson
received intimation from a firm of Melbourne solicitors that a man of
the name of Dyke had died there recently, leaving a legacy of £4,000
to his only brother James Arthur Dyke, a mining engineer, who in 1890
was residing at Lisson Grove Crescent. The Melbourne solicitors in
their communication asked for Messrs. Snow and Patterson’s kind
assistance in helping them to find the legatee.

“The search was easy enough, since James Arthur Dyke, mining engineer,
had never ceased to reside at Lisson Grove Crescent. Armed, therefore,
with full instructions from their Melbourne correspondent, Messrs.
Snow and Patterson communicated with Dyke, and after a little
preliminary correspondence, the sum of £4,000 in Bank of Australia
notes and various securities were handed over by Mr. Parlett to the
old cripple.

“The money and securities were—so Mr. Parlett understood—subsequently
deposited by Mr. Dyke at the Portland Road Branch of the London and
South Western Bank; as the old man apparently died intestate, the
whole of the £4,000 would naturally devolve upon his only daughter and
natural legatee.

“Mind you, all through the proceedings the public had instinctively
felt that money was somewhere at the bottom of this gruesome and
mysterious crime. There is not much object in murdering an old cripple
except for purposes of gain, but now Mr. Parlett’s evidence had indeed
furnished a damning motive for the appalling murder.

“What more likely than that Alfred Wyatt, wanting to finger that
£4,000, had done away with the old man? And if Amelia Dyke did not
turn away from him in horror, after such a cowardly crime, then she
must have known of it and had perhaps connived in it.

“As for Nicholson, the charwoman, her evidence had certainly done more
to puzzle everybody all round than any other detail in this strange
and mysterious crime.

“She deposed that on Friday, 13th November, in answer to an
advertisement in the _Marylebone Star_, she had called on Miss Dyke at
Lisson Grove, when it was arranged that she should do a week’s work at
the flat, beginning Thursday, the 19th, from seven in the morning
until six in the afternoon. She was to keep the place clean, get Mr.
Dyke—who, she understood was an invalid—all his meals, and make
herself generally useful to him.

“Accordingly, Nicholson turned up on the Thursday morning. She let
herself into the flat, as Miss Dyke had entrusted the latch-key to
her, and went on with the work. Mr. Dyke was in bed, and she got him
all his meals that day. She thought she was giving him satisfaction,
and was very astonished when, at six o’clock, having cleared away his
tea, he told her that he would not require her again. He gave her no
explanation, asked her for the latch-key, and gave her her full week’s
money—seven shillings in full. Nicholson then put on her bonnet, and
went away.

“Now,” continued the man in the corner, leaning excitedly forward, and
marking each sentence he uttered with an exquisitely complicated knot
in his bit of string, “an hour later, another neighbour, Mrs. Marsh,
who lived on the same floor as the Dykes, on starting to go out, met
Alfred Wyatt on the landing. He took off his hat to her, and then
knocked at the door of the Dykes’ flat.

“When she came home at eight o’clock, she again passed him on the
stairs; he was then going out. She stopped to ask him how Mr. Dyke
was, and Wyatt replied: ‘Oh, fairly well, but he misses his daughter,
you know.’

“Mrs. Marsh, now closely questioned, said that she thought Wyatt was
carrying a large parcel under his arm, but she could not distinguish
the shape of the parcel as the angle of the stairs, where she met him,
was very dark. She stated, though, that he was running down the stairs
very fast.

“It was on all that evidence that the police felt justified in
arresting Alfred Wyatt for the murder of James Arthur Dyke, and Amelia
Dyke for connivance in the crime. And now this very morning, those two
young people have been brought before the magistrate, and at this
moment evidence—circumstantial, mind you, but positively damning—is
being heaped upon them by the prosecution. The police did their work
quickly. The very evening after the first day of the inquest, the
warrant was out for their arrest.”

He looked at a huge silver watch which he always carried in his
waistcoat pocket.

“I don’t want to miss the defence,” he said, “for I know that it will
be sensational. But I did not want to hear the police and medical
evidence all over again. You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I shall be back
here for five o’clock tea. I know you will be glad to hear all about
it.”



Chapter III

When I returned to the A.B.C shop for my tea at five minutes past
five, there he sat in his accustomed corner, with a cup of tea before
him, another placed opposite to him, presumably for me, and a long
piece of string between his bony fingers.

“What will you have with your tea?” he asked politely, the moment I
was seated.

“A roll and butter and the end of the story,” I replied.

“Oh, the story has no end,” he said with a chuckle; “at least, not for
the public. As for me, why, I never met a more simple ‘mystery.’
Perhaps that is why the police were so completely at sea.”

“Well, and what happened?” I queried, with some impatience.

“Why, the usual thing,” he said, as he once more began to fidget
nervously with his bit of string. “The prisoners had pleaded not
guilty, and the evidence for the prosecution was gone into in full.
Mr. Parlett repeated his story of the £4,000 legacy, and all the
neighbours had some story or other to tell about Alfred Wyatt, who,
according to them, was altogether a most undesirable young man.

“I heard the fag end of Mrs. Marsh’s evidence. When I reached the
court she was repeating the story she had already told to the police.

“Some one else in the house had also heard Wyatt running
helter-skelter downstairs at eight o’clock on the Thursday evening;
this was a point, though a small one, in favour of the accused. A man
cannot run downstairs when he is carrying the whole weight of a dead
body, and the theory of the prosecution was that Wyatt had murdered
old Dyke on that Thursday evening, got into his motor-car somewhere,
scorched down to Wembley with the dismembered body of his victim,
deposited it in the spinney where it was subsequently found, and
finally had driven back to town, stabled his motor car, and reached
King’s Cross in time for the 11.30 night express to Edinburgh. He
would have time for all that, remember, for he would have three hours
and a half to do it in.

“Besides which the prosecution had unearthed one more witness, who was
able to add another tiny link to the already damning chain of evidence
built up against the accused.

“Wilfred Poad, namely, manager of a large cycle and motor-car depôt in
Euston Road, stated that on Thursday afternoon, 19th November, at
about half-past six o’clock, Alfred Wyatt, with whom he had had some
business dealings before, had hired a small car from him, with the
understanding that he need not bring it back until after 11 p.m. This
was agreed to, Poad keeping the place open until just before eleven,
when Wyatt drove up in the car, paid for the hire of it, and then
walked away from the shop in the direction of the Great Northern
terminus.

“That was pretty strong against the male prisoner, wasn’t it? For,
mind you, Wyatt had given no satisfactory account whatever of his time
between 8 p.m., when Mrs. Marsh had met him going out of Lisson Grove
Crescent, and 11 p.m. when he brought back the car to the Euston Road
shop. ‘He had been driving about aimlessly,’ so he said. Now, one
doesn’t go out motoring for hours on a cold, drizzly night in November
for no purpose whatever.

“As for the female prisoner, the charge against her was merely one of
complicity.

“This closed the case for the prosecution,” continued the funny
creature, with one of his inimitable chuckles, “leaving but one tiny
point obscure, and that was, the murdered man’s strange conduct in
dismissing the woman Nicholson.

“Yes, the case was strong enough, and yet there stood both prisoners
in the dock with that sublime air of indifference and contempt which
only complete innocence or hardened guilt could give.

“Then when the prosecution had had their say, Alfred Wyatt chose to
enter the witness-box and make a statement in his own defence.
Quietly, and as if he were making the most casual observation, he
said:

“‘I am not guilty of the murder of Mr. Dyke, and in proof of this I
solemnly assert that on Thursday, 19th November, the day I am supposed
to have committed the crime, the old man was still alive at half-past
ten o’clock in the evening.’

“He paused a moment, like a born actor, watching the effect he had
produced. I tell you, it was astounding.

“‘I have three separate and independent witnesses here,’ continued
Wyatt, with the same deliberate calm, ‘who heard and saw Mr. Dyke as
late as half-past ten that night. Now, I understand that the
dismembered body of the old man was found close to Wembley Park. How
could I, between half-past ten and eleven o’clock, have killed Dyke,
cut him up, cleaned and put the flat all tidy, carried the body to the
car, driven on to Wembley, hidden the corpse in the spinney, and be
back in Euston Road, all in the space of half-an-hour? I am absolutely
innocent of this crime, and fortunately, it is easy for me now to
prove my innocence.’

“Alfred Wyatt had made no idle boast. Mrs. Marsh had seen him running
downstairs at 8 p.m. An hour after that, the Pitts in the flat beneath
heard the old man moving about overhead.

“‘Just as usual,’ observed Mrs. Pitt. ‘He always went to bed about
nine, and we could always hear him most distinctly.’

“John Pitt, the husband, corroborated this statement: the old man’s
movements were quite unmistakable because of his crutches.

“Henry Ogden, on the other hand, who lived in the house facing the
block of flats, saw the light in Dyke’s window that evening, and the
old man’s silhouette upon the blind from time to time. The light was
put out at half-past ten. This statement again was corroborated by
Mrs. Ogden, who also had noticed the silhouette and the light being
extinguished at half-past ten.

“But this was not all; both Mr. and Mrs. Ogden had seen old Dyke at
his window, sitting in his accustomed armchair, between half-past
eight and nine o’clock. He was gesticulating, and apparently talking
to some one else in the room whom they could not see.

“Alfred Wyatt, therefore was quite right when he said that he would
have no difficulty in proving his innocence. The man whom he was
supposed to have murdered was, according to the testimony, alive at
six o’clock; according to Mr. and Mrs. Ogden he was alive and sitting
in his window until nine; again, he was heard to move about until ten
o’clock by both the Pitts, and at half-past ten only was the light put
out in his flat. Obviously, therefore, as his dead body was found
twelve miles away, Wyatt, who was out of the Crescent at eight, and in
Euston Road at eleven, could not have done the deed.

“He was discharged, of course; the magistrate adding a very severe
remark on the subject of ‘carelessly collected evidence.’ As for Miss
Amelia, she sailed out of the court like a queen after her coronation,
for with Wyatt’s discharge the case against her naturally collapsed.
As for me, I walked out too, with an elated feeling at the thought
that the intelligence of the British race had not yet sunk so low as
our friends on the Continent would have us believe.”



Chapter IV

“But then, who murdered the old man?” I asked, for I confess the
matter was puzzling me in an irritating kind of way.

“Ah! who indeed?” he rejoined sarcastically, while an artistic knot
went to join its fellows along that never-ending bit of string.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s in your mind,” I said, feeling peculiarly
irritated with him just at that moment.

“What’s in my mind?” he replied, with a shrug of his thin shoulders.
“Oh, only a certain degree of admiration!”

“Admiration at what?”

“At a pair of exceedingly clever criminals.”

“Then you do think that Wyatt murdered Dyke?”

“I don’t think—I am sure.”

“But when did they do it?”

“Ah, that’s more to the point. Personally, I should say between them
on Wednesday morning, 18th November.”

“The day they went for that motor-car ride?” I gasped.

“And carried away the old man’s remains beneath a multiplicity of
rugs,” he added.

“But he was _alive_ long after that!” I urged. “The woman Nicholson——”

“The woman Nicholson saw and spoke to a man in bed, whom she
_supposed_ was old Mr. Dyke. Among the many questions put to her by
those clever detectives, no one thought, of course, of asking her to
describe the old man. But even if she had done so Wyatt was far too
great an artist in crime not to have contrived a make-up which,
described by a witness who had never before seen Dyke, would easily
pass as a description of the old man himself.”

“Impossible!” I said, struck in spite of myself by the simplicity of
his logic.

“Impossible, you say?” he shrieked excitedly. “Why, I call that crime
a masterpiece from beginning to end; a display of ingenuity which,
fortunately, the criminal classes seldom possess, or where would
society be? Here was a crime committed, where everything was most
beautifully stage-managed, nothing left unforeseen. Shall I
reconstruct it for you?”

“Do!” I said, handing across the table to him a brand new, beautiful
bit of string, on which his talon-like fingers fastened as upon a
prey.

“Very well,” he said, marking each point with a scientific knot. “Here
it is, scene by scene: There was Alfred Wyatt and Amelia Dyke—a pair
of blackguards, eager to obtain that £4,000 which only the old man’s
death could secure for them. They decide upon killing him, and: Scene
1—Miss Amelia makes _her_ arrangements. She advertises for a
charwoman, and engages one, who is to be a very useful witness
presently.

“Scene 2.—The murder, brutal, horrible, on the person of an old
cripple, whilst his own daughter stands by, and the dismembering of
the body.

“Scene 3.—The ride in the motor-car—after dark, remember, and with
plenty of rugs, beneath which the gruesome burden is concealed. The
scene is accompanied by the comedy of Miss Dyke speaking to her
father, and waving her hand affectionately at him from below. I tell
you, that woman must have had some nerve!

“Then, Scene 4.—The arrival at Wembley, and the hiding of the remains.

“Scene 5.—Amelia goes to Edinburgh by the 5.15 a.m. train, and thus
secures her own _alibi_. After that, the comedy begins in earnest. The
impersonation of the dead man by Wyatt during the whole of that
memorable Thursday. Mind you, that was not very difficult; it only
needed the brain to invent, and the nerve to carry it through. The
charwoman had never seen old Dyke before; she only knew that he was an
invalid. What more natural than that she should accept as her new
master the man who lay in bed all day, and only spoke a few words to
her? A very slight make-up of hair and beard would complete the
illusion.

“Then, at six o’clock, the woman gone, Wyatt steals out of the house,
bespeaks the motor-car, leaves it in the street in a convenient spot,
and is back in time to be seen by Mrs. Marsh at seven.

“The rest is simplicity itself. The silhouette at the window was easy
enough to arrange; the sound of a man walking on crutches is easily
imitated with a couple of umbrellas—the actual crutches were, no
doubt, burned directly after the murder. Lastly, the putting out of
the light at half-past ten was the crowning stroke of genius.

“One little thing might have upset the whole wonderful plan, but that
one thing only; and that was if the body had been found _before_ the
great comedy scene of Thursday had been fully played. But that spinney
near Wembley was well chosen. People don’t go wandering under trees
and in woods on cold November days, and the remains were not found
until the Saturday.

“Ah, it was cleverly stage-managed, and no mistake. I couldn’t have
done it better myself. Won’t you have another cup of tea? No? Don’t
look so upset. The world does not contain many such clever criminals
as Alfred Wyatt and Amelia Dyke.”



VII. The Tremarn Case

Chapter I

“Well, it certainly is most amazing!” I said that day, when I had
finished reading about it all in the _Daily Telegraph_.

“Yet the most natural thing in the world,” retorted the man in the
corner, as soon as he had ordered his lunch. “Crime invariably begets
crime. No sooner is a murder, theft, or fraud committed in a novel or
striking way, than this method is aped—probably within the next few
days—by some other less imaginative scoundrel.

“Take this case, for instance,” he continued, as he slowly began
sipping his glass of milk, “which seems to amaze you so much. It was
less than a year ago, was it not? that in Paris a man was found dead
in a cab, stabbed in a most peculiar way—right through the neck from
ear to ear—with, presumably, a long, sharp instrument of the type of
an Italian stiletto.

“No one in England took much count of the crime, beyond a contemptuous
shrug of the shoulders at the want of safety of the Paris streets, and
the incapacity of the French detectives, who not only never discovered
the murderer, who had managed to slip out of the cab unperceived, but
who did not even succeed in establishing the identity of the victim.

“But this case,” he added, pointing once more to my daily paper,
“strikes nearer home. Less than a year has passed, and last week, in
the very midst of our much vaunted London streets, a crime of a
similar nature has been committed. I do not know if your paper gives
full details, but this is what happened: Last Monday evening two
gentlemen, both in evening dress and wearing opera hats, hailed a
hansom in Shaftesbury Avenue. It was about a quarter past eleven, and
the night, if you remember, was a typical November one—dark, drizzly,
and foggy. The various theatres in the immediate neighbourhood were
disgorging a continuous stream of people after the evening
performance.

“The cabman did not take special notice of his fares. They jumped in
very quickly, and one of them, through the little trap above, gave him
an address in Cromwell Road. He drove there as quickly as the fog
would permit him, and pulled up at the number given. One of the
gentlemen then handed him a very liberal fare—again through the little
trap—and told him to drive his friend on to Westminster Chambers,
Victoria Street.

“Cabby noticed that the ‘swell,’ when he got out of the hansom,
stopped for a moment to say a few words to his friend, who had
remained inside; then he crossed over the road and walked quickly in
the direction of the Natural History Museum.

“When the cabman pulled up at Westminster Chambers, he waited for the
second fare to get out; the latter seemingly making no movement that
way, cabby looked down at him through the trap.

“‘I thought ’e was asleep,’ he explained to the police later on. ‘’E
was leaning back in ’is corner, and ’is ’ead was turned towards the
window. I gets down and calls to ’im, but ’e don’t move. Then I gets
on to the step and give ’im a shake. . . . There!—I’ll say no
more. . . . We was near a lamp-post, the mare took a step forward, and
the light fell full on the gent’s face. ’E was dead and no mistake. I
saw the wound just underneath ’is ear, and “Murder!” I says to myself
at once.’

“Cabby lost no time in whistling for the nearest point policeman, then
he called the night porter of the Westminster Chambers. The latter
looked at the murdered man, and declared that he knew nothing of him;
certainly he was not a tenant of the Chambers.

“By the time a couple of policemen arrived upon the scene, quite a
crowd had gathered around the cab, in spite of the lateness of the
hour and the darkness of the night. The matter was such an important
one that one of the constables thought it best at once to jump into
the hansom beside the murdered man and to order the cabman to drive to
the nearest police station.

“There the cause of death was soon ascertained; the victim of this
daring outrage had been stabbed through the neck from ear to ear with
a long, sharp instrument, in shape like an antique stiletto, which, I
may tell you, was subsequently found under the cushions of the hansom.
The murderer must have watched his opportunity, when his victim’s head
was turned away from him, and then dealt the blow, just below the left
ear, with amazing swiftness and precision.

“Of course the papers were full of it the next day; this was such a
lovely opportunity for driving home a moral lesson, of how one crime
engenders another, and how—but for that murder in Paris a year ago—we
should not now have to deplore a crime committed in the very centre of
fashionable London, the detection of which seems likely to completely
baffle the police.

“Plenty more in that strain, of course, from which the reading public
quickly jumped to the conclusion that the police held absolutely no
clue as to the identity of the daring and mysterious miscreant.

“A most usual and natural thing had happened; cabby could only give a
very vague description of his other ‘fare,’ of the ‘swell’ who had got
out at Cromwell Road, and been lost to sight after having committed so
dastardly and so daring a crime.

“This was scarcely to be wondered at, for the night had been very
foggy, and the murderer had been careful to pull his opera hat well
over his face; thus hiding the whole of his forehead and eyes;
moreover, he had always taken the additional precaution of only
communicating with the cabman through the little trap-door.

“All cabby had seen of him was a clean-shaven chin. As to the murdered
man, it was not until about noon, when the early editions of the
evening papers came out with a fuller account of the crime and a
description of the victim, that his identity was at last established.

“Then the news spread like wildfire, and the evening papers came out
with some of the most sensational headlines it had ever been their
good fortune to print. The man who had been so mysteriously murdered
in the cab was none other than Mr. Philip Le Cheminant, the nephew and
heir-presumptive of the Earl of Tremarn.”



Chapter II

“In order fully to realise the interest created by this extraordinary
news, you must be acquainted with the various details of that
remarkable case, popularly known as the ‘Tremarn Peerage Case,’”
continued the man in the corner, as he placidly munched his
cheese-cake. “I do not know if you followed it in its earlier stages,
when its many details—which read like a romance—were first made
public.”

I looked so interested and so eager that he did not wait for my reply.

“I must try and put it all clearly before you,” he said; “I was
interested in it all from the beginning, and from the numerous wild
stories afloat I have sifted only what was undeniably true. Some
points of the case are still in dispute, and will, perhaps, now for
ever remain a mystery. But I must take you back some five-and-twenty
years. The Hon. Arthur Le Cheminant, second son of the late Earl of
Tremarn, was then travelling round the world for health and pleasure.

“In the course of his wanderings he touched at Martinique, one of the
French West Indian islands, which was devastated by volcanic eruptions
about two years ago. There he met and fell in love with a beautiful
half-caste girl named Lucie Legrand, who had French blood in her
veins, and was a Christian, but who, otherwise, was only partially
civilised, and not at all educated.

“How it all came about it is difficult to conjecture, but one thing is
absolutely certain, and that is that the Hon. Arthur le Cheminant the
son of one of our English Peers, married this half-caste girl at the
parish church of St. Pierre, in Martinique, according to the forms
prescribed by French laws, both parties being of the same religion.

“I suppose now no one will ever know whether that marriage was
absolutely and undisputably a legal one—but, in view of subsequent
events, we must presume that it was. The Hon. Arthur, however, in any
case, behaved like a young scoundrel. He only spent a very little time
with his wife, quickly tired of her, and within two years of his
marriage callously abandoned her and his child, then a boy about a
year old.

“He lodged a sum of £2,000 in the local bank in the name of Mme. Le
Cheminant, the interest of which was to be paid to her regularly for
the maintenance of herself and child, then he calmly sailed for
England, with the intention never to return. This intention fate
itself helped him to carry out, for he died very shortly afterwards,
taking the secret of his incongruous marriage with him to his grave.

“Mme. Le Cheminant, as she was called out there, seems to have
accepted her own fate with perfect equanimity. She had never known
anything about her husband’s social position in his own country, and
he had left her what, in Martinique amongst the coloured population,
was considered a very fair competence for herself and child.

