"We will examine these later, Wigan," said Quarles. "I want to get an impression before anything definite puts me on the wrong road. What about his work?" and the professor examined it with his lens. "Good, of its kind, I should imagine, and what is more to the point, requiring expensive materials. These bills show a good many pounds spent in less than four months. He was not poverty-stricken, in spite of shabby clothes, and holes in the carpet. Where did he get his money from? There is no check book here, no money except a few shillings in his pocket. That is a point to remember."
"The murderers may have taken it," I said.
"This doesn't look like a place ordinary thieves would come to."
There was a shelf in one corner, with books on it, perhaps a score in all. Quarles took down every one of them, and opened them.
"John Parrish. Did you know his name was John?"
"No. He didn't mention his Christian name."
"Here it is, written in every book," said Quarles as he deliberately tore a fly-leaf out of one and began to put down on it the titles of some of the books. "Evidently he did not read much, the dust here is thick. Did he open his door with a key when you came in with him last night?"
"I couldn't swear to it."
"You see it does not lock of itself. He might have left it merely closed.Did he go into the bedroom while you were here?"
"No."
"Then the murderer may have been there while you were with him. You have made enquiries about him in this building, of course?"
"Yes."
"About his personal appearance and habits, I mean. You see, Wigan, your own idea of him is not sufficient. He may have deceived you entirely regarding his character, assuming eccentricity for some purpose. Think the affair out from that point of view, and when you have been to the Yard, come to Chelsea. If you do not mind I will take these two unopened letters. We will look at them together presently."
As a matter of fact, Quarles had opened them before I saw him; indeed, their contents took him out of town, and I did not see him for three days. They were very trying days for me, for the chief took me off the case when he had heard my story. He could not understand why I had not mentioned at once that I had been with the dead man on the previous night, and his manner suggested that my being the criminal was well within the bounds of possibility. I suppose every one likes to have a cut at a successful man occasionally, but I am bound to admit he had some reason for his action. He showed me a halfpenny paper in which an enterprising scribbler, under the headline "Murder in Gray's Inn," had heightened the sensation by another headline, "Strange recognition of a well-known detective by a woman and a boy."
"We mustn't give the press any reason to suppose that we want to thwart justice for the purpose of shielding an officer," the chief said. "Cochran will take charge of the case, and I am letting the press know this."
There was nothing to be said, and I left him feeling very much like a criminal, and very conscious of being in an awkward position. Unless the case were satisfactorily cleared up there would be plenty of people to suspect me.
Quarles, when at last we foregathered in the empty room, was sympathetic but not surprised; Zena, who had come back to town immediately on receiving a letter from me, was furious that I should be suspected.
"I have been busy," said the professor. "I opened those letters, Wigan. Of course Zena's first question on her arrival was why Mr. Parrish had not opened them. Her second question was: Why did he live the life of a recluse in Gray's Inn? How would you answer those questions?"
"I see no reason why a recluse should not live in Gray's Inn," I answered, "and an eccentric person, obsessed with one idea in life, might throw letters aside without opening them."
"Quite a good answer," said Quarles. "Now, here are the letters. This one is dated eighteen months ago, postmark Liverpool, written at Thorn's Hotel, Liverpool. 'Dear Jack,—Back again like the proverbial bad penny. Health first class; luck medium. Pocket full enough to have a rollick with you. Shall be with you the day after to-morrow.—Yours, C.M.' Your friend Parrish was not a man you would expect to rollick, I imagine?''
"No."
"So either he entirely deceived you or had changed considerably since 'C.M.' had seen him. Here is the other letter. Postmark Rome, dated three years ago, but no address. Just a message in indifferent English: 'Once more you do me good and I repay in interest. B. knows and comes to you. Beware.—Emanuele.'"
"Parrish told me he was in Italy for some time," I said.
"The first letter took me to Liverpool," Quarles went on. "Thorn's Hotel is third-rate, but quite good enough for a man who does not want to burn money. 'C.M.' stands for Claude Milne. That was the only name with those initials in the hotel books on that date. He had come from New York, and he left an address to which letters were to be forwarded, an hotel in Craven Street. I traced him there. He stayed a week, and, I gather, spent a rollicking time, mostly returning to bed in the early hours not too sober. No friends seem to have looked him up. He appears to have gone abroad again."
