Chapter X.A Greek Gift

Chapter X.A Greek GiftThe incidents of my life while I was following the Southeastern Circuit are no part of this history, and I refer to this period merely by way of marking the passage of time. Indeed, it was its separateness, its detachment from the other and more personal aspects of my life that specially commended it to me. In the cheerful surroundings of the Bar Mess I could forget the terrible experiences of the last few weeks, and even in the grimmer and more suggestive atmosphere of the courts, the close attention that the proceedings demanded kept my mind in a state of wholesome preoccupation.Quite a considerable amount of work came my way, and though most of the briefs were small—so small, often, that I felt some compunction in taking them from the more needy juniors—yet it was all experience and what was more important just now, it was occupation that kept my mind employed.That was the great thing. To keep my mind busy with matters that were not my personal concern. And the intensity of my yearning for distraction was the measure of the extent to which my waking thoughts tended to be pervaded by the sinister surroundings of Harold Monkhouse’s death. That dreadful event and the mystery that encompassed it had shaken me more than I had at first realized. Nor need this be a matter for surprise. Harold Monkhouse had apparently been murdered; at any rate that was the accepted view. And who was the murderer? Evade the answer as I would, the fact remained that the finger of suspicion pointed at my own intimate friends—nay, even at me. It is no wonder, then, that the mystery haunted me. Murder has an ominous sound to any ears; but to a lawyer practising in criminal courts the word has connotations to which his daily experiences impart a peculiarly hideous vividness and realism. Once, I remember that, sitting in court, listening to the evidence in a trial for murder, as my glance strayed to the dock where the prisoner stood, watched and guarded like a captured wild beast, the thought suddenly flashed on me that it was actually possible—and to the police actually probable—that thus might yet stand Wallingford or Madeline, or even Barbara or myself.It would have been possible for me to run home from time to time at week-ends but I did not. There was nothing that called for my presence in London and it was better to stick close to my work. Still, I was not quite cut off from my friends, for Barbara wrote regularly and I had an occasional letter from Madeline. As to Thorndyke, he was too busy to write unnecessary letters and his peculiar circumstances made a secretary impossible, so that I had from him no more than one or two brief notes reporting the absence of any new developments. Nor had Barbara much to tell excepting that she had decided to let or sell the house in Hilborough Square and take up her residence in a flat. The decision did not surprise me. I should certainly have done the same in her place; and I was only faintly surprised when I learned that she proposed to live alone and that Madeline had taken a small flat near the school. The two women had always been on excellent terms, but they were not specially devoted to one another; and Barbara would now probably pursue her own special interests. Of Wallingford I learned only that, on the strength of his legacy he had taken a set of rooms in the neighbourhood of Jermyn Street and that his nerves did not seem to have benefited by the change.Such was the position of affairs when the Autumn Assizes came to an end and I returned home. I remember the occasion very vividly, as I have good reason to do—indeed, I had better reason than I knew at the time. It was a cold, dark, foggy evening, though not densely foggy, and my taxicab was compelled to crawl at an almost funereal pace (to the exasperation of the driver) through the murky streets, though the traffic was now beginning to thin out. We approached the Temple from the east and eventually entered by the Tudor Street Gate whence we crept tentatively across King’s Bench Walk to the end of Crown Office Row. As we passed Thorndyke’s chambers I looked up and had a momentary glimpse of lighted windows glimmering through the fog; then they faded away and I looked out on the other side where the great shadowy mass of Paper Buildings loomed above us. A man was standing at the end of the narrow passage that leads to Fig Tree Court—a tallish man wearing a preposterous wide-brimmed hat and a long overcoat with its collar turned up above his ears. I glanced at him incuriously as we approached but had no opportunity to inspect him more closely, if I had wished—which I did not—for, as the cab stopped he turned abruptly and walked away up the passage. The suddenness of his retirement struck me as a little odd and, having alighted from the cab, I stood for a moment or two watching his receding figure. But he soon disappeared in the foggy darkness, and I saw him no more. By the time that I had paid my fare and carried my portmanteau to Fig Tree Court, he had probably passed out into Middle Temple Lane.When I had let myself into my chambers, switched on the light and shut the door, I looked round my little domain with somewhat mixed feelings. It was very silent and solitary. After the jovial Bar Mess and the bright, frequented rooms of the hotels or the excellent lodgings which I had just left, these chambers struck me as just a shade desolate. But yet there were compensations. A sense of peace and quiet pervaded the place and all around were my household gods; my familiar and beloved pictures, the little friendly cabinet busts and statuettes, and, above all, the goodly fellowship of books. And at this moment my glance fell on the long range of my diaries and I noticed that one of the series was absent. Not that there was anything remarkable in that, since I had given Thorndyke express permission to take them away to read. What did surprise me a little was the date of the missing volume. It was that of the year before Stella’s death. As I noted this I was conscious of a faint sense of annoyance. I had, it is true, given him the free use of the diary, but only for purposes of reference. I had hardly bargained for his perusal of the whole series for his entertainment. However, it was of no consequence. The diary enshrined no secrets. If I had, in a way, emulated Pepys in respect of fulness, I had taken warning from his indiscretions; nor, in fact, was I quite so rich in the material of indiscreet records as the vivacious Samuel.I unpacked my portmanteau—the heavier impedimenta were coming on by rail—lit the gas fire in my bedroom, boiled a kettle of water, partly for a comfortable wash and partly to fill a hotwater bottle wherewith to warm the probably damp bed, and then, still feeling a little like a cat in a strange house, decided to walk along to Thorndyke’s chambers and hear the news, if there were any.The fog had grown appreciably denser when I turned out of my entry, and, crossing the little quadrangle, strode quickly along the narrow passage that leads to the Terrace and King’s Bench Walk. I was approaching the end of the passage when there came suddenly into view a shadowy figure which I recognized at once as that of the man whom I had seen when I arrived. But again I had no opportunity for a close inspection, for he had already heard my footsteps and he now started to walk away rapidly in the direction of Mitre Court. For a moment I was disposed to follow him, and did, in fact, make a few quick steps towards him—which seemed to cause him to mend his pace; but it was not directly my business to deal with loiterers, and I could have done nothing even if I had overtaken him. Accordingly I changed my direction, and crossing King’s Bench Walk, bore down on Thorndyke’s entry.As I approached the house I was a little disconcerted to observe that there were now no lights in his chambers, though the windows above were lighted. I ran up the stairs, and finding the oak closed, pressed the electric bell, which I could hear ringing on the floor above. Almost immediately footsteps became audible descending the stairs and were followed by the appearance of a small gentleman whom I recognized as Thorndyke’s assistant, artificer or familiar spirit, Mr. Polton. He recognized me at the same moment and greeted me with a smile that seemed to break out of the corners of his eyes and spread in a network of wrinkles over every part of his face; a sort of compound smile inasmuch as every wrinkle seemed to have a smile of its own.“I hope, Mr. Polton,” said I, “that I haven’t missed the doctor.”“No, Sir,” he replied. “He is up in the laboratory. We are just about to make a little experiment.”“Well, I am in no hurry. Don’t disturb him. I will wait until he is at liberty.”“Unless, Sir,” he suggested, “you would like to come up. Perhaps you would like to see the experiment.”I closed with the offer gladly. I had never seen Thorndyke’s laboratory and had often been somewhat mystified as to what he did in it. Accordingly I followed Mr. Polton up the stairs, at the top of which I found Thorndyke waiting.“I thought it was your voice, Mayfield,” said he, shaking my hand. “You are just in time to see us locate a mare’s nest. Come in and lend a hand.”He led me into a large room around which I glanced curiously and not without surprise. One side was occupied by a huge copying camera, the other by a joiner’s bench. A powerful back-geared lathe stood against one window, a jeweller’s bench against the other, and the walls were covered with shelves and tool-racks, filled with all sorts of strange implements. From this room we passed into another which I recognized as a chemical laboratory, although most of the apparatus in it was totally unfamiliar to me.“I had no idea,” said I, “that the practice of Medical Jurisprudence involved such an outfit as this. What do you do with it all? The place is like a factory.”“It is a factory,” he replied with a smile; “a place where the raw material of scientific evidence is worked up into the finished product suitable for use in courts of law.”“I don’t know that that conveys much to me,” said I. “But you are going to perform some sort of experiment; perhaps that will enlighten me.”“Probably it will, to some extent,” he replied, “though it is only a simple affair. We have a parcel here which came by post this evening and we are going to see what is in it before we open it.”“The devil you are!” I exclaimed. “How in the name of Fortune are you going to do that?”“We shall examine it by means of the X-rays.”