“The grandson of an English earl was taught to read and write by the
worthy _curé_ of St. Pierre, and during the whole of her life, Lucie
never once tried to find out who her husband was, and what had become
of him.

“But here the dramatic scene comes in this strange story,” continued
the man in the corner, with growing excitement; “two years ago St.
Pierre, if you remember, was completely destroyed by volcanic
eruptions. Nearly the entire population perished, and every house and
building was in ruins. Among those who fell a victim to the awful
catastrophe was Mme. Le Cheminant, otherwise the Hon. Mrs. Arthur Le
Cheminant, whilst amongst those who managed to escape and ultimately
found refuge in the English colony of St. Vincent, was her son,
Philip.

“Well, you can easily guess what happened, can’t you? In that
English-speaking colony the name of Le Cheminant was, of course, well
known, and Philip had not been in St. Vincent many weeks, before he
learned that his father was none other than a younger brother of the
present Earl of Tremarn, and that he himself—seeing that the present
peer was over fifty and still unmarried—was heir-presumptive to the
title and estates.

“You know the rest. Within two or three months of the memorable St.
Pierre catastrophe Philip Le Cheminant had written to his uncle, Lord
Tremarn, demanding his rights. Then he took passage on board a French
liner, and crossed over to Havre _en route_ for Paris and London.

“He and his mother—both brought up as French subjects—had, mind you,
all the respect which French people have for their papers of
identification; and when the house in which they had lived for twenty
years was tumbling about the young man’s ears, when his mother had
already perished in the flames, he made a final and successful effort
to rescue the papers which proved him to be a French citizen, the son
of Lucie Legrand by her lawful marriage with Arthur Le Cheminant at
the church of the Immaculate Conception of St. Pierre.

“What happened immediately afterwards it is difficult to conjecture.
Certain it is, however, that over here the newspapers soon were full
of vague allusions about the newly-found heir to the Earldom of
Tremarn, and within a few weeks the whole of the story of the secret
marriage at St. Pierre was in everybody’s mouth.

“It created an immense sensation; the Hon. Arthur Le Cheminant had
lived a few years in England after his return from abroad and no one,
not even his brother, seemed to have had the slightest inkling of his
marriage.

“The late Lord Tremarn, you must remember, had three sons, the eldest
of whom is the present peer, the second was the romantic Arthur, and
the third, the Hon. Reginald, who also died some years ago, leaving
four sons, the eldest of whom, Harold, was just twenty-three, and had
always been styled heir-presumptive to the earldom.

“Lord Tremarn had brought up these four nephews of his, who had lost
both father and mother, just as if they had been his own children, and
his affection for them, and notably for the eldest boy, was a very
beautiful trait in his otherwise unattractive character.

“The news of the existence and claim of this unknown nephew must have
come upon Lord Tremarn as a thunderbolt. His attitude, however, was
one of uncompromising incredulity. He refused to believe the story of
the marriage, called the whole tale a tissue of falsehoods, and
denounced the claimant as a barefaced and impudent impostor.

“Two or three months more went by; the public were eagerly awaiting
the arrival of this semi-exotic claimant to an English peerage, and
sensations, surpassing those of the Tichborne case, were looked
forward to with palpitating interest.

“But in the romances of real life, it is always the unexpected that
happens. The claimant did arrive in London about a year ago. He was
alone, friendless, and moneyless, since the £2,000 lay buried
somewhere beneath the ruins of the St. Pierre bank. However, he called
upon a well-known London solicitor, who advanced him some money and
took charge of all the papers relating to his claim.

“Philip Le Cheminant then seems to have made up his mind to make a
personal appeal to his uncle, trusting apparently in the old adage
that ‘blood is thicker than water.’

“As was only to be expected, Lord Tremarn flatly refused to see the
claimant, whom he was still denouncing as an impostor. It was by
stealth, and by bribing the servants at the Grosvenor Square mansion
that the young man at last obtained an interview with his uncle.

“Last New Year’s Day he gave James Tovey, Lord Tremarn’s butler, a
five-pound note, to introduce him, surreptitiously, into his master’s
study. There uncle and nephew at last met face to face.

“What happened at that interview nobody knows; was the cry of blood
and of justice so convincing that Lord Tremarn dare not resist it?
Perhaps.

“Anyway, from that moment the new heir-presumptive was installed
within his rights. After a single interview with Philip Le Cheminant’s
solicitor, Lord Tremarn openly acknowledged the claimant to be his
brother Arthur’s only son, and therefore his own nephew and heir.

“Nay, more, every one noticed that the proud, bad-tempered old man was
as wax in the hands of this newly-found nephew. He seemed even to have
withdrawn his affection from the four other young nephews, whom
hitherto he had brought up as his own children, and bestowed it all
upon his brother Arthur’s son—some people said in compensation for all
the wrong that had been done to the boy in the past.

“But the scandal around his dead brother’s name had wounded the old
man’s pride very deeply, and from this he never recovered. He shut
himself away from all his friends, living alone with his newly-found
nephew in his gloomy house in Grosvenor Square. The other boys, the
eldest of whom, Harold, was just twenty-three, decided very soon to
leave a house where they were no longer welcome. They had a small
private fortune of their own, from their father and mother; the
youngest boy was still at college, two others had made a start in
their respective professions.

“Harold had been brought up as an idle young man about town, and on
him the sudden change of fortune fell most heavily. He was undecided
what to do in the future, but, in the meanwhile, partly from a spirit
of independence, and partly from a desire to keep a home for his
younger brothers, he took and furnished a small flat, which, it is
interesting to note, is just off Exhibition Road, not far from the
Natural History Museum in Kensington.

“This was less than a year ago. Ten months later the newly-found heir
to the peerage of Tremarn was found murdered in a hansom cab, and
Harold Le Cheminant is once more the future Earl.”



Chapter III

“The papers, as you know, talked of nothing else but the mysterious
murder in the hansom cab. Every one’s sympathy went out at once to
Lord Tremarn, who, on hearing the terrible news, had completely broken
down, and was now lying on a bed of sickness, from which they say he
may never recover.

“From the first there had been many rumours of the terrible enmity
which existed between Harold Le Cheminant and the man who had so
easily captured Lord Tremarn’s heart, as well as the foremost place in
the Grosvenor Square household.

“The servants in the great and gloomy mansion told the detectives in
charge of the case many stories of terrible rows which occurred at
first between the cousins. And now every one’s eyes were already
turned with suspicion on the one man who could most benefit by the
death of Philip Le Cheminant.

“However careful and reticent the police may be, details in connection
with so interesting a case have a wonderful way of leaking out.
Already one other most important fact had found its way into the
papers. It appears that in their endeavours to reconstruct the last
day spent by the murdered man the detectives had come upon most
important evidence.

“It was Thomas Sawyer, hall porter of the Junior Grosvenor Club, who
first told the following interesting story. He stated that deceased
was a member of the club, and had dined there on the evening preceding
his death.

“‘Mr. Le Cheminant was just coming downstairs after his dinner,’
explained Thomas Sawyer to the detectives, ‘when a stranger comes into
the hall of the club; Mr. Le Cheminant saw him as soon as I did, and
appeared very astonished. “What do you want?” he says rather sharply.
“A word with you,” replies the stranger. Mr. Le Cheminant seemed to
hesitate for a moment. He lights a cigar, whilst the stranger stands
there glaring at him with a look in his eye I certainly didn’t like.

“‘Mind you,’ added Thomas Sawyer, ‘the stranger was a gentleman, in
evening dress, and all that. Presently Mr. Le Cheminant says to him:
“This way, then,” and takes him along into one of the club rooms. Half
an hour later the stranger comes out again. He looked flushed and
excited. Soon after Mr. Le Cheminant comes out too; but he was quite
calm and smoking a cigar. He asks for a cab, and tells the driver to
take him to the Lyric Theatre.’

“This was all that the hall-porter had to say, but his evidence was
corroborated by one of the waiters of the club who saw Mr. Le
Cheminant and the stranger subsequently enter the dining-room, which
was quite deserted at the time.

“‘They ’adn’t been in the room a minute,’ said the waiter, ‘when I
’eard loud voices, as if they was quarrelling frightful. I couldn’t
’ear what they said, though I tried, but they were shouting so, and
drowning each other’s voices. Presently there’s a ring at my bell, and
I goes into the room. Mr. Le Cheminant was sitting beside one of the
tables, quietly lighting a cigar. “Show this—er—gentleman out of the
club,” ’e says to me. The stranger looked as if ’e would strike ’im.
“You’ll pay for this,” ’e says, then ’e picks up ’is ’at, and dashes
out of the club helter-skelter. “One is always pestered by these
beggars,” says Mr. Le Cheminant to me, as ’e stalks out of the room.’

“Later on it was arranged that both Thomas Sawyer and the waiter
should catch sight of Harold Le Cheminant, as he went out of his house
in Exhibition Road. Neither of them had the slightest hesitation in
recognising in him the stranger who had called at the club that night.

“Now that they held this definite clue, the detectives continued their
work with a will. They made enquiries at the Lyric Theatre, but there
they only obtained very vague testimony; one point, however, was of
great value, the commissionaire outside one of the neighbouring
theatres stated that, some time after the performance had begun he
noticed a gentleman in evening dress walking rapidly past him.

“He seemed strangely excited, for as he went by he muttered quite
audibly to himself; ‘I can stand it no longer, it must be he or I.’
Then he disappeared in the fog, walking away towards Shaftesbury
Avenue. Unfortunately the commissionaire, just like the cabman, was
not prepared to swear to the identity of this man, whom he had only
seen momentarily through the fog.

“But add to all this testimony the very strong motive there was for
the crime, and you will not wonder that within twenty-four hours of
the murder, the strongest suspicions had already fastened on Harold Le
Cheminant, and it was generally understood that, even before the
inquest, the police already had in readiness a warrant for his arrest
on the capital charge.”



Chapter IV

“It would be difficult, I think, for any one who was not present at
that memorable inquest to have the least idea of the sensation which
its varied and dramatic incidents caused among the crowd of spectators
there.

“At first the proceedings were of the usual kind. The medical officer
gave his testimony as to the cause of death; for this was, of course,
not in dispute. The stiletto was produced; it was of an antique and
foreign pattern, probably of Eastern or else Spanish origin. In
England, it could only have been purchased at some _bric-à-brac_ shop.

“Then it was the turn of the servants at Grosvenor Square, of the
cabman, and of the commissionaire. Lord Tremarn’s evidence, which he
had sworn to on his sickbed, was also read. It added nothing to the
known facts of the case, for he had last seen his favourite nephew
alive in the course of the afternoon preceding the latter’s tragic
end.

“After that the _employés_ of the Junior Grosvenor Club retold their
story, and they were the first to strike the note of sensation which
was afterwards raised to its highest possible pitch.

“Both of them, namely, were asked each in their turn to look round the
court and see if they could recognise the stranger who had called at
the club that memorable evening. Without the slightest hesitation,
both the hall-porter and the waiter pointed to Harold Le Cheminant,
who sat with his solicitor in the body of the court.

“But already an inkling of what was to come had gradually spread
through that crowded court—instinctively every one felt that behind
the apparent simplicity of this tragic case there lurked another
mystery more strange even than that murder in the hansom cab.

“Evidence was being taken as to the previous history of the deceased,
his first appearance in London, his relationship with his uncle, and
subsequently his enmity with his cousin Harold. At this point a man
was brought forward as a witness, who it was understood had
communicated with the police at the very last moment, offering to make
a statement which he thought would throw considerable light upon the
mysterious affair.

“He was a man of about fifty years of age, who looked like a very
seedy, superannuated clerk of some insurance office.

“He gave his name as Charles Collins, and said that he resided in
Caxton Road, Clapham.

“In a perfectly level tone of voice, he then explained that some three
years ago, his son William, who had always been idle and
good-for-nothing, had suddenly disappeared from home.

“‘We heard nothing of him for over two years,’ continued Charles
Collins, in that same cheerless and even voice which spoke of a
monotonous existence of ceaseless, patient grind, ‘but some few weeks
ago my daughter went up to the West End to see about an engagement—she
plays dance music at parties sometimes—when, in Regent Street, she
came face to face with her brother William. He was no longer wretched,
as we all are,’ added the old man pathetically, ‘he was dressed like a
swell, and when his sister spoke to him, he pretended not to know her.
But she’s a sharp girl, and guessed at once that there was something
strange there which William wished to hide. She followed him from a
distance, and never lost sight of him that day, until she saw him
about six o’clock in the evening go into one of the fine houses in
Grosvenor Square. Then she came home and told her mother and me all
about it.’

“I can assure you,” continued the man in the corner, “that you might
have heard a pin drop in that crowded court whilst the old man spoke.
That he was stating the truth no one doubted for a moment. The very
fact that he was brought forward as a witness showed that his story
had been proved, at any rate, to the satisfaction of the police.

“The Collinses seem to have been very simple, good-natured people. It
never struck any of them to interfere with William, who appeared, in
their own words, to have ‘bettered himself.’ They concluded that he
had obtained some sort of position in a rich family, and was now
ashamed of his poor relations at Clapham.

“Then one morning they read in the papers the story of the mysterious
murder in the hansom cab, together with a description of the victim,
who had not yet been identified. ‘William,’ they said with one accord.
Michael Collins, one of the younger sons, went up to London to view
the murdered man at the mortuary. There was no doubt whatever that it
was William, and yet all the papers persisted in saying that the
deceased was the heir to some grand peerage.

“‘So I wrote to the police,’ concluded Charles Collins, ‘and my wife
and children were all allowed to view the body, and we are all
prepared to swear that it is that of my son, William Collins, who was
no more heir to a peerage than your worship.’

“And mopping his forehead, with a large coloured handkerchief, the old
man stepped down from the box.

“Well, you may imagine what this bombshell was in the midst of that
coroner’s court. Everyone looked at his neighbour wondering if this
was real life, or some romantic play being acted on a stage. Amidst
indescribable excitement, various other members of the Collins’ family
corroborated the old man’s testimony, as did also one or two friends
from Clapham. All those who had been allowed to view the body of the
murdered man pronounced it without hesitation to be that of William
Collins, who had disappeared from home three years ago.

“You see, it was like a repetition of the Tichborne case, only with
this strange difference: This claimant was dead, but all his papers
were in perfect order, the certificate of marriage between Lucie
Legrand and Arthur Le Cheminant at Martinique, as well as the birth
and baptismal certificate of Philip Le Cheminant, their son. Yet there
were all those simple, honest folk swearing that the deceased had been
born in Clapham, and the mother, surely, could not have been mistaken.

“That is where the difference with the other noteworthy case came in,
for in this instance as far as the general public is concerned the
actual identity of the murdered man will always remain a matter of
doubt—Philip Le Cheminant or William Collins took that part of his
secret, at any rate, with him to his grave.”



Chapter V

“But the murder?” I asked eagerly, for the man in the corner had
paused, intent upon the manufacture of innumerable knots in a long
piece of string.

“Ah, yes, the murder, of course,” he replied with a chuckle, “the
second mystery in this extraordinary case. Well, of course, whatever
the identity of the deceased really was, there was no doubt in the
minds of the police that Harold Le Cheminant had murdered him. To him,
at any rate, the Collins family were unknown; he only knew the man who
had supplanted him in his uncle’s affections, and snatched a rich
inheritance away from him. The charge brought against him at the
Westminster Court was also one of the greatest sensations of this
truly remarkable case.

“It looked, indeed, as if the unfortunate young man had committed a
crime which was as appalling as it was useless. Instead of murdering
the impostor—if impostor he was—how much more simple it would have
been to have tried to unmask him. But, strange to say, this he never
seems to have done, at any rate as far as the public knew.

“But here again mystery stepped in. When brought before the
magistrate, Harold Le Cheminant was able to refute the terrible charge
brought against him by the simple means of a complete _alibi_. After
the stormy episode at the Junior Grosvenor Club he had gone to his own
club in Pall Mall, and fortunately for him, did not leave it until
twenty minutes past eleven, some few minutes _after_ the two men in
evening dress got into the hansom in Shaftesbury Avenue.

“But for this lucky fact, for which he had one or two witnesses, it
might have fared ill with him, for feeling unduly excited, he walked
all the way home afterwards; and had he left his club earlier, he
might have found it difficult to account for his time. As it was, he
was, of course, discharged.

“But one more strange fact came out during the course of the
magisterial investigation, and that was that Harold Le Cheminant, on
the very day preceding the murder, had booked a passage for St.
Vincent. He admitted in court that he meant to conduct certain
investigations there, with regard to the identity of the supposed heir
to the Tremarn peerage.

“And thus the curtain came down on the last act of that extraordinary
drama, leaving two great mysteries unsolved: the real identity of the
murdered man, and that of the man who killed him. Some people still
persist in thinking it was Harold Le Cheminant. Well, we may easily
dismiss _that_ supposition. Harold had decided to investigate the
matter for himself; he was on his way to St. Vincent.

“Surely common-sense would assert that, having gone so far, he would
assure himself first, whether the man was an impostor or not, before
he resorted to crime, in order to rid himself of him. Moreover, the
witnesses who saw him leave his own club at twenty minutes past eleven
were quite independent and very emphatic.

“Another theory is that the Collins’ gang tried to blackmail Philip Le
Cheminant or William Collins whichever we like to call him—and that it
was one of them who murdered him out of spite, when he refused to
submit to the blackmailing process.

“Against that theory, however, there are two unanswerable
arguments—firstly, the weapon used, which certainly was not one that
would commend itself to the average British middle-class man on murder
intent—a razor or knife would be more in his line; secondly, there is
no doubt whatever that the murderer wore evening dress and an opera
hat, a costume not likely to have been worn by any member of the
Collins’ family, or their friends. We may, therefore, dismiss that
theory also with equal certainty.”

And he surveyed placidly the row of fine knots in his bit of string.

“But then, according to you, who was the man in evening dress, and who
but Harold Le Cheminant had any interest in getting rid of the
claimant?” I asked at last.

“Who, indeed?” he replied with a chuckle “who but the man who was as
wax in the hands of that impostor.”

“Whom do you mean?” I gasped.

“Let us take things from the beginning,” he said, with ever-growing
excitement, “and take the one thing which is absolutely beyond
dispute, and that is the authenticity of the _papers_—the marriage
certificate of Lucie Legrand, etc.—as against the authenticity of the
_man_. Let us admit that the real Philip Le Cheminant was a refugee at
St. Vincent, that he found out about his parentage and determined to
go to England. He writes to his uncle, then sails for Europe, lands at
Havre, and arrives in Paris.”

“Why, Paris?” I asked.

“Because you, like the police and like the public, have persistently
shut your eyes to an event which, to my mind has bearing upon the
whole of this mysterious case, and that is the original murder
committed in Paris a year ago, also in a cab, also with a
stiletto—which that time was _not_ found—in fact, in the self-same
manner as this murder a week ago.

“Well, that crime was never brought home to its perpetrator any more
than this one will be. But my contention is, that the man who
committed that murder a year ago, repeated this crime last week—that
the man who was murdered in Paris was the real Philip Le Cheminant,
whilst the man who was murdered in London was some friend to whom he
had confided his story, and probably his papers, and who then hit upon
the bold plan of assuming the personality of the Martinique creole,
heir to an English peerage.”

“But what in the world makes you imagine such a preposterous thing?” I
gasped.

“One tiny unanswerable fact,” he replied quietly. “William Collins,
the impostor, when he came to London, called upon a solicitor, and
deposited with him the valuable papers, _after that_ he obtained his
interview with Lord Tremarn. Then mark what happens. Without any
question, immediately after that interview, and, therefore, without
even having seen the papers of identification, Lord Tremarn accepts
the claimant as his newly-found nephew.

“And why?

“Only because that claimant has a tremendous hold over the Earl, which
makes the old man as wax in his hands, and it is only logical to
conclude that that hold was none other than that Lord Tremarn had met
his real nephew in Paris, and had killed him, sooner than to see him
supplant his beloved heir, Harold.

“I followed up the subsequent history of that Paris crime, and found
that the Paris police had never established the identity of the
murdered man. Being a stranger, and moneyless, he had apparently
lodged in one of those innumerable ill-famed little hotels that abound
in Paris, the proprietors of which have very good cause to shun the
police, and therefore would not even venture so far as to go and
identify the body when it lay in the Morgue.

“But William Collins knew who the murdered man was; no doubt he lodged
at the same hotel, and could lay his hands on the all-important
papers. I imagine that the two young men originally met in St.
Vincent, or perhaps on board ship. He assumed the personality of the
deceased, crossed over to England, and confronted Lord Tremarn with
the threat to bring the murder home to him if he ventured to dispute
his claim.

“Think of it all, and you will see that I am right. When Lord Tremarn
first heard from his brother Arthur’s son, he went to Paris in order
to assure himself of the validity of his claim. Seeing that there was
no doubt of that, he assumed a friendly attitude towards the young
man, and one evening took him out for a drive in a cab and murdered
him on the way.

“Then came Nemesis in the shape of William Collins, whom he dared not
denounce, lest his crime be brought home to him. How could he come
forward and say: ‘I know that this man is an impostor, as I happened
to have murdered my nephew myself’?

“No; he preferred to temporise, and bide his time until, perhaps,
chance would give him his opportunity. It took a year in coming. The
yoke had become too heavy. ‘It must be he or I!’ he said to himself
that very night. Apparently he was on the best of terms with his
tormentor, but in his heart of hearts he had always meant to be even
with him at the last.

“Everything favoured him; the foggy night, even the dispute between
Harold and the impostor at the club. Can you not picture him meeting
William Collins outside the theatre, hearing from him the story of the
quarrel, and then saying, ‘Come with me to Harold’s; I’ll soon make
the young jackanapes apologise to you’?