"And it is eighteen months ago," I said.
"Exactly. We will remember that," said Quarles. "The other letter is older still. It is evidently a warning. The writer believed Parrish to be in danger from this 'B.' who was coming to England. Now, was it B. who found him the other night after three years' search?"
"The name is on the door and in the directory," I answered.
"That is another point to remember, Wigan. Now, I daresay you have learnt from your inquiries in the building that very little was known about Parrish. Some of the tenants did not remember there was such a name on the door. I have interviewed the agents who receive the rent, and they tell me that until about three years ago they received Parrish's rent by check, always sent from Windsor, and on a bank at Windsor; but since then they have received it in cash, promptly, and sent by messenger boy, the receipt always being waited for. They inform me that at one time, at any rate, Parrish did not use his chambers much, was a river man in the summer, and in the winter was abroad a great deal. The letter sent with the cash was merely a typed memorandum. There was no typewriter in Parrish's chambers, I think?"
"No."
Quarles took from some papers the fly-leaf he had torn from one of the books.
"That is Parish's signature," said Quarles. "The agents recognize it, the bank confirms it; the account is not closed, but has not been used for three years. The rooms he occupied in Windsor are now in other hands, and nothing is known of him there. Inspector Cockran made these inquiries at Windsor. You see, as you are off the case I am helping him. Having no official position in the matter I must attach myself to some one to facilitate my investigation. Cockran thinks I am an old fool with lucid moments, during which I may possibly say something which is worth listening to."
"He is generally looked upon as a smart man," I said.
"Oh, perhaps he is right in his opinion of me, also in his judgment of you."
"What has he got to say about me?"
"He says very little, but as far as I can gather his investigations are based on the assumption that you killed Parrish. Don't get angry, Wigan. It is really not such an outrageous point of view, and for the present I am shaking my head with him and am inclined to his opinion."
"It is a disgraceful suspicion," said Zena.
"Those who plead not guilty always say that, but it really does not count for much with the judge," Quarles answered. "We will get on with the evidence. I jotted down on this fly-leaf the names of some of the books on that shelf, Wigan. Nothing there, you see, bears any reference to his illuminating work."
"Are you suggesting it was a blind?"
"No, I haven't got as far as that yet, but it is curious that none of his books should relate to his hobby in any way. I have ascertained that he always bought his materials personally, never wrote for them. From the postman I discover that it was seldom they had to go to the top floor; the advertisements and letters we have found may be taken to be all the communications he has received through the post. At the same time we have evidence that he had command of money, since he paid his rent promptly, bought expensive materials, and dined every night at Warburton's. Since he did not sell his work, where did the money come from?"
"Some annuity," I suggested.
"Exactly, which he must have collected himself, since he received no letters, and taken away in cash, since he had given up using a banking account. Cockran has made inquiries at the insurance offices, and in the name of Parrish there exists no such annuity, apparently. It was, therefore, either in another name or came from a private source."
"So we draw blank," I said.
"In one sense we do, in another we do not," returned Quarles. "We come back to the letters and to Zena's questions. First, why did he live the life of a recluse in Gray's Inn? The answer does not seem very difficult to me. He had something to hide, something which made him cut himself off from the world, and that something had its beginning about three years ago, when he ceased paying his rent by check, when he gave up his rooms at Windsor; in short, when he entirely became a changed character. We may take 'C.M.'s' letter, with its talk of rollicking, as confirming this view."
"But he did not open either letter. He did not see Emanuele's warning," I said.
"True, but I believe, Wigan, the first two words in Emanuele's letter should stand by themselves; that the letter should read thus: 'Once more. You do me good, I repay, etc,' I think there was a previous letter which Parrish did see."
"A far-fetched theory," I returned.
"The key to it is in Zena's question: Why didn't Parrish open his letters?"
"Why, indeed?" I said. "He might throw 'C.M.'s' letter aside, but if there had been a previous letter warning him that danger threatened him from Italy, do you imagine he would have failed to open one with the Rome postmark on it?"
"That does seem to knock the bottom out of my argument," said Quarles.