“But why? Why not open it and find out what is in it in a reasonable way?”Thorndyke chuckled softly. “We have had our little experiences, Mayfield, and we have grown wary. We don’t open strange parcels nowadays until we are sure that we are not dealing with a ‘Greek gift’ of some sort. That is what we are going to ascertain now in respect of this.”He picked up from the bench a parcel about the size of an ordinary cigar-box and held it out for my inspection. “The overwhelming probabilities are,” he continued, “that this is a perfectly innocent package. But we don’t know. I am not expecting any such parcel and there are certain peculiarities about this one that attract one’s attention. You notice that the entire address is in rough Roman capitals—what are commonly called ‘block letters.’ That is probably for the sake of distinctness; but it might possibly be done to avoid a recognizable handwriting or a possibly traceable typewriter. Then you notice that it is addressed to ‘Dr. Thorndyke’ and conspicuously endorsed ‘personal.’ Now, that is really a little odd. One understands the object of marking a letter ‘personal’—to guard against its being opened and read by the wrong person. But what does it matter who opens a parcel?”“I can’t imagine why it should matter,” I admitted without much conviction, “but I don’t see anything in the unnecessary addition that need excite suspicion. Do you?”“Perhaps not; but you observe that the sender was apparently anxious that the parcel should be opened by a particular person.”I shrugged my shoulders. The whole proceeding and the reasons given for it struck me as verging on farce. “Do you go through these formalities with every parcel that you receive?” I asked.“No,” he replied. “Only with those that are unexpected or offer no evidence as to their origin. But we are pretty careful. As I said just now, we have had our experiences. One of them was a box which, on being opened, discharged volumes of poisonous gas.”“The deuce!” I exclaimed, rather startled out of my scepticism and viewing the parcel with a new-born respect, not unmixed with apprehension. “Then this thing may actually be an infernal machine! Confound it all, Thorndyke! Supposing it should have a clockwork detonator, ticking away while we are talking. Hadn’t you better get on with the X-rays?”He chuckled at my sudden change of attitude. “It is all right, Mayfield. There is no clockwork. I tried it with the microphone as soon as it arrived. We always do that. And, of course, it is a thousand to one that it is just an innocent parcel. But we will just make sure and then I shall be at liberty for a chat with you.”He led the way to a staircase leading to the floor above where I was introduced to a large, bare room surrounded by long benches or tables occupied by various uncanny-looking apparatus. As soon as we entered, he placed the parcel on a raised stand while Polton turned a switch connected with a great coil; the immediate result of which was a peculiar, high-pitched, humming sound as if a gigantic mosquito had got into the room. At the same moment a glass globe that was supported on an arm behind the parcel became filled with green light and displayed a bright red spot in its interior.“This is a necromantic sort of business, Thorndyke,” said I, “only you and Mr. Polton aren’t dressed for the part. You ought to have tall, pointed caps and gowns covered with cabalistic signs. What is that queer humming noise?”“That is the interrupter,” he replied. “The green bulb is the Crookes’s tube and the little red-hot disc inside it is the anti-cathode. I will tell you about them presently. That framed plate that Polton has is the fluorescent screen. It intercepts the X-rays and makes them visible. You shall see, when Polton has finished his inspection.”I watched Polton—who had taken the opportunity to get the first innings—holding the screen between his face and the parcel. After a few moments’ inspection he turned the parcel over on its side and once more raised the screen, gazing at it with an expression of the most intense interest. Suddenly he turned to Thorndyke with a smile of perfectly incredible wrinkliness and, without a word, handed him the screen; which he held up for a few seconds and then silently passed to me.I had never used a fluorescent screen before and I must confess that I found the experience most uncanny. As I raised it before the parcel behind which was the glowing green bulb, the parcel became invisible but in its place appeared the shadow of a pistol the muzzle of which seemed to be inserted into a jar. There were some other, smaller shadows, of which I could make nothing, but which seemed to be floating in the air.“Better not look too long, Mayfield,” said Thorndyke. “X-rays are unwholesome things. We will take a photograph and then we can study the details at our leisure; though it is all pretty obvious.”“It isn’t to me,” said I. “There is a pistol and what looks like a jar. Do you take it that they are parts of an infernal machine?”“I suppose,” he replied, “we must dignify it with that name. What do you say, Polton?”“I should call it a booby-trap, Sir,” was the reply. “What you might expect from a mischievous boy of ten—rather backward for his age.”Thorndyke laughed. “Listen to the artificer,” said he, “and observe how his mechanical soul is offended by an inefficient and unmechanical attempt to blow us all up. But we won’t take the inefficiency too much for granted. Let us have a photograph and then we can get to work with safety.”It seemed that this part also of the procedure was already provided for in the form of a large black envelope which Polton produced from a drawer and began forthwith to adjust in contact with the parcel; in fact the appearance of preparedness was so striking that I remarked:“This looks like part of a regular routine. It must take up a lot of your time.”“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “we don’t often have to do this. I don’t receive many parcels and of those that are delivered, the immense majority come from known sources and are accompanied by letters of advice. It is only the strange and questionable packages that we examine with the X-rays. Of course, this one was suspect at a glance with that disguised handwriting and the special direction as to who should open it.”“Yes, I see that now. But it must be rather uncomfortable to live in constant expectation of having bombs or poison-gas handed in by the postman.”“It isn’t as bad as that,” said he. “The thing has happened only three or four times in the whole of my experience. The first gift of the kind was a poisoned cigar, which I fortunately detected and which served as a very useful warning. Since then I have kept my weather eyelid lifting, as the mariners express it.”“But don’t you find it rather wearing to be constantly on the look-out for some murderous attack?”“Not at all,” he answered with a laugh. “It rather adds to the zest of life. Besides, you see, Mayfield, that on the rare occasions when these trifles come my way, they are so extremely helpful.”“Helpful!” I repeated. “In the Lord’s name, how?”“In a number of ways. Consider my position, Mayfield. I am not like an Italian or Russian politician who may have scores of murderous enemies. I am a lawyer and an investigator of crime. Whoever wants to get rid of me has something to fear from me; but at any given time, there will not be more than one or two of such persons. Consequently, when I receive a gift such as the present one, it conveys to me certain items of information. Thus it informs me that some one is becoming alarmed by some proceedings on my part. That is a very valuable piece of information, for it tells me that some one of my inquiries is at least proceeding along the right lines. It is virtually an admission that I have made, or am in the way of making a point. A little consideration of the cases that I have in hand will probably suggest the identity of the sender. But on this question the thing itself will, in most cases yield quite useful information as well as telling us a good deal about the personality of the sender. Take the present case. You heard Polton’s contemptuous observations on the crudity of the device. Evidently the person who sent this is not an engineer or mechanician of any kind. There is an obvious ignorance of mechanism; and yet there is a certain simple ingenuity. The thing is, in fact, as Polton said, on the level of a schoolboy’s booby-trap. You must see that if we had in view two or more possible senders, these facts might enable us to exclude one and select another. But here is Polton with the photograph. Now we can consider the mechanism at our leisure.”As he spoke, Polton deposited on the bench a large porcelain dish or tray in which was a very odd-looking photograph; for the whole of it was jet-black excepting the pistol, the jar, the hinges, and a small, elongated spot, which all stood out in clear, white silhouette.“Why,” I exclaimed as I stooped over it, “that is a muzzle-loading pistol!”“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “and a pocket pistol, as you can tell by the absence of a trigger-guard. The trigger is probably hinged and folds forward into a recess. I daresay you know the kind of thing. They were usually rather pretty little weapons—and useful, too, for you could carry one easily in your waistcoat pocket. They had octagon barrels, which screwed off for loading, and the butts were often quite handsomely ornamented with silver mounts. They were usually sent out by the gunsmiths in little baize-lined mahogany cases with compartments for a little powder-flask and a supply of bullets.”“I wonder why he used a muzzle-loader?” said I.“Probably because he had it. It answers the purpose as well as a modern weapon, and, as it was probably made more than a hundred years ago, it would be useless to go round the trade enquiring as to recent purchases.”“Yes, it was safer to use an old pistol than to buy a new one and leave possible tracks. But how does the thing work? I can see that the hammer is at full cock and that there is a cap on the nipple. But what fires the pistol?”“Apparently a piece of string, which hasn’t come out in the photograph except, faintly, just above that small mark—string is not dense enough to throw a shadow at the full exposure—but you see, about an inch behind the trigger, an elongated shadow. That is probably a screw-eye seen end-ways. The string is tied to the trigger, passed through the screw-eye and fastened to the lid of the box. I don’t see how. There is no metal fastening, and you see that the lid is not screwed or nailed down. As to how it works; you open the lid firmly; that pulls the string tight; that pulls back the trigger and fires the pistol into the jar, which is presumably full of some explosive; the jar explodes and—up goes the donkey. There is a noble simplicity about the whole thing. How do you propose to open it, Polton?”