“Mind you, a year had passed by since the original crime. William
Collins, no doubt, never thought he had anything to fear from the old
man. He got into the cab with him, and thus this remarkable story has
closed, and Harold Le Cheminant is once more heir to the Earldom of
Tremarn.

“Think it all over, and bear in mind that Lord Tremarn _never_ made
the slightest attempt to prove the rights or wrongs of the impostor’s
claim. On this base your own conclusions, and then see if they do not
inevitably lead you to admit mine as the only possible solution of
this double mystery.”

He was gone, leaving me bewildered and amazed, staring at my _Daily
Telegraph_, where, side by side with a long recapitulation of the
mysterious claimant of the Earldom there was the following brief
announcement:

“We regret to say that the condition of Lord Tremarn is decidedly
worse to-day, and that but little hope is entertained of his recovery.
Mr. Harold Le Cheminant has been his uncle’s constant and devoted
companion during the noble Earl’s illness.”



VIII. The Fate of the _Artemis_

Chapter I

“Well, I’m ——!” was my inelegant mental comment upon the news in that
morning’s paper.

“So are most people,” rejoined the man in the corner, with that eerie
way he had of reading my thoughts. “The _Artemis_ has come home,
having safely delivered her dangerous cargo, and Captain Jutland’s
explanations only serve to deepen the mystery.”

“Then you admit there is one in this case?” I said.

“Only to the public. Not to me. But I do admit that the puzzle is a
hard one. Do you remember the earlier details of the case? It was
towards the end of 1903. Negotiations between Russia and Japan were
just reaching a point of uncomfortable tension, and the man in the
street guessed that war in the Far East was imminent.

“Messrs. Mills and Co. had just completed an order for a number of
their celebrated quick-firing guns for the Russian Government, and
these—according to the terms of the contract—were to be delivered at
Port Arthur on or about 1st February, 1904. Effectively, then, on 1st
December last, the _Artemis_, under the command of Captain Jutland,
sailed from Goole, with her valuable cargo on board, and with orders
to proceed along as fast as possible, in view of the probable outbreak
of hostilities.

“Less than two hours after she had started, Messrs. Mills received
intimation from the highest official quarters, that in all probability
before the _Artemis_ could reach Port Arthur, and in view of coming
eventualities, the submarine mines would have been laid at the
entrance to the harbour. A secret plan of the port was therefore sent
to the firm for Captain Jutland’s use, showing the only way through
which he could possibly hope to navigate the _Artemis_ safely into the
harbour, and without which she would inevitably come in contact with
one of those terrible engines of wholesale destruction, which have
since worked such awful havoc in this war.

“But _there_ was the trouble. This official intimation, together with
the plan, reached Messrs. Mills just two hours too late; it is a way
peculiar to many official intimations. Fortunately, however, the
_Artemis_ was to touch at Portsmouth on private business of the
firm’s, and, therefore, it only meant finding a trustworthy messenger
to meet Captain Jutland there, and to hand him over that all-important
plan.

“Of course, there was no time to be lost, but, above all, some one of
extreme trustworthiness must be found for so important a mission. You
must remember that the great European Power in question is beset by
many foes in the shape of her own disaffected children, who desire her
downfall even more keenly than does her Asiatic opponent. Also in
times like these, when every method is fair which gives one adversary
an advantage over the other, we must remember that our plucky little
allies of the Far East are past masters in that art which is politely
known as secret intelligence.

“All this, you see, made it an absolute necessity to keep the mission
to Captain Jutland a profound secret. I need not impress upon you the
fact, I think, that it is not expedient for the plans of an important
harbour to fall under prying eyes.

“Finally, the choice fell on Captain Markham, R.N.R., lately of the
mercantile marine, and at the time in the employ of our own Secret
Intelligence Department, to which he has rendered frequent and
valuable services. This choice was determined also mainly through the
fact that Captain Markham’s wife had relatives living in Portsmouth,
and that, therefore, his journey thither could easily be supposed to
have an unofficial and quite ordinary character—especially if he took
his wife with him, which he did.

“Captain and Mrs. Markham left Waterloo for Portsmouth at ten minutes
past twelve on Wednesday, 2nd December, the secret plan lying safely
concealed at the bottom of Mrs. Markham’s jewel-case.

“As the _Artemis_ would not touch at Portsmouth until the following
morning, Captain Markham thought it best not to spend the night at an
hotel, but to go into rooms; his choice fell on a place, highly
recommended by his wife’s relations, and which was situated in a quiet
street on the Southsea side of the town. There he and his wife stayed
the night, pending the arrival of the _Artemis_.

“But at twelve o’clock on the following morning the police were
hastily called in by Mrs. Bowden, the landlady of 49, Gastle Street,
where the Markhams had been staying. Captain Markham had been found
lying half-insensible, gagged and bound, on the floor of the
sitting-room, his hands and feet tightly pinioned, and a woollen
comforter wound closely round his mouth and neck; whilst Mrs.
Markham’s jewel-case, containing valuable jewellery and the secret
plans of Port Arthur, had disappeared.”



Chapter II

“Mind you,” continued the man in the corner, after he had assured
himself of my undivided attention, “all these details were unknown to
the public at first. I have merely co-ordinated them, and told them to
you in the actual sequence in which they occurred, so that you may be
able to understand the subsequent events.

“At the time—that is to say, on 3rd December, 1903—the evening papers
only contained an account of what was then called ‘the mysterious
outrage at Gastle Street, Portsmouth.’ A private gentleman was
presumably assaulted and robbed in broad daylight, and inside a highly
respectable house in a busy part of the city.

“Mrs. Bowden, the landlady, was, as you may imagine, most excited and
indignant. Her house and herself had been grossly insulted by this
abominable outrage, and she did her level best to throw what light she
could on this mysterious occurrence.

“The story she told the police was indeed extraordinary, and as she
repeated it to all her friends, and subsequently to one or two
journalists, it roused public excitement to its highest pitch.

“What she related at great length to the detective in charge of the
case, was briefly this:

“Captain and Mrs. Markham, it appears, arrived at 49, Gastle Street,
on Wednesday afternoon, 2nd December, and Mrs. Bowden accommodated
them with a sitting-room and bedroom, both on the ground floor. In the
evening Mrs. Markham went out to dine with her brother, a Mr. Paulton,
who is a well-known Portsmouth resident, but Captain Markham stayed in
and had dinner alone in his sitting-room.

“According to Mrs. Bowden’s version of the story, at about nine
o’clock a stranger called to see Captain Markham. This stranger was
obviously a foreigner, for he spoke broken English. Unfortunately, the
hall at 49, Gastle Street, was very dark, and, moreover, the foreigner
was attired in a magnificent fur coat, the collar of which hid the
lower part of his face. All Mrs. Bowden could see of him was that he
was very tall, and wore gold-rimmed spectacles.

“‘He was so very peremptory in his manner,’ continued Mrs. Bowden,
‘that I had to show him in at once. The Captain seemed surprised to
see him—in fact, he looked decidedly annoyed, I might say; but just as
I was closing the door I heard the stranger laugh, and say quite
pleasantly: “You gave me the slip, my friend, but you see I have found
you out all right.”’

“Mrs. Bowden, after the manner of her class, seems to have made
vigorous efforts to hear what went on in the sitting-room after that,”
continued the man in the corner, “but she was not successful. Later
on, however, the Captain rang and ordered whiskies and sodas. Both
gentlemen were then sitting by the fire, looking quite friendly.

“‘I took a look round the room,’ explained the worthy landlady, ‘and
took particular notice that the jewel-case was on the table, with the
lid open. Captain Markham, as soon he saw me, closed it very quickly.’

“The stranger seems to have gone away at about half-past ten, and
subsequently again Mrs. Markham came home accompanied by her brother,
Mr. Paulton. The next morning she went out at a quarter past eleven
o’clock, and about half an hour later the mysterious stranger called
again.

“This time he pushed his way straight into the sitting-room; but the
very next moment he uttered a cry of intense horror and astonishment,
and rushed back into the hall, gesticulating wildly, and shrieking: ‘A
robbery!—a murder!—I go for the police!’ And before Mrs. Bowden could
stop him, or even could realise what had occurred, he had dashed out
of the house.

“‘I called to Meggie,’ continued Mrs. Bowden, ‘I was so frightened, I
didn’t dare go into the parlour alone. But she was more frightened
than I was, and we stood trembling in the hall waiting for the police.
At last I began to have my suspicions, and I got Meggie to run out
into the street and see if she could bring in a policeman.’

“When the police at last arrived upon the scene, they pushed open the
sitting-room door, and there found Captain Markham in a most helpless
condition, his hands tied behind his back, and himself half-choked by
the scarf over his mouth. As soon as he recovered his breath, he
explained that he had no idea who his assailant was; he was standing
with his back to the door, when he was suddenly dealt a blow on the
head from behind, and he remembered nothing more.

“In the meantime Mrs. Markham had come home, and of course was
horrified beyond measure at the outrage which had been committed. She
declared that her jewel-case was in the sitting-room when she went out
in the morning—a fact confirmed by Captain Markham himself.

“But here, at once, the police were seriously puzzled. Mrs. Bowden, of
course, told her story of the foreigner—a story which was corroborated
by her daughter, Meggie. Captain Markham, pressed by the police, and
by his wife, admitted that a friend had visited him the evening
before.

“‘He is an old friend I met years ago abroad, who happened to be in
Portsmouth yesterday, and quite accidentally caught sight of me as I
drove up to this door, and naturally came in to see me,’ was the
Captain’s somewhat lame explanation.

“Nothing more was to be got out of him that day; he was still feeling
very bewildered he said, and certainly he looked very ill. Mrs.
Markham then put the whole matter in the hands of the police.

“Captain Markham had given a description of ‘the old friend he had met
years ago abroad.’ This description vaguely coincided with that given
by Mrs. Bowden of the mysterious foreigner. But the Captain’s replies
to the cross-questionings of the detectives in charge of the case were
always singularly reticent and lame. ‘I had lost sight of him for
nearly twenty years,’ he explained, ‘and do not know what his present
abode and occupation might be. When I knew him years ago, he was a man
of independent means, without a fixed abode, and a great traveller. I
believe that he is a German by nationality, but I don’t think that I
ever knew this as a fact. His name was Johann Schmidt.’

“I may as well tell you here, at once, that the mysterious foreigner
managed to make good his escape. He was traced as far as the South
Western Railway Station, where he was seen to rush through the
barrier, just in time to catch the express up to town. At Waterloo he
was lost sight of in the crowd.

“The police were keenly on the alert; no trace of the missing jewels
had as yet been found. Then it was that, gradually, the story of the
secret plan of Port Arthur reached the ears of the general public. Who
first told it, and to whom, it is difficult to conjecture, but you
know what a way things of that sort have of leaking out.

“The secret of Captain Markham’s mission had of necessity been known
to several people, and a secret shared by many soon ceases to be one
at all; anyway, within a week of the so-called ‘Portsmouth outrage,’
it began to be loudly whispered that the robbery of Mrs. Markham’s
jewels was only a mask that covered the deliberate theft of the plans
of Port Arthur.

“And then the inevitable happened. Already Captain Markham’s strange
attitude had been severely commented upon, and now the public, backed
by the crowd of amateur detectives who read penny novelettes and form
conclusions of their own, had made up its mind that Captain Markham
was a party to the theft—that he was either the tool or the accomplice
of the mysterious foreigner and that, in fact, he had been either
bribed or terrorised into giving up the plan of Port Arthur to an
enemy of the Russian government. The crime was all the more heinous as
by this act of treachery a British ship, manned by a British crew, had
been sent to certain destruction.

“What rendered the whole case doubly mysterious was that Messrs. Mills
and Co. seemed to take the matter with complete indifference. They
refused to be interviewed, or to give any information about the
_Artemis_ at all, and seemed callously willing to await events.

“The public was furious; the newspapers stormed; every one felt that
the _Artemis_ should be stopped at any cost at her next port of call,
and not allowed to continue her perilous journey.

“And yet the days went by; the public read with horror at Lloyds’ that
the _Artemis_ had called at Malta, at Port Said, at Aden, and was now
well on her way to the Far East. Feeling ran so high throughout
England, that, if the mysterious stranger had been discovered by the
police, no protection from them would have saved him from being
lynched.

“As for Captain Markham, public opinion reserved its final judgment. A
cloud hung over him, of that there was no doubt; many said openly that
he had sold the secret plans of Port Arthur, either to the Japanese or
to the Nihilists, either through fear or intimidation, if not through
greed.

“Then the inevitable climax came: A certain Mr. Carleton constituted
himself the spokesman of the general public; he met Captain Markham
one day at one of the clubs in London. There were hot words between
them. Mr. Carleton did not mince matters; he openly accused Captain
Markham of that which public opinion had already whispered, and
finally, completely losing his temper, he struck the Captain in the
face, calling him every opprobrious name he could think of.

“But for the timely interference of friends, there would have been
murder committed then and there; as it was, Captain Markham was
induced by his own friends to bring a criminal charge of slander and
of assault against Mr. Carleton, as the only means of making the whole
story public, and possibly vindicating his character.”



Chapter III

“A criminal action for slander and assault is always an interesting
one,” continued the man in the corner, after a while, “as it always
argues an unusual amount of personal animosity on the part of the
plaintiff.

“In this case, of course, public interest was roused to its highest
pitch. Practically, though Captain Markham was the prosecutor, he
would stand before his fellow-citizens after this action either as an
innocent man, or as one of the most dastardly scoundrels this nation
has ever known.

“The case for the Captain was briefly stated by his counsel. For the
defence Sir Arthur Inglewood, on behalf of Mr. Carleton, pleaded
justification. With wonderful eloquence Sir Arthur related the whole
story of the secret plan of Port Arthur confided to the honour of
Captain Markham, and which involved the safety of the British ship and
the lives of a whole British crew.

“The first witnesses called for the defence were Mrs. Bowden and her
daughter, Meggie. Both related the story I have already told you. When
they came to the point of having seen the jewel-case _open_ on the
table during that interview between Captain Markham and the mysterious
stranger, there was a regular murmur of indignation throughout the
whole crowd, so much so, that the judge threatened to clear the court,
for Sir Arthur argued this to be a proof that Captain Markham had been
a willing accomplice in the theft of the secret plans, and had merely
played the comedy of being assaulted, bound, and gagged.

“But there was more to come.

“It appears that on the morning of 2nd December—that is to say, before
going to Portsmouth—Captain Markham, directly after breakfast, and
while his wife was up in her own room, received a message which seemed
greatly to disturb him. It was Jane Mason, the parlour-maid at the
Markhams’ town house, who told the story.

“A letter bearing no stamp had been dropped into the letter-box, she
had taken it to her master, who, on reading it, became greatly
agitated; he tore up the letter, stuffed it into his pocket and
presently took up his hat and rushed out of the house.

“‘When the master was gone,’ continued Jane, ‘I found a scrap of
paper, which had fallen out of his pocket.’

“This scrap of paper Jane Mason had carefully put away. She was a
shrewd girl, and scented some mystery. It was now produced in court,
and the few fragmentary words were read out by Sir Arthur Inglewood,
amidst boundless excitement:

“‘....if you lend a hand........Port Arthur safely.......hold my
tongue....’

“And at the end there were four letters in large capitals, ‘STOW.’

“In view of all the evidence taken, there was momentous significance
to be attached to those few words, of which only the last four letters
seemed mysterious, but these probably were part of the confederate’s
signature, who had—no one doubted it now—some hold upon Captain
Markham, and had by a process of blackmail induced him to send the
_Artemis_ to her doom.

“After that, according to a statement made by the head clerk of
Messrs. Mills and Co., Captain Markham came round to the office
begging that some one else should be sent to meet Captain Jutland at
Portsmouth. ‘This,’ explained the head clerk, who had been subpœnaed
for the defence, ‘was quite impossible at this eleventh hour, and, in
the absence of the heads of the firm, I had on Mr. Mills’ behalf to
hold Captain Markham to his promise.’

“This closed the case for the defence, and in view of the lateness of
the hour, counsels’ speeches were reserved for the following day.
There was not a doubt in anybody’s mind that Captain Markham was
guilty, and but for the presence of a large body of police, I assure
you he would have been torn to pieces by the crowd.”

The man in the corner paused in his narrative and blinked at me over
his bone-rimmed spectacles, like some lean and frowzy tom-cat, eager
for a fight.

“Well?” I said eagerly.

“Well, surely you remember what happened the following day?” he
replied, with a dry chuckle. “Personally, I don’t think that there
ever was quite so much sensation in any English court of law.

“It was crowded, of course, when counsel for the plaintiff rose to
speak. He made, however, only a short statement, briefly and to the
point; but this statement caused every one to look at his neighbour,
wondering if he were awake or dreaming.

“Counsel began by saying that Messrs. Mills and Co., in view of the
obvious conspiracy that had existed against the _Artemis_, had
decided, in conjunction with Captain Markham himself, to say nothing
about the safety of the ship until she was in port; but now counsel
had much pleasure in informing the court and public that the _Artemis_
had safely arrived at Port Arthur, had landed her guns, and was on her
way home again by now. A cablegram _via_ St. Petersburg had been
received by Messrs. Mills and Co., from Captain Jutland that very
morning.

“That cablegram was read by counsel in court, and was received with
loud and prolonged cheering which could not be suppressed.

“With heroic fortitude—explained counsel—Captain Markham had borne the
gross suspicions against his integrity, only hoping that news of the
safety of the _Artemis_ would reach England in time to allow him to
vindicate his character. But until Captain Jutland was safe in port,
he had sworn to hold his tongue and to bear insult and violence,
sooner than once more jeopardise the safety of the British ship by
openly avowing that she carried the plans of the important port with
her.

“Well, you know the rest. The parties, at the suggestion of the judge,
arranged the case amicably, and, Captain Markham being fully
satisfied, Mr. Carleton was nominally ordered to come up for trial
when called upon.

“Captain Markham was the hero of the hour; but presently, after the
first excitement had subsided, sensible people began to ponder. Every
one, of course, appreciated the fact that Messrs. Mills and Co.,
prompted by the highest authorities, had insisted on not jeopardising
the safety of the _Artemis_ by shouting on the housetops that she was
carrying the plans of Port Arthur on board. Hostilities in the Far
East were on the point of breaking out, and I need not insist, I
think, on the obvious fact that silence in such matters and at such a
time was absolutely imperative.

“But what sensible people wanted to know was, what part had Captain
Markham played in all this?

“In the evening of that memorable 2nd December, he was sitting
amicably by the fire with the mysterious stranger, who was evidently
blackmailing him, and with the jewel-case, which contained the plans
of Port Arthur, open between them. What, then, had caused Captain
Markham to change his attitude? What dispelled the fear of the
stranger? Was he really assaulted? Was the jewel-case really stolen?

“Captain Jutland, of the _Artemis_, has explained that he was only on
shore for one hour at Portsmouth on the memorable morning of 3rd
December, namely, between 10.30 and 11.30 a.m. On landing at the Hard
from his gig, he was met by a gentleman, whom he did not know, and
who, without a word of comment, handed him some papers, which proved
to be plans of Port Arthur.

“Now, at that very hour Captain Markham was lying helpless in his
bedroom, and the question now is, who abstracted the plans from the
jewel-case, and then mysteriously handed them to Captain Jutland? Why
was it not done openly? Why?—why? and, above all, by whom?——”



Chapter IV

“Indeed, why?” I retorted, for he had paused, and was peering at me
through his bone-rimmed spectacles. “You must have a theory,” I added,
as I quietly handed him a beautiful bit of string across the table.

“Of course, I have a theory,” he replied placidly; “nay, more, the
only explanation of those mysterious events. But for this I must refer
you to the scrap of paper found by Jane Mason, and containing the four
fragmentary sentences which have puzzled every one, and which Captain
Markham always refused to explain.

“Do you remember,” he went on, as he began feverishly to construct
knot upon knot on that piece of string, “the wreck of the _Ridstow_
some twenty years ago? She was a pleasure boat belonging to Mr. Eyres,
the great millionaire financier, and was supposed to have been wrecked
in the South Seas, with nearly all hands. Five of her crew, however,
were picked up by H.M.S. _Pomona_, on a bit of rocky island to which
they had managed to swim.

“I looked up the files of the newspapers relating to the rescue of
these five shipwrecked mariners, who told a most pitiable tale of the
loss of the yacht and their subsequent escape to, and sufferings on
the island. Fire had broken out in the hull of the _Ridstow_, and all
her crew were drowned, with the exception of three sailors, a Russian
friend, or rather secretary, of Mr. Eyres, and a young petty officer
named Markham.

“You see, the letters stow had given me the clue. Clearly Markham, on
receiving the message on the morning of 2nd December, was frightened,
and when we analyse the fragments of that message and try to
reconstruct the missing fragments, do we not get something like this:

“‘If _you lend a hand_ in allowing the _Artemis_ to reach _Port Arthur
safely_, and to land her cargo there, I will no longer _hold my
tongue_ about the events which occurred on board the _Ridstow_.’

“Clearly the mysterious stranger had a great hold over Captain
Markham, for every scrap of evidence, if you think it over, points to
his having been _frightened_. Did he not beg the clerk to find some
one else to meet Captain Jutland in Portsmouth? He did not wish _to
lend a hand_ in allowing the _Artemis_ to reach _Port Arthur safely_.

“We must, therefore, take it that on board the _Ridstow_ some such
tragedy was enacted as, alas! is not of unfrequent occurrence. The
tragedy of a mutiny, a wholesale murder, the robbery of the rich
financier, the burning of the yacht. Markham, then barely twenty, was
no doubt an unwilling, perhaps passive, accomplice; one can trace the
hand of a cunning, daring Russian in the whole of this mysterious
tragedy.

