"Rubicon'd agin!" cried Maxwell with a oath, dashin' 'is fist on the table.
"Keep yer 'air on," I said with a larf as I picked up the cards. "I'll give yer a chance. What d'yer say to two-pound points?"
"Done with you," sed Maxwell, wery eager.
"'Ow much 'ave yer won?" arst Louis.
"Count it up for me," sed I, givin' 'im the paper where the score was marked down.
"It's over a thousand," 'e cried with blazin' eyes.
"It's my night," I sed. "Didn't I tell yer? I've got 'im on toast."
"'Oller when yer out o' the wood," growled Maxwell.
We went on playin', and I kep' on winnin'. Over two thousand wos now the figger. Louis could 'ardly keep still. There was no mistake about 'is bein' in dead earnest, but as for us—well, we wos all larfin' in our sleeves at 'im. It didn't turn out a larfin' matter in the end.
It was gittin' late, and I orfered to leave off.
"Wot d'yer mean?" cried Maxwell. "Do I ever orfer to leave off when I'm winnin'? Let's 'ave six games at five-pound points. It'll take a denced sight more nor that to break me."
"Would yer?" sed I, lookin' up at Louis.
"Let me take yer place," sed 'e; "I'll play 'im for any points 'e likes."
"No," I answered, "I'll see it out with 'im."
So we resoomed the game, and at the end I'd won a matter of five thousand pound. Didn't I wish it was real instead o' gammon?
"Now I'm on welwet," sed I, grinnin' and rubbin' my 'ands.
"Fortune o' war," sed Maxwell, takin' out a pocketbook stuffed with flash notes. "Who cares? My turn yesterday, yourn to-day."
"Plenty more where that comes from, I 'ope," sed I.
"Don't you be afeerd," sed Maxwell, "if yer won ten times as much off me yer'd git every farthin' of it."
"That's a comfort," sed I, countin' out the money as 'e passed it over to me.
The wonder wos that Louis took it all in, but I never did see sech a migsture as 'e wos. One minute 'e could be as cunnin' as a fox, and the next as soft as butter. There was somethink atwixt 'im and Maxwell I never got to the bottom of, a sort o' relationship through a sister as wos dead, and they talked sometimes of some one abroad, and sed if they got 'old of 'im they'd make it warm for 'im. But all that wos nothink to me.
If Louis 'ad 'ad a chance of 'andlin' the flash notes as I counted 'em out it'd been all up the orchard with us, but we took care that 'e never at any time 'ad one in 'is fingers. 'E wos short-sighted, and at a little distance the flimseys looked all right. The notes of some o' the country banks, yer know, ain't as spick and span as Bank of England paper, but there' a lot o' that sort knockin' about in the ring, and the bookeys pay 'em out free to them as 'll take 'em. The biggest part of the wonder wos that Louis should 'ave believed we carried sech large sums o' money about us. 'E wos jest the sort o' chap that's took in with the confidence trick, and you read of 'em pritty orfen in the papers. There's more o' that goin' on nor people think of. For one case as comes afore the beak there's twenty that's never 'eard of. If ain't a bad payin' trade, I can tell yer.
As I pocketed the notes Maxwell arst if I'd play 'im another match to-morrer.
"No, no," cried Louis, all of a tremble; "it's my turn now. Yer've got to give me my revenge!"
The fish wos 'ooked.
"That's only fair," sed I. "You 'ave a shy at 'im, Louis."
"I will—I will!" 'e cried. "If 'e's game."
"Game!" sed Maxwell. "We've seed a lot of each other, and when did yer see me show the white feather? But I'm too tired now to go on playin', I want to git to bed."
"To-morrer night, then," sed Louis. "It shall be make or break."
"All right," sed Maxwell.
"We'll begin at nine."
"Agreed. At nine o'clock."
So it wos settled, and wot we'd been workin' for so long wos comin' off at last.
At nine o'clock we all met together in that room, and if any one 'ad seed our faces 'e'd 'ave guessed there wos serious business on 'and. It comes over me now to say as there wos a green carpet on the flore, and I dare say that's the reason why I sor the wision of Louis yesterday on the billiard table, and why it comes so orfen when I'm crossin' a green field. I never noticed the color o' the carpet afore that night.
We settled it atween us—that is, me and Maxwell and Morgan did—that when the night's work wos over we'd clear out o' Liverpool immediate, and make tracks separately for London, where we wos to meet at Maxwell's rooms.
And wot a night it wos! The snow wos comin' down enough to blind yer, and it wos as much as a man could do to stand agin the wind.
"All the better for the job we've got to do," sed Maxwell; "nobody'll notice us goin' in or out."
Morgan and me set down at one table, and Louis and Maxwell at another. Our chairs wos placed so as we could see the others without turnin' round. We didn't pay much attention to the game we wos playin', though we pretended to be in earnest over it. But we couldn't keep our eyes off the other two. We wosn't as careful as we might 'ave been, for all of a sudden the man as wos bein' rooked cried savagely:
"Wot are you fellers watchin' me for?"
"We ain't watchin' yer," growled Morgan.
"You are, and yer know you are," sed Louis. "Keep your eyes off me, or I'll wash my 'ands of the 'ole crew."
"'Ow am I to take that, Louis?" arst Maxwell, speakin' very quiet.
When 'e spoke like that, with the look on 'is face 'e 'ad then, 'e wos a dangerous man to tackle.
"Take it as yer please," Louis answered. "You and me 'ave knowed each other a goodish long time now, and I've been thinkin' it ain't been much in my pocket. From fust to last it's been a case o' shell out, shell out."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" sed Maxwell, getting white about the gills.
"Yes, that's it," sed Louis. "Let's see. Wot am I winnin'?" He counted up. "Six 'undered. Shall we leave off?"
"It ain't wot we arranged," sed Maxwell, pullin' in 'is 'orns. "I say, you fellers—Louis is right. We don't want none o' your interference, so keep yerselves to yerselves."
"And I'll 'ave no lookin' over our 'ands," said Louis. "Some people don't mind it. I do. Stick to yer own table, and show us yer backs."
"Wot are yer makin' a row about?" arst Morgan. "We don't want ter 'ave nothink to do with yer."
Upon that we turned our chairs so as we couldn't ketch sight of the other table, and it wos only when Louis and Maxwell spoke out that we could 'ear what wos goin' on.
"I sha'n't be sorry when it's over," whispered Morgan to me.
"More shall I," sed I.