“I think, Sir,” replied the latter, “we had better get the paper off and have a look at the box.”“Very well,” said Thorndyke, “but don’t take anything for granted. Make sure that the paper isn’t part of the joke.”I watched Polton with intense—and far from impersonal—interest, wishing only that I could have observed him from a somewhat greater distance. But for all his contempt for the “booby-trap,” he took no unnecessary risks. First, with a pair of scissors, he cut out a piece at the back and enlarged the opening so that he could peer in and inspect the top of the lid. When he had made sure that there were no pitfalls, he ran the scissors round the top and exposed the box, which he carefully lifted out of the remainder of the wrapping and laid down tenderly on the bench. It was a cigar-box of the flat type and presented nothing remarkable excepting that the lid, instead of being nailed or pinned down, was secured by a number of strips of stout adhesive paper, and bore, near the middle, a large spot of sealing-wax.“That paper binding is quite a happy thought,” remarked Thorndyke, “though it was probably put on because our friend was afraid to knock in nails. But it would be quite effective. An impatient man would cut through the front strips and then wrench the lid open. I think that blob of sealing-wax answers our question about the fastening of the string. The end of it was probably drawn through a bradawl hole in the lid and fixed with sealing wax. But it must have been an anxious business drawing it just tight enough and not too tight. I suggest, Polton, that an inch and-a-half centre-bit hole just below and to the right of the sealing-wax would enable us to cut the string. But you had better try it with the photograph first.”Polton picked the wet photograph out of the dish and carefully laid it on the lid of the box, adjusting it so that the shadows of the hinges were opposite the actual hinges. Then with a marking-awl he pricked through the shadow of the screw-eye, and again about two inches to the right and below it.“You are quite right, Sir,” said he as he removed the photograph and inspected the lid of the box. “The middle of the wax is exactly over the screw-eye. I’ll just get the centre-bit.”He bustled away down the stairs and returned in less than a minute with a brace and a large centre-bit, the point of which he inserted into the second awl-hole. Then, as Thorndyke grasped the box (and I stepped back a pace or two), he turned the brace lightly and steadily, stopping now and again to clear away the chips and examine the deepening hole. A dozen turns carried the bit through the thin lid and the remaining disc of wood was driven into the interior of the box. As soon as the hole was clear, he cautiously inserted a dentist’s mirror, which he had brought up in his pocket, and with its aid examined the inside of the lid.“I can see the string, Sir,” he reported; “a bit of common white twine and it looks quite slack. I could reach it easily with a small pair of scissors.”He handed the mirror to Thorndyke, who, having confirmed his observations, produced a pair of surgical scissors from his pocket. These Polton cautiously inserted into the opening, and as he closed them there was an audible snip. Then he slowly withdrew them and again inserted the mirror.“It’s all right,” said he. “The string is cut clean through. I think we can open the lid now.” With a sharp penknife he cut through the paper binding-strips and then, grasping the front of the lid, continued: “Now for it. Perhaps you two gentlemen had better stand a bit farther back, in case of accidents.”I thought the suggestion an excellent one, but as Thorndyke made no move, I had not the moral courage to adopt it. Nevertheless, I watched Polton’s proceedings with my heart in my mouth. Very slowly and gently did that cunning artificer raise the lid until it had opened some two inches, when he stooped and peered in. Then, with the cheerful announcement that it was “all clear,” he boldly turned it right back.Of course, the photograph had shown us, in general, what to expect, but there were certain details that had not been represented. For instance, both the pistol and the jar were securely wedged between pieces of cork—sections of wine-bottle corks, apparently—glued to the bottom of the box.“How is it,” I asked, “that those corks did not appear in the photograph?”“I think there is a faint indication of them,” Thorndyke replied; “but Polton gave a rather full exposure. If you want to show bodies of such low density as corks, you have to give a specially short exposure and cut short the development, too. But I expect Polton saw them when he was developing the picture, didn’t you, Polton?”“Yes,” the latter replied; “they were quite distinct at one time, but then I developed up to get the pistol out clear.”While these explanations were being given, Polton proceeded methodically to “draw the teeth” of the infernal apparatus. First, he cut a little wedge of cork which he pushed in between the threatening hammer and the nipple and having thus fixed the former he quietly removed the percussion-cap from the latter; on which I drew a deep breath of relief. He next wrenched away one of the corks and was then able to withdraw the pistol from the jar and lift it out of the box. I took it from him and examined it curiously, not a little interested to note how completely it corresponded with Thorndyke’s description. It had a blued octagon barrel, a folding trigger which fitted snugly into a recess, a richly-engraved lock-plate and an ebony butt, decorated with numbers of tiny silver studs and a little lozenge-shaped scutcheon-plate on which a monogram had been engraved in minute letters, which, however, had been so thoroughly scraped out that I was unable to make out or even to guess what the letters had been.My investigations were cut short by Thorndyke, who, having slipped on a pair of rubber gloves now took the pistol from me, remarking: “You haven’t touched the barrel, I think, Mayfield?”“No,” I answered; “but why do you ask?”“Because we shall go over it and the jar for finger-prints. Not that they will be much use for tracing the sender of this present, but they will be valuable corroboration if we catch him by other means; for whoever sent this certainly had a guilty conscience.”With this he delicately lifted out the jar—a small, dark-brown stoneware vessel such as is used as a container for the choicer kinds of condiments—and inverted it over a sheet of paper, upon which its contents, some two or three tablespoonfuls of black powder, descended and formed a small heap.“Not a very formidable charge,” Thorndyke remarked, looking at it with a smile.“Formidable!” repeated Polton. “Why, it wouldn’t have hurt a fly! Common black powder such as old women use to blow out the copper flues. He must be an innocent, this fellow—if it is a he,” he added reflectively.Polton’s proviso suddenly recalled to my mind the man whom I had seen lurking at the corner of Fig Tree Court. It was hardly possible to avoid connecting him with the mysterious parcel, as Thorndyke agreed when I had described the incident.“Yes,” exclaimed Polton, “of course. He was waiting to hear the explosion. It is a pity you didn’t mention it sooner, Sir. But he may be waiting there still. Hadn’t I better run across and see?”“And suppose he is there still,” said Thorndyke. “What would you propose to do?”“I should just pop up to the lodge and tell the porter to bring a policeman down. Why we should have him red-handed.”Thorndyke regarded his henchman with an indulgent smile. “Your handicraft, Polton,” said he, “is better than your law. You can’t arrest a man without a warrant unless he is doing something unlawful. This man was simply standing at the corner of Fig Tree Court.”“But,” protested Polton, “isn’t it unlawful to send infernal machines by parcel post?”“Undoubtedly it is,” Thorndyke admitted, “but we haven’t a particle of evidence that this man has any connection with the parcel or with us. He may have been waiting there to meet a friend.”“He may, of course,” said I, “but seeing that he ran off like a lamp-lighter on both the occasions when I appeared on the scene, I should suspect that he was there for no good. And I strongly suspect him of having some connection with this precious parcel.”“So do I,” said Thorndyke. “As a matter of fact, I have once or twice, lately, met a man answering to your description, loitering about King’s Bench Walk in the evening. But I think it much better not to appear to notice him. Let himself think himself unobserved and presently he will do something definite that will enable us to take action. And remember that the more thoroughly he commits himself the more valuable his conduct will be as indirect evidence on certain other matters.”I was amused at the way in which Thorndyke sank all considerations of personal safety in the single purpose of pursuing his investigations to a successful issue. He was the typical enthusiast. The possibility that this unknown person might shoot at him from some ambush, he would, I suspected, have welcomed as offering the chance to seize the aggressor and compel him to disclose his motives. Also, I had a shrewd suspicion that he knew or guessed who the man was and was anxious to avoid alarming him.“Well,” he said when he had replaced the pistol and the empty jar in the box and closed the latter, “I think we have finished for the present. The further examination of these interesting trifles can be postponed until to-morrow. Shall we go downstairs and talk over the news?”“It is getting rather late,” said I, “but there is time for a little chat, though, as to news, they will have to come from you, for I have nothing to tell.”We went down to the sitting room where, when he had locked up the box, we took each an armchair and filled our pipes.“So you have no news of any kind?” said he.“No; excepting that the Hilborough Square household has been broken up and the inmates scattered into various flats.”“Then the house is now empty?” said he, with an appearance of some interest.“Yes, and likely to remain so with this gruesome story attached to it. I suppose I shall have to make a survey of the premises with a view to having them put in repair.”“When you do,” said he, “I should like to go with you and look over the house.”“But it is all dismantled. Everything has been cleared out. You will find nothing there but empty rooms and a litter of discarded rubbish.”“Never mind,” said he. “I have occasionally picked up some quite useful information from empty rooms and discarded rubbish. Do you know if the police have examined the house?”