“Since then, Markham, through twenty years’ faithful service of his
country, had tried to redeem the passive crime of his early years. But
then came the crisis: The cunning leader of that bygone tragedy no
doubt kept a strong hand over his weaker accomplices.

“What happened to the other three we do not know, but we have seen how
terrified Markham is of him, how he dare not resist him, and when the
mysterious Russian—some Nihilist, no doubt, at war with his own
Government—wishes to deal his country a terrible blow by possessing
himself of the plan of her most important harbour, so that he might
sell it to her enemies, Markham dare not say him nay.

“But mark what happens. Captain Markham terrorised, confronted with a
past crime, threatened with exposure, is as wax in the hands of his
unscrupulous tormentor. But beside him there is the saving presence of
his wife.”

“His wife?” I gasped.

“Yes, the woman! Did you think this was a crime without the inevitable
woman! I sought her, and found her in Captain Markham’s wife. To save
her husband both from falling a victim to his implacable accomplice,
and from committing another even more heinous crime, she suggests the
comedy which was so cleverly enacted in the morning of 3rd December.

“When the landlady and her daughter saw the jewel-case open on the
table the evening before, Markham was playing the first act of the
comedy invented by his wife. She had the plan safely in her own
keeping by then. He pretended to agree to the Russian’s demands, but
showed him that he had not then the plan in his possession, promising,
however, to deliver it up on the morrow.

“Then in the morning, Mrs. Markham helps to gag and strap her husband
down; he pretends to lie unconscious, and she goes out carrying the
jewel-case. Her brother, Mr. Paulton, of course helps them both;
without him it would have been more difficult; as it is, he takes
charge of the jewel-case, abstracts the plan and papers, and finally
meets Captain Jutland at the Hard, and hands him over the plan of Port
Arthur.

“Thus through the wits of a clever and devoted woman, not only are the
_Artemis_ and her British crew saved, but Captain Markham is
effectually rid of the blackmailer, who otherwise would have poisoned
his life, and probably out of revenge at being foiled, have ruined his
victim altogether.

“To my mind, that was the neatest thing in the whole plan. The general
public believed that Captain Markham (who obviously at the instigation
of his wife had confided in Messrs. Mills and Co.) held his tongue as
to the safety of the _Artemis_ merely out of heroism, in order not to
run her into any further danger. Now, I maintain that this was the
masterstroke of that clever woman’s plan.

“By holding his tongue, by letting the public fear for the safety of
the British crew and British ship, public feeling was stirred to such
a pitch of excitement that the Russian now would never _dare_ show
himself. Not only—by denouncing Captain Markham now—would he never be
even listened to for a moment, but, if he came forward at all, if he
even showed himself, he would stand before the British public
self-convicted as the man who had tried through the criminal process
of blackmail to terrorise an Englishman into sending a British ship
and thirty British sailors to certain annihilation.

“No; I think we may take it for granted that the Russian will not dare
to show his face in England again.”

And the funny creature was gone before I could say another word.



IX. The Disappearance of Count Collini

Chapter I

He was very argumentative that morning; whatever I said he invariably
contradicted flatly and at once, and we both had finally succeeded in
losing our temper.

The man in the corner was riding one of his favourite hobby-horses.

“It is _impossible_ for any person to completely disappear in a
civilised country,” he said emphatically, “provided that person has
either friends or enemies of means and substance, who are interested
in finding his or her whereabouts.”

“Impossible is a sweeping word,” I rejoined.

“None too big for the argument,” he concluded, as he surveyed with
evident pride and pleasure a gigantic and complicated knot which his
bony fingers had just fashioned.

“I think that, nevertheless, you should not use it,” I said placidly.
“It is not _impossible_, though it may be very difficult to disappear
without leaving the slightest clue or trace behind you.”

“Prove it,” he said, with a snap of his thin lips.

“I can, quite easily.”

“Now I know what is going on in your mind,” said the uncanny creature,
“you are thinking of that case last autumn.”

“Well, I was,” I admitted. “And you cannot deny that Count Collini has
disappeared as effectually as if the sea had swallowed him up—many
people think it did.”

“Many idiots, you mean,” he rejoined dryly. “Yes, I knew you would
quote that case. It certainly was a curious one; all the more so,
perhaps, as there was no inquest, no sensational police court
proceedings, nothing dramatic, in fact, save that strange and
wonderful disappearance.

“I don’t know if you call to mind the whole plot of that weird drama.
There was Thomas Checkfield, a retired biscuit baker of Reading, who
died leaving a comfortable fortune, mostly invested in freehold
property, and amounting to about £80,000, to his only child, Alice.

“At the time of her father’s death, Alice Checkfield was just
eighteen, and at school in Switzerland, where she had spent most of
her life. Old Checkfield had been a widower ever since the birth of
his daughter, and seems to have led a very lonely and eccentric life;
leaving the girl at school abroad for years, only going very
occasionally to see her, and seemingly having but little affection for
her.

“The girl herself had not been home in England since she was eight
years old, and even when old Checkfield was dying he would not allow
the girl to be apprised of his impending death, and to be brought home
to a house of loneliness and mourning.

“‘What’s the good of upsetting a young girl, not eighteen,’ he said to
his friend, Mr. Turnour, ‘by letting her see all the sad paraphernalia
of death? She hasn’t seen much of her old father anyway, and will soon
get over her loss, with young company round her, to help her bear up.’

“But though Thomas Checkfield cared little enough for his daughter,
when he died he left his entire fortune to her, amounting altogether
to £80,000; and he appointed his friend, Reginald Turnour, to be her
trustee and guardian until her marriage or until she should attain her
majority.

“It was generally understood that the words ‘until her marriage’ were
put in because it had all along been arranged that Alice should marry
Hubert Turnour, Reginald’s younger brother.

“Hubert was old Checkfield’s godson, and if the old man had any
affection for anybody it certainly was for Hubert. The latter had been
a great deal in his godfather’s house, when he and Alice were both
small children, and had called each other ‘hubby’ and ‘wifey’ in play,
when they were still in the nursery. Later on, whenever old Checkfield
went abroad to see his daughter, he always took Hubert with him, and a
boy and girl flirtation sprang up between the two young people; a
flirtation which had old Checkfield’s complete approval, and no doubt
he looked upon their marriage as a _fait accompli_, merely desiring
the elder Mr. Turnour to administer the girl’s fortune until then.

“Hubert Turnour, at the time of the subsequent tragedy, was a
good-looking young fellow, and by profession what is vaguely known as
a ‘commission agent.’ He lived in London, where he had an office in a
huge block of buildings close to Cannon Street Station.

“There is no doubt that at the time of old Checkfield’s death, Alice
looked upon herself as the young man’s _fiancée_. When the girl
reached her nineteenth year, it was at last decided that she should
leave school and come to England. The question as to what should be
done with her until her majority, or until she married Hubert, was a
great puzzle to Mr. Turnour. He was a bachelor, who lived in
comfortable furnished rooms in Reading, and he did not at all relish
the idea of starting housekeeping for the sake of his young ward, whom
he had not seen since she was out of the nursery, and whom he looked
upon as an intolerable nuisance.

“Fortunately for him this vexed question was most satisfactorily and
unexpectedly settled by Alice herself. She wrote to her guardian, from
Geneva, that a Mrs. Brackenbury, the mother of her dearest
schoolfellow had asked her to come and live with them, at any rate for
a time, as this would be a more becoming arrangement than that of a
young girl sharing a bachelor’s establishment.

“Mr. Turnour seems to have hesitated for some time: he was a
conscientious sort of man, who took his duties of guardianship very
seriously. What ultimately decided him, however, was that his brother
Hubert added the weight of his eloquent letters of appeal to those of
Alice herself. Hubert naturally was delighted at the idea of having
his rich _fiancée_ under his eye in London, and after a good deal of
correspondence, Mr. Turnour finally gave his consent, and Alice
Checkfield duly arrived from Switzerland in order to make a prolonged
stay in Mrs. Brackenbury’s house.”



Chapter II

“All seems to have gone on happily and smoothly for a time in Mrs.
Brackenbury’s pretty house in Kensington,” continued the man in the
corner. “Hubert Turnour was a constant visitor there, and the two
young people seem to have had all the freedom of an engaged couple.

“Alice Checkfield was in no sense of the word an attractive girl; she
was not good-looking, and no effort on Mrs. Brackenbury’s part could
succeed in making her look stylish. Still, Hubert Turnour seemed quite
satisfied, and the girl herself ready enough at first to continue the
boy and girl flirtation as of old.

“Soon, however, as time went on, things began to change. Now that
Alice had become mistress of a comfortable fortune, there were plenty
of people ready to persuade her that a ‘commission agent,’ with but
vague business prospects, was not half good enough for her, and that
her £80,000 entitled her to more ambitious matrimonial hopes. Needless
to say that in these counsels Mrs. Brackenbury was very much to the
fore.

“She lived in Kensington, and had social ambitions, foremost among
which was to see her daughter’s bosom friend married to, at least, a
baronet, if not a peer.

“A young girl’s head is quickly turned. Within six months of her stay
in London, Alice was giving Hubert Turnour the cold shoulder, and the
young man had soon realised that she was trying to get out of her
engagement.

“Scarcely had Alice reached her twentieth birthday, than she gave her
erstwhile _fiancé_ his formal _congé_.

“At first Hubert seems to have taken his discomfiture very much to
heart. £80,000 were not likely to come his way again in a hurry.
According to Mrs. Brackenbury’s servants, there were one or two
violent scenes between him and Alice, until finally Mrs. Brackenbury
herself was forced to ask the young man to discontinue his visits.

“It was soon after that that Alice Checkfield first met Count Collini
at one of the brilliant subscription dances given by the Italian
colony in London, the winter before last. Mrs. Brackenbury was charmed
with him, Alice Checkfield was enchanted! The Count, having danced
with Alice half the evening, was allowed to pay his respects at the
house in Kensington.

“He seemed to be extremely well off, for he was staying at the
Carlton, and, after one or two calls on Mrs. Brackenbury, he began
taking the ladies to theatres and concerts, always presenting them
with the choicest and most expensive flowers, and paying them various
other equally costly attentions.

“Mrs. and Miss Brackenbury welcomed the Count with open arms
(figuratively speaking). Alice was shy, but apparently over head and
ears in love at first sight.

“At first Mrs. Brackenbury did her best to keep this new
acquaintanceship a secret from Hubert Turnour. I suppose that the old
matchmaker feared another unpleasant scene. But the inevitable soon
happened. Hubert, contrite, perhaps still hopeful, called at the house
one day, when the Count was there, and, according to the story
subsequently told by Miss Brackenbury herself, there was a violent
scene between him and Alice. As soon as the fascinating foreigner had
gone, Hubert reproached his _fiancée_ for her fickleness in no
measured language, and there was a good deal of evidence to prove that
he then and there swore to be even with the man who had supplanted him
in her affections. There was nothing to do then but for Mrs.
Brackenbury to ‘burn her boats.’ She peremptorily ordered Hubert out
of her house, and admitted that Count Collini was a suitor, favoured
by herself, for the hand of Alice Checkfield.

“You see, I am bound to give you all these details of the situation,”
continued the man in the corner, with his bland smile, “so that you
may better form a judgment as to the subsequent fate of Count Collini.
From the description which Mrs. Brackenbury herself subsequently gave
to the police, the Count was then in the prime of life; of a dark
olive complexion, dark eyes, extremely black hair and moustache. He
had a very slight limp, owing to an accident he had had in early
youth, which made his walk and general carriage unusual and distinctly
noticeable. His was certainly not a personality that could pass
unperceived in a crowd.

“Hubert Turnour, furious and heartsick, wrote letter after letter to
his brother, to ask him to interfere on his behalf; this Mr. Turnour
did, to the best of his ability, but he had to deal with an ambitious
matchmaker and with a girl in love, and it is small wonder that he
signally failed. Alice Checkfield by now had become deeply enamoured
of her Count, his gallantries flattered her vanity, his title and the
accounts he gave of his riches and his estates in Italy fascinated
her, and she declared that she would marry him, either with or without
her guardian’s consent, either at once, or as soon as she had attained
her majority, and was mistress of herself and of her fortune.

“Mr. Turnour did all he could to prevent this absurd marriage. Being a
sensible, middle-class Britisher, he had no respect for foreign
titles, and little belief in foreign wealth. He wrote the most urgent
letters to Alice, warning her against a man whom he firmly believed to
be an impostor; finally, he flatly refused to give his consent to the
marriage.

“Thus a few months went by. The Count had been away in Italy all
through the winter and spring, and returned to London for the season,
apparently more enamoured with the Reading biscuit baker’s daughter
than ever. Alice Checkfield was then within nine months of her
twenty-first birthday, and determined to marry the Count. She openly
defied her guardian.

“‘Nothing,’ she wrote to him, ‘would ever induce me to marry Hubert.’

“I suppose it was this which finally induced Mr. Turnour to give up
all opposition to the marriage. Seeing that his brother’s chances were
absolutely _nil_, and that Alice was within nine months of her
majority, he no doubt thought all further argument useless, and with
great reluctance finally gave his consent.

“The marriage, owing to the difference of religion, was to be
performed before a registrar, and was finally fixed to take place on
22nd October, 1903, which was just a week after Alice’s twenty-first
birthday.

“Of course the question of Alice’s fortune immediately cropped up: she
desired her money in cash, as her husband was taking her over to live
in Italy, where she desired to make all further investments. She,
therefore, asked Mr. Turnour to dispose of her freehold property for
her. There again Mr. Turnour hesitated, and argued, but once he had
given his consent to the marriage, all opposition was useless, more
especially as Mrs. Brackenbury’s solicitors had drawn up a very
satisfactory marriage settlement, which the Count himself had
suggested, by which Alice was to retain sole use and control of her
own private fortune.

“The marriage was then duly performed before a registrar on that 22nd
of October, and Alice Checkfield could henceforth style herself
Countess Collini. The young couple were to start for Italy almost
directly, but meant to spend a day or two at Dover quietly together.
There were, however, one or two tiresome legal formalities to go
through. Mr. Turnour had, by Alice’s desire, handed over the sum of
£80,000 in notes to her solicitor, Mr. R. W. Stanford. Mr. Stanford
had gone down to Reading two days before the marriage, had received
the money from Mr. Turnour, and then called upon the new Countess, and
formally handed her over her fortune in Bank of England notes.

“Then it was necessary, in view of immediate and future arrangements,
to change the English money into foreign, which the Count and his
young wife did themselves that afternoon.

“At 5 o’clock p.m. they started for Dover, accompanied by Mrs.
Brackenbury, who desired to see the last of her young friend, prior to
the latter’s departure for abroad. The Count had engaged a magnificent
suite of rooms at the Lord Warden Hotel, and thither the party
proceeded.

“So far, you see,” added the man in the corner, “the story is of the
utmost simplicity. You might even call it commonplace. A foreign
Count, an ambitious matchmaker, and a credulous girl; these form the
ingredients of many a domestic drama, that culminates at the police
courts. But at this point this particular drama becomes more
complicated, and, if you remember, ends in one of the strangest
mysteries that has ever baffled the detective forces on both sides of
the Channel.”



Chapter III

The man in the corner paused in his narrative. I could see that he was
coming to the palpitating part of the story, for his fingers fidgeted
incessantly with that bit of string.

“Hubert Turnour, as you may imagine,” he continued after a while, “did
not take his final discomfiture very quietly. He was a very
violent-tempered young man, and it was certainly enough to make any
one cross. According to Mrs. Brackenbury’s servants he used most
threatening language in reference to Count Collini; and on one
occasion was with difficulty prevented from personally assaulting the
Count in the hall of Mrs. Brackenbury’s pretty Kensington house.

“Count Collini finally had to threaten Hubert Turnour with the police
court: this seemed to have calmed the young man’s nerves somewhat, for
he kept quite quiet after that, ceased to call on Mrs. Brackenbury,
and subsequently sent the future Countess a wedding present.

“When the Count and Countess Collini, accompanied by Mrs. Brackenbury,
arrived at the Lord Warden, Alice found a letter awaiting her there.
It was from Hubert Turnour. In it he begged for forgiveness for all
the annoyance he had caused her, hoped that she would always look upon
him as a friend, and finally expressed a strong desire to see her once
more before her departure for abroad, saying that he would be in Dover
either this same day or the next, and would give himself the pleasure
of calling upon her and her husband.

“Effectively at about eight o’clock, when the wedding party was just
sitting down to dinner, Hubert Turnour was announced. Every one was
most cordial to him, agreeing to let bygones be bygones: the Count,
especially, was most genial and pleasant towards his former rival, and
insisted upon his staying and dining with them.

“Later on in the evening, Hubert Turnour took an affectionate leave of
the ladies, Count Collini offering to walk back with him to the Grand
Hotel, where he was staying. The two men went out together, and—well!
you know the rest!—for that was the last the young Countess Collini
ever saw of her husband. He disappeared as effectually, as completely,
as if the sea had swallowed him up.

“‘And so it had,’ say the public,” continued the man in the corner,
after a slight pause, “that delicious, short-sighted, irresponsible
public is wondering, to this day, why Hubert Turnour was not hung for
the murder of that Count Collini.”

“Well! and why wasn’t he?” I retorted.

“For the very simple reason,” he replied, “that in this country you
cannot hang a man for murder unless there is proof positive that a
murder has been committed. Now, there was absolutely no proof that the
Count was murdered at all. What happened was this: the Countess
Collini and Mrs. Brackenbury became anxious as time went on and the
Count did not return. One o’clock, then two in the morning, and their
anxiety became positive alarm. At last, as Alice was verging on
hysterics, Mrs. Brackenbury, in spite of the lateness of the hour,
went round to the police station.

“It was, of course, too late to do anything in the middle of the
night; the constable on duty tried to reassure the unfortunate lady,
and promised to send word round to the Lord Warden at the earliest
possible opportunity in the morning.

“Mrs. Brackenbury went back with a heavy heart. No doubt Mr. Turnour’s
sensible letters from Reading recurred to her mind. She had already
ascertained from the distracted bride that the Count had taken the
strange precaution to keep in his own pocket-book the £80,000, now
converted into French and Italian banknotes, and Mrs. Brackenbury
feared not so much that he had met with some accident, but that he had
absconded with the whole of his girl-wife’s fortune.

“The next morning brought but scanty news. No one answering to the
Count’s description had met with an accident during the night, or been
conveyed to a hospital, and no one answering his description had
crossed over to Calais or Ostend by the night boats. Moreover, Hubert
Turnour, who presumably had last been in Count Collini’s company, had
left Dover for town by the boat train at 1.50 a.m.

“Then the search began in earnest after the missing man, and primarily
Hubert Turnour was subjected to the closest and most searching
cross-examination, by one of the most able men on our detective staff,
Inspector Macpherson.

“Hubert Turnour’s story was briefly this: He had strolled about on the
parade with Count Collini for a while. It was a very blustery night,
the wind blowing a regular gale, and the sea was rolling gigantic
waves, which looked magnificent, as there was brilliant moonlight.
‘Soon after ten o’clock,’ he continued, ‘the Count and I went back to
the Grand Hotel, and we had whiskies and sodas up in my room, and a
bit of a chat until past eleven o’clock. Then he said good-night and
went off.’

“‘You saw him down to the hall, of course?’ asked the detective.

“‘No, I did not,’ replied Hubert Turnour. ‘I had a few letters to
write, and meant to catch the 1.50 a.m. back to town.’

“‘How long were you in Dover altogether?’ asked Macpherson carelessly.

“‘Only a few hours. I came down in the afternoon.’

“‘Strange, is it not, that you should have taken a room with a private
sitting-room at an expensive hotel, just for those few hours?’

“‘Not at all. I originally meant to stay longer. And my expenses are
nobody’s business, I take it,’ replied Hubert Turnour, with some show
of temper. ‘Anyway,’ he added impatiently, after a while, ‘if you
choose to disbelieve me, you can make inquiries at the hotel, and
ascertain if I have told the truth.’

“Undoubtedly he had spoken the truth; at any rate, to that extent.
Inquiries at the Grand Hotel went to prove that he had arrived there
in the early part of the afternoon, had engaged a couple of rooms, and
then gone out. Soon after ten o’clock in the evening he came in,
accompanied by a gentleman, whose description, as given by three
witnesses, _employés_ of the hotel, who saw him, corresponded exactly
with that of the Count.

“Together the two gentlemen went up to Mr. Hubert Turnour’s rooms, and
at half-past ten they ordered whisky to be taken up to them. But at
this point all trace of Count Collini had completely vanished. The
passengers arriving by the 10.49 boat train, and who had elected to
spend the night in Dover, owing to the gale, had crowded up and filled
the hall.

“No one saw Count Collini leave the Grand Hotel. But Mr. Hubert
Turnour came down into the hall at about half-past eleven. He said he
would be leaving by the 1.50 a.m. boat train for town, but would walk
round to the station as he only had a small bag with him. He paid his
account, then waited in the coffee-room until it was time to go.

“And there the matter has remained. Mrs. Brackenbury has spent half
her own fortune in trying to trace the missing man. She has remained
perfectly convinced that he slipped across the Channel, taking Alice
Checkfield’s money with him. But, as you know, at all ports of call on
the South Coast, detectives are perpetually on the watch. The Count
was a man of peculiar appearance, and there is no doubt that no one
answering to his description crossed over to France or Belgium that
night. By the following morning the detectives on both sides of the
Channel were on the alert. There is no disguise that would have held
good. If the Count had tried to cross over, he would have been spotted
either on board or on landing; and we may take it as an absolute and
positive certainty that he did not cross the Channel.