If Louis'd carried out 'is threat of washin' his 'ands of us then and there, it'd been better for 'im. But 'e couldn't guess wot wos going to 'appen no more nor we could.
We all went on playin', and sometimes the room wos so quiet that you could 'ave 'eard a mouse walk across the flore. We wosn't surprised when Louis sed 'e'd won six 'undered; it wos part of the plot to let 'im win at fust. It's an old trick, yer know. From chance words we caught now and then, we knew the luck 'ad turned, and that it wos Maxwell now as wos winnin'.
"That makes five 'undered. Eight fifty. Double the stake if you like. Thirteen 'undered. Another rubicon. Twenty-four 'undered. Luck wos agin me last night; looks as if it wos turning. Your deal. I've got six from the king! Good! And sixteen's twenty-two. And four queens, ninety-six."
It wos Maxwell as spoke from time to time, and we knew that things wos goin' on the way they'd been planned to. Later on, from wot we could make out, Louis got tired of piquet. 'E cussed the cards, and cussed 'is luck, and cussed the company 'e wos in; and then proposed to play cribbage, the best two games out of three, and go double or quits. Maxwell, arter objectin' to sech a 'eavy stake, give in, and they got out the cribbage board.
"It'll soon be over," whispered Morgan.
I nodded, and he looked at my watch. I can't be sure o' the time, but I think it wos about eleven o'clock.
"Fust game to me," sed Maxwell.
They went on with the second, when all of a sudden Louis cried, "Stop!" so loud that we 'eld our breaths, wonderin' wot was comin'.
"Wot's the matter now?" arst Maxwell, as gentle as a lamb.
"Wot's the matter now!" screamed Louis. "You're an infernal scoundrel, that's wot's the matter. I've done with yer—and my mother shall be done with yer. I sor yer palm them two fives. And look 'ere—and 'ere! The cards are marked. That's 'ow you've been swindlin' me all along!"
Morgan put one of 'is 'ands on mine, and the other on 'is lips, as much as to say, "Let 'em alone. We shall make it wuss if we put our spoke in."
"You're out of yer senses," sed Maxwell, without raisin' 'is woice. "I've won the money fair."
"You're a common cheat," cried Louis, "and you lie!"
"Don't say that agin," sed Maxwell.
"You lie—you lie—you lie!" screamed Louis.
Morgan and me both started to our feet, but we wos afraid to turn round. I wos so scared that I wished myself well out of it, and from Morgan's face I guessed he wished the same. No one spoke for a little while, and then it wos Maxwell wot led the way.
"Yer'll 'ave to apolergize to me for this," 'e sed; "I'll wait till yer cool."
"Yer'll wait till yer in yer grave, then," sed Louis, "and I'll see yer in —— fust."
"Are yer goin' to pay wot yer owe me?" arst Maxwell.
"Not one brass farden," Louis answered, "and I'll see if I can't git back wot yer've robbed me of already. I'll have my revenge on yer some'ow; I'll make a public egshibition of yer. You're a blackleg and a swindler, and I'll take these marked cards to prove wot I say."
"Drop 'em," sed Maxwell, "or it'll be wuss for yer."
"Try and make me, yer blackleg!" cried Louis. "You low-bred thief, you shall die in the 'ulks!"
"You fool," sed Maxwell, "take that for yer pains!"
And then there come a scream that curdled my blood. Morgan and me turned and rushed towards 'em, and at that moment Louis dropped to the flore with a knife in 'is 'eart.
"Good Gawd!" cried Morgan. "Wot 'ave yer done?"
Them was the last words I 'eerd, for I run like a madman to the door, and flew downstairs quick as lightnin'. Wot I wanted wos to git out of the 'ouse and 'ide myself somewhere. I'd never been mixed up with anythink like that afore, and I wos frightened out of my life.
We usen't to 'ave a light in the passage, so it wos quite dark; but I made my way to the street door, threw it open, and rushed out. I 'adn't time to take a step afore I found myself in the arms of a man who was just outside, and there I wos, strugglin' and fightin' with 'im for dear life. Wot flashed through me wos that Louis' scream 'd been 'eard, and that I should be taken up for murder. The man I wos fightin' with sed somethink under 'is breath, but I didn't ketch the words. I struck into 'im, and 'e struck into me, and the snow seemed to be the color o' blood. Then 'e dragged me back into the passage, and we went on fightin' like wild cats. 'Ow long it lasted I can't say. My 'and was on 'is throat, and 'is 'and on mine, and there we kep' on tearing at each other in the dark passage till I 'eerd 'im give a groan. Then I flung 'im off, and 'e fell agin the stairs, I think, and laid there quiet.
I didn't stop, yer may bet yer life. The minute I wos free I run out of the 'ouse and through the snow, as if a 'undered devils wos at my 'eels. The next thing that I remember wos that I wos at the railway station, taking a third class for London.
That's all I know about it, guv'nor. Wot I've sed I'll swear to. It's the truth, the 'ole truth, and nothink but the truth, so 'elp me Gawd!
I did not doubt it. I believed every word that dropped from Jack's lips, and it set me thinking. The extraordinary turn which his disclosure had given to the Mystery opened up so many channels of conjecture, some of which would assuredly be misleading and likely to throw a man off the track, that I recognized the imperative necessity of proceeding with the utmost care. To avoid falling into a pit of confusion, system was no less necessary; the threads must be disentangled; Jack's statement and John Fordham's Confession must be studied and compared and discrepancies accounted for, not by the light of any extraordinary agency, but by that of common sense; and when all this was done the principal difficulties had yet to be encountered. There were many doors in the Mystery, two or three of which were now either quite or partially open; the others were locked, and it was for me to find the keys.
Partly for John Fordham's sake, and chiefly for the sake of Miss Cameron, I was elated by the discovery that it was not he who had killed his half-brother Louis. It gave me the greatest pleasure to think of the exquisite feeling of relief she would experience when I supplied her with proof of his innocence—sufficient for her and for me, but not sufficient, perhaps, in a legal sense. Considering the feelings I entertained for Ellen Cameron, it may appear strange that I should have become so zealous in the cause of the man who had supplanted me, but there is nothing in the world so enthralling as the gradual unfolding of a mystery such as this; there is no task so absorbing as that of following it up step by step, and of at length piercing the darkness which at first seemed impenetrable. There are higher callings than mine, but I doubt if there are any more interesting; and if you think it is one which does not demand fine powers of reasoning, as well as the exercise of physical courage, you are greatly mistaken. As for the hold it has upon the public, there is no question about that. It is easily to be accounted for. If a simple puzzle which is sold in the streets for a penny will interest thousands of 'people, how much more so will a puzzle so intricate and mysterious upon the unraveling of which the lives and happiness of human beings depend? You may run us down as much as you like (I have just been reading something of the kind), but you can't do without us, and will never be able to; and without us, many and many a wrong would never be righted. And after all, what are your finest lawyers, and judges, and Lord Chief Justices but a superior kind of detective? There are black sheep among us, and there are black sheep among them. There are black sheep everywhere. So, having had my say, I will go on with my story.