“I believe not. At any rate, nothing has been said to me to that effect.”“So much the better,” said he. “Can we fix a time for our visit?”“It can’t be to-morrow,” said I, “because I must see Barbara and get the keys if she has them. Would the day after to-morrow do, after lunch?”“Perfectly,” he replied. “Come and lunch with me; and, by the way, Mayfield, it would be best not to mention to any one that I am coming with you, and I wouldn’t say anything about this parcel.”I looked at him with sudden suspicion, recalling Wallingford’s observations on the subject of mare’s nests. “But, my dear Thorndyke!” I exclaimed, “you don’t surely associate that parcel with any of the inmates of that house!”“I don’t associate it with any particular person,” he replied. “I know only what you know; that it was sent by some one to whom my existence is, for some reason, undesirable, and whose personality is to some extent indicated by the peculiarities of the thing itself.”“What peculiarities do you mean?”“Well,” he replied, “there is the nature and purpose of the thing. It is an appliance for killing a human being. That purpose implies either a very strong motive or a very light estimate of the value of human life. Then, as we have said, the sender is fairly ingenious but yet quite unmechanical and apparently unprovided with the common tools which ordinary men possess and are more or less able to use. You notice that the combination of ingenuity with non-possession of tools is a rather unusual one.”“How do you infer that the sender possessed no tools?”“From the fact that none were used, and that such materials were employed as required no tools, though these were not the most suitable materials. For instance, common twine was used to pull the trigger, though it is a bad material by reason of its tendency to stretch. But it can be cut with a knife or a pair of scissors, whereas wire, which was the really suitable material, requires cutting pliers to divide it. Again, there were the corks. They were really not very safe, for their weakness and their resiliency might have led to disaster in the event of a specially heavy jerk in transit. A man who possessed no more than a common keyhole saw, or a hand-saw and a chisel or two, would have roughly shaped up one or two blocks of wood to fit the pistol and jar, which would have made the thing perfectly secure. If he had possessed a glue-pot, he would not have used seccotine. But every one has waste corks, and they can be trimmed to shape with an ordinary dinner-knife; and seccotine can be bought at any stationer’s. But, to return to what we were saying. I had no special precautions in my mind. I suggested that we should keep our own counsel merely on the general principle that it is always best to keep one’s own counsel. One may make a confidence to an entirely suitable person; but who can say that that person may not, in his or her turn, make a confidence? If we keep our knowledge strictly to ourselves we know exactly how we stand, and that if there has been any leakage, it had been from some other source. But I need not platitudinize to an experienced and learned counsel.”I grinned appreciatively at the neat finish; for “experienced counsel” as I certainly was not, I was at least able to realize, with secret approval, how adroitly Thorndyke had eluded my leading question. And at that I left it, enquiring in my turn:“I suppose nothing of interest has transpired since I have been away?”“Very little. There is one item of news, but that can hardly be said to have ‘transpired’ unless you can associate the process of transpiration with a suction-pump. Superintendent Miller took my advice and applied the suctorial method to Wallingford with results of which he possibly exaggerates the importance. He tells me—this is, of course, in the strictest confidence—that under pressure, Wallingford made a clean breast of the cocaine and morphine business. He admitted that he had obtained those drugs fraudulently by forging an order in Dimsdale’s name, written on Dimsdale’s headed note-paper, to the wholesale druggists to deliver to bearer the drugs mentioned. He had possessed himself of the note-paper at the time when he was working at the account books in Dimsdale’s surgery.”“But how was it that Dimsdale did not notice what had happened when the accounts were sent in?”“No accounts were ever sent in. The druggists whom Wallingford patronized were not those with whom Dimsdale had an account. The order stated, in every case, that bearer would pay cash.”“Quite an ingenious little plan of Wallingford’s,” I remarked. “It is more than I should have given him credit for. And you say that Miller attaches undue importance to this discovery. I am not surprised at that. But why do you think he exaggerates its importance?”Thorndyke regarded me with a quizzical smile. “Because,” he answered, “Miller’s previous experiences have been repeated. There has been another discovery. It has transpired that Miss Norris also had dealings with a wholesale druggist. But in her case there was no fraud or irregularity. The druggist with whom she dealt was the one who used to supply her father with materia medica and to whom she was well known.”“Then, in that case, I suppose she had an account with him?”“No, she did not. She also paid cash. Her purchases were only occasional and on quite a small scale; too small to justify an account.”“Has she made any statement as to what she wanted the drugs for?”“She denies that she ever purchased drugs, in the usual sense, that is substances having medicinal properties. Her purchases were, according to her statement, confined to such pharmaceutical and chemical materials as were required for purposes of instruction in her classes. Which is perfectly plausible, for, as you know, academic cookery is a rather different thing from the cookery of the kitchen.”“Yes, I know that she had some materials in her cupboard that I shouldn’t have associated with cookery and I should accept her statement without hesitation. In fact, the discovery seems to me to be of no significance at all.”“Probably you are right,” said he; “but the point is that, in a legal sense, it confuses the issues hopelessly. In her case, as in Wallingford’s, materials have been purchased from a druggist, and, as no record of those purchases has been kept, it is impossible to say what those materials were. Probably they were harmless, but it cannot be proved that they were. The effect is that the evidential value of Wallingford’s admission is discounted by the fact that there was another person who is known to have purchased materials some of which may have been poisons.”“Yes,” said I, “that is obvious enough. But doesn’t it strike you, Thorndyke, that all this is just a lot of futile logic-chopping such as you might hear at a debating club? I can’t take it seriously. You don’t imagine that either of these two persons murdered Harold Monkhouse, do you? I certainly don’t; and I can’t believe Miller does.”“It doesn’t matter very much what he believes, or, for that matter, what any of us believe. ‘He discovers who proves.’ Up to the present, none of us has proved anything, and my impression is that Miller is becoming a little discouraged. He is a genius in following up clues. But where there are no clues to follow up, the best of detectives is rather stranded.”“By the way,” said I, “did you pick up anything from my diary that threw any light on the mystery?”“Very little,” he replied; “in fact nothing that gets us any farther. I was able to confirm our belief that Monkhouse’s attacks of severe illness coincided with his wife’s absence from home. But that doesn’t help us much. It merely indicates, as we had already observed, that the poisoner was so placed that his or her activities could not be carried on when the wife was at home. But I must compliment you on your diary, Mayfield. It is quite a fascinating work; so much so that I have been tempted to encroach a little on your kindness. The narrative of the last three years was so interesting that it lured me on to the antecedents that led up to them. It reads like a novel.”“How much of it have you read?” I asked, my faint resentment completely extinguished by his appreciation.“Six volumes,” he replied, “including the one that I have just borrowed. I began by reading the last three years for the purposes of our inquiry, and then I ventured to go back another three years for the interest of tracing the more remote causation of recent events. I hope I have not presumed too much on the liberty that you were kind enough to give me.”“Not at all,” I replied, heartily. “I am only surprised that a man as much occupied as you are should have been willing to waste your time on the reading of what is, after all, but a trivial and diffuse autobiography.”“I have not wasted my time, Mayfield,” said he. “If it is true that ‘the proper study of mankind is man,’ how much more true is it of that variety of mankind that wears the wig and gown and pleads in Court. It seems to me that to lawyers like ourselves whose professional lives are largely occupied with the study of motives of human actions and with the actions themselves viewed in the light of their antecedents and their consequences, nothing can be more instructive than a full, consecutive diary in which, over a period of years, events may be watched growing out of those that went before and in their turn developing their consequences and elucidating the motives of the actors. Such a diary is a synopsis of human life.”I laughed as I rose to depart. “It seems,” said I, “that I wrought better than I knew; in fact I am disposed, like Pendennis, to regard myself with respectful astonishment. But perhaps I had better not be too puffed up. It may be that I am, after all, no more than a sort of literary Strasburg goose; an unconscious provider of the food of the gods.”Thorndyke laughed in his turn and escorted me down the stairs to the entry where we stood for a few moments looking out into the fog.“It seems thicker than ever,” said he. “However, you can’t miss your way. But keep a look-out as you go, in case our friend is still waiting at the corner. Good night!”I returned his farewell and plunged into the fog, steering for the corner of the library, and was so fortunate as to strike the wall within a few yards of it. From thence I felt my way without difficulty to the Terrace where I halted for a moment to look about and listen; and as there was no sign, visible or audible of any loiterer at the corner, I groped my way into the passage and so home to my chambers without meeting a single human creature.