“He remained in England, but in that case, where is he? You would be
the first to admit that, with the whole of our detective staff at his
heels, it seems incredible that a man of the Count’s singular
appearance could hide himself so completely as to baffle detection.
Moreover, the question at once arises, that if he did not cross over
to France or Belgium, what in the world did he do with the money? What
was the use of disappearing and living the life of a hunted beast
hiding for his life, with £80,000 worth of foreign money, which was
practically useless to him?

“Now, I told you from the first,” concluded the man in the corner,
with a dry chuckle, “that this strange episode contained no
sensational incident, nor dramatic inquest or criminal procedure.
Merely the complete, total disappearance, one may almost call it
extinction, of a striking-looking man, in the midst of our vaunted
civilisation, and in spite of the untiring energy and constant watch
of a whole staff of able men.”



Chapter IV

“Very well, then,” I retorted in triumph, “that proves that Hubert
Turnour murdered Count Collini out of revenge, not for greed of money,
and probably threw the body of his victim, together with the foreign
banknotes, into the sea.”

“But where? When? How?” he asked, smiling good-humouredly at me over
his great bone-rimmed spectacles.

“Ah! that I don’t know.”

“No, I thought not,” he rejoined placidly. “You had, I think,
forgotten one incident, namely, that Hubert Turnour, accompanied by
the Count, was in the former’s room at the Grand Hotel drinking whisky
at half-past ten o’clock. You must admit that, even though the hall of
the hotel was very crowded later on, a man would nevertheless find it
somewhat difficult to convey the body of his murdered enemy through a
whole concourse of people.”

“He did not murder the Count in the hotel,” I argued. “The two men
walked out again, when the hall was crowded, and they passed
unnoticed. Hubert Turnour led the Count to a lonely part of the
cliffs, then threw him into the sea.”

“The nearest point at which the cliffs might be called ‘lonely’ for
purposes of a murder, is at least twenty minutes’ walk from the Grand
Hotel,” he said, with a smile, “always supposing that the Count walked
quickly and willingly to such a lonely spot at eleven o’clock at
night, and with a man who had already, more than once, threatened his
life. Mr. Hubert Turnour, remember, was seen in the hall of the hotel
at half-past eleven, after which hour he only left the hotel to go to
the station after 1 o’clock a.m.

“The hall was crowded by the passengers from the boat train a little
after eleven. There was no time between that and half-past to lead
even a willing enemy to the slaughter, throw him into the sea, and
come back again, all in the space of five-and-twenty minutes.”

“Then what is your explanation of that extraordinary disappearance?” I
retorted, beginning to feel very cross about it all.

“A simple one,” he rejoined quietly, as he once more began to fidget
with his bit of string. “A very simple one indeed; namely, that Count
Collini, at the present moment, is living comfortably in England,
calmly awaiting a favourable opportunity of changing his foreign money
back into English notes.”

“But you say yourself that that is impossible, as the most able
detectives in England are on the watch for him.”

“They are on the watch for a certain Count Collini,” he said drily,
“who might disguise himself, perhaps, but whose hidden identity would
sooner or later be discovered by one of these intelligent human
bloodhounds.”

“Yes? Well?” I asked.

“Well, that Count Collini never existed. It was _his_ personality that
was the disguise. Now it is thrown off. The Count is not dead, he is
not hiding, but has merely ceased to exist. There is no fear that he
will ever come to life again. Mr. Turnour senior will see to that.”

“Mr. Turnour!” I ejaculated.

“Why, yes,” he rejoined excitedly; “do you mean to tell me you never
saw through it all? The money lying in his hands; his brother about to
wed the rich heiress; then Mrs. Brackenbury’s matrimonial ambitions,
Alice Checkfield’s coldness to Hubert Turnour, the golden prize
slipping away right out of the family for ever. Then the scheme was
evolved by those two scoundrels, who deserve to be called geniuses in
their criminal way. It could not be managed, except by collaboration,
but as it was, the scheme was perfect in conception, and easy of
execution.

“Remember that disguise _previous_ to a crime is always fairly safe
from detection, for then it has no suspicion to contend against, it
merely deceives those who have no cause to be otherwise _but_
deceived. Mrs. Brackenbury lived in London, Reginald Turnour in
Reading; they did not know each other personally, nor did they know
each other’s friends, of course; whilst Alice Checkfield had not seen
her guardian since she was quite a child.

“Then the disguise was so perfect. I went down to Reading, some little
time ago, and Reginald Turnour was pointed out to me: he is a
Scotchman, with very light, sandy hair. That face clean shaved, made
swarthy, the hair, eyebrows, and lashes dyed a jet black, would render
him absolutely unrecognisable. Add to this the fact that a foreign
accent completely changes the voice, and that the slight limp was a
masterstroke of genius to hide the general carriage.

“Then the winter came round; it was, perhaps, important that Mr.
Turnour should not be absent too long from Reading, for fear of
exciting suspicion there; and the scoundrel played his part with
marvellous skill. Can’t you see him yourself leaving the Carlton
Hotel, ostensibly going abroad, driving to Charing Cross, but only
booking to Cannon Street.

“Then getting out at that crowded station and slipping round to his
brother’s office in one of those huge blocks of buildings where there
is perpetual coming and going, and where any individual would easily
pass unperceived.

“There, with the aid of a little soap and water, Mr. Turnour resumed
his Scotch appearance, went on to Reading, and spent winter and spring
there, only returning to London to make a formal proposal, as Count
Collini, for Alice Checkfield’s hand. Hubert Turnour’s office was
undoubtedly the place where he changed his identity, from that of the
British middle-class man, to the interesting personality of the
Italian nobleman.

“He had, of course, to repeat the journey to Reading a day or two
before his wedding, in order to hand over his ward’s fortune to Mrs.
Brackenbury’s solicitor. Then there were the supposed rows between
Hubert Turnour and his rival; the letters of warning from the
guardian, for which Hubert no doubt journeyed down to Reading, in
order to post them there: all this was dust thrown into the eyes of
two credulous ladies.

“After that came the wedding, the meeting with Hubert Turnour, who,
you see, was obliged to take a room in one of the big hotels, wherein,
with more soap and water, the Italian Count could finally disappear.
When the hall of the hotel was crowded, the sandy-haired Scotchman
slipped out of it quite quietly: he was not remarkable, and no one
specially noticed him. Since then the hue and cry has been after a
dark Italian, who limps, and speaks broken English; and it has never
struck any one that such a person never existed.

“Mr. Turnour is fairly safe by now; and we may take it for granted
that he will not seek the acquaintanceship of the Brackenburys, whilst
Alice Checkfield is no longer his ward. He will wait a year or two
longer perhaps, then he and Hubert will begin quietly to re-convert
their foreign money into English notes—they will take frequent little
trips abroad, and gradually change the money at the various _bureaux
de change_, on the Continent.

“Think of it all—it is so simple—not even dramatic, only the work of a
genius from first to last, worthy of a better cause, perhaps, but
undoubtedly worthy of success.”

He was gone, leaving me quite bewildered. Yet the disappearance had
always puzzled me, and now I felt that that animated scarecrow had
found the true explanation of it after all.



X. The Ayrsham Mystery

Chapter I

“I have never had a great opinion of our detective force here in
England,” said the man in the corner, in his funny, gentle, apologetic
manner, “but the way that department mismanaged the affair at Ayrsham
simply passes comprehension.”

“Indeed?” I said, with all the quiet dignity I could command. “It is a
pity they did not consult you in the matter, wasn’t it?”

“It is a pity,” he retorted with aggravating meekness, “that they do
not use a little common sense. The case resembles that of Columbus’
egg, and is every bit as simple.

“It was one evening last October, wasn’t it? that two labourers,
walking home from Ayrsham village, turned down a lane, which, it
appears, is a short cut to the block of cottages some distance off,
where they lodged.

“The night was very dark, and there was a nasty drizzle in the air. In
the picturesque vernacular of the two labourers, ‘You couldn’t see
your ’and before your eyes.’ Suddenly they stumbled over the body of a
man lying right across the path.

“‘At first we thought ’e was drunk,’ explained one of them
subsequently, ‘but when we took a look at ’im, we soon saw there was
something very wrong. Me and my mate turned ’im over, and “foul play”
we both says at once. Then we see that it was Old Man Newton. Poor
chap, ’e was dead, and no mistake.’

“Old Man Newton, as he was universally called by his large circle of
acquaintances, was very well known throughout the entire
neighbourhood, most particularly at every inn and public bar for some
miles around.

“He also kept a local sweet-stuff shop at Ayrsham. No wonder that the
men were horrified at finding him in such a terrible condition; even
in their uneducated minds there could be no doubt that the old man had
been murdered, for his skull had been literally shattered by a fearful
blow, dealt him from behind by some powerful assailant.

“Whilst the labourers were cogitating as to what they had better do
next, they heard footsteps also turning into the lane, and the next
moment Samuel Holder, a well-known inhabitant of Ayrsham, arrived upon
the scene.

“‘Hello! is that you, Mat Newton?’ shouted Samuel, as he came near.

“‘Ay! ’tis Old Man Newton, right enough,’ replied one of the
labourers, ‘but ’e won’t answer you no more.’

“Samuel Holder seemed absolutely horrified when he saw the body of Old
Man Newton; he uttered various ejaculations, which the two labourers,
however, did not take special notice of at the time.

“Then the three men held a brief consultation together, with the
result that one of them ran back to Ayrsham village to fetch the local
police, whilst the two others remained in the lane to guard the body.

“The mystery—for it seemed one from the first—created a great deal of
sensation in Ayrsham and all round the neighbourhood, and much
sympathy was felt for, and shown to Mary Newton, the murdered man’s
only child, a young girl about two-or-three-and-twenty, who, moreover,
was in ill-health.

“True, Old Man Newton was not a satisfactory protector for a young
girl. He was very much addicted to drink; he neglected the little bit
of local business he had; and, moreover, had recently shamefully
ill-treated his daughter, the neighbours testifying to the many and
loud quarrels that occurred in the small back parlour behind the
sweet-stuff shop.

“A case of murder—the moment an element of mystery hovers around
it—immediately excites the attention of the newspaper-reading public,
who is always seeking for new sensations.

“Very soon the history of Old Man Newton and of his daughter found its
way into the London and provincial dailies, and the Ayrsham murder
became a topic of all-absorbing interest.

“It appears that Old Man Newton was at one time a highly respectable
local tradesman, always in a very small way, as there is not much
business doing at Ayrsham. It is a poor and straggling village,
although its railway station is an important junction on the Midland
system.

“There is some very good shooting in the neighbourhood, and about four
or five years ago some of it, together with ‘The Limes,’ a pretty
house just outside the village, was rented for the autumn by Mr.
Ledbury and his brother.

“You know the firm of Ledbury and Co., do you not; the great small
arms manufacturers? The elder Mr. Ledbury was the recipient of
Birthday honours last year, and is the present Lord Walterton; his
younger brother, Mervin, was in those days, and is still, a handsome
young fellow in the Hussars.

“At the time—I mean about five years ago—Mary Newton was the local
beauty of Ayrsham; she did a little dressmaking in her odd moments,
but it appears that she spent most of her time in flirting. She was
nominally engaged to be married to Samuel Holder, a young carpenter,
but there was a good deal of scandal talked about her, for she was
thought to be very fast; village gossip coupled her name with that of
several young men in the neighbourhood, who were known to have paid
the village beauty marked attention, and among these admirers of Mary
Newton during the autumn of which I am speaking, young Mr. Mervin
Ledbury figured conspicuously.

“Be that as it may, certain it is that Mary Newton had a very bad
reputation among the scandalmongers of Ayrsham, and though everybody
was shocked, no one was astonished when one fine day in the winter
following she suddenly left her father and her home, and went no one
knew whither. She left, it appears, a very pathetic letter behind,
begging for her father’s forgiveness, and that of Samuel Holder, whom
she was jilting, but she was going to marry a gentleman above them all
in station, and was going to be a real lady; then only would she
return home.

“A very unusual village tragedy, as you see. Four years went by, and
Mary Newton did not return home. As time went by and with it no news
of his daughter, Old Man Newton took her disappearance very much to
heart. He began to neglect his business, and then his house, which
became dirty and ill-kept by an occasional charwoman who would do a
bit of promiscuous tidying for him from time to time. He was
ill-tempered, sullen, and morose, and very soon became hopelessly
addicted to drink.

“Then suddenly, as unexpectedly as she had gone, Mary Newton returned
to her home one fine day, after an absence of four years. What had
become of her in the interim, no one in the village ever knew; she was
generally supposed to have earned a living by dressmaking, until her
failing health had driven her well nigh to starvation, and then back
to the home and her father she had so heedlessly left.

“Needless to say that all the talk of her ‘marriage with a gentleman
above her in station’ was entirely at an end. As for Old Man Newton,
he seems after his daughter’s return to have become more sullen and
morose than ever, and the neighbours now busied themselves with talk
of the fearful rows which frequently occurred in the back parlour of
the little sweet-stuff shop.

“Father and daughter seemed to be leading a veritable cat-and-dog life
together. Old Man Newton was hardly ever sober, and at the village
inns he threw out weird and strange hints about ‘breach of promise
actions with £5,000 damages, which his daughter would get, if only he
knew where to lay hands upon the scoundrel.’

“He also made vague and wholly useless enquiries about young Mervin
Ledbury, but in a sleepy, out-of-the-way village like Ayrsham, no one
knows anything about what goes on beyond a narrow five-mile radius at
most. ‘The Limes’ and the shooting were let to different tenants year
after year, and neither Lord Walterton nor Mr. Mervin Ledbury had ever
rented them again.”



Chapter II

“That was the past history of Old Newton,” continued the man in the
corner, after a brief pause, “that is to say, of the man who on a dark
night last October was found murdered in a lonely lane, not far from
Ayrsham. The public, as you may well imagine, took a very keen
interest in the case from the outset: the story of Mary Newton, of the
threatened breach of promise, of the £5,000 damages, roused masses of
conjecture to which no one has yet dared to give definite shape.

“One name, however, had already been whispered significantly, that of
Mr. Mervin Ledbury, the young Hussar, one of Mary Newton’s admirers at
the very time she left home in order, as she said, to be married to
some one above her in station.

“Many thinking people, too, wanted to know what Samuel Holder, Mary’s
jilted _fiancé_, was doing close to the scene of the murder that
night, and how he came to make the remark: ‘Hello! Is that you, Mat
Newton?’ when the Old Man lived nearly half-a-mile away, and really
had no cause for being in that particular lane, at that hour of the
night in the drizzling rain.

“The inquest, which, for want of other accommodation, was held at the
local police station, was, as you may imagine, very largely attended.

“I had read a brief statement of the case in the London papers, and
had hurried down to Ayrsham Junction, as I scented a mystery, and knew
I should enjoy myself.

“When I got there, the room was already packed, and the medical
evidence was being gone through.

“Old Man Newton, it appears, had been knocked on the head by a
heavily-loaded cane, which was found in the ditch close to the
murdered man’s body.

“The cane was produced in court; it was as stout as an old-fashioned
club, and of terrific weight. The man who wielded it must have been
very powerful, for he had only dealt one blow, but that blow had
cracked the old man’s skull. The cane was undoubtedly of foreign make,
for it had a solid silver ferrule at one end, which was not English
hall-marked.

“In the opinion of the medical expert, death was the result of the
blow, and must have been almost instantaneous.

“The labourers who first came across the body of the murdered man then
repeated their story; they had nothing new to add, and their evidence
was of no importance. But after that there was some stir in the court.
Samuel Holder had been called and sworn to tell the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth.

“He was a youngish, heavily-built man of about five-and-thirty, with a
nervous, not altogether prepossessing expression of face. Pressed by
the coroner, he gave us a few details of Old Man Newton’s earlier
history, such as I have already told you.

“‘Old Mat,’ he explained, with some hesitation, ‘was for ever wanting
to find out who the gentleman was who had promised marriage to Mary
four years ago. But Mary was that obstinate, and wouldn’t tell him,
and this exasperated the old man terribly, so that they had many rows
on the subject.’

“‘I suppose,’ said the coroner tentatively, ‘that you never knew who
that gentleman was?’

“Samuel Holder seemed to hesitate for a moment. His manner became even
more nervous than before; he shifted his position from one foot to the
other; finally, he said:

“‘I don’t know as I ought to say, but——’

“‘I am quite sure that you must tell us everything you know which
might throw light upon this extraordinary and terrible murder,’
retorted the coroner sternly.

“‘Well,’ replied Samuel Holder, whilst great beads of perspiration
stood out upon his forehead, ‘Mary never would give up the letters she
had had from him, and she would not hear anything about a breach of
promise case and £5,000 damages; but old Mat ’e often says to me, says
’e, “It’s young Mr. Ledbury,” ’e says, “she’s told me that once. I got
it out of ’er, and if I only knew where to find ’im——”’

“‘You are quite sure of this?’ asked the coroner, for Holder had
paused, and seemed quite horrified at the enormity of what he had
said.

“‘Yes—yes—your worship—your honour——’ stammered Holder. ‘’E’s told me
’twas young Mr. Ledbury times out of count, and——’

“But Samuel Holder here completely broke down; he seemed unable to
speak, his lips twitched convulsively, and the coroner, fearing that
the man would faint, had him conveyed into the next room to recover
himself, whilst another witness was brought forward.

“This was Michael Pitkin, landlord of the Fernhead Arms, at Ayrsham,
who had been on very intimate terms with old Newton during the four
years which elapsed after Mary’s disappearance. He had a very curious
story to tell, which aroused public excitement to its highest pitch.

“It appears that to him also the old man had often confided the fact
that it was Mr. Ledbury who had promised to marry Mary, and then had
shamefully left her stranded and moneyless in London.

“‘But, of course,’ added the jovial and pleasant-looking landlord of
the Fernhead Arms, ‘the likes of us down here didn’t know what became
of Mr. Ledbury after he left “The Limes,” until one day I reads in the
local paper that Sir John Fernhead’s daughter is going to be married
to Captain Mervin Ledbury. Of course, your honour and me, and all of
us know Sir John, our squire, down at Fernhead Towers, and I says to
old Mat: “It strikes me,” I says, “that you’ve got your man.” Sure
enough it was the same Mr. Ledbury who rented “The Limes” years ago,
who was engaged to the young lady up at the Towers, and last week
there was grand doings there—lords and ladies and lots of quality
staying there, and also the Captain.’

“‘Well?’ asked the coroner eagerly, whilst every one held their
breath, wondering what was to come.

“‘Well,’ continued Michael Pitkin, ‘Old Man Newton went down to the
Towers one day. ’E was determined to see young Mr. Ledbury, and went.
What ’appened I don’t know, for old Mat wouldn’t tell me, but he came
back mighty furious from ’is visit, and swore ’e would ruin the young
man and make no end of a scandal, and he would bring the law agin’ ’im
and get £5,000 damages.’

“This story, embellished, of course, by many details, was the gist of
what the worthy landlord of the Fernhead Arms had to say, but you may
imagine how every one’s excitement and curiosity was aroused; in the
meanwhile Samuel Holder was getting over his nervousness, and was more
ready to give a clear account of what happened on the fatal night
itself.

“‘It was about nine o’clock,’ he explained, in answer to the coroner,
‘and I was hurrying back to Ayrsham, through the fields; it was dark
and raining, and I was about to strike across the hedge into the lane
when I heard voices—a woman’s, then a man’s. Of course, I could see
nothing, and the man spoke in a whisper, but I had recognised Mary’s
voice quite plainly. She kept on saying: “’Tisn’t my fault!” she says,
“it’s father’s, ’e has made up ’is mind. I held out as long as I
could, but ’e worried me, and now ’e’s got your letters, and it’s too
late.”’

“Samuel Holder again paused a moment, then continued:

“‘They talked together for a long time: Mary seemed very upset and the
man very angry. Presently ’e says to ’er: “Well, tell your father to
come out here and speak to me for a moment. I’ll see what I can do.”
Mary seemed to ’esitate for a time, then she went away, and the man
waited there in the drizzling rain, with me the other side of the
’edge watchin’ ’im. I waited for a long time, for I wanted to know
what was going to ’appen; then time went on. I thought perhaps that
old Mat was at the Fernhead Arms, and that Mary couldn’t find ’im, so
I went back to Ayrsham by the fields, ’oping to find the old man. The
stranger didn’t budge. ’E seemed inclined to wait—so I left ’im
there—and—and—that’s all. I went to the Fernhead Arms, saw old Mat
wasn’t there—then I went back to the lane—and—Old Man Newton was dead,
and the stranger was gone.’

“There was a moment or two of dead silence in the court when Samuel
Holder had given his evidence, then the coroner asked quietly:

“‘You do not know who the stranger was?’

“‘Well, I couldn’t be sure, your honour,’ replied Samuel nervously,
‘it was pitch dark. I wouldn’t like to swear a fellow-creature’s life
and character away.’

“‘No, no, quite so,’ rejoined the coroner; ‘but do you happen to know
what time it was when all this occurred?’

“‘Oh yes, your honour,’ said Samuel decisively, ‘as I walked away from
the Fernhead Arms I ’eard Ayrsham church clock strike ten o’clock.’

“‘Ah! that’s always something,’ said the coroner, with a sigh of
satisfaction. ‘Call Mary Newton, please.’”



Chapter III

“You may imagine,” continued the man in the corner, after a slight
pause, “with what palpitating interest we all watched the pathetic
little figure, clad in deep black, who now stepped forward to give
evidence.