To my mind, nothing was more natural than the encounter between John Fordham and Jack, nothing more natural than the instantaneous conclusions drawn by the combatants—Jack believing his antagonist to be an officer of the law, and Fordham believing his to be a ruffian, bent upon robbery or murder. In many respects Jack's disclosures corroborated the account written by Fordham, but there were important gaps that required to be filled in. Jack did not admit any lapses of memory; he went straight on from beginning to end without hesitation. Fordham was less confident, and his admission of a failure of memory at a vital point of his story would lead to the presumption that his memory was not to be depended upon in other points. Whether judge and jury would accept Jack's evidence with as much faith as I did remained to be seen. He was a tainted witness, and an accessory to the fact of the murder. Then, again, I had pledged myself that he should not be harmed. If he were brought forward in the present position of the case he would certainly come to grief. For a time, therefore, he must be kept in the background. Only through the principal being charged with the crime could he be accepted as Queen's evidence, and even then his statements would require corroboration. Morgan could corroborate them, but would he, being himself in danger? And before Morgan could be produced, he had to be found. Maxwell, also. It was not likely that either of them would present himself of his own accord. Well, they must be hunted down.
Before I left Jack I questioned him upon various matters, testing him, as it were, and putting him in the witness-box. There was one statement especially which emphatically needed confirmation or refutation, and this I did not introduce till the end. There was no prevarication in his answers; his description of Louis' personal appearance, with the scar on his forehead which flushed and reddened when he was excited, tallied with that given by Fordham, and he adhered unflinchingly to his account of the last scene of the tragedy. A few of my questions were such as would be put to him in the witness-box under the fire of cross-examination.
"You say your back was turned during the altercation between Louis and Maxwell?"
"Yes."
"And Morgan's also?"
"Yes."
"You heard them threaten each other!"
"Yes."
"Then you heard a scream?"
"Yes."
"And turning, saw Louis fall to the ground with a knife sticking in him?"
"Yes."
"But you did not see the blow struck?"
"No."
"It might have been done by himself?"
"Now, look 'ere, guv'nor," said Jack, slipping out of the imaginary witness-box, "is that likely?"
"Why not, Jack? I will put it in this way. They quarrel and threaten each other. 'You low-bred thief,' cries Louis, 'you shall die in the hulks!' 'You fool,' cries Maxwell, 'take that for your pains!' And he lets drive with his fist at Louis' face. At that precise moment Louis, with a knife in his hand, makes a drive at Maxwell. The collision diverts his aim, and the knife is jammed into his own breast instead of Maxwell's. How does that strike you?"
"It won't wash," answered Jack, "'cause I say it wos the other way."
"Because you say! You're a creditable kind of witness, you are—such a respectable character—you can show such a clean record, you can—and as for telling a dozen or two lies, who would believe you capable of such a thing, Jack?"
"All very true, guv'nor, wuss luck—but it don't make black white, 'cause I'm a wrong 'un."
"Doesn't it? There's no telling what a smart lawyer can do with a witness like you in the box. You'd twist and squirm like a skinned eel. But we'll pass that for the present, and come to something more important. You say that at the commencement of the quarrel Louis cried, 'I've done with you, and my mother shall be done with you.' Are you positive he said just those words? Be very careful about this, Jack."
"If 'e didn't say jest them words," Jack replied, "'e sed somethink so near to 'em that yer couldn't tell the difference. But I don't see wot's that got to do with it."
"It isn't for you to see. Make up your mind to one thing—that I know a good deal more about the affair than you do. You are positive he said, 'My mother shall be done with you?'"
"I'll swear to it, guv'nor. Wot should I 'ave knowed about 'is mother if 'e 'adn't spoke about 'er, 'isself? 'Ow wos I to guess 'e 'ad a mother when I didn't know who 'e wos or where 'e come from?"
"That seems conclusive," I said. "By the way, did you happen to hear Maxwell or Louis mention the name of Annette?"
"Not as I remember."
"Annette Lourbet," I said, to jog his memory. "A Frenchwoman."
"No, guv'nor, I never 'eerd the name."
"Thank you. What are you doing for a living just now?"
"I can't say I'm doin' anythink pertic'lar. Pickin' it up any'ow."
"Well, look here, I can put something in your way. I want you to keep your eyes open and to go about London—especially about the suburbs."
"Wot's the little game, guv'nor?"
"Don't be a dull boy, Jack. You might come across Maxwell or Morgan. I'd like particularly to have a little chat with Maxwell."
"I shouldn't mind it myself," said Jack, with a kind of growl.
"Do I understand you have seen either of them since you left Liverpool?"
"Never set eyes on 'em."
"As to the best chance of coming across them now? Can you suggest anything?"
"To keep on the trot, in course," he said, reflectively. "But it ain't to be done by a man like me without a object. If I went about without a object the coppers 'd say, 'Allo! Wot's 'e up to?'"
"Naturally. But if you kept on the trot with an object, they wouldn't think of following you. Eh?"
"No, they'd let me alone. There's one way it's to be done, guv'nor."
"Name it."
"A barrer, with or without a moke."
"And on the barrow?"
"Flowers in pots, all a'blowin' and a'growin'."
"Capital," I said, admiringly. "How much would the stock-in-trade cost?"
"The barrer and moke could be 'ired by the day. Yer'd go as fur as a moke, guv'nor, wouldn't yer? It's killin' work draggin' a barrer full o' flower pots up and down 'ill. There's 'Ampstead way, now. Think o' wot it means, from Coven' Garden to 'Ampstead 'Eath."
"I'd go as far as a moke, Jack." His face brightened. "And the flowers would cost?"
"A thick 'un 'd do it, guv'nor, and I don't know but wot it wouldn't pay."
"Let us hope it will. Here's twenty-five shillings to set you up."