"I am afraid the theory is too elaborate altogether," I went on. "Parrish was an eccentric. I was not deceived. I am astonished there should ever have been an episode in his life which should necessitate a warning from Emanuele. Probably the Italian exaggerated the position. That B. is stated to have come to England three years ago, and the murder has only just occurred, would certainly confirm this view."
"It does, but you throw no light on the mystery, and the fact remains that Parrish was murdered. You have not knocked the bottom out of my theory, and with Cockran's help I am going to put it to the test. For the moment there is nothing more to be done. I must wait until I hear from Cockran. I will wire you some time to-morrow. You must meet me without fail wherever I appoint. I think Cockran is fully persuaded that I am helping him to snap the handcuffs on to your wrists. The capture of a brother detective would be a fine case to have to his credit, wouldn't it?"
"I hope you are not doing anything risky, dear," said Zena.
"What! Is your faith in Murray growing weak, too?" laughed Quarles.
I was not in the mood to enjoy a joke of this kind—my position was far too serious—and I left Chelsea in a depressed condition. Perhaps it was being so personally concerned in the matter which made me especially critical of Quarles's methods, but it certainly did not seem to me that his arguments had helped me in the least. They only served to emphasize how poor our chance was of finding the criminal.
Next afternoon I received a wire from the professor telling me to meet him at the Yorkshire Grey. I found him waiting there and thought he looked a little anxious.
"We are going to have a tea-party at a quiet place round the corner in Gray's Inn Road," he said; "at least Cockran and I are, while you are going to look on. You are going to be conspicuous by your absence, and under no circumstances must you attempt to join us. When it is all over and we have gone, then you can leave your hiding-place and come to Chelsea."
He would answer no questions as we went to the third-rate tea-rooms, but he was certainly excited. The woman greeted him as an old friend. He had evidently been there before.
"This is the gentleman I spoke of," said Quarles, and then the woman led us into a back room.
"Ah, you've put the screen in that corner, I see. An excellent arrangement; couldn't be better. You quite understand that this room is reserved for me and my guests for as long as I may require it. Good. Now, Wigan, your place is behind this screen. There is a chair, so you can be seated, and there is also a convenient hole in the screen which will afford you a view of our table yonder. It is rather a theatrical arrangement, but I have a score to settle with Cockran if I can. He thinks I am an old fool, and when it does not suit my purpose I object to any one having that idea."
When Cockran arrived it so happened that I had some little difficulty in finding the slit in the screen; when I did I saw that he had a woman with him. By the time I had got a view of the room she had seated herself at the tea-table and her back was toward me. It did not seem to me the kind of back that would make a man hurry to overtake to see what the face was like.
Quarles talked commonplaces while the tea was being brought in, and then, when the proprietress had gone out, he said, leaning toward the woman:
"Do you constantly suffer from the result of your accident?"
"Accident!" she repeated.
"I notice that you limp slightly."
"Oh, it was a long time ago. I don't feel anything of it now."
Quarles handed her some cake.
"It is very good of you to come," he went on, "and I hope you are going to let us persuade you to be definite."
She nodded at Cockran.
"I have told him that I am not sure. I am going to stick to that."
"The fact is, we are especially anxious to solve this mystery," Quarles went on, "and I believe you are the only person who can help us. Now, from certain inquiries which I have been making I have come to the conclusion that Mr. Parrish is not dead."
"Not dead!" the woman exclaimed.
I saw Cockran look enquiringly at Quarles, but he did not say anything. The professor had evidently persuaded the inspector to let him carry out this investigation in his own way.
"Of course, a man has been killed," he went on, "but it wasn't Parrish, I fancy. He lived in Parrish's chambers; was a lonely man with a hobby, and if the people who saw him about liked to think his name was Parrish, well, it didn't trouble him. You didn't happen to know the real Parrish, I suppose?"
"Of course not."
"No, I didn't expect you would," said Quarles, "but tell me how it was you so promptly recognized the man we are after."
"I am not sure it was the same man."
"But you were when the boy recognized him."
"I say now I am not sure."
"Oh, but you are," returned Quarles. "You could not possibly be mistaken. From the inner room of Parrish's chambers you must have watched both the men for the best part of an hour."