“It was difficult to imagine that Mary Newton could ever have been
pretty; trouble had obviously wrought sad havoc with her good looks;
she was now a wizened little thing, with dark rings under her eyes,
and a pale, anæmic complexion. She stood perfectly listlessly before
the coroner, waiting to be questioned, but otherwise not seeming to
take the slightest interest in the proceedings. In an even, toneless
voice she told her name, age, and status, then waited for further
questions.

“‘Your father went out a little before ten o’clock on Tuesday night
last, did he not?’ asked the coroner very kindly.

“‘Yes, sir, he did,’ replied Mary quietly.

“‘You had brought him a message from a gentleman whom you had met in
the lane, and who wished to speak with your father?’

“‘No, sir,’ replied Mary, in the same even and toneless voice; ‘I
brought no message to father, and he went out on his own.’

“‘But the gentleman you met in the lane?’ insisted the coroner with
some impatience.

“‘I didn’t meet any one in the lane, sir. I never went out of the
house that Tuesday night, it rained so.’

“‘But the last witness, Samuel Holder, heard you talking in the lane
at nine o’clock.’

“‘Samuel Holder was mistaken,’ she replied imperturbably; ‘I wasn’t
out of the house the whole of that night.’

“It would be useless for me,” continued the man in the corner, “to
attempt to convey to you the intense feeling of excitement which
pervaded that crowded court, as that wizened little figure stood there
for over half-an-hour, quietly and obstinately parrying the most rigid
cross-examination.

“That she was lying—lying to shield the very man who perhaps had
murdered her father—no one doubted for a single instant. Yet there she
stood, sullen, apathetic, and defiant, flatly denying Samuel Holder’s
story from end to end, strictly adhering and swearing to her first
statement, that her father went out ‘on his own,’ that she did not
know where he was going to, and that she herself had never left the
house that fatal Tuesday night.

“It did not seem to occur to her that by these statements she was
hopelessly incriminating Samuel Holder, whom she was thus openly
accusing of deliberate lies; on the contrary, many noticed a distinct
touch of bitter animosity in the young girl against her former
sweetheart, which was singularly emphasised when the coroner asked her
whether she approved of the idea of a breach of promise action being
brought against Mr. Ledbury.

“‘No,’ she said; ‘all that talk about damages and breach of promise
was between father and Sam Holder, because Sam had told father that he
wouldn’t mind marrying me if I had £5,000 of my own.’

“It would be impossible to render the tone of hatred and contempt with
which the young girl uttered these words. One seemed to live through
the whole tragedy of the past few months—the girl, pestered by the
greed of her father, yet refusing obstinately to aid in causing a
scandal, perhaps disgrace, to the man whom she had once loved and
trusted.

“As nothing more could be got out of her, and as circumstances now
seemed to demand it, the coroner adjourned the inquest. The police, as
you may well imagine, wanted to make certain enquiries. Mind you, Mary
Newton flatly refused to mention Mr. Ledbury’s name; she was
questioned and cross-questioned, yet her answer uniformly was:

“‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. The person I was going to
marry four years ago has gone out of my life—I have never seen him
since. I saw no one on that Tuesday night.’

“Against that, when she was asked to swear that it was _not_ Mr.—now
Captain—Ledbury who had promised her marriage she flatly refused to do
so.

“Of course, there was not a soul there who had not made up his or her
mind that Captain Ledbury _had_ met Mary Newton in the lane, and had
heard from her that all his love letters to her were now in her
father’s hands, and that the old man meant to use these in order to
extort money from him.

“Fearing the exposure and disgrace of so sensational a breach of
promise action, and not having the money with which to meet Mat
Newton’s preposterous demands, he probably lost control over himself,
and in a moment of impulse and mad rage had silenced the old man for
ever.

“I assure you that at the adjourned inquest everybody expected to see
Captain Ledbury in the custody of two constables. The police in the
interim had been extremely reticent, and no fresh details of the
extraordinary case had found its way into the papers, but fresh
details of a sensational character were fully expected, and I can
assure you the public were not disappointed.

“It is no use my telling you all the proceedings of that second most
memorable day; I will try and confine myself to the most important
points of this interesting mystery.

“I must tell you that the story told by the landlord of the Fernhead
Arms was fully corroborated by several witnesses, all of whom
testified to the fact that the old man came back from his visit to
Fernhead Towers in a terrible fury, swearing to bring disgrace upon
the scoundrel who had ruined his daughter.

“What occurred during that visit was explained by Edward Sanders, the
butler at The Towers. According to the testimony of this witness,
there was a large house-party staying with Sir John Fernhead to
celebrate the engagement of his daughter; the party naturally included
Captain Mervin Ledbury, his brother, Lord Walterton, with the latter’s
newly-married young wife, also many neighbours and friends.

“At about six o’clock on Monday evening, it appears, a
disreputable-looking old man, whom Edward Sanders did not know, but
who gave the name of Newton, rang at the front door bell of The Towers
and demanded to see Mr. Ledbury. Sanders naturally refused to admit
him, but the old man was so persistent, and used such strange
language, that the butler, after much hesitation, decided to apprise
Captain Ledbury of his extraordinary visitor.

“Captain Ledbury, on hearing that Old Man Newton wished to speak to
him, much to Sanders’ astonishment, came downstairs and elected to
interview his extraordinary visitor in the dining-room, which was then
deserted. Sanders showed the old man in, and waited in the hall. Very
soon, however, he heard loud and angry voices, and the next moment
Captain Ledbury threw open the dining-room door, and said:

“‘This man is mad or drunk; show him out, Sanders.’

“And without another word the Captain walked upstairs, leaving Sanders
the pleasant task of ‘showing the old man out.’ That this was done
very speedily and pretty roughly we may infer from Old Man Newton’s
subsequent fury, and the threats he uttered even while he was being
‘shown out.’

“Now you see, do you not?” continued the man in the corner, “that this
evidence seemed to add another link to the chain which was
incriminating young Mr. Ledbury in this terrible charge of murdering
Old Man Newton.

“The young man himself was now with his regiment stationed at York. It
appears that the house-party at Fernhead Towers was breaking up on the
very day of Old Man Newton’s strange visit thither. Lord and Lady
Walterton left for town on the Tuesday morning, and Captain Ledbury
went up to York on that very same fatal night.

“You must know that the small local station of Fernhead is quite close
to The Towers. Captain Ledbury took the late local train there for
Ayrsham Junction after dinner that night, arriving at the latter place
at 9.15, with the intention of picking up the Midland express to the
north at 10.15 p.m. later on.

“The police had ascertained that Captain Ledbury had got out of the
local train at Ayrsham Junction at 9.15, and aimlessly strolled out of
the station. Against that, it was definitely proved by several
witnesses that the young man did catch the Midland express at 10.15
p.m., and travelled up north by it.

“Now, there was the hitch, do you see?” added the funny creature
excitedly. “Samuel Holder overheard a conversation in the fatal lane
between Mary Newton and the stranger, whom everybody by now believed
to be Captain Ledbury. Good! That was between 9 p.m. and 10 p.m., and,
as it happened, the young man does seem to have unaccountably strolled
about in the neighbourhood whilst waiting for his train; but remember
that when Sam Holder left the stranger waiting in the lane, and went
back towards Ayrsham in order to try and find Old Man Newton, he
distinctly heard Ayrsham church clock striking ten.

“Now, the lane where the murder occurred is two-and-a-half miles from
Ayrsham Junction station, therefore it could not have been Captain
Ledbury who was there lying in wait for the old man, as he could not
possibly have had his interview with old Mat, quarrelled with him and
murdered him, and then caught his train two-and-a-half miles further
on, all in the space of fifteen minutes.

“Thus, even before the final verdict of ‘Wilful murder against some
person or persons unknown,’ the case against Captain Mervin Ledbury
had completely fallen to the ground. He must also have succeeded in
convincing Sir John Fernhead of his innocence, as I see by the papers
that Miss Fernhead has since become Mrs. Ledbury.

“But the result has been that the Ayrsham tragedy has remained an
impenetrable mystery.

“‘Who killed Old Man Newton? and why?’ is a question which many
people, including our clever criminal investigation department, have
asked themselves many a time.

“It was not a case of vulgar assault and robbery, as the old man was
not worth robbing, and the few coppers he possessed were found intact
in his waistcoat pocket.

“Many people assert that Samuel Holder quarrelled with the old man and
murdered him, but there are three reasons why that theory is bound to
fall to the ground. Firstly, the total absence of any motive. Samuel
Holder could have no possible object in killing the old man, but
still, we’ll waive that; people do quarrel—especially if they are
confederates, as these two undoubtedly were—and quarrels do sometimes
end fatally. Secondly, the weapon which caused the old man’s death—a
heavily-leaded cane of foreign make, with solid silver ferrule.

“Now, I ask you, where in the world could a village carpenter pick up
an instrument of that sort? Moreover no one ever saw such a thing in
Sam Holder’s hands or in his house. When he walked to the Fernhead
Arms in order to try and find the old man, he had nothing of the sort
in his hand, and in spite of the most strenuous efforts on the part of
the police, the history of that cane was never traced.

“Then, there is a third reason why obviously Sam Holder was not guilty
of the murder, though that reason is a moral one; I am referring to
Mary Newton’s attitude at the inquest. She lied, of that there could
not be a shadow of doubt; she was determined to shield her former
lover, and incriminated Sam Holder only because she wished to save
another man.

“Obviously, old Newton went out on that dark, wet night in order to
meet someone in the lane, that someone could not have been Sam Holder,
whom he met anywhere and everywhere, and every day in his own house.

“There! you see that Sam Holder was obviously innocent, that Captain
Ledbury could not have committed the murder, that surely Mary Newton
did not kill her own father, and that in such a case, common sense
should have come to the rescue, and not have left this case, what it
now is, a tragic and impenetrable mystery.”



Chapter IV

“But,” I said at last, for indeed I was deeply mystified, “what does
common sense argue?—the case seems to be absolutely hopeless.”

He surveyed his beloved bit of string for a moment, and his mild blue
eyes blinked at me over his bone-rimmed spectacles.

“Common sense,” he said at last, with his most apologetic manner,
“tells me that Ayrsham village is a remote little place, where a daily
paper is unknown, and where no one reads the fashionable intelligence
or knows anything about Birthday honours.”

“What _do_ you mean?” I gasped in amazement.

“Simply this, that no one at Ayrsham village, certainly not Mary
Newton herself, had realised that one of the Mr. Ledburys, whom all
had known at ‘The Limes’ four years ago, had since become Lord
Walterton.”

“Lord Walterton!” I ejaculated, wholly incredulously.

“Why, yes!” he replied quietly. “Do you mean to say you never thought
of that? that it never occurred to you that Mary Newton may have
admitted to her father that Mr. Ledbury had been the man who had so
wickedly wronged her, but that she, in her remote little village, had
also no idea that the Mr. Ledbury she meant was recently made, and is
now styled, Lord Walterton?

“Old Man Newton, who knew of the gossip which had coupled his
daughter’s name, years ago, with the younger Mr. Ledbury, naturally
took it for granted that she was referring to him. Moreover, we may
take it from the girl’s subsequent attitude that she did all she could
to shield the man whom she had once loved; women, you know, have that
sort of little way with them.

“Old Newton, fully convinced that young Ledbury was the man he wanted,
went up to The Towers and had the stormy interview, which no doubt
greatly puzzled the young Hussar. He undoubtedly spoke of it to his
brother, Lord Walterton, who, newly married and of high social
position, would necessarily dread a scandal as much as anybody.

“Lord Walterton went up to town with his young wife the following
morning. Ayrsham is only forty minutes from London. He came down in
the evening, met Mary in the lane, asked to see her father, and killed
him in a moment of passion, when he found that the old man’s demands
were preposterously unreasonable. Moreover, Englishmen in all grades
of society have an innate horror of being bullied or blackmailed; the
murder probably was not premeditated, but the outcome of rage at being
browbeaten by the old man.

“You see, the police did not use their common sense over so simple a
matter. They naturally made no enquiries as to Lord Walterton’s
movements, who seemingly had absolutely nothing to do with the case.
If they had, I feel convinced that they would have found that his
lordship would have had some difficulty in satisfying everybody as to
his whereabouts on that particular Tuesday night.

“Think of it, it is so simple—the only possible solution of that
strange and unaccountable mystery.”



XI. The Affair at the Novelty Theatre

Chapter I

“Talking of mysteries,” said the man in the corner, rather
irrelevantly, for he had not opened his mouth since he sat down and
ordered his lunch, “talking of mysteries, it is always a puzzle to me
how few thefts are committed in the dressing-rooms of fashionable
actresses during a performance.”

“There have been one or two,” I suggested, “but nothing of any value
was stolen.”

“Yet you remember that affair at the Novelty Theatre a year or two
ago, don’t you?” he added. “It created a great deal of sensation at
the time. You see, Miss Phyllis Morgan was, and still is, a very
fashionable and popular actress, and her pearls are quite amongst the
wonders of the world. She herself valued them at £10,000, and several
experts who remember the pearls quite concur with that valuation.

“During the period of her short tenancy of the Novelty Theatre last
season, she entrusted those beautiful pearls to Mr. Kidd, the
well-known Bond Street jeweller, to be re-strung. There were seven
rows of perfectly matched pearls, held together by a small diamond
clasp of ‘art-nouveau’ design.

“Kidd and Co. are, as you know, a very eminent and old established
firm of jewellers. Mr. Thomas Kidd, its present sole representative,
was some time president of the London Chamber of Commerce, and a man
whose integrity has always been held to be above suspicion. His
clerks, salesmen, and book-keeper had all been in his employ for
years, and most of the work was executed on the premises.

“In the case of Miss Phyllis Morgan’s valuable pearls they were
re-strung and re-set in the back shop by Mr. Kidd’s most valued and
most trusted workman, a man named James Rumford, who is justly
considered to be one of the cleverest craftsmen here in England.

“When the pearls were ready, Mr. Kidd himself took them down to the
theatre, and delivered them into Miss Morgan’s own hands.

“It appears that the worthy jeweller was extremely fond of the
theatre; but, like so many persons in affluent circumstances, he was
also very fond of getting a free seat when he could.

“All along he had made up his mind to take the pearls down to the
Novelty Theatre one night, and to see Miss Morgan for a moment before
the performance; she would then, he hoped, place a stall at his
disposal.

“His previsions were correct. Miss Morgan received the pearls, and Mr.
Kidd was on that celebrated night accommodated with a seat in the
stalls.

“I don’t know if you remember all the circumstances connected with
that case, but, to make my point clear, I must remind you of one or
two of the most salient details.

“In the drama in which Miss Phyllis Morgan was acting at the time,
there is a brilliant masked ball scene which is the crux of the whole
play; it occurs in the second act, and Miss Phyllis Morgan, as the
hapless heroine, dressed in the shabbiest of clothes, appears in the
midst of a gay and giddy throng; she apostrophises all and sundry
there, including the villain, and has a magnificent scene which always
brings down the house, and nightly adds to her histrionic laurels.

“For this scene a large number of supers are engaged, and in order to
further swell the crowd, practically all the available stage hands
have to ‘walk on’ dressed in various coloured dominoes, and all
wearing masks.

“You have, of course, heard the name of Mr. Howard Dennis in
connection with this extraordinary mystery. He is what is usually
called ‘a young man about town,’ and was one of Miss Phyllis Morgan’s
most favoured admirers. As a matter of fact, he was generally
understood to be the popular actress’s _fiancé_, and as such, had of
course the _entrée_ of the Novelty Theatre.

“Like many another idle young man about town, Mr. Howard Dennis was
stage-mad, and one of his greatest delights was to don nightly a mask
and a blue domino, and to ‘walk on’ in the second act, not so much in
order to gratify his love for the stage, as to watch Miss Phyllis
Morgan in her great scene, and to be present, close by her, when she
received her usual salvo of enthusiastic applause from a delighted
public.

“On this eventful night—it was on 20th July last—the second act was in
full swing; the supers, the stage hands, and all the principals were
on the scene, the back of the stage was practically deserted. The
beautiful pearls, fresh from the hands of Mr. Kidd, were in Miss
Morgan’s dressing-room, as she meant to wear them in the last act.

“Of course, since that memorable affair, many people have talked of
the foolhardiness of leaving such valuable jewellery in the sole
charge of a young girl—Miss Morgan’s dresser—who acted with
unpardonable folly and carelessness, but you must remember that this
part of the theatre is only accessible through the stage door, where
sits enthroned that uncorruptible dragon, the stage door-keeper.

“No one can get at it from the front, and the dressing-rooms for the
supers and lesser members of the company are on the opposite side of
the stage to that reserved for Miss Morgan and one or two of the
principals.

“It was just a quarter to ten, and the curtain was about to be rung
down, when George Finch, the stage door-keeper, rushed excitedly into
the wings; he was terribly upset, and was wildly clutching his coat,
beneath which he evidently held something concealed.

“In response to the rapidly-whispered queries of the one or two stage
hands that stood about, Finch only shook his head excitedly. He seemed
scarcely able to control his impatience, during the close of the act,
and the subsequent prolonged applause.

“When at last Miss Morgan, flushed with her triumph, came off the
stage, Finch made a sudden rush for her.

“‘Oh, Madam!’ he gasped excitedly, ‘it might have been such an awful
misfortune! The rascal! I nearly got him through! but he
escaped—fortunately it is safe—— I have got it——!’

“It was some time before Miss Morgan understood what in the world the
otherwise sober stage door-keeper was driving at. Every one who heard
him certainly thought that he had been drinking. But the next moment
from under his coat he pulled out, with another ejaculation of
excitement, the magnificent pearl necklace which Miss Morgan had
thought safely put away in her dressing-room.

“‘What in the world does all this mean?’ asked Mr. Howard Dennis, who,
as usual, was escorting his _fiancée_. ‘Finch, what are you doing with
Madam’s necklace?’

“Miss Phyllis Morgan herself was too bewildered to question Finch; she
gazed at him, then at her necklace, in speechless astonishment.

“‘Well, you see, Madam, it was this way,’ Finch managed to explain at
last, as with awestruck reverence he finally deposited the precious
necklace in the actress’s hands. ‘As you know, Madam, it is a very hot
night. I had seen every one into the theatre and counted in the
supers; there was nothing much for me to do, and I got rather tired
and very thirsty. I see’d a man loafing close to the door, and I ask
him to fetch me a pint of beer from round the corner, and I give him
some coppers; I had noticed him loafing round before, and it was so
hot I didn’t think I was doin’ no harm.’

“‘No, no,’ said Miss Morgan impatiently. ‘Well!’

“‘Well,’ continued Finch, ‘the man, he brought me the beer, and I had
some of it—and—and—afterwards, I don’t quite know how it happened—it
was the heat, perhaps—but—I was sitting in my box, and I suppose I
must have dropped asleep. I just remember hearing the ring up for the
second act, and the call-boy calling you, Madam, then there’s a sort
of a blank in my mind. All of a sudden I seemed to wake with the
feeling that there was something wrong somehow. In a moment I jumped
up, and I tell you I was wide awake then, and I saw a man sneaking
down the passage, past my box, towards the door. I challenged him, and
he tried to dart past me, but I was too quick for him, and got him by
the tails of his coat, for I saw at once that he was carrying
something, and I had recognised the loafer who brought me the beer. I
shouted for help, but there’s never anybody about in this back street,
and the loafer, he struggled like old Harry, and sure enough he
managed to get free from me and away before I could stop him, but in
his fright the rascal dropped his booty, for which Heaven be praised!
and it was your pearls, Madam. Oh, my! but I did have a tussle,’
concluded the worthy door-keeper, mopping his forehead, ‘and I do
hope, Madam, the scoundrel didn’t take nothing else.’

“That was the story,” continued the man in the corner, “which George
Finch had to tell, and which he subsequently repeated without the
slightest deviation. Miss Phyllis Morgan, with the light-heartedness
peculiar to ladies of her profession, took the matter very quietly;
all she said at the time was that she had nothing else of value in her
dressing-room, but that Miss Knight—the dresser—deserved a scolding
for leaving the room unprotected.

“‘All’s well that ends well,’ she said gaily, as she finally went into
her dressing-room, carrying the pearls in her hand.

“It appears that the moment she opened the door, she found Miss Knight
sitting in the room, in a deluge of tears. The girl had overheard
George Finch telling his story, and was terribly upset at her own
carelessness.

“In answer to Miss Morgan’s questions, she admitted that she had gone
into the wings, and lingered there to watch the great actress’s
beautiful performance. She thought no one could possibly get to the
dressing-room, as nearly all hands were on the stage at the time, and
of course George Finch was guarding the door.

“However, as there really had been no harm done, beyond a wholesome
fright to everybody concerned, Miss Morgan readily forgave the girl
and proceeded with her change of attire for the next act. Incidentally
she noticed a bunch of roses, which were placed on her dressing-table,
and asked Knight who had put them there.

“‘Mr. Dennis brought them,’ replied the girl.

“Miss Morgan looked pleased, blushed, and dismissing the whole matter
from her mind, she proceeded with her toilette for the next act, in
which, the hapless heroine having come into her own again, she was
able to wear her beautiful pearls around her neck.

“George Finch, however, took some time to recover himself; his
indignation was only equalled by his volubility. When his excitement
had somewhat subsided, he took the precaution of saving the few drops
of beer which had remained at the bottom of the mug, brought to him by
the loafer. This was subsequently shown to a chemist in the
neighbourhood, who, without a moment’s hesitation, pronounced the beer
to contain an appreciable quantity of chloral.”



Chapter II

“The whole matter, as you may imagine, did not affect Miss Morgan’s
spirits that night,” continued the man in the corner, after a slight
pause.