The incidents of my life while I was following the Southeastern Circuit are no part of this history, and I refer to this period merely by way of marking the passage of time. Indeed, it was its separateness, its detachment from the other and more personal aspects of my life that specially commended it to me. In the cheerful surroundings of the Bar Mess I could forget the terrible experiences of the last few weeks, and even in the grimmer and more suggestive atmosphere of the courts, the close attention that the proceedings demanded kept my mind in a state of wholesome preoccupation.

Quite a considerable amount of work came my way, and though most of the briefs were small—so small, often, that I felt some compunction in taking them from the more needy juniors—yet it was all experience and what was more important just now, it was occupation that kept my mind employed.

That was the great thing. To keep my mind busy with matters that were not my personal concern. And the intensity of my yearning for distraction was the measure of the extent to which my waking thoughts tended to be pervaded by the sinister surroundings of Harold Monkhouse’s death. That dreadful event and the mystery that encompassed it had shaken me more than I had at first realized. Nor need this be a matter for surprise. Harold Monkhouse had apparently been murdered; at any rate that was the accepted view. And who was the murderer? Evade the answer as I would, the fact remained that the finger of suspicion pointed at my own intimate friends—nay, even at me. It is no wonder, then, that the mystery haunted me. Murder has an ominous sound to any ears; but to a lawyer practising in criminal courts the word has connotations to which his daily experiences impart a peculiarly hideous vividness and realism. Once, I remember that, sitting in court, listening to the evidence in a trial for murder, as my glance strayed to the dock where the prisoner stood, watched and guarded like a captured wild beast, the thought suddenly flashed on me that it was actually possible—and to the police actually probable—that thus might yet stand Wallingford or Madeline, or even Barbara or myself.

It would have been possible for me to run home from time to time at week-ends but I did not. There was nothing that called for my presence in London and it was better to stick close to my work. Still, I was not quite cut off from my friends, for Barbara wrote regularly and I had an occasional letter from Madeline. As to Thorndyke, he was too busy to write unnecessary letters and his peculiar circumstances made a secretary impossible, so that I had from him no more than one or two brief notes reporting the absence of any new developments. Nor had Barbara much to tell excepting that she had decided to let or sell the house in Hilborough Square and take up her residence in a flat. The decision did not surprise me. I should certainly have done the same in her place; and I was only faintly surprised when I learned that she proposed to live alone and that Madeline had taken a small flat near the school. The two women had always been on excellent terms, but they were not specially devoted to one another; and Barbara would now probably pursue her own special interests. Of Wallingford I learned only that, on the strength of his legacy he had taken a set of rooms in the neighbourhood of Jermyn Street and that his nerves did not seem to have benefited by the change.

Such was the position of affairs when the Autumn Assizes came to an end and I returned home. I remember the occasion very vividly, as I have good reason to do—indeed, I had better reason than I knew at the time. It was a cold, dark, foggy evening, though not densely foggy, and my taxicab was compelled to crawl at an almost funereal pace (to the exasperation of the driver) through the murky streets, though the traffic was now beginning to thin out. We approached the Temple from the east and eventually entered by the Tudor Street Gate whence we crept tentatively across King’s Bench Walk to the end of Crown Office Row. As we passed Thorndyke’s chambers I looked up and had a momentary glimpse of lighted windows glimmering through the fog; then they faded away and I looked out on the other side where the great shadowy mass of Paper Buildings loomed above us. A man was standing at the end of the narrow passage that leads to Fig Tree Court—a tallish man wearing a preposterous wide-brimmed hat and a long overcoat with its collar turned up above his ears. I glanced at him incuriously as we approached but had no opportunity to inspect him more closely, if I had wished—which I did not—for, as the cab stopped he turned abruptly and walked away up the passage. The suddenness of his retirement struck me as a little odd and, having alighted from the cab, I stood for a moment or two watching his receding figure. But he soon disappeared in the foggy darkness, and I saw him no more. By the time that I had paid my fare and carried my portmanteau to Fig Tree Court, he had probably passed out into Middle Temple Lane.

When I had let myself into my chambers, switched on the light and shut the door, I looked round my little domain with somewhat mixed feelings. It was very silent and solitary. After the jovial Bar Mess and the bright, frequented rooms of the hotels or the excellent lodgings which I had just left, these chambers struck me as just a shade desolate. But yet there were compensations. A sense of peace and quiet pervaded the place and all around were my household gods; my familiar and beloved pictures, the little friendly cabinet busts and statuettes, and, above all, the goodly fellowship of books. And at this moment my glance fell on the long range of my diaries and I noticed that one of the series was absent. Not that there was anything remarkable in that, since I had given Thorndyke express permission to take them away to read. What did surprise me a little was the date of the missing volume. It was that of the year before Stella’s death. As I noted this I was conscious of a faint sense of annoyance. I had, it is true, given him the free use of the diary, but only for purposes of reference. I had hardly bargained for his perusal of the whole series for his entertainment. However, it was of no consequence. The diary enshrined no secrets. If I had, in a way, emulated Pepys in respect of fulness, I had taken warning from his indiscretions; nor, in fact, was I quite so rich in the material of indiscreet records as the vivacious Samuel.

I unpacked my portmanteau—the heavier impedimenta were coming on by rail—lit the gas fire in my bedroom, boiled a kettle of water, partly for a comfortable wash and partly to fill a hotwater bottle wherewith to warm the probably damp bed, and then, still feeling a little like a cat in a strange house, decided to walk along to Thorndyke’s chambers and hear the news, if there were any.

The fog had grown appreciably denser when I turned out of my entry, and, crossing the little quadrangle, strode quickly along the narrow passage that leads to the Terrace and King’s Bench Walk. I was approaching the end of the passage when there came suddenly into view a shadowy figure which I recognized at once as that of the man whom I had seen when I arrived. But again I had no opportunity for a close inspection, for he had already heard my footsteps and he now started to walk away rapidly in the direction of Mitre Court. For a moment I was disposed to follow him, and did, in fact, make a few quick steps towards him—which seemed to cause him to mend his pace; but it was not directly my business to deal with loiterers, and I could have done nothing even if I had overtaken him. Accordingly I changed my direction, and crossing King’s Bench Walk, bore down on Thorndyke’s entry.

As I approached the house I was a little disconcerted to observe that there were now no lights in his chambers, though the windows above were lighted. I ran up the stairs, and finding the oak closed, pressed the electric bell, which I could hear ringing on the floor above. Almost immediately footsteps became audible descending the stairs and were followed by the appearance of a small gentleman whom I recognized as Thorndyke’s assistant, artificer or familiar spirit, Mr. Polton. He recognized me at the same moment and greeted me with a smile that seemed to break out of the corners of his eyes and spread in a network of wrinkles over every part of his face; a sort of compound smile inasmuch as every wrinkle seemed to have a smile of its own.

“I hope, Mr. Polton,” said I, “that I haven’t missed the doctor.”

“No, Sir,” he replied. “He is up in the laboratory. We are just about to make a little experiment.”

“Well, I am in no hurry. Don’t disturb him. I will wait until he is at liberty.”

“Unless, Sir,” he suggested, “you would like to come up. Perhaps you would like to see the experiment.”

I closed with the offer gladly. I had never seen Thorndyke’s laboratory and had often been somewhat mystified as to what he did in it. Accordingly I followed Mr. Polton up the stairs, at the top of which I found Thorndyke waiting.

“I thought it was your voice, Mayfield,” said he, shaking my hand. “You are just in time to see us locate a mare’s nest. Come in and lend a hand.”

He led me into a large room around which I glanced curiously and not without surprise. One side was occupied by a huge copying camera, the other by a joiner’s bench. A powerful back-geared lathe stood against one window, a jeweller’s bench against the other, and the walls were covered with shelves and tool-racks, filled with all sorts of strange implements. From this room we passed into another which I recognized as a chemical laboratory, although most of the apparatus in it was totally unfamiliar to me.

“I had no idea,” said I, “that the practice of Medical Jurisprudence involved such an outfit as this. What do you do with it all? The place is like a factory.”

“It is a factory,” he replied with a smile; “a place where the raw material of scientific evidence is worked up into the finished product suitable for use in courts of law.”

“I don’t know that that conveys much to me,” said I. “But you are going to perform some sort of experiment; perhaps that will enlighten me.”

“Probably it will, to some extent,” he replied, “though it is only a simple affair. We have a parcel here which came by post this evening and we are going to see what is in it before we open it.”

“The devil you are!” I exclaimed. “How in the name of Fortune are you going to do that?”

“We shall examine it by means of the X-rays.”

“But why? Why not open it and find out what is in it in a reasonable way?”

Thorndyke chuckled softly. “We have had our little experiences, Mayfield, and we have grown wary. We don’t open strange parcels nowadays until we are sure that we are not dealing with a ‘Greek gift’ of some sort. That is what we are going to ascertain now in respect of this.”