A teaspoon clattered in a saucer as the woman sprang to her feet, and I saw she was the woman who had pointed me out to the constable when I had entered Gray's Inn on the morning after the murder. Cockran's face was a study.
"You made a mistake," Quarles went on quietly. "I have worked it all out in my own mind and I daresay there are some details missing. I will tell you how I explain the mystery. Parrish, when in Italy, wronged some one dear to you. You only heard of it afterwards. Personally you did not know Parrish, but you found out what you could about him: that he was connected with the law, that he lived in London, in one of the places where lawyers do live. You determined to come to England for revenge. I do not say you were not justified. I do not know the circumstances. That was three years ago. An accident—was it the one at Basle, which occurred about that time?—detained you, laid you aside for some months, perhaps. You had not much money, you had to live, so your arrival in England was delayed. When you got here, you took a post as waitress in Soho. Only in your leisure time could you look for Mr. Parrish. At first, probably, you knew nothing about the London Directory, and when you did, looked for the name in the wrong part of it, and, of course, you would not ask questions of any one. That might implicate you later on. At last you found him; saw the name on the door. Possibly you have been waiting your opportunity for some little time, but the other night it came. Of course, you could not know there was a mistake. You heard Parrish speak of Italy, and when the other man had departed you crept from your hiding place and struck your blow; but you did not kill Parrish. Three years ago he was warned of his danger, and got out of your way. He was warned that you had started for England by Emanuele. Do you know him?"
The woman had stood tense and rigid, listening to this story of the crime; now she collapsed.
"Emanuele!" she cried.
"I see you do know him," Quarles said. "You have my sympathy. It is possible that the man Parrish deserved his fate, only it happens that another has suffered in his place."
"It was my sister he wronged," said the woman.
"Was it fear that some evidence might be found against you which made you point out a man whom you knew was innocent?" said Quarles.
She nodded, still sobbing.
"The rest is for you to manage," said Quarles, turning to the inspector. "I suppose you are not likely to make any further mistakes. This would all have been cleared up days ago if Wigan had not been taken off the job."
I suppose Cockran felt a fool, as the professor intended he should.
There was little to be explained when I went to Chelsea later. Quarles's reconstruction of the crime had showed me the lines along which he had worked. The unopened letter from Rome had set him speculating with a view to proving that the dead man was not Parrish; and whilst I had only considered the change in character, he had had before him the possibility of a separate identity.
"Still, I do not understand how you came to suspect the woman," I said.
"Her recognition of you was too prompt to carry conviction under the circumstances," he answered. "The boy, who is in an office in Gray's Inn, might have met you together. I have no doubt he did; but since the woman had no business there, and if my theory were right, was concealed in Parrish's chambers at the time, she could not have seen you, except in the way I explained to her. Poor soul! I feel rather a cur for trapping her, but you were in a tight hole, Wigan, and I had to get you out."
Evidence showing that Parrish was a heartless scoundrel, the jury found extenuating circumstances for the woman, in spite of the fact that she had murdered an innocent man, so she escaped the extreme penalty. I was glad, although the strict justice of the verdict may be questioned. From Italy, from Emanuele, who was the woman's cousin, we learnt that when Parrish was in Italy he had a friend with him, an eccentric artist named Langford. We found that an insurance company had an annuity in this name which was not afterwards claimed. This fact, and the officials' description of the man, left no doubt that the murdered man was Langford. Emanuele had written two letters, as Quarles had surmised, and the first had caused Parrish to get out of harm's way. Wishing to keep up his chambers, he allowed Langford to occupy them; had perhaps left him the money to pay the rent, the idea of danger to his friend probably never occurring to him.
Naturally, Langford had not opened his letters, and, being an eccentric and a recluse, had allowed people to call him Parrish without denying the name when it happened that any one had to call him anything.
Since Parrish has never returned, even though the danger is past, it is probable, I think, that he died abroad.