“‘All’s well that ends well,’ she had said gaily, since almost by a
miracle, her pearls were once more safely round her neck.

“But the next day brought the rude awakening. Something had indeed
happened which made the affair at the Novelty Theatre, what it has
ever since remained, a curious and unexplainable mystery.

“The following morning Miss Phyllis Morgan decided that it was
foolhardy to leave valuable property about in her dressing-room, when
for stage purposes, imitation jewellery did just as well. She
therefore determined to place her pearls in the bank until the
termination of her London season.

“The moment, however, that, in broad daylight, she once more handled
the necklace, she instinctively felt that there was something wrong
with it. She examined it eagerly and closely, and, hardly daring to
face her sudden terrible suspicions, she rushed round to the nearest
jeweller, and begged him to examine the pearls.

“The examination did not take many moments: the jeweller at once
pronounced the pearls to be false. There could be no doubt about it;
the necklace was a perfect imitation of the original, even the clasp
was an exact copy. Half-hysterical with rage and anxiety, Miss Morgan
at once drove to Bond Street, and asked to see Mr. Kidd.

“Well, you may easily imagine the stormy interview that took place.
Miss Phyllis Morgan, in no measured language, boldly accused Mr.
Thomas Kidd, late president of the London Chamber of Commerce, of
having substituted false pearls for her own priceless ones.

“The worthy jeweller, at first completely taken by surprise, examined
the necklace, and was horrified to see that Miss Morgan’s statements
were, alas! too true. Mr. Kidd was indeed in a terribly awkward
position.

“The evening before, after business hours, he had taken the necklace
home with him. Before starting for the theatre, he had examined it to
see that it was quite in order. He had then, with his own hands, and
in the presence of his wife, placed it in its case, and driven
straight to the Novelty, where he finally gave it over to Miss Morgan
herself.

“To all this he swore most positively; moreover, all his _employés_
and workmen could swear that they had last seen the necklace just
after closing time at the shop, when Mr. Kidd walked off towards
Piccadilly, with the precious article in the inner pocket of his coat.

“One point certainly was curious, and undoubtedly helped to deepen the
mystery which to this day clings to the affair at the Novelty Theatre.

“When Mr. Kidd handed the packet containing the necklace to Miss
Morgan, she was too busy to open it at once. She only spoke to Mr.
Kidd through her dressing-room door, and never opened the packet till
nearly an hour later, after she had dressed ready for the second act;
the packet at that time had been untouched, and was wrapped up just as
she had had it from Mr. Kidd’s own hands. She undid the packet, and
handled the pearls; certainly, by the artificial light she could see
nothing wrong with the necklace.

“Poor Mr. Kidd was nearly distracted with the horror of his position.
Thirty years of an honest reputation suddenly tarnished with this
awful suspicion—for he realised at once that Miss Morgan refused to
believe his statements; in fact, she openly said that she would—unless
immediate compensation was made to her—place the matter at once in the
hands of the police.

“From the stormy interview in Bond Street, the irate actress drove at
once to Scotland Yard; but the old-established firm of Kidd and Co.
was not destined to remain under any cloud that threatened its
integrity.

“Mr. Kidd at once called upon his solicitor, with the result that an
offer was made to Miss Morgan, whereby the jeweller would deposit the
full value of the original necklace, _i.e._, £10,000, in the hands of
Messrs. Bentley and Co., bankers, that sum to be held by them for a
whole year, at the end of which time, if the perpetrator of the fraud
had not been discovered, the money was to be handed over to Miss
Morgan in its entirety.

“Nothing could have been more fair, more equitable, or more just, but
at the same time nothing could have been more mysterious.

“As Mr. Kidd swore that he had placed the real pearls in Miss Morgan’s
hands, and was ready to back his oath by the sum of £10,000, no more
suspicion could possibly attach to him. When the announcement of his
generous offer appeared in the papers, the entire public approved and
exonerated him, and then turned to wonder who the perpetrator of the
daring fraud had been.

“How came a valueless necklace in exact imitation of the original one
to be in Miss Morgan’s dressing-room? Where were the real pearls?
Clearly the loafer who had drugged the stage door-keeper, and sneaked
into the theatre to steal a necklace, was not aware that he was
risking several years’ hard labour for the sake of a worthless trifle.
He had been one of the many dupes of this extraordinary adventure.

“Macpherson, one of the most able men on the detective staff, had,
indeed, his work cut out. The police were extremely reticent, but, in
spite of this, one or two facts gradually found their way into the
papers, and aroused public interest and curiosity to its highest
pitch.

“What had transpired was this:

“Clara Knight, the dresser, had been very rigorously cross-questioned,
and, from her many statements, the following seemed quite positive.

“After the curtain had rung up for the second act, and Miss Morgan had
left her dressing-room, Knight had waited about for some time, and had
even, it appears, handled and admired the necklace. Then,
unfortunately, she was seized with the burning desire of seeing the
famous scene from the wings. She thought that the place was quite
safe, and that George Finch was as usual at his post.

“‘I was going along the short passage that leads to the wings,’ she
exclaimed to the detectives, ‘when I became aware of some one moving
some distance behind me. I turned and saw a blue domino about to enter
Miss Morgan’s dressing-room.

“‘I thought nothing of that,’ continued the girl, ‘as we all know that
Mr. Dennis is engaged to Miss Morgan. He is very fond of “walking on”
in the ball-room scene, and he always wears a blue domino when he
does; so I was not at all alarmed. He had his mask on as usual, and he
was carrying a bunch of roses. When he saw me at the other end of the
passage, he waved his hand to me and pointed to the flowers. I nodded
to him, and then he went into the room.’

“These statements, as you may imagine, created a great deal of
sensation; so much so, in fact, that Mr. Kidd, with his £10,000 and
his reputation in mind, moved heaven and earth to bring about the
prosecution of Mr. Dennis for theft and fraud.

“The papers were full of it, for Mr. Howard Dennis was well known in
fashionable London Society. His answer to these curious statements was
looked forward to eagerly; when it came it satisfied no one and
puzzled everybody.

“‘Miss Knight was mistaken,’ he said most emphatically, ‘I did not
bring any roses for Miss Morgan that night. It was not I that she saw
in a blue domino by the door, as I was on the stage before the curtain
was rung up for the second act, and never left it until the close.’

“This part of Howard Dennis’ statement was a little difficult to
substantiate. No one on the stage could swear positively whether he
was ‘on’ early in the act or not, although, mind you, Macpherson had
ascertained that in the whole crowd of supers on the stage, he was the
only one who wore a blue domino.

“Mr. Kidd was very active in the matter, but Miss Morgan flatly
refused to believe in her _fiancé’s_ guilt. The worthy jeweller
maintained that Mr. Howard Dennis was the only person who knew the
celebrated pearls and their quaint clasp well enough to have a
facsimile made of them, and that when Miss Knight saw him enter the
dressing-room, he actually substituted the false necklace for the real
one; whilst the loafer who drugged George Finch’s beer was—as every
one supposed—only a dupe.

“Things had reached a very acute and painful stage, when one more
detail found its way into the papers, which, whilst entirely clearing
Mr. Howard Dennis’ character, has helped to make the whole affair a
hopeless mystery.

“Whilst questioning George Finch, Macpherson had ascertained that the
stage door-keeper had seen Mr. Dennis enter the theatre some time
before the beginning of the celebrated second act. He stopped to speak
to George Finch for a moment or two, and the latter could swear
positively that Mr. Dennis was not carrying any roses then.

“On the other hand a flower-girl, who was selling roses in the
neighbourhood of the Novelty Theatre late that memorable night,
remembers selling some roses to a shabbily-dressed man, who looked
like a labourer out of work. When Mr. Dennis was pointed out to her
she swore positively that it was not he.

“‘The man looked like a labourer,’ she explained. ‘I took particular
note of him, as I remember thinking that he didn’t look much as if he
could afford to buy roses.’

“Now you see,” concluded the man in the corner excitedly, “where the
hitch lies. There is absolutely no doubt, judging from the evidence of
George Finch and of the flower-girl, that the loafer had provided
himself with the roses, and had somehow or other managed to get hold
of a blue domino, for the purpose of committing the theft. His giving
drugged beer to Finch, moreover, proved his guilt beyond a doubt.

“But here the mystery becomes hopeless,” he added with a chuckle, “for
the loafer dropped the booty which he had stolen—that booty was the
false necklace, and it has remained an impenetrable mystery to this
day as to who made the substitution and when.

“A whole year has elapsed since then, but the real necklace has never
been traced or found; so Mr. Kidd has paid, with absolute quixotic
chivalry, the sum of £10,000 to Miss Morgan, and thus he has
completely cleared the firm of Kidd and Co. of any suspicion as to its
integrity.”



Chapter III

“But then, what in the world is the explanation of it all?” I asked
bewildered, as the funny creature paused in his narrative and seemed
absorbed in the contemplation of a beautiful knot he had just
completed in his bit of string.

“The explanation is so simple,” he replied, “for it is obvious, is it
not, that only four people could possibly have committed the fraud?”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, whilst his bony fingers began to fidget with that
eternal piece of string, “there is, of course, old Mr. Kidd; but as
the worthy jeweller has paid £10,000 to prove that he did not steal
the real necklace and substitute a false one in its stead, we must
assume that he was guiltless. Then, secondly, there is Mr. Howard
Dennis.”

“Well, yes,” I said, “what about him?”

“There were several points in his favour,” he rejoined, marking each
point with a fresh and most complicated knot; “it was not he who
bought the roses, therefore it was not he who, clad in a blue domino,
entered Miss Morgan’s dressing-room directly after Knight left it.

“And mark the force of this point,” he added excitedly.

“Just before the curtain rang up for the second act, Miss Morgan had
been in her room, and had then undone the packet, which, in her own
words, was just as she had received it from Mr. Kidd’s hands.

“After that Miss Knight remained in charge, and a mere ten seconds
after she left the room she saw the blue domino carrying the roses at
the door.

“The flower-girl’s story and that of George Finch have proved that the
blue domino could not have been Mr. Dennis, but it was the loafer who
evidently stole the false necklace.

“If you bear all this in mind you will realise that there was no time
in those ten seconds for Mr. Dennis to have made the substitution
_before_ the theft was committed. It stands to reason that he could
not have done it afterwards.

“Then, again, many people suspected Miss Knight, the dresser, but this
supposition we may easily dismiss. An uneducated, stupid girl, not
three-and-twenty, could not possibly have planned so clever a
substitution. An imitation necklace of that particular calibre and
made to order would cost far more money than a poor theatrical dresser
could ever afford; let alone the risks of ordering such an ornament to
be made.

“No,” said the funny creature, with comic emphasis, “there is but one
theory possible, which is my own.”

“And that is?” I asked eagerly.

“The workman, Rumford, of course,” he responded triumphantly. “Why! it
jumps to the eyes, as our French friends would tell us. Who, other
than he, could have the opportunity of making an exact copy of the
necklace which had been entrusted to his firm?

“Being in the trade he could easily obtain the false stones without
exciting any undue suspicion; being a skilled craftsman, he could
easily make the clasp, and string the pearls in exact imitation of the
original; he could do this secretly in his own home and without the
slightest risk.

“Then the plan, though extremely simple, was very cleverly thought
out. Disguised as the loafer——”

“The loafer!” I exclaimed.

“Why, yes! the loafer,” he replied quietly, “disguised as the loafer,
he hung round the stage door of the Novelty after business hours,
until he had collected the bits of gossip and information he wanted;
thus he learnt that Mr. Howard Dennis was Miss Morgan’s accredited
_fiancé_; that he, like everybody else who was available, ‘walked on’
in the second act; and that during that time the back of the stage was
practically deserted.

“No doubt he knew all along that Mr. Kidd meant to take the pearls
down to the theatre himself that night, and it was quite easy to
ascertain that Miss Morgan—as the hapless heroine—wore no jewellery in
the second act, and that Mr. Howard Dennis invariably wore a blue
domino.

“Some people might incline to the belief that Miss Knight was a paid
accomplice, that she left the dressing-room unprotected on purpose,
and that her story of the blue domino and the roses was pre-arranged
between herself and Rumford, but that is not my opinion.

“I think that the scoundrel was far too clever to need any accomplice,
and too shrewd to put himself thereby at the mercy of a girl like
Knight.

“Rumford, I find, is a married man: this to me explains the blue
domino, which the police were never able to trace to any business
place, where it might have been bought or hired. Like the necklace
itself, it was ‘home-made.’

“Having got his properties and his plans ready, Rumford then set to
work. You must remember that a stage door-keeper is never above
accepting a glass of beer from a friendly acquaintance; and, no doubt,
if George Finch had not asked the loafer to bring him a glass, the
latter would have offered him one. To drug the beer was simple enough;
then Rumford went to buy the roses, and, I should say, met his wife
somewhere round the corner, who handed him the blue domino and the
mask; all this was done in order to completely puzzle the police
subsequently, and also in order to throw suspicion, if possible, upon
young Dennis.

“As soon as the drug took effect upon George Finch, Rumford slipped
into the theatre. To slip a mask and domino on and off is, as you
know, a matter of a few seconds. Probably his intention had been—if he
found Knight in the room—to knock her down if she attempted to raise
an alarm; but here fortune favoured him. Knight saw him from a
distance, and mistook him easily for Mr. Dennis.

“After the theft of the real necklace, Rumford sneaked out of the
theatre. And here you see how clever was the scoundrel’s plan: if he
had merely substituted one necklace for another there would have been
no doubt whatever that the loafer—whoever he was—was the culprit—the
drugged beer would have been quite sufficient proof for that. The hue
and cry would have been after the loafer, and, who knows? there might
have been some one or something which might have identified that
loafer with himself.

“He must have bought the shabby clothes somewhere, he certainly bought
the roses from a flower-girl; anyhow, there were a hundred and one
little risks and contingencies which might have brought the theft home
to him.

“But mark what happens: he steals the real necklace, and keeps the
false one in his hand, intending to drop it sooner or later, and thus
sent the police entirely on the wrong scent. As the loafer, he was
supposed to have stolen the false necklace, then dropped it whilst
struggling with George Finch. The result is that no one has troubled
about the loafer; no one thought that he had anything to do with the
substitution, which was the main point at issue, and no very great
effort has ever been made to find that mysterious loafer.

“It never occurred to any one that the fraud and the theft were
committed by one and the same person, and that that person could be
none other than James Rumford.”



XII. The Tragedy of Barnsdale Manor

Chapter I

“We have heard so much about the evils of Bridge,” said the man in the
corner that afternoon, “but I doubt whether that fashionable game has
ever been responsible for a more terrible tragedy than the one at
Barnsdale Manor.”

“You think, then,” I asked, for I saw he was waiting to be drawn out,
“you think that the high play at Bridge did have something to do with
that awful murder?”

“Most people think that much, I fancy,” he replied, “although no one
has arrived any nearer to the solution of the mystery which surrounds
the tragic death of Mme. Quesnard at Barnsdale Manor on the 23rd
September last.

“On that fateful occasion, you must remember that the house party at
the Manor included a number of sporting and fashionable friends of
Lord and Lady Barnsdale, among whom Sir Gilbert Culworth was the only
one whose name was actually mentioned during the hearing of this
extraordinary case.

“It seems to have been a very gay house party indeed. In the daytime
Lord Barnsdale took some of his guests to shoot and fish, whilst a few
devotees remained at home in order to indulge their passion for the
modern craze of Bridge. It was generally understood that Lord
Barnsdale did not altogether approve of quite so much gambling. He was
not by any means well off; and although he was very much in love with
his beautiful wife, he could ill afford to pay her losses at cards.

“This was the reason, no doubt, that Bridge at Barnsdale Manor was
only indulged in whilst the host himself was out shooting or fishing;
in the evenings there was music or billiards, but never any cards.

“One of the most interesting personalities in the Barnsdale _ménage_
was undoubtedly Madame Nathalie Quesnard, a sister of Lord Barnsdale’s
mother, who, if you remember, was a Mademoiselle de la Trémouille.
This Mme. Quesnard was extremely wealthy, the widow of a French West
Indian planter, who had made millions in Martinique.

“She was very fond of her nephew, to whom, as she had no children or
other relatives of her own, she intended to leave the bulk of her vast
fortune. Pending her death, which was not likely to occur for some
time, as she was not more than fifty, she took up her abode at
Barnsdale Manor, together with her companion and amanuensis, a poor
girl named Alice Holt.

“Mme. Quesnard was seemingly an amiable old lady; the only unpleasant
trait in her character being her intense dislike of her nephew’s
beautiful and fashionable young wife. The old Frenchwoman, who, with
all her wealth, had the unbounded and innate thriftiness peculiar to
her nation, looked with perfect horror on Lady Barnsdale’s
extravagances, and above all on her fondness for gambling; and
subsequently several of the servants at the Manor testified to the
amount of mischief the old lady strove to make between her nephew and
his young wife.

“Mme. Quesnard’s dislike for Lady Barnsdale seems, moreover, to have
been shared by her dependent and companion, the girl Alice Holt.
Between them, these two ladies seem to have cordially hated the
brilliant and much-admired mistress of Barnsdale Manor.

“Such were the chief inmates of the Manor last September, at the time
the tragedy occurred. On that memorable night Alice Holt, who occupied
a bedroom immediately above that of Mme. Quesnard, was awakened in the
middle of the night by a persistent noise, which undoubtedly came from
her mistress’s room. The walls and floorings at the old Manor are very
thick, and the sound was a very confused one, although the girl was
quite sure that she could hear Mme. Quesnard’s shrill voice raised as
if in anger.

“She tried to listen for a time, and presently she heard a sound as if
some piece of furniture had been knocked over, then nothing more.
Somehow the sudden silence seemed to have frightened the girl more
than the noise had done. Trembling with nervousness she waited for
some few minutes, then, unable to bear the suspense any longer, she
got out of bed, slipped on her shoes and dressing-gown, and determined
to run downstairs to see if anything were amiss.

“To her horror she found on trying her door that it had been locked on
the outside. Quite convinced now that something must indeed be very
wrong, she started screaming and banging against the door, determined
to arouse the household, which she, of course, quickly succeeded in
doing.

“The first to emerge from his room was Lord Barnsdale. He at once
realised that the shrieks proceeded from Alice Holt’s room. He ran
upstairs helter-skelter, and as the key had been left in the door, he
soon released the unfortunate girl, who by now was quite hysterical
with anxiety for her mistress.

“Altogether, I take it, some six or seven minutes must have elapsed
from the time when Alice Holt was first alarmed by the sudden silence
following the noise in Mme. Quesnard’s room until she was released by
Lord Barnsdale.

“As quickly and as coherently as she could, she blurted forth all her
fears about her mistress. I can imagine how picturesque the old Manor
House must have looked then, with everybody, ladies and gentlemen, and
servants, crowding into the hall, arrayed in various _négligé_ attire,
asking hurried questions, getting in each other’s way, and all only
dimly to be seen by the light of candles, carried by some of the more
sensible ones in this motley crowd.

“However, in the meanwhile, Lord Barnsdale had managed to understand
Alice Holt. He ran downstairs again and knocked at his aunt’s door; he
received no reply—he tried the handle, but the door was locked from
the inside.

“Genuinely frightened now, he forced open the door, and then recoiled
in horror.

“The window was wide open, and a brilliant moonlight streamed into the
room, weirdly illumining Mme. Quesnard’s inanimate body, which lay
full length upon the ground. Hastily begging the ladies not to follow
him, Lord Barnsdale quickly went forward and bent over his aunt’s
body.

“There was no doubt that she was dead. An ugly wound at the back of
her head, some red marks round her throat, all testified to the fact
that the poor old lady had been assaulted and murdered. Lord Barnsdale
at once sent for the nearest doctor, whilst he and Miss Holt lifted
the unfortunate lady back to bed.

“The messenger who had gone for the doctor was at the same time
instructed to deliver a note, hastily scribbled by Lord Barnsdale, at
the local police station.

“That a hideous crime had been committed, with burglary for its
object, no one could be in doubt for a moment. Lord Barnsdale and two
or three of his guests had already thrown a glance into the next room,
a little boudoir, which Mme. Quesnard used as a sitting-room. There
the heavy oak bureau bore silent testimony to the motive of this
dastardly outrage. Mme. Quesnard, with the unfortunate and foolhardy
habit peculiar to all French people, kept a very large quantity of
loose and ready money by her. That habit, mind you, is the chief
reason why burglary is so rife and so profitable all over France.

“In this case the old lady’s national characteristic was evidently the
chief cause of her tragic fate; the drawer of the bureau had been
forced open, and no one could doubt for a moment that a large sum of
money had been abstracted from it.

“The burglar had then obviously made good his escape through the
window, which he could do quite easily, as Mme. Quesnard’s apartments
were on the ground floor. She suffered from shortness of breath, it
appears, and had a horror of stairs; she was, moreover, not the least
bit nervous, and her windows were usually barred and shuttered.

“One very curious fact, however, at once struck all those present,
even before the arrival of the detectives, and that was, that the old
lady was partially dressed when she was found lying on the ground. She
had slipped on an elaborate dressing-gown, had smoothed her hair, and
put on her slippers. In fact, it was evident that she had in some
measure prepared herself for the reception of the burglar.

“Throughout these hasty and amateurish observations conducted by Lord
Barnsdale and two of his male guests, Alice Holt had remained seated
beside her late employer’s bedside sobbing bitterly. In spite of Lord
Barnsdale’s entreaties she refused to move; and wildly waved aside any
attempt at consolation offered to her by one or two of the older
female servants who were present.

“It was only when everybody at last made up their minds to return to
their rooms, that some one mentioned Lady Barnsdale’s name. She had
been taken ill and faint the evening before, and had not been well all
night. Jane Barlow, her maid, expressed the hope that her ladyship was
none the worse for this awful commotion, and must be wondering what it
all meant.