He picked up from the bench a parcel about the size of an ordinary cigar-box and held it out for my inspection. “The overwhelming probabilities are,” he continued, “that this is a perfectly innocent package. But we don’t know. I am not expecting any such parcel and there are certain peculiarities about this one that attract one’s attention. You notice that the entire address is in rough Roman capitals—what are commonly called ‘block letters.’ That is probably for the sake of distinctness; but it might possibly be done to avoid a recognizable handwriting or a possibly traceable typewriter. Then you notice that it is addressed to ‘Dr. Thorndyke’ and conspicuously endorsed ‘personal.’ Now, that is really a little odd. One understands the object of marking a letter ‘personal’—to guard against its being opened and read by the wrong person. But what does it matter who opens a parcel?”

“I can’t imagine why it should matter,” I admitted without much conviction, “but I don’t see anything in the unnecessary addition that need excite suspicion. Do you?”

“Perhaps not; but you observe that the sender was apparently anxious that the parcel should be opened by a particular person.”

I shrugged my shoulders. The whole proceeding and the reasons given for it struck me as verging on farce. “Do you go through these formalities with every parcel that you receive?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Only with those that are unexpected or offer no evidence as to their origin. But we are pretty careful. As I said just now, we have had our experiences. One of them was a box which, on being opened, discharged volumes of poisonous gas.”

“The deuce!” I exclaimed, rather startled out of my scepticism and viewing the parcel with a new-born respect, not unmixed with apprehension. “Then this thing may actually be an infernal machine! Confound it all, Thorndyke! Supposing it should have a clockwork detonator, ticking away while we are talking. Hadn’t you better get on with the X-rays?”

He chuckled at my sudden change of attitude. “It is all right, Mayfield. There is no clockwork. I tried it with the microphone as soon as it arrived. We always do that. And, of course, it is a thousand to one that it is just an innocent parcel. But we will just make sure and then I shall be at liberty for a chat with you.”

He led the way to a staircase leading to the floor above where I was introduced to a large, bare room surrounded by long benches or tables occupied by various uncanny-looking apparatus. As soon as we entered, he placed the parcel on a raised stand while Polton turned a switch connected with a great coil; the immediate result of which was a peculiar, high-pitched, humming sound as if a gigantic mosquito had got into the room. At the same moment a glass globe that was supported on an arm behind the parcel became filled with green light and displayed a bright red spot in its interior.

“This is a necromantic sort of business, Thorndyke,” said I, “only you and Mr. Polton aren’t dressed for the part. You ought to have tall, pointed caps and gowns covered with cabalistic signs. What is that queer humming noise?”

“That is the interrupter,” he replied. “The green bulb is the Crookes’s tube and the little red-hot disc inside it is the anti-cathode. I will tell you about them presently. That framed plate that Polton has is the fluorescent screen. It intercepts the X-rays and makes them visible. You shall see, when Polton has finished his inspection.”

I watched Polton—who had taken the opportunity to get the first innings—holding the screen between his face and the parcel. After a few moments’ inspection he turned the parcel over on its side and once more raised the screen, gazing at it with an expression of the most intense interest. Suddenly he turned to Thorndyke with a smile of perfectly incredible wrinkliness and, without a word, handed him the screen; which he held up for a few seconds and then silently passed to me.

I had never used a fluorescent screen before and I must confess that I found the experience most uncanny. As I raised it before the parcel behind which was the glowing green bulb, the parcel became invisible but in its place appeared the shadow of a pistol the muzzle of which seemed to be inserted into a jar. There were some other, smaller shadows, of which I could make nothing, but which seemed to be floating in the air.

“Better not look too long, Mayfield,” said Thorndyke. “X-rays are unwholesome things. We will take a photograph and then we can study the details at our leisure; though it is all pretty obvious.”

“It isn’t to me,” said I. “There is a pistol and what looks like a jar. Do you take it that they are parts of an infernal machine?”

“I suppose,” he replied, “we must dignify it with that name. What do you say, Polton?”

“I should call it a booby-trap, Sir,” was the reply. “What you might expect from a mischievous boy of ten—rather backward for his age.”

Thorndyke laughed. “Listen to the artificer,” said he, “and observe how his mechanical soul is offended by an inefficient and unmechanical attempt to blow us all up. But we won’t take the inefficiency too much for granted. Let us have a photograph and then we can get to work with safety.”

It seemed that this part also of the procedure was already provided for in the form of a large black envelope which Polton produced from a drawer and began forthwith to adjust in contact with the parcel; in fact the appearance of preparedness was so striking that I remarked:

“This looks like part of a regular routine. It must take up a lot of your time.”

“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “we don’t often have to do this. I don’t receive many parcels and of those that are delivered, the immense majority come from known sources and are accompanied by letters of advice. It is only the strange and questionable packages that we examine with the X-rays. Of course, this one was suspect at a glance with that disguised handwriting and the special direction as to who should open it.”

“Yes, I see that now. But it must be rather uncomfortable to live in constant expectation of having bombs or poison-gas handed in by the postman.”

“It isn’t as bad as that,” said he. “The thing has happened only three or four times in the whole of my experience. The first gift of the kind was a poisoned cigar, which I fortunately detected and which served as a very useful warning. Since then I have kept my weather eyelid lifting, as the mariners express it.”

“But don’t you find it rather wearing to be constantly on the look-out for some murderous attack?”

“Not at all,” he answered with a laugh. “It rather adds to the zest of life. Besides, you see, Mayfield, that on the rare occasions when these trifles come my way, they are so extremely helpful.”

“Helpful!” I repeated. “In the Lord’s name, how?”

“In a number of ways. Consider my position, Mayfield. I am not like an Italian or Russian politician who may have scores of murderous enemies. I am a lawyer and an investigator of crime. Whoever wants to get rid of me has something to fear from me; but at any given time, there will not be more than one or two of such persons. Consequently, when I receive a gift such as the present one, it conveys to me certain items of information. Thus it informs me that some one is becoming alarmed by some proceedings on my part. That is a very valuable piece of information, for it tells me that some one of my inquiries is at least proceeding along the right lines. It is virtually an admission that I have made, or am in the way of making a point. A little consideration of the cases that I have in hand will probably suggest the identity of the sender. But on this question the thing itself will, in most cases yield quite useful information as well as telling us a good deal about the personality of the sender. Take the present case. You heard Polton’s contemptuous observations on the crudity of the device. Evidently the person who sent this is not an engineer or mechanician of any kind. There is an obvious ignorance of mechanism; and yet there is a certain simple ingenuity. The thing is, in fact, as Polton said, on the level of a schoolboy’s booby-trap. You must see that if we had in view two or more possible senders, these facts might enable us to exclude one and select another. But here is Polton with the photograph. Now we can consider the mechanism at our leisure.”

As he spoke, Polton deposited on the bench a large porcelain dish or tray in which was a very odd-looking photograph; for the whole of it was jet-black excepting the pistol, the jar, the hinges, and a small, elongated spot, which all stood out in clear, white silhouette.

“Why,” I exclaimed as I stooped over it, “that is a muzzle-loading pistol!”

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, “and a pocket pistol, as you can tell by the absence of a trigger-guard. The trigger is probably hinged and folds forward into a recess. I daresay you know the kind of thing. They were usually rather pretty little weapons—and useful, too, for you could carry one easily in your waistcoat pocket. They had octagon barrels, which screwed off for loading, and the butts were often quite handsomely ornamented with silver mounts. They were usually sent out by the gunsmiths in little baize-lined mahogany cases with compartments for a little powder-flask and a supply of bullets.”

“I wonder why he used a muzzle-loader?” said I.

“Probably because he had it. It answers the purpose as well as a modern weapon, and, as it was probably made more than a hundred years ago, it would be useless to go round the trade enquiring as to recent purchases.”

“Yes, it was safer to use an old pistol than to buy a new one and leave possible tracks. But how does the thing work? I can see that the hammer is at full cock and that there is a cap on the nipple. But what fires the pistol?”

“Apparently a piece of string, which hasn’t come out in the photograph except, faintly, just above that small mark—string is not dense enough to throw a shadow at the full exposure—but you see, about an inch behind the trigger, an elongated shadow. That is probably a screw-eye seen end-ways. The string is tied to the trigger, passed through the screw-eye and fastened to the lid of the box. I don’t see how. There is no metal fastening, and you see that the lid is not screwed or nailed down. As to how it works; you open the lid firmly; that pulls the string tight; that pulls back the trigger and fires the pistol into the jar, which is presumably full of some explosive; the jar explodes and—up goes the donkey. There is a noble simplicity about the whole thing. How do you propose to open it, Polton?”