I gave him the money and my address, and telling him to call upon me at the end of the week, or earlier if he had anything to communicate, I bade him good day—with an impression that he was really pleased at the prospect of earning an honest livelihood. As he himself had pathetically said, such a life as his wasn't all beer and skittles.
Let me state here why I was so anxious with respect to his allusion to his mother which, according to Jack, was made by Louis during his quarrel with Maxwell. The apparently unimportant words, "My mother shall be done with you," assumed intense significance when placed side by side with the information volunteered by Maxwell a fortnight afterwards, that John Fordham's stepmother was dead. Jack, being unacquainted with Louis' family connections, could not have invented Louis' mother—therefore the words were certainly spoken by Louis, establishing without a shadow of a doubt that at that time his mother was living. Only a fortnight intervened before Maxwell declared that she was dead. I dismiss the hypothesis that the woman—I will not call her a lady—died during the interval. Setting that aside, I come face to face with the question, "For what reason did Maxwell wish John Fordham to believe that his stepmother was dead?"
I was fairly puzzled; I could find no answer to the question.
Next, I turned my attention to a consideration of the state and progress of affairs when Jack, in a frenzy of fear, rushed from the house in which the murder was committed. The fight between him and Fordham is going on in the street; the street door is dashed open and the combatants stumble into the passage, where the savage conflict is continued. In the room above Louis lies dead, and Morgan and Maxwell stand in terror, listening to the sounds of the struggle below. What does it portend—what, except that they are in deadly peril? They are too terrified to move. If they open the door, they will be pounced upon and arrested for the crime, for they do not doubt that the police have been watching their movements, and have obtained entrance to the house. Suddenly the sounds cease. Fordham lies senseless on the stairs, and Jack is speeding to the railway station. All is quiet without and within, for the partners in crime are too frightened to move. At length they venture to speak, but in a whisper, for they still fear that officers are lurking outside to secure them. After a long interval of time they pluck up sufficient courage to open the door. No one molests them. They creep out into the passage, and down the stairs, and are stopped by the body of Fordham. Maxwell recognizes him, and a devilish plot suggests itself. John Fordham and Louis are old enemies—how easy to fasten the murder upon John! He and Morgan carry the body of the unconscious man into the room, and place it near the dead body of Louis. They find a knife upon him—they dip it in Louis' blood. Maxwell takes Fordham's watch, and finds his matchbox on the stairs. He has an idea that they may come in useful to fix the murder upon Fordham. He leaves the knife. Then he and Morgan steal from the house.
Thus far did I trace the probable course of action. If it were anywhere near the truth, it established a binding link between Maxwell and Morgan, each of whom, from that night, held the other in his power. I asked myself whether Maxwell confided to Morgan the existence of the family connection which existed between him and John Fordham. To this question I found an answer. No. It was not in Maxwell's nature to impart to any one a confidence which might result to his disadvantage. Without having met the man, I seemed to see him, so graphically was he portrayed by Fordham and Jack. He was one who kept his own secrets.
What followed on their departure is related by Fordham up to the moment of his own departure, when he fled from the house, leaving the dead body of Louis as its only occupant. Possibly he was watched and seen by his enemies, who re-entered the house after he was gone. They feel in Louis' pocket for his watch. "He has stolen it," they say. They look round for Louis' overcoat. "He has run off with it," they say. And then their eyes fall upon Fordham's blood-stained knife, which he foolishly left behind him. I can imagine their fiendish glee at these discoveries. "He has convicted himself," they say. But there is still a possible danger. Louis might have been seen in their company. If his features were mutilated so that it would be difficult to establish his identity, it would afford them an additional element of safety. The heavy oak table is dashed upon his face, and their work is complete. Once more the house of death is left in possession of its ghastly occupant.
While I was following out these conjectures (for of course they were nothing more, and it will be seen in time whether they were correct) I received a report from the Liverpool expert to whom I had entrusted the two letters. It confirmed my suspicions, and furnished me with another link to the chain I was weaving. Although an attempt had been made to disguise the writing of the letter sent by "Mr. Lambert" to the house agent, the expert stated that both letters were written by the same hand. Scoundrel as Maxwell was, he would have been more careful had he imagined that the plot to fleece Louis would have ended so tragically.
Now, of what legal value was all this evidence? A skillful lawyer might do something with it, but I doubted whether, unsupported and uncorroborated, it would establish John Fordham's innocence. In this view Fordham himself concurred; indeed, it was he who first laid emphasis upon it. I have seldom seen a man more agitated when he learned from me that there was no guilt of blood upon his soul. For several minutes he could not speak. He sat with his face buried in his hands, and when he raised his head the tears were still running down his cheeks.
"I can bear the worst now," he said; and I knew from the remarks he made, that he was more grateful for Ellen's sake than for his own. I shall call her Ellen; surely I have the right, working as I was for her and for the man who had, in a sort of way, supplanted me. Had she seen me first—but of what use is it to speculate upon what might have been?
As I have said, it was Fordham who laid stress upon the evidence against himself, evidence of his own supplying. His silence, his long concealment in London under an assumed name, the incriminating articles in his possession, which he had given up to the police, were strong points against him.
"If my innocence is not clearly proved," he said, "I shall not care to be released."
"You can't compel a jury to declare you guilty," I urged, and I confess to being angry with him.
"No," he replied, "but the doubt would remain and would darken my days."
"Well," I said, "anyway, the police are not likely to let you go without a searching inquiry. For the present we must be silent, and bend all our energies to the discovery of Maxwell and Morgan."
It was a hard matter to convince Ellen of the wisdom of this course, and indeed we did not succeed in convincing her; but she was compelled to yield in the end, though she protested against the injustice of Fordham being kept in prison. There is a reason of the heart and a reason of the head, and when we are dealing with stern facts, we know which is likely to come out the winner.
The position, you see, was one of great difficulty. I was pledged to Jack, and to break my word would be to bring him immediately into danger. This I determined not do until every other chance failed me. It was a prudent as well as a just resolve. If Jack found himself betrayed and brought to bay, it was as likely as not that he would deny everything, or that he would commit himself to statements which would place Fordham in jeopardy.
I met my card-sharping friend before the end of the week, when it had been decided that he was to pay me a visit. I was on my way to Highgate Cemetery, and I came across him in the N. W. district. He had hired a donkey, and there was a gay show of flowers on his barrow. Seeing me approach, he gave me a wink and an almost imperceptible shake of the head. I inferred from the wink that business was prospering, and from the nod that he did not wish to be spoken to. I returned his wink and passed on.