“At this, suddenly, Alice Holt jumped up, like a madwoman.

“‘What it all means?’ she shrieked, whilst every one looked at her in
speechless horror, ‘it means that that woman has murdered my mistress,
and robbed her. I know it—I know it—I know it!’

“And once more sinking beside the bed, she covered her dead mistress’s
hand with kisses, and sobbed and wailed as if her heart would break.”



Chapter II

“You may well imagine the awful commotion the girl’s wild outburst had
created in the old Manor House. Lady Barnsdale had been taken ill the
previous evening, and, of course, no one had breathed a word of it to
her, but equally, of course, it was freely talked about at Barnsdale
Manor, in the neighbourhood, and even so far as in the London clubs.

“Lord and Lady Barnsdale were very well known in London society, and
Lord Barnsdale’s adoration for his beautiful wife was quite notorious.

“Alice Holt, after her frantic outburst, had not breathed another
word. Silent and sullen she went up to her room, packed her things,
and left the house, where, of course, it became impossible that she
should stay another day. She refused Lord Barnsdale’s generous offer
of money and help, and only stayed long enough to see the detectives
and reply to the questions they thought fit to put to her.

“The whole neighbourhood was in a fever of excitement; many gossips
would have it that the evidence against Lady Barnsdale was conclusive,
and that a warrant for her arrest had already been applied for.

“What had transpired was this:

“It appears that the day preceding the tragedy, Bridge was, as usual,
being played for, I believe, guinea points. Lord Barnsdale was out
shooting all day, and though the guests at the Manor were very loyal
to their hostess, and refused to make any positive statements, there
seems to be no doubt that Lady Barnsdale lost a very large sum of
money to Sir Gilbert Culworth.

“Be that as it may, nothing further could be gleaned by enterprising
reporters fresh from town; the police were more than usually reticent,
and every one eagerly awaited the opening of the inquest, when
sensational developments were expected in this mysterious case.

“It was held on September the 25th, in the servants’ hall of Barnsdale
Manor, and you may be sure that the large room was crowded to its
utmost capacity. Lord Barnsdale was, of course, present, so was Sir
Gilbert Culworth, but it was understood that Lady Barnsdale was still
suffering from nervous prostration, and was unable to be present.

“When I arrived there, and gradually made my way to the front rank,
the doctor who had been originally summoned to the murdered lady’s
bedside was giving his evidence.

“He gave it as his opinion that the fractured skull from which Mme.
Quesnard died was caused through her hitting the back of her head
against the corner of the marble-topped washstand, in the immediate
proximity of which she lay outstretched, when Lord Barnsdale first
forced open the door. The stains on the marble had confirmed him in
that opinion. Mme. Quesnard, he thought, must have fallen, owing to an
onslaught made upon her by the burglar; the marks round the old lady’s
throat testified to this, although these were not the cause of death.

“After this there was a good deal of police evidence, with regard to
the subsequent movements of the unknown miscreant. He had undoubtedly
broken open the drawer of the bureau in the adjoining boudoir, the
door of communication between this and Mme. Quesnard’s bedroom being
always kept open, and it was presumed that he had made a considerable
haul both in gold and notes. He had then locked the bedroom door on
the inside and made good his escape through the window.

“Immediately beneath this window, the flower-bed, muddy with the
recent rain, bore the imprint of having been hastily trampled upon;
but all actual footmarks had been carefully obliterated. Beyond this,
all round the house, the garden paths are asphalted, and the burglar
had evidently taken the precaution to keep to these asphalted paths,
or else to cross the garden by the lawns.

“You must understand,” continued the man in the corner, after a slight
pause, “that throughout all this preliminary evidence, everything went
to prove that the crime had been committed by an inmate of the house,
or at any rate by some one well acquainted with its usages and its
_ménages_. Alice Holt, whose room was immediately above that of Mme.
Quesnard, and who was, therefore, most likely to hear the noise of the
conflict and to run to her mistress’s assistance, had been first of
all locked up in her room. It had, therefore, become quite evident
that the miscreant had commenced operations from inside the house, and
had entered Mme. Quesnard’s room by the door, and not by the window,
as had been at first supposed.

“But,” added the funny creature excitedly, “as the old lady had,
according to evidence, locked her door that night, it became more and
more clear, as the case progressed, that she must of her own accord
have admitted the person who subsequently caused her tragic death.
This was, of course, confirmed by the fact that she was partially
dressed when she was subsequently found dead.

“Strangely enough, with the exception of Alice Holt, no one else had
heard any noise during the night. But, as I remarked before, the walls
of these old houses are very thick, and no one else slept on the
ground floor.

“Another fact which in the early part of the inquest went to prove
that the outrage was committed by some one familiar with the house,
was that Ben, the watch-dog, had not raised any alarm. His kennel was
quite close to Mme. Quesnard’s windows, and he had not even barked.

“I doubt if the law would take official cognisance of the dumb
testimony of a dog; nevertheless, Ben’s evidence was in this case
quite worthy of consideration.

“You may imagine how gradually, as these facts were unfolded,
excitement grew to fever pitch, and when at last Alice Holt was
called, every one literally held their breath, eagerly waiting to hear
what was coming.

“She is a tall, handsome-looking girl, with fine eyes and a rich
voice. Dressed in deep black she certainly looked an imposing figure
as she stood there, repeating the story of how she was awakened in the
night, by the sound of her mistress’s angry voice, of the noise and
sudden silence, and also of her terror, when she found that she had
been locked up in her room.

“But obviously the girl had more to tell, and was only waiting for the
coroner’s direct question.

“‘Will you tell the jury the reason why you made such an extraordinary
and unwarrantable accusation against Lady Barnsdale?’ he asked her at
last, amid breathless silence in the crowded room.

“Every one instinctively looked across the room to where Lord
Barnsdale sat between his friend Sir Gilbert Culworth and his lawyer,
Sir Arthur Inglewood, who had evidently come down from London in order
to watch the case on his client’s behalf. Alice Holt, too, looked
across at Lord Barnsdale for a moment. He seemed attentive and
interested, but otherwise quite calm and impassive.

“I, who watched the girl, saw a look of pity cross her face as she
gazed at him, and I think, when we bear in mind that the distinguished
English gentleman and the poor paid companion had known each other
years ago, when they were girl and boy together in old Mme. Quesnard’s
French home, we may make a pretty shrewd guess why Alice Holt hated
the beautiful Lady Barnsdale.

“‘It was about six o’clock in the afternoon,’ she began at last, in
the same quiet tone of voice, ‘I was sitting sewing in Madame’s
boudoir, when Lady Barnsdale came into the bedroom. She did not see
me, I know, for she began at once talking volubly to Madame about a
serious loss she had just sustained at Bridge; several hundred pounds,
she said.’

“‘Well?’ queried the coroner, for the girl had paused, almost as if
she regretted what she had already said. She certainly threw an
appealing look at Lord Barnsdale, who, however, seemed to take no
notice of her.

“‘Well,’ she continued with sudden resolution, ‘Madame was very angry
at this; she declared that Lady Barnsdale deserved a severe lesson;
her extravagances were a positive scandal. “Not a penny will I give
you to pay your gambling debts,” said Madame; “and, moreover, I shall
make it my business to inform my nephew of your goings-on whilst he is
absent.”

“‘Lady Barnsdale was in a wild state of excitement. She begged and
implored Madame to say nothing to Lord Barnsdale about it, and did her
very best to try to induce her to help her out of her difficulties,
just this once more. But Madame was obdurate. Thereupon Lady Barnsdale
turned on her like a fury, called her every opprobrious name under the
sun, and finally flounced out of the room, banging the door behind
her.

“‘Madame was very much upset after this,’ continued Alice Holt, ‘and I
was not a bit astonished when directly after dinner she rang for me,
and asked to be put to bed. It was then nine o’clock.

“‘That is the last I saw of poor Madame alive.

“‘She was very excited then, and told me that she was quite frightened
of Lady Barnsdale—a gambler, she said, was as likely as not to become
a thief, if opportunity arose. I offered to sleep on the sofa in the
next room, for the old lady seemed quite nervous, a thing I have never
known her to be. But she was too proud to own to nervousness, and she
dismissed me finally, saying that she would lock her door, for once: a
thing she scarcely ever did.’

“It was a curious story, to say the least of it, which Alice Holt thus
told to an excited public. Cross-examined by the coroner, she never
departed from a single point of it, her calm and presence of mind
being only equalled throughout this trying ordeal by that of Lord
Barnsdale, who sat seemingly unmoved whilst these terrible
insinuations were made against his wife.

“But there was more to come. Sir Gilbert Culworth had been called; in
the interest of justice, and in accordance with his duty as a citizen,
he was forced to stand up and, all unwillingly, to add another tiny
link to the chain of evidence that implicated his friend’s wife in
this most terrible crime.

“Right loyally he tried to shield her in every possible way, but
cross-questioned by the coroner, harassed nearly out of his senses, he
was forced to admit two facts—namely, that Lady Barnsdale had lost
nearly £800 at Bridge the day before the murder, and that she had paid
her debt to himself in full, on the following morning, in gold and
notes.

“He had been forced, much against his will, to show the notes to the
police; unfortunately for the justice of the case, however, the
numbers of these could not be directly traceable as having been in
Mme. Quesnard’s possession at the time of her death. No diaries or
books of accounts of any kind were found. Like most French people, she
arranged all her money affairs herself, receiving her vast dividends
in foreign money, and converting this into English notes and gold, as
occasion demanded, at the nearest money-changer’s that happened to be
handy.

“She had, like a great many foreigners, a holy horror of banks. She
would have mistrusted the Bank of England itself; as for solicitors,
she held them in perfect abhorrence. She only went once to one in her
life, and that was in order to make a will leaving everything she
possessed unconditionally to her beloved nephew, Lord Barnsdale.

“But in spite of this difficulty about the notes, you see for
yourself, do you not, how terribly strong was the circumstantial
evidence against Lady Barnsdale? Her losses at cards, her appeal to
Mme. Quesnard, the latter’s refusal to help her, and finally the
payment in full of the debt to Sir Gilbert Culworth on the following
morning.

“There was only one thing that spoke for her, and that was the very
horror of the crime itself. It was practically impossible to conceive
that a woman of Lady Barnsdale’s refinement and education should have
sprung upon an elderly woman, like some navvy’s wife by the docks, and
then that she should have had the presence of mind to jump out of the
window, to obliterate her footmarks in the flower-bed, and, in fact,
to have given the crime the look of a clever burglary.

“Still, we all know that money difficulties will debase the noblest of
us, that greed will madden the sanest and most refined. When the
inquest was adjourned, I can assure you that no one had any doubt
whatever that within twenty-four hours Lady Barnsdale would be
arrested on the capital charge.”



Chapter III

“But the detectives in charge of the case had reckoned without Sir
Arthur Inglewood, the great lawyer, who was watching the proceedings
on behalf of his aristocratic clients,” said the man in the corner,
when he had assured himself of my undivided attention.

“The adjourned inquest brought with it, I assure you, its full quota
of sensation. Again Lord Barnsdale was present, calm, haughty, and
impassive, whilst Lady Barnsdale was still too ill to attend. But she
had made a statement upon oath, in which, whilst flatly denying that
her interview with the deceased at 6 p.m. had been of an acrimonious
character as alleged by Alice Holt, she swore most positively that all
through the night she had been ill, and had not left her room after
11.30 p.m.

“The first witness called after this affidavit had been read was Jane
Barlow, Lady Barnsdale’s maid.

“The girl deposed that on that memorable evening preceding the murder,
she went up to her mistress’s room at about 11.30 in order to get
everything ready for the night. As a rule, of course, there was nobody
about in the bedroom at that hour, but on this occasion when Jane
Barlow entered the room, which she did without knocking, she saw her
mistress sitting by her desk.

“‘Her ladyship looked up when I came in,’ continued Jane Barlow, ‘and
seemed very cross with me for not knocking at the door. I apologised,
then began to get the room tidy; as I did so I could see that my lady
was busy counting a lot of money. There were lots of sovereigns and
banknotes. My lady put some together in an envelope and addressed it,
then she got up from her desk and went to lock up the remainder of the
money in her jewel safe.’

“‘And this was at what time?’ asked the coroner.

“‘At about half-past eleven, I think, sir,’ repeated the girl.

“‘Well,’ said the coroner, ‘did you notice anything else?’

“‘Yes,’ replied Jane, ‘whilst my lady was at her safe, I saw the
envelope in which she had put the money lying on the desk. I couldn’t
help looking at it, for I knew it was ever so full of banknotes, and I
saw that my lady had addressed it to Sir Gilbert Culworth.’

“At this point Sir Arthur Inglewood jumped to his feet and handed
something over to the coroner; it was evidently an envelope which had
been torn open. The coroner looked at it very intently, then suddenly
asked Jane Barlow if she had happened to notice anything about the
envelope which was lying on her ladyship’s desk that evening.

“‘Oh, yes, sir!’ she replied unhesitatingly, ‘I noticed my lady had
made a splotch, right on top of the C in Sir Gilbert Culworth’s name.’

“‘This, then, is the envelope,’ was the coroner’s quiet comment, as he
handed the paper across to the girl.

“‘Yes, there’s the splotch,’ she replied, ‘I’d know it anywhere.’

“So you see,” continued the man in the corner, with a chuckle, “that
the chain of circumstantial evidence against Lady Barnsdale was
getting somewhat entangled. It was indeed fortunate for her that Sir
Gilbert Culworth had not destroyed the envelope in which she had
handed him over the money on the following day.

“Alice Holt, as you know, heard the conflict and raised the alarm much
later in the night, when everybody was already in bed, whilst long
before that Lady Barnsdale was apparently in possession of the money
with which she could pay back her debt.

“Thus the motive for the crime, so far as she was concerned, was
entirely done away with. Directly after the episode witnessed by Jane
Barlow, Lady Barnsdale had a sort of nervous collapse, and went to bed
feeling very ill. Lord Barnsdale was terribly concerned about her; he
and the maid remained alternately by her bedside for an hour or two;
finally Lord Barnsdale went to sleep in his dressing-room, whilst Jane
also finally retired to rest.

“Ill as Lady Barnsdale undoubtedly was then, it was absolutely
preposterous to conceive that she could after that have planned and
carried out so monstrous a crime, without any motive whatever. To have
locked Alice Holt’s door, then gone downstairs, forced her way into
the old lady’s room, struggled with her, to have jumped out of the
window, and run back into the house by the garden, might have been the
work of a determined woman, driven mad by the desire for money, but
became absolutely out of the question in the case of a woman suffering
from nervous collapse, and having apparently no motive for the crime.

“Of course Sir Arthur Inglewood made the most of the fact that no mud
was found on any shoes or dress belonging to Lady Barnsdale. The
flower-bed was very soft with the heavy rain of the day before, and
Lady Barnsdale could not possibly have jumped even from a ground-floor
window and trampled on the flower-bed without staining her skirts.

“Then there was another point which the clever lawyer brought to the
coroner’s notice. As Alice Holt had stated in her sworn evidence that
Mme. Quesnard had owned to being frightened of Lady Barnsdale that
night, was it likely that she would _of her own accord_ have opened
the door to her in the middle of the night, without at least calling
for assistance?

“Thus the matter has remained a strange and unaccountable puzzle. It
has always been called the ‘Barnsdale Mystery’ for that very reason.
Every one, somehow, has always felt that Lady Barnsdale did have
something to do with that terrible tragedy. Her husband has taken her
abroad, and they have let Barnsdale Manor; it almost seems as if the
ghost of the old Frenchwoman had driven them forth from their own
country.

“As for Alice Holt, she maintains to this day that Lady Barnsdale was
the culprit, and I understand that she has not yet given up all hope
of collecting a sufficiency of evidence to have the beautiful and
fashionable woman of society arraigned for this hideous murder.”



Chapter IV

“Will she succeed, do you think?” I asked at last.

“Succeed? Of course she won’t,” he retorted excitedly. “Lady Barnsdale
never committed that murder; no woman, except, perhaps, an East-end
factory hand, could have done it at all.”

“But then——” I urged.

“Why, then,” he replied, with a chuckle, “the only logical conclusion
is that the robbery and the murder were not committed by the same
person, nor at the same hour of the night; moreover, I contend that
there was no premeditated murder, but that the old lady died from the
result of a pure accident.”

“But how?” I gasped.

“This is my version of the story,” he said excitedly, as his long bony
fingers started fidgeting, fidgeting with that eternal bit of string.
“Lady Barnsdale, pressed for money, made an appeal to Mme. Quesnard,
which the latter refused, as we know. Then there was an acrimonious
dispute between the two ladies, after which came the dinner hour, then
Madame, feeling ill and upset, went up to bed at nine o’clock.

“Now my contention is that undoubtedly the robbery had been committed
before that, between the dispute and Madame’s bedtime.”

“By whom?”

“By Lady Barnsdale, of course, who, as the mistress of the house,
could come and go from room to room without exciting any comment, who,
moreover, at 6 p.m. was hard pressed for money, and who but a few
hours later was handling a mass of gold and banknotes.

“But the strain of committing even an ordinary theft is very great
upon a refined woman’s organisation. Lady Barnsdale has a nervous
breakdown. Well! what is the most likely thing to happen? Why! that
she should confess everything to her husband, who worships her, and no
doubt express her repentance at what she had done.

“Then imagine Lord Barnsdale’s horror! The old lady had not discovered
the theft before going to bed. That was only natural, since she was
feeling unwell, and was not likely to sit up at night counting her
money; the lock of the bureau drawer having been tampered with, would
perhaps not attract her attention at night.

“But in the morning, the very first thing, she would discover
everything, at once suspect the worst, and who knows, make a scandal,
talk of it before Alice Holt, Lady Barnsdale’s arch enemy, and all
before restitution could be made.

“No, no, that restitution must be made at once! not a minute must be
lost, since any moment might bring forth discovery, and perhaps an
awful catastrophe.

“I take it that Mme. Quesnard and her nephew were on very intimate
terms. He hoped to arouse no one by going to his aunt’s room, but in
order to make quite sure that Alice Holt, hearing a noise in her
mistress’s room, should not surreptitiously come down, and perhaps
play eavesdropper at the momentous interview, he turned the key of the
girl’s door as he went past, and locked her in.

“Then he knocked at his aunt’s door (gently, of course, for old people
are light sleepers), and called her by name. Mme. Quesnard,
recognising her nephew’s voice, slipped on her dressing-gown, smoothed
her hair, and let him in.

“Exactly what took place at the interview it is, of course, impossible
for any human being to say. Here even I can but conjecture,” he added,
with inimitable conceit, “but we can only imagine that, having heard
Lord Barnsdale’s confession of his wife’s folly, the old lady, who as
a Frenchwoman was of quick temper and unbridled tongue, would indulge
in not very elegant rhetoric on the subject of the woman she had
always disliked.

“Lord Barnsdale would, of course, defend his wife, and the old lady,
with feminine obstinacy, would continue the attack. Then some
insulting epithet, a word only perhaps, roused the devoted husband’s
towering indignation—the meekest man on earth becomes a mad bull when
he really loves, and the woman he loves is insulted.

“I maintain that the old lady’s death was really due to a pure
accident; that Lord Barnsdale gripped her by the throat, in a moment
of mad anger, at some hideous insult hurled at his wife; of that I am
as convinced as if I had witnessed the whole scene. Then the old lady
fell, hit her head against the marble, and Lord Barnsdale realised
that he was alone at night in his aunt’s room, and that he had killed
her.

“What would anyone do under the circumstances?” he added excitedly.
“Why, of course, collect his senses and try to save himself from what
might prove to be consequences of the most awful kind. This Lord
Barnsdale thought he could best do by giving the accident, which
looked so like murder, the appearance of a burglary.

“The lock of the desk in the next room had already been forced open;
he now locked the door on the inside, threw open the shutter and the
window, jumped out as any burglar would have done; and, being careful
to obliterate his own footmarks, he crept back into the house and
thence into his own room, without alarming the watch-dog, who
naturally knew his own master. He was, of course, just in time before
Alice Holt succeeded in rousing the household with her screams.

“And thus you see,” he added, “there are no such things as mysteries.
The police call them so, so do the public, but every crime has its
perpetrator, and every puzzle its solution. My experience is that the
simplest solution is invariably the right one.”


The End



Transcriber’s Notes

This transcription follows the text of the original 1909 publication.
However, the following alterations have been made to correct what are
believed to be unambiguous errors in the text:

 * “interwined” has been changed to “intertwined” (I., Ch. I).
 * “Chiselhurst” has been changed to “Chislehurst” (IV., Ch. IV).
 * “Vandervellen” has been changed to “Vanderdellen” (IV., Ch. IV).
 * “had affected” has been changed to “had effected” (V., Ch. II).
 * “glanced at if” has been changed to “glanced at it” (V., Ch. II).
 * “incoherent and definite” has been changed to
   “coherent and definite”  (VI., Ch. I).
 * “Wembly” has been changed to “Wembley” (VI., Ch. I).
 * “immedate” has been changed to “immediate” (VI., Ch. I).
 * “Athur” has been changed to “Arthur” (VII., Ch. II).
 * “cetain” has been changed to “certain” (VIII., Ch. II).
 * “signficance” has been changed to “significance” (VIII., Ch. III).
 * “Mr. Carlton” has been changed to “Mr. Carleton” (VIII., Ch. III).

Additionally, several occurrences of incorrectly matched quotation
marks have been repaired. All other ostensible inconsistencies have
been left unchanged from the original.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75461 ***