“I think, Sir,” replied the latter, “we had better get the paper off and have a look at the box.”

“Very well,” said Thorndyke, “but don’t take anything for granted. Make sure that the paper isn’t part of the joke.”

I watched Polton with intense—and far from impersonal—interest, wishing only that I could have observed him from a somewhat greater distance. But for all his contempt for the “booby-trap,” he took no unnecessary risks. First, with a pair of scissors, he cut out a piece at the back and enlarged the opening so that he could peer in and inspect the top of the lid. When he had made sure that there were no pitfalls, he ran the scissors round the top and exposed the box, which he carefully lifted out of the remainder of the wrapping and laid down tenderly on the bench. It was a cigar-box of the flat type and presented nothing remarkable excepting that the lid, instead of being nailed or pinned down, was secured by a number of strips of stout adhesive paper, and bore, near the middle, a large spot of sealing-wax.

“That paper binding is quite a happy thought,” remarked Thorndyke, “though it was probably put on because our friend was afraid to knock in nails. But it would be quite effective. An impatient man would cut through the front strips and then wrench the lid open. I think that blob of sealing-wax answers our question about the fastening of the string. The end of it was probably drawn through a bradawl hole in the lid and fixed with sealing wax. But it must have been an anxious business drawing it just tight enough and not too tight. I suggest, Polton, that an inch and-a-half centre-bit hole just below and to the right of the sealing-wax would enable us to cut the string. But you had better try it with the photograph first.”

Polton picked the wet photograph out of the dish and carefully laid it on the lid of the box, adjusting it so that the shadows of the hinges were opposite the actual hinges. Then with a marking-awl he pricked through the shadow of the screw-eye, and again about two inches to the right and below it.

“You are quite right, Sir,” said he as he removed the photograph and inspected the lid of the box. “The middle of the wax is exactly over the screw-eye. I’ll just get the centre-bit.”

He bustled away down the stairs and returned in less than a minute with a brace and a large centre-bit, the point of which he inserted into the second awl-hole. Then, as Thorndyke grasped the box (and I stepped back a pace or two), he turned the brace lightly and steadily, stopping now and again to clear away the chips and examine the deepening hole. A dozen turns carried the bit through the thin lid and the remaining disc of wood was driven into the interior of the box. As soon as the hole was clear, he cautiously inserted a dentist’s mirror, which he had brought up in his pocket, and with its aid examined the inside of the lid.

“I can see the string, Sir,” he reported; “a bit of common white twine and it looks quite slack. I could reach it easily with a small pair of scissors.”

He handed the mirror to Thorndyke, who, having confirmed his observations, produced a pair of surgical scissors from his pocket. These Polton cautiously inserted into the opening, and as he closed them there was an audible snip. Then he slowly withdrew them and again inserted the mirror.

“It’s all right,” said he. “The string is cut clean through. I think we can open the lid now.” With a sharp penknife he cut through the paper binding-strips and then, grasping the front of the lid, continued: “Now for it. Perhaps you two gentlemen had better stand a bit farther back, in case of accidents.”

I thought the suggestion an excellent one, but as Thorndyke made no move, I had not the moral courage to adopt it. Nevertheless, I watched Polton’s proceedings with my heart in my mouth. Very slowly and gently did that cunning artificer raise the lid until it had opened some two inches, when he stooped and peered in. Then, with the cheerful announcement that it was “all clear,” he boldly turned it right back.

Of course, the photograph had shown us, in general, what to expect, but there were certain details that had not been represented. For instance, both the pistol and the jar were securely wedged between pieces of cork—sections of wine-bottle corks, apparently—glued to the bottom of the box.

“How is it,” I asked, “that those corks did not appear in the photograph?”

“I think there is a faint indication of them,” Thorndyke replied; “but Polton gave a rather full exposure. If you want to show bodies of such low density as corks, you have to give a specially short exposure and cut short the development, too. But I expect Polton saw them when he was developing the picture, didn’t you, Polton?”

“Yes,” the latter replied; “they were quite distinct at one time, but then I developed up to get the pistol out clear.”

While these explanations were being given, Polton proceeded methodically to “draw the teeth” of the infernal apparatus. First, he cut a little wedge of cork which he pushed in between the threatening hammer and the nipple and having thus fixed the former he quietly removed the percussion-cap from the latter; on which I drew a deep breath of relief. He next wrenched away one of the corks and was then able to withdraw the pistol from the jar and lift it out of the box. I took it from him and examined it curiously, not a little interested to note how completely it corresponded with Thorndyke’s description. It had a blued octagon barrel, a folding trigger which fitted snugly into a recess, a richly-engraved lock-plate and an ebony butt, decorated with numbers of tiny silver studs and a little lozenge-shaped scutcheon-plate on which a monogram had been engraved in minute letters, which, however, had been so thoroughly scraped out that I was unable to make out or even to guess what the letters had been.

My investigations were cut short by Thorndyke, who, having slipped on a pair of rubber gloves now took the pistol from me, remarking: “You haven’t touched the barrel, I think, Mayfield?”

“No,” I answered; “but why do you ask?”

“Because we shall go over it and the jar for finger-prints. Not that they will be much use for tracing the sender of this present, but they will be valuable corroboration if we catch him by other means; for whoever sent this certainly had a guilty conscience.”

With this he delicately lifted out the jar—a small, dark-brown stoneware vessel such as is used as a container for the choicer kinds of condiments—and inverted it over a sheet of paper, upon which its contents, some two or three tablespoonfuls of black powder, descended and formed a small heap.

“Not a very formidable charge,” Thorndyke remarked, looking at it with a smile.

“Formidable!” repeated Polton. “Why, it wouldn’t have hurt a fly! Common black powder such as old women use to blow out the copper flues. He must be an innocent, this fellow—if it is a he,” he added reflectively.

Polton’s proviso suddenly recalled to my mind the man whom I had seen lurking at the corner of Fig Tree Court. It was hardly possible to avoid connecting him with the mysterious parcel, as Thorndyke agreed when I had described the incident.

“Yes,” exclaimed Polton, “of course. He was waiting to hear the explosion. It is a pity you didn’t mention it sooner, Sir. But he may be waiting there still. Hadn’t I better run across and see?”

“And suppose he is there still,” said Thorndyke. “What would you propose to do?”

“I should just pop up to the lodge and tell the porter to bring a policeman down. Why we should have him red-handed.”

Thorndyke regarded his henchman with an indulgent smile. “Your handicraft, Polton,” said he, “is better than your law. You can’t arrest a man without a warrant unless he is doing something unlawful. This man was simply standing at the corner of Fig Tree Court.”

“But,” protested Polton, “isn’t it unlawful to send infernal machines by parcel post?”

“Undoubtedly it is,” Thorndyke admitted, “but we haven’t a particle of evidence that this man has any connection with the parcel or with us. He may have been waiting there to meet a friend.”

“He may, of course,” said I, “but seeing that he ran off like a lamp-lighter on both the occasions when I appeared on the scene, I should suspect that he was there for no good. And I strongly suspect him of having some connection with this precious parcel.”

“So do I,” said Thorndyke. “As a matter of fact, I have once or twice, lately, met a man answering to your description, loitering about King’s Bench Walk in the evening. But I think it much better not to appear to notice him. Let himself think himself unobserved and presently he will do something definite that will enable us to take action. And remember that the more thoroughly he commits himself the more valuable his conduct will be as indirect evidence on certain other matters.”

I was amused at the way in which Thorndyke sank all considerations of personal safety in the single purpose of pursuing his investigations to a successful issue. He was the typical enthusiast. The possibility that this unknown person might shoot at him from some ambush, he would, I suspected, have welcomed as offering the chance to seize the aggressor and compel him to disclose his motives. Also, I had a shrewd suspicion that he knew or guessed who the man was and was anxious to avoid alarming him.

“Well,” he said when he had replaced the pistol and the empty jar in the box and closed the latter, “I think we have finished for the present. The further examination of these interesting trifles can be postponed until to-morrow. Shall we go downstairs and talk over the news?”

“It is getting rather late,” said I, “but there is time for a little chat, though, as to news, they will have to come from you, for I have nothing to tell.”

We went down to the sitting room where, when he had locked up the box, we took each an armchair and filled our pipes.

“So you have no news of any kind?” said he.

“No; excepting that the Hilborough Square household has been broken up and the inmates scattered into various flats.”

“Then the house is now empty?” said he, with an appearance of some interest.

“Yes, and likely to remain so with this gruesome story attached to it. I suppose I shall have to make a survey of the premises with a view to having them put in repair.”

“When you do,” said he, “I should like to go with you and look over the house.”

“But it is all dismantled. Everything has been cleared out. You will find nothing there but empty rooms and a litter of discarded rubbish.”