My object in going to Highgate Cemetery was to ascertain if a lady of the name of Fordham was buried there, as would certainly have been the case if, as had been stated by Maxwell, Louis' mother was dead. As I have already said, I did not believe he had spoken the truth, but if I was mistaken I should be able to learn the address from which the coffin was taken.
I was not mistaken. There was a family grave in the cemetery purchased by John Fordham's father, but since his death no one had been buried there. Undoubtedly Maxwell had lied, and Louis' mother was alive.
The motive—the motive. This was the subject of my thoughts as I walked from the Cemetery. What possible motive could Maxwell have in making John Fordham believe that his stepmother was dead? If she were living, Fordham could have nothing to hope from her; if she were dead, it was an obstacle removed from his path, a witness the less against him. It was not likely that Maxwell was anxious to afford him this satisfaction; there was a cunning motive for the deceit, but though I twisted the question a dozen different ways, I could not make head or tail of it.
Puzzling my head over the matter, I found myself in the neighborhood of Soho.
It was not chance that directed me there. I had not forgotten the woman, Annette Lourbet, who plays so important a part in John Fordham's confession, and though she seemed to have passed out of the story at about the time he left England for Australia, I had an idea, if I succeeded in discovering her, that I might obtain some useful information. I hardly knew in what shape, but in such a task as mine the slightest clue frequently leads to a momentous result.
Up to this day my search for. Annette had been unsuccessful. Of course, I had looked through the London Directory for the name of Lourbet, but curiously enough, it did not appear there, and I concluded either that the woman had married or had returned to her native country. If she had married and was still in London, Soho was the most likely neighborhood in which to find her, and I had already spent several fruitless hours in those narrow thoroughfares. My patience, however, was not exhausted, and I was now treading them again in the hope of a better reward.
I think I may say that hitherto chance had not befriended me, but on this day it did me a turn, and in a singular way. About to pass a continental provision shop, of which there are a great many in Soho, and in the windows of which was the usual display of German sausages, pickles, potted meats, French mustard, pretzels, Dutch herrings, cucumbers, etc., I was obstructed by a ladder, and had to cross the road. A sign-painter was at work on the ladder, and glancing at the board over the window, I saw that a name had been erased and was being replaced by another, the first letter, L, having just been painted in bright blue. I walked on, attaching no importance to the incident; but when, half an hour afterwards, I passed the shop again, and saw that the painter had got as far as L O U, something like an electric shock darted through me.
L O U, the first three letters in the name of Lourbet.
I did not linger; the next minute I was in an adjoining street. The shop would not run away, and the proprietor would not run away. I could afford to wait.
I did wait for an hour and more before I sauntered again through that particular street. The sign was finished, and stared me in the face. I could have hugged myself when I saw the full name of Lourbet on the signboard.
Now, was the name that of a woman, and was her Christian name Annette? Half a dozen persons were looking up at it in admiration of the painter's skill. One, however, a little man who appeared to have been drinking was regarding it with wrath and dissatisfaction; he even went so far as to shake his fist at it. He was a most disreputable looking character, and evidently a confirmed toper. As he held up his fist a woman darted from the shop, and standing at the door fired one word at him.
"Pig!"
In response to which he directed his fist towards her face. This so inflamed her that she flew at him, and, seizing him by the collar, shook him with such violence that he fell to the ground the moment he was released. By this time a crowd had gathered, whose sympathies were entirely on her side. They jeered and laughed at the man, with whom they appeared to be acquainted, and who lay in a state of collapse. Not that he was hurt, except, as a matter of course, in his feelings, but he was afraid to rise and risk a second shaking at the hands of the woman, who seemed to be smarting under a sense of injury. To my surprise she became suddenly quite calm and composed, and stood looking down upon him with a disdainful smile on her thin, white lips.
"It is well done, Madame Lourbet," cried a Frenchwoman in the crowd. "It is as he deserves. I would wring his neck if he had served me so."
"Thank you, madame," replied Madame Lourbet, "for the name. It is my own. Behold it, pig!" Addressing her discomfited foe, and pointing to the newly-painted sign. "I r-r-renounce you. Come to me no more. Begone!"
There was a melodramatic touch in her words, but not in her utterance of them. Had I not witnessed it I could hardly have believed that they were spoken by the woman who had behaved with so much violence. The cold, passionless voice was, in my judgment, the result of long training, and I detected in her so many little resemblances to the Annette portrayed by John Fordham in his confession that I did not doubt I had found her at last. I was careful to keep out of her sight, having determined to seek enlightenment first from the man, for I was curious to learn the meaning of this singular scene.
The approach of a policeman put an end to it. The crowd dissolved, Madame Lourbet returned to her shop, and the man, whose furtive looks had followed her movements, slowly picked himself up. If he had been inclined to appeal against the judgment which had been pronounced he was manifestly not in a condition to do so just now; seemingly recognizing this, he slunk off with the air of a whipped cur.
The policeman took no notice of him, and was soon out of sight; I kept in his track till he halted at the door of a public-house and fumbled in his pockets. Finding nothing there he relapsed into a state of maudlin despair. This was my opportunity, and I took advantage of it. Over a friendly glass or two, he drinking my share and his own with cheerful alacrity, he ventilated his grievances.
Annette was his wife, so ne declared; they had lived together three years; she had worshiped the ground he trod on, and his name had been painted over the shop window. And now, after he had ruined himself for her (he did not specify in what way) she turned upon him and cast him adrift. He would not stand it—no, he was an Englishman, and he would not stand it. She was tired of him, was she? She had another lover, had she? He would have his blood. And so on, and so on.
The real fact was that there had been a trifling informality in the marriage, the man I was pumping being married already when he went through the ceremony with Annette. It was true that his first wife died shortly after he married his second, but Annette had only lately discovered that her own marriage was illegal, and being tired of the rascal was glad to be quit of him. She had been prudent enough to protect her savings; the business was hers, the stock was hers, and she had turned him out with never a penny in his pockets.
"Not a penny, not one single penny," he whined. I sympathized with him, of course, and I left him at his lodgings—a garret in the same street as the shop—with a promise to call upon him the next night and see if anything could be done to soften Annette's heart.
The information I had extracted from him was not of much present use to me, but I saw the possibility of the acquaintanceship being of service, and I was by no means dissatisfied with my day's work; but the day was not yet over. I have good reason to remember it, and so has every person associated with the mystery, so many strange things occurred—the strangest of all (which at first seemed to have not the slightest connection with the affair) leading to a most surprising and unexpected discovery.