Not infrequently I am put in charge of cases which are of small importance and might well be left to a less experienced man. I thought the mystery of Daniel Hardiman was such a case. I even went further and imagined that it was given to me because I was a bit under a cloud over the Parrish affair. Quarles jeered at my imagination and was interested from the outset, perhaps because he had had rather more of the Psychological Society than was good for him. Anyway, he traveled north with me to meet the linerSlavonic.
On the passenger list was the name Daniel Hardiman. He had come on board at Montevideo in company with his man, John Bennett, who appeared to be half servant, half companion. They had only a small amount of personal luggage, one trunk each, but several stout packing-cases of various sizes had been stored away in the hold. Hardiman had a first-class cabin to himself; his man traveled second-class, but spent much of his time in his master's cabin; indeed, for the first few days of the voyage Hardiman was not seen except at meal times.
It was said amongst the crew—probably the servant had mentioned the fact—that they were returning to England after an absence of many years, during which time they had lived much alone; and amongst the passengers it was agreed that there was something curious about the pair. There was speculation upon the promenade deck and in the smoking-room; the gossip was a pleasant interlude in the monotony of a long voyage. At the end of a week, however, Mr. Hardiman no longer stayed in his cabin. At first he paced the deck, thoughtfully, only in the early morning or late in the evening, but later was to be found in a deck-chair, either gazing fixedly at the horizon or interested in the games of the children on board. One sturdy youngster, when recovering a ball which had rolled to Hardiman's feet, spoke to him. All the answer he got was a nod of the head, but the boy had broken the ice, and two men afterwards scraped acquaintance with the curious traveler. One was a Mr. Majendie, who was going to England on business; the other Sir Robert Gibbs, a Harley Street specialist, who had broken down with hard work, and was making the round trip for the benefit of his health.
By wireless, when the ship was two days from Liverpool, came the news that Hardiman had been murdered by his man-servant, and it was in consequence of this message that Christopher Quarles and I had gone north to meet the boat on its arrival.
When we went on board the captain gave us the outline of Hardiman's behavior during the voyage as I have here set it down. Quarles asked him at once whether he thought that all the passengers, after landing, could be traced if necessary. The captain seemed to consider this rather a tall order, but thought all those who could possibly have had access to Mr. Hardiman might be traced.
"It is a pity we cannot forbid any one to land until we like," said the professor.
"There is not so much mystery about it as all that," said the captain, "although it isn't quite plain sailing. One of our passengers, a swell doctor, who examined the body with our ship's doctor directly after the discovery, will give you the benefit of his opinion, and I am detaining another passenger, a Mr. Majendie."
"Then there is some doubt as to the servant's guilt?" I said.
"I don't think so, but you shall hear the whole story."
"First, we should like to see the body," said Quarles. "We might be influenced unconsciously by your tale. It is well to come to the heart of the matter with an open mind."
The captain sent for the ship's doctor and a stewardess, and with them we went to the cabin, which had been kept locked.
The body, which lay in the berth where it had been found, an upper berth with a porthole, had been washed and attended to by the stewardess. The lower berth had been used by the traveler for some of his clothes—they were still there, neatly folded. The dead man's trunk was on a sofa on the opposite side of the cabin, a sofa which could be made into a third berth if necessary. Except that the body had been attended to, the cabin was just as it had been found.
"I took the stained sheets away," said the stewardess, "but I thought it would be wiser not to move him from the upper berth."
"It is a pity he couldn't have been left just as he was," Quarles answered; "you have no doubt washed away all the evidence."
He was a long time examining the wound, a particularly jagged one in the neck, a stab rather than a cut, but with something of both in it.
"Has the—the knife been found?" Quarles asked.
"No," answered the captain. "You hesitate in your question a little. You are certain it was a knife, I suppose?"
"Yes, why do you ask?"
"His man says it was a bullet."
"A bullet!" and Quarles looked back at the wound.
"The servant Bennett does not deny that he killed his master," said the doctor; "but he persists in saying that he had no knife."
"Has a revolver been found?" I asked.
"No, and no one heard any report," said the captain. "I cannot make this fellow Bennett out. He seems to me rather mad. Besides, there are one or two curious points. Would you like to hear them now?"
"Please," said Quarles.