“Never mind,” said he. “I have occasionally picked up some quite useful information from empty rooms and discarded rubbish. Do you know if the police have examined the house?”

“I believe not. At any rate, nothing has been said to me to that effect.”

“So much the better,” said he. “Can we fix a time for our visit?”

“It can’t be to-morrow,” said I, “because I must see Barbara and get the keys if she has them. Would the day after to-morrow do, after lunch?”

“Perfectly,” he replied. “Come and lunch with me; and, by the way, Mayfield, it would be best not to mention to any one that I am coming with you, and I wouldn’t say anything about this parcel.”

I looked at him with sudden suspicion, recalling Wallingford’s observations on the subject of mare’s nests. “But, my dear Thorndyke!” I exclaimed, “you don’t surely associate that parcel with any of the inmates of that house!”

“I don’t associate it with any particular person,” he replied. “I know only what you know; that it was sent by some one to whom my existence is, for some reason, undesirable, and whose personality is to some extent indicated by the peculiarities of the thing itself.”

“What peculiarities do you mean?”

“Well,” he replied, “there is the nature and purpose of the thing. It is an appliance for killing a human being. That purpose implies either a very strong motive or a very light estimate of the value of human life. Then, as we have said, the sender is fairly ingenious but yet quite unmechanical and apparently unprovided with the common tools which ordinary men possess and are more or less able to use. You notice that the combination of ingenuity with non-possession of tools is a rather unusual one.”

“How do you infer that the sender possessed no tools?”

“From the fact that none were used, and that such materials were employed as required no tools, though these were not the most suitable materials. For instance, common twine was used to pull the trigger, though it is a bad material by reason of its tendency to stretch. But it can be cut with a knife or a pair of scissors, whereas wire, which was the really suitable material, requires cutting pliers to divide it. Again, there were the corks. They were really not very safe, for their weakness and their resiliency might have led to disaster in the event of a specially heavy jerk in transit. A man who possessed no more than a common keyhole saw, or a hand-saw and a chisel or two, would have roughly shaped up one or two blocks of wood to fit the pistol and jar, which would have made the thing perfectly secure. If he had possessed a glue-pot, he would not have used seccotine. But every one has waste corks, and they can be trimmed to shape with an ordinary dinner-knife; and seccotine can be bought at any stationer’s. But, to return to what we were saying. I had no special precautions in my mind. I suggested that we should keep our own counsel merely on the general principle that it is always best to keep one’s own counsel. One may make a confidence to an entirely suitable person; but who can say that that person may not, in his or her turn, make a confidence? If we keep our knowledge strictly to ourselves we know exactly how we stand, and that if there has been any leakage, it had been from some other source. But I need not platitudinize to an experienced and learned counsel.”

I grinned appreciatively at the neat finish; for “experienced counsel” as I certainly was not, I was at least able to realize, with secret approval, how adroitly Thorndyke had eluded my leading question. And at that I left it, enquiring in my turn:

“I suppose nothing of interest has transpired since I have been away?”

“Very little. There is one item of news, but that can hardly be said to have ‘transpired’ unless you can associate the process of transpiration with a suction-pump. Superintendent Miller took my advice and applied the suctorial method to Wallingford with results of which he possibly exaggerates the importance. He tells me—this is, of course, in the strictest confidence—that under pressure, Wallingford made a clean breast of the cocaine and morphine business. He admitted that he had obtained those drugs fraudulently by forging an order in Dimsdale’s name, written on Dimsdale’s headed note-paper, to the wholesale druggists to deliver to bearer the drugs mentioned. He had possessed himself of the note-paper at the time when he was working at the account books in Dimsdale’s surgery.”

“But how was it that Dimsdale did not notice what had happened when the accounts were sent in?”

“No accounts were ever sent in. The druggists whom Wallingford patronized were not those with whom Dimsdale had an account. The order stated, in every case, that bearer would pay cash.”

“Quite an ingenious little plan of Wallingford’s,” I remarked. “It is more than I should have given him credit for. And you say that Miller attaches undue importance to this discovery. I am not surprised at that. But why do you think he exaggerates its importance?”

Thorndyke regarded me with a quizzical smile. “Because,” he answered, “Miller’s previous experiences have been repeated. There has been another discovery. It has transpired that Miss Norris also had dealings with a wholesale druggist. But in her case there was no fraud or irregularity. The druggist with whom she dealt was the one who used to supply her father with materia medica and to whom she was well known.”

“Then, in that case, I suppose she had an account with him?”

“No, she did not. She also paid cash. Her purchases were only occasional and on quite a small scale; too small to justify an account.”

“Has she made any statement as to what she wanted the drugs for?”

“She denies that she ever purchased drugs, in the usual sense, that is substances having medicinal properties. Her purchases were, according to her statement, confined to such pharmaceutical and chemical materials as were required for purposes of instruction in her classes. Which is perfectly plausible, for, as you know, academic cookery is a rather different thing from the cookery of the kitchen.”

“Yes, I know that she had some materials in her cupboard that I shouldn’t have associated with cookery and I should accept her statement without hesitation. In fact, the discovery seems to me to be of no significance at all.”

“Probably you are right,” said he; “but the point is that, in a legal sense, it confuses the issues hopelessly. In her case, as in Wallingford’s, materials have been purchased from a druggist, and, as no record of those purchases has been kept, it is impossible to say what those materials were. Probably they were harmless, but it cannot be proved that they were. The effect is that the evidential value of Wallingford’s admission is discounted by the fact that there was another person who is known to have purchased materials some of which may have been poisons.”

“Yes,” said I, “that is obvious enough. But doesn’t it strike you, Thorndyke, that all this is just a lot of futile logic-chopping such as you might hear at a debating club? I can’t take it seriously. You don’t imagine that either of these two persons murdered Harold Monkhouse, do you? I certainly don’t; and I can’t believe Miller does.”

“It doesn’t matter very much what he believes, or, for that matter, what any of us believe. ‘He discovers who proves.’ Up to the present, none of us has proved anything, and my impression is that Miller is becoming a little discouraged. He is a genius in following up clues. But where there are no clues to follow up, the best of detectives is rather stranded.”

“By the way,” said I, “did you pick up anything from my diary that threw any light on the mystery?”

“Very little,” he replied; “in fact nothing that gets us any farther. I was able to confirm our belief that Monkhouse’s attacks of severe illness coincided with his wife’s absence from home. But that doesn’t help us much. It merely indicates, as we had already observed, that the poisoner was so placed that his or her activities could not be carried on when the wife was at home. But I must compliment you on your diary, Mayfield. It is quite a fascinating work; so much so that I have been tempted to encroach a little on your kindness. The narrative of the last three years was so interesting that it lured me on to the antecedents that led up to them. It reads like a novel.”

“How much of it have you read?” I asked, my faint resentment completely extinguished by his appreciation.

“Six volumes,” he replied, “including the one that I have just borrowed. I began by reading the last three years for the purposes of our inquiry, and then I ventured to go back another three years for the interest of tracing the more remote causation of recent events. I hope I have not presumed too much on the liberty that you were kind enough to give me.”

“Not at all,” I replied, heartily. “I am only surprised that a man as much occupied as you are should have been willing to waste your time on the reading of what is, after all, but a trivial and diffuse autobiography.”

“I have not wasted my time, Mayfield,” said he. “If it is true that ‘the proper study of mankind is man,’ how much more true is it of that variety of mankind that wears the wig and gown and pleads in Court. It seems to me that to lawyers like ourselves whose professional lives are largely occupied with the study of motives of human actions and with the actions themselves viewed in the light of their antecedents and their consequences, nothing can be more instructive than a full, consecutive diary in which, over a period of years, events may be watched growing out of those that went before and in their turn developing their consequences and elucidating the motives of the actors. Such a diary is a synopsis of human life.”

I laughed as I rose to depart. “It seems,” said I, “that I wrought better than I knew; in fact I am disposed, like Pendennis, to regard myself with respectful astonishment. But perhaps I had better not be too puffed up. It may be that I am, after all, no more than a sort of literary Strasburg goose; an unconscious provider of the food of the gods.”

Thorndyke laughed in his turn and escorted me down the stairs to the entry where we stood for a few moments looking out into the fog.

“It seems thicker than ever,” said he. “However, you can’t miss your way. But keep a look-out as you go, in case our friend is still waiting at the corner. Good night!”

I returned his farewell and plunged into the fog, steering for the corner of the library, and was so fortunate as to strike the wall within a few yards of it. From thence I felt my way without difficulty to the Terrace where I halted for a moment to look about and listen; and as there was no sign, visible or audible of any loiterer at the corner, I groped my way into the passage and so home to my chambers without meeting a single human creature.

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