It was my intention to pay Madame Lourbet a visit, and I thought that evening would be the best time. I had business to transact at my office, for this Liverpool murder, though it occupied so much of my time, was not the only thing I had to attend to. So to my office I went and spent a useful hour in straightening my affairs and giving instructions to my clerk. Then I sat down to catch up arrears of correspondence, and by four o'clock I had everything in order. I had put away my papers and stamped the last of my letters when my clerk announced a lady—Mrs. Barlow, who was most anxious to see me. She was shown in, an elderly lady, with a careworn face and ladylike manners. She had been recommended to me, as a likely person to discover her son, whom she had not seen for five or six years.
"Nor heard from him?" I asked.
"Not a line," she answered in a sad voice.
"Is he in England?"
"I do not know."
"Well, tell me all about it," I said, "and bear in mind that your time and money will be thrown away if you keep anything in the background."
I condense what she related. She was a widow, with one child, this son who had deserted her. He had always given her trouble. Not that he was bad at heart, but so easily led away, believing in everybody, trusting everybody. (Mother's love, here; I knew its value in a practical sense.) Unfortunately he had fallen into bad company, and her belief was that he was ashamed to return to her. Years ago they had been fairly well off, but little by little he had got from her all she was worth, and then he left her. She managed to rub along, however, being assisted by Philip's uncle, her deceased husband's brother. This uncle had lately died and left her a small legacy, which she had received. A legacy of three thousand pounds was left to Philip; in case of his death at the time of the testator's decease the money would go to a charitable institution. Philip had not presented himself to claim the legacy, and she was naturally anxious to discover him, so she had come to me to assist her.
A simple story, before the end of which I had made up my mind about the man. A thoroughly bad lot—an opinion I kept to myself, however.
I put a few questions to Mrs. Barlow.
"Can you think of any reason why your son should not come forward to claim this fortune?"
"No."
She was afraid to express what must have been in her mind—that he was dead.
"He fell into bad company, you say. What kind of bad company? I must press for an answer."
"Unfortunately he was fond of cards."
"Blacklegs got hold of him, then?" She sighed. "Did he bet on horses?"
"Yes."
"That explains a great deal. He went to races and lost his money?"
"Everybody took advantage of him."
"I see. Now, Mrs. Barlow, if I take this matter up I must have a free hand. Among other things I shall do I may have to advertise. If you have any objection, you had best say so at once."
"You may do anything you like—only discover my son for me."
"Very well. Have you a portrait of your son?"
"Yes—a cabinet in a frame. I did not bring it with me."
"Send it immediately to my private address. I should like it soon."
"You shall have it to-night. I will bring it myself."
I gave her my private card, and took five pounds from her for preliminary expenses.
She was about to leave, when she turned and said:
"Perhaps I ought to tell you that a friend mentioned that he thought he saw Philip."
"Certainly you ought to tell me. The mischief of these cases is that there is always something kept back. Where did he see him?"
"In Liverpool, but he is not certain it was Philip."
"Very stupid of him. How long ago was it?"
"Over a year ago."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, that is all," she said, and bade me good-day.
Before I left my office I wrote an advertisement for the personal columns of the daily papers, to the effect that if Philip Barlow called upon or communicated with me, he would hear of something very much to his advantage. Instructing my clerk to insert the advertisement in three of the principal newspapers, I went to my lodgings and made a change in my appearance, which I deemed prudent, in view of my visit to Madame Lourbet.
That lady was not in her shop when I entered it. In response to a rap on the counter, she issued from an inner room, and asked what I required. There was a glass panel in the door of this room, across which a green curtain was drawn. I have a faculty of observation which enables me to see a great deal at a glance.
While I was making a few small purchases, I entered 'into conversation with her. I said that I had been recommended to her shop, but had some difficulty in finding it, in consequence of the name over the window being altered. She admitted the alteration, and said that the business would in future be conducted under the new name.
"Your own name, I presume, madame?" I said.
"My own name," she answered. "It makes no difference in what I sell."
"None at all," I said, briskly. "You were spoken of, I remember, as Madame Annette."
"That, also, is my name. May I ask, monsieur, by whom you were recommended?"
I watched her face keenly as I replied, "Madame, or rather, Mrs. Fordham."
As I uttered the name I observed a slight disturbance of the green curtain.
"Pardon me, monsieur," she said, and went into the private room, the door of which she carefully opened and shut.
"Now," thought I, "what is the meaning of this, and will it make any difference in Madame Lourbet's behavior?"
It made a perceptible difference. Something had passed between her and the person in the inner room which had put her on her guard, and she was watching me now as keenly as I was watching her.
"Madame Fordham," she remarked, with assumed indifference, continuing our conversation. "Who is Madame Fordham?"
"I supposed she was a customer of yours," I answered.
"It may be," she said. "Oh, yes, it may be; but does one know all one's customers?"
"That would be difficult," I said, laughing, "with such a connection as you have, madame."
"You are right, monsieur, it would be difficult. Do you require anything more?"
"Nothing more, thank you, madame."
She let an arrow fly. "I will send the articles home and the bill, if monsieur will kindly give me his address."
"Much obliged, madame," was my reply: "I will pay for them, and take them with me."
So the little passage at arms ended, and I walked away just a trifle wiser than I came, for I had learned that Madame Lourbet did not desire to talk about John Fordham's stepmother, and that there was some person behind the green curtain who also had an interest in the matter. Had I deemed it safe I would have kept watch for that person outside Madame Lourbet's shop, but I felt that I was dealing with a woman as clever as myself, and I recognized the necessity of caution. It was annoying, but there was no help for it.
The day had been one of the busiest in my recollection, and I was glad to sit down to a cup of tea in my own private apartment. During the meal I was debating how the incidents I have recorded could be turned to advantage, when the landlady came in and informed me that a man was down-stairs who insisted on seeing me. She did not like to let him up, she said, he was such a common-looking man; besides, he was the worse for liquor. But he would not go away.
"I did all I could, sir," said my landlady, "but go he wouldn't. 'Tell him it's Jack,' he said."
"Jack!" I cried, interrupting her. "Show him in at once, and don't let us be interrupted; I have business with him."
Much astonished, she departed on her errand, and the next minute Jack stood before me.
My first impression was that the landlady was right, and that Jack had been drinking. His face was as white as a sheet, his eyes glared, and his limbs shook like a man in a palsy.