With sailor-like directness the story was told in a straightforward narrative, destitute of trimmings of any kind. A steward had gone to Mr. Hardiman's cabin to take him a weak brandy-and-water; he had done the same first thing every morning during the voyage. He saw Hardiman lying with his face toward the cabin, one arm hanging over the side of the berth. There was no sign of a struggle. The clothes were not thrown back, but there was a considerable quantity of blood. Curiously enough, the porthole had been unscrewed and was open. The steward fetched Dr. Williams, the ship's doctor, who said death had probably occurred five or six hours previously, a statement Sir Robert Gibbs corroborated. There was no knife anywhere.
"The time of death is important," the captain went on. "Bennett has occupied a second-class cabin with a man named Dowler, and on the night of the murder Dowler, having taken something which disagreed with him, was awake all night, and he declares that Bennett never stirred out of his bunk. If the doctors are right, then Dowler's evidence provides Bennett with an alibi, of which, however, he shows no anxiety to take advantage. This cabin trunk, Mr. Quarles"—and the captain lifted up the lid as he spoke—"this trunk is all Mr. Hardiman's cabin luggage. There are some papers, chiefly in a kind of shorthand, which you will no doubt examine presently, and these stones, merely small chunks of rock, as far as I can see, although Sir Robert Gibbs suggests they may have value. There are similar stones in Bennett's trunk. There is a curious incident in connection with these bits of stone. On the night after the murder one of the middle watch saw a man come on deck and hastily fling something overboard. At least, that was the intention, apparently, but as a fact, either through agitation or a bad aim, the packet did not go overboard, but landed on a coil of rope on the lower deck forward. It proved to be a small canvas bag containing seven of these bits of rock, or, at any rate, pieces like them. Now, the man on the watch is not inclined to swear to it, but he believes the thrower was Majendie. Majendie denies it."
"You are an excellent witness, Captain," said Quarles as he took up two or three of the bits of rock and looked at them. "Is Mr. Majendie annoyed at not being allowed to land at once?"
"On the contrary, he is keen to give us all the help in his power. He is a fairly well-known man on the other side, has means and position, and, personally, I have little doubt that the watch was mistaken. You see, the servant does not deny his guilt."
"Would Bennett be likely to be in the place where the watch saw this man?" I asked.
"Not under ordinary circumstances, but if he had been trying to get into the locked cabin he would be."
"I think if we could have a few words with Sir Robert Gibbs it would be useful," said Quarles. "Have you the canvas bag of stones?"
"Yes, locked up in my cabin. I will send and ask Sir Robert to join us there."
"And could you get a knife?" asked the professor. "Any old knife will do, a rusty one for preference."
A few minutes later we were in the captain's cabin, and on the table was the bag of stones and a rusty and much-worn table-knife. Dr. Williams had just explained to us his reasons for fixing the time of death when Sir Robert entered. He was a man with a pronounced manner, inclined to take the lead in any company in which he found himself, and was very certain of his own opinion. On the way to the cabin Quarles had whispered to me to take the lead in asking questions, and to leave him in the background as much as possible, so after the captain's short introductions I began at once:
"I may take it, Sir Robert, that you agree with Dr. Williams as to the time Hardiman had been dead when you saw the body?"
"Certainly."
"And in your opinion the wound could not, under any circumstances, have been caused by a bullet?"
"Certainly not," and he smiled at the futility of the question.
"The bullet might have been a peculiar one," I suggested, "different from any with which we are familiar. The servant, who does not deny his guilt, says it was a bullet."
"And I say it was not," Sir Robert answered. "No kind of bullet could make such a wound. A knife with a point to it was used. The action would be a stab and a pull sideways. I am of the opinion that the blow was struck while the victim was in a deep sleep. I think Dr. Williams agrees with me."
Williams nodded.
"You would otherwise have expected to find some signs of a struggle?" I said.
"I should. It is quite possible, I think, that at times Mr. Hardiman had recourse to a draught or a tablet to induce sleep."
"I understand that you had some conversation with Mr. Hardiman during the voyage, Sir Robert. Were you struck by any peculiarity in him?"
"He was an eccentric man, but a man of parts undoubtedly. He told me very little about himself, but I gathered that he had traveled extensively, and out of the beaten track. I put down his difficulty in sustaining a conversation to this fact. He seemed in good health—one of those wiry men who can stand almost anything."