"You're a pretty object," I said, sternly; but he did not seem to hear what I said.
"Guv'nor," he gasped, in a horse voice, "is that tea? Will yer give me a cup? My throat's on fire."
"Well it might be," I answered, filling a cup, "but I should have thought brandy was more in your way. You'll come to a bad end, my lad."
Still he did not seem to understand me, but took the cup with his shaking hands, holding it in both lest it should slip to the ground. As it was he spilled half of it before it reached his mouth. I took the cup from him, and placing it on the table said:
"Now, what is the meaning of this? How dare you come here in such a state?"
"Give me time, guv'nor, give me time," he croaked. "I shall be better in a minute. Yer think I've been drinkin'. Yer wos never more mistook. I 'ad a pint o' mild this mornin', but I 'ope I may drop down dead if another drop 'as passed my lips the 'ole of this blessed day. I've 'ad a scare, guv'nor—I've 'ad a scare." He dropped his voice, and bending forward, said: "Did yer ever see a ghost?"
"Not that I'm aware of, Jack. You look as if you'd seen one."
"I 'ave, guv'nor."
"Ah," said I, becoming interested, in spite of my suspicion that he was drunk, his manner was so earnest, "whose ghost?"
"The ghost of 'im as wos murdered. The ghost of Louis Fordham."
"You are dreaming, Jack," I said, staring at him.
"Not me, guv'nor. I'm wide awake, I am. Oh!" He gave a sudden start, and turned his head over his shoulder, as though a spirit was standing behind him.
"You see one now, perhaps," I said.
"No, guv'nor, but I don't know as 'e mightn't appear in this wery room. Is there such things, or am I goin' mad?"
"Not unlikely, Jack, when you come to me with such a cock and bull story. I recollect your saying that you'd seen the murdered man lying on a green field and on a billiard table. This is something of the same sort, I suppose."
"No, guv'nor, that was a wision, and I knew it wosn't real. But this wos. I touched it as it passed."
"Oh, it passed you, did it? Come, my man, let us have the whole of it; I may understand it better then. Where were you, what time of day was it, and in what shape did it appear to you?"
"The shape wos 'is own, and the time o' day was four this arternoon, and the place wos Finchley Road."
"Go on, Jack," I said, seeing that he believed in it.
"I was out with the barrer," he continued, "and was bargainin' with a lady for some daisies. There they wos on the pavement, and she and me lookin' at 'em. As I stooped to pick up a pot, somethink brushed by me. We touched each other. Lookin' up I sor Louis, and the pot dropped from my hand."
"Did you go after him?"
"Me go arter 'im. I'd 'ave run a 'undered miles the other way."
"Did he vanish in blue flames, Jack?"
"No, guv'nor. 'E turned a corner."
"But, consider, my lad. The man is dead."
"Don't I know it?" cried Jack, as if my remark exasperated him. "Is it likely I should 'ave come to you if 'e'd been alive?"
"You looked up at him, you say. Did he look down at you?"
"No, guv'nor, not that I noticed. D'yer think I've been makin' up the story?"
"No, I don't think that, because there's nothing to gain by it. What I do think is that you've been scared by seeing some one who bears a resemblance to Louis. It isn't at all an uncommon thing. Innocent men have been hanged upon such evidence."
"Guv'nor," said Jack, impressively, "it wos 'im, I tell yer. There wos 'is 'eight, there was 'is build, and there wos the scar on 'is fore'ead. I'll take my Bible oath it wos Louis' ghost."
"Even the scar may be on the other man's forehead," I persisted. "There have been much closer resemblances. A dozen witnesses have sworn to the identity of a man who was being tried for a crime of which he was as innocent as I am, have sworn to his voice, to the color of his eyes and hair, to secret marks upon his person, to a missing tooth, to the peculiar shape of his fingers, and he has been condemned upon their evidence. Only after his death has it been discovered that the wrong man had been hanged. Wives themselves have been taken in, and have lived for years with men they believed to be their husbands. Go home, Jack, and think of these cases, much more wonderful than your accidental resemblance, and don't make a fool of yourself."
I might as well have spoken to a stone. Jack was not to be argued out of his fright, and that it was genuine was proved by the startled looks he cast behind him from time to time. A gentle tap at the door sent his heart into his mouth. It was my landlady, who came with a parcel that had been left for me by a lady, who wished to hand it to me herself, but was told I was engaged and could not be disturbed. As I had exhausted all my arguments upon Jack, and as he did not seem in a hurry to go, I opened the parcel in his presence, and drew out the cabinet portrait of Mrs. Barlow's missing son which she had promised to bring to my lodgings.
"Send I may live, guv'nor!" cried Jack, peering at it over my shoulder, his eyes almost starting out of his head, "where did you get that from?"
"It's the picture of a missing man, Jack," I replied, "who has had a lump of money left to him. I want to lay my hands on him." It was then that I noticed the strange expression on Jack's face, and I added, jokingly, "It isn't a ghost."
"No, it ain't a ghost," he said, "it's Morgan."
"Morgan!" I exclaimed. "Your card-sharping Liverpool friend?"
"That's 'im, guv'nor. A lump o' money left 'im! Why don't 'e come and collar it?"
"Are you sure you are not mistaken?" I asked.
"'Ow could I be mistook?" he demanded. "Wosn't 'im and me together day and night for weeks and weeks? I'd swear to 'im among a 'undered."
Reluctant as I was to take Jack's word for Louis' ghost, I could not dispute with him as to Morgan's portrait. It was long before I could get rid of him, and he went away as firmly convinced of one as he was of the other. In such positive terms did he express his conviction on the former subject that if I were not a hard-headed, practical man, with very little sentiment in my nature, it is quite on the cards that he would have shaken my belief that he was laboring under some monstrous delusion in respect of the murdered man. At the same time I confess to being curious about Louis' "double," and to having a desire to see him with my own eyes. It was for this reason, on the chance of being gratified, that I made an appointment to accompany Jack the next day in his peregrinations through the N. W. district, in the disguise of a brother coster. The hour of appointment was noon.
Meanwhile there was much to think of, much to do. Fortunately I am a healthy man and can do with three or four hours' sleep, or I should never have got through with it.
There was in my mind the design, not yet thoroughly planned out, of having Louis' body exhumed, in order that its identity might be established beyond the possibility of doubt. This would effectually dispose of Jack's fancies, which, after further reflection, I set down to the stings of conscience, and as properly belonging to that form of imaginative creation which had conjured up the vision of Louis' body lying on a billiard cloth and on green fields. To establish this identity witnesses would be required. I could give evidence as to the scar upon the forehead, but only from what I had been told; it would be secondary evidence, and therefore not admissible. I mentally ran through the names of the witnesses whose evidence, from personal knowledge, would be of value.
John Fordham, for one. Though it might tell against himself, he would be ready and willing to testify. I needed nothing to convince me that he was a truthful and honorable man who would not palter with his conscience even though it added to the peril in which he stood.
Then, Jack. But it would bring him into danger. A far different character he from Fordham. He would be dragged forward against his will, and in these circumstances his word could not be depended upon. In the present aspect of the affair his was the only evidence upon which Fordham's innocence could be to some extent proved. Believing himself to be in danger such a man as Jack would be capable of anything; he might deny all that he had admitted, he might even concoct a story which would throw the entire guilt upon the man I was trying to save. Therefore, Jack's evidence upon this question of identity could not be reckoned with just now. For a time at least it must be set aside.
Then, Louis' mother. But her son's name had appeared in the papers as that of the man whom, by Fordham's confession, he had murdered. It must not be forgotten that I was convinced she was living. That being so, why was she silent? Why did she remain in hiding? That was one of the unanswered questions in the Mystery.
Then, Maxwell. Also in hiding. He, of all who were associated in the mystery, was the least likely to come forward of his own free will. Then, Morgan——
At his name my reflections were diverted into another channel. Three thousand pounds was a handsome sum—a Godsend to such a man. Why had he not claimed it? There was more than one answer to the question. He might not be aware of his uncle's death; as his own mother did not know his address the solicitors to the will could not communicate with him. He might be dead; he might have left the country. If he were living would my advertisement in the personal columns of the newspapers be successful in unearthing him? It occurred to me that it would increase my chances of success if I advertised for him in his assumed name, and I drew out the following advertisement:—
"A Large Sum of Money has been Bequeathed to —— Morgan, who is supposed to have been residing in Liverpool, where he was last seen about a year ago. Full particulars will be given to him upon application to Paul Godfrey, 719 Buckingham Palace Road."
To reduce the chances of receiving letters from every Morgan in the kingdom, I wrote to Mrs. Barlow, requesting her to give me the date of her son's birth, his age, and whether he had any marks on his person by which he could be identified. Though it is running ahead of my narrative, I may state here that Mrs. Barlow supplied me with the date of her son's birth and his age (which particulars I inserted in the advertisement), and informed me that there were two marks on him which would render identification easy—a large mole on his left side, a little above the hip, and a peculiar formation in the toe next to the big toe on his right foot. It was bent completely under, she said, and presented the appearance of having been cut clean off at the joint.
I went out at eleven o'clock that night to post my letters to Mrs. Barlow, and was returning home, deep in thought, when a hand was laid on my shoulder.
"Good evening, Godfrey."
The voice was Wheeler's, like myself a private detective, with whom I had worked on two or three cases. There was a talk of our going into partnership, but it had not yet come to a head. There are few smarter men than Wheeler.
"Good evening," I said, and immediately began to consider whether he could be of use to me. "Anything stirring?"
"Well," he answered, "I was coming to see you."
"What about?"
Instead of giving me a direct answer, he began to laugh, and said, "You were in Soho this evening."
"Hallo," said I, interested immediately, "there's something in the wind. Did you see me there?"
"No, but I saw you coming into Leicester Square."
"How did you find me out?" I asked, rather nettled. "I thought my disguise a good one."
"So it was. There isn't one in a thousand who would have recognized you. I happen to be that one. You see, Godfrey, when you are thinking of something very particular, you have a nasty habit of stroking your chin with the middle finger of your right hand."
"Good," said I, "you will never catch me doing that again when I'm somebody else. Well?"
"Seeing that, I took special notice of you, and followed you home to make sure. When you stopped at 719 Buckingham Palace Road, and let yourself in, I was satisfied it was you."
"There's nothing very smart in that."
"I don't say there is. I kept myself out of sight, for a reason you'll appreciate."
"Out with it."
"I wasn't the only one who was following you."
"You don't mean to say I was being shadowed?" I cried, excitedly.
"That is exactly what I do mean. 'I'll see this out,' said I to myself."
"Man or woman?"
"Man."
"Did you catch sight of his face?"
"Yes. Tall, dark, beard and whiskers. Might have been false. When you were in the house he passed the door, looked at the number and walked away."
"And you let him go?" I said reproachfully. "I didn't think that of you."
"You needn't. I followed him on your account."
"Bravo!"
"Had to be very careful. His eyes were in all directions."
"Did he go back to Soho?"
"No. He took a 'bus to Piccadilly Circus. I took the same 'bus. He got down there, with a lot of others, and I slipped out among them. Then he took an Atlas 'bus to the Eyre Arms. So did I. He walked towards the Swiss Cottage, and my difficulties commenced. Not much foot traffic between the Eyre Arms and the Swiss Cottage, you know. He went on to Fitzjohn's Parade. More traffic there. The job got easier. Beyond Fitzjohn's Parade, very little traffic indeed. I had to be more careful than ever, so few people about. That was the end of it."
"You know the house he went into?" I cried.
"I don't," he answered. "I am ashamed to say he gave me the slip. I don't know whether he suspected he was being followed, but the fact remains that he gave me the slip. How he managed it beats me. I am fairly ashamed of myself."
"You ought to be. Wheeler, you were on the track of a great mystery," and just at the very point—— I was so annoyed that I couldn't finish the sentence.
"I remained in the neighborhood a couple of hours," he continued, "but saw nothing more of the gentleman. If I had suspected there was anything important hanging to it he would have had to be a great deal smarter than he is to throw me off the track. However, it's no use crying over spilt milk. I've nothing to do this week. Can I be of any help to you?"
"I think so," I replied. "Come and see me at eight o'clock in the morning, and I'll tell you all about it. I must have time to think this out. Though you were not entirely successful you have done me a great service, and I am obliged to you. Oh, Wheeler, if you had only seen the house he went into!"
He shook his head mournfully, and left me, promising to call in the morning.
I had, indeed, plenty to think about. It was in Finchley Road that Jack fancied he saw the ghost of Louis. This man, following me from Madame Lourbet's shop, where he had been hidden from my gaze by a green curtain, had made his way to Finchley, where, presumably, he lived. I might now almost call the case upon which I was engaged The Mystery of the Green Curtain.