"Sir Robert, could it possibly have been a case of suicide?" Quarles asked, suddenly leaning forward.
"Have you examined the wound carefully?" asked the doctor.
"I have."
"If you will try to stab yourself like that you will see how impossible it is. Besides, you forget that no knife has been found, and in a case of suicide it would have been. I may add that the knife used was not in the least like the one I see on the table there."
"It must have had a point, you think?" said Quarles.
"I do not think—I am certain."
"Did Mr. Hardiman ever say anything about these bits of rock to you?"
"Never," answered the doctor. "I think I suggested to the captain that they might be valuable. I have no knowledge on the point, but I cannot conceive a man like Hardiman carrying them about unless they were of value."
"I take it he is a geologist," Quarles said carelessly.
Sir Robert would like to have been present throughout our inquiry, but the professor firmly but courteously objected. He said it would not be fair to those chiefly concerned, and he appealed to me to endorse his opinion. The doctor had raised a spirit of antagonism in him. They were both too dogmatic to agree easily.
The sailor of the watch was next interviewed, a good, honest seaman who evidently had a wholesome dread of the law in any form. He thought it was Mr. Majendie he had seen on the deck that night, but he would, not swear to it.
"Are you sure it wasn't Bennett?" I asked.
"Ay, sir, I'm pretty sure of that."
"What is it that particularly makes you think it was Mr. Majendie?"
"I just think it, sir; I can't rightly say why."
"What did he do, exactly?" said Quarles. "Just show me—show me his action. Here are the bits of rock in the bag; take the bag up and pretend to pitch it into the sea, as he did."
The sailor took up the bag and did so. His pantomime was quite realistic.
"I note that you turn your back to us," said Quarles.
"Ay, sir, because his back was turned to me. It wasn't until he made the action of throwing—just like that, it was—that I knew he had anything in his hand."
"Did you call out to him?"
"No; he was there and gone directly."
"It was a bad throw, too?"
"Ay, sir, it was; he did it awkward, something like women throws when they ain't used to throwing."
"That good fellow would feel far more uncomfortable in the witness-box than most criminals do in the dock," said Quarles when the sailor had gone. "He is as certain that it was Mr. Majendie as he is certain of anything, but he is not going to commit himself. Shall we have a talk with Mr. Majendie next? Let me question him, Wigan."
Majendie's appearance was in his favor. He might be a villain, but he didn't look it. There was Southern warmth in his countenance and temper in his dark eyes, but his smile was prepossessing.
"A sailor's absurd mistake has put you to great inconvenience, I fear," said Quarles.
"The inconvenience is nothing," was the answer. "I court enquiry."
"Of course you were not on the deck that night?"
"No."
"It is Mr. Hardiman's past I want to get at," said the professor. "You had some talk with him during the voyage; what did you think was his business in life?"
"He was a traveler. I think he had been where no other civilized man has been. He did not directly tell me so, but I fancy he had wandered in the interior of Patagonia."
"Should you say he was a geologist?"
"No," said Majendie with a smile. "He showed me some pieces of rock he had with him; indeed, I am suspected of flinging some of these bits of rock away in that canvas bag I see there. Is it likely I should do anything so foolish? It is part of my business to know something of bits of rock and blue clay and the like, and unless I am much mistaken those bits of rock are uncut diamonds."
"Diamonds!" I exclaimed.
"Yellow diamonds of a kind that are very rarely found," Majendie answered. "I may be mistaken, but that is my opinion. If I am right, the actual gem, when cut, would be comparatively small. It is enclosed, as it were, in a thick casing of rock."
"Did Hardiman know this?" Quarles asked.
"I am not sure. In the course of conversation I told him that I knew something about diamonds, and he asked me into his cabin to show me some bits of rock he had in his trunk. He spoke of them as bits of rock, but he may have known what they really were."
"Did he give you this invitation quite openly?" asked Quarles.
"Oh, yes. There were others sitting near us who must have overheard it. I went with him, and gave him my opinion as I have given it to you. Of course, there may not be a jewel at the heart of every bit of rock; no doubt there are a great many quite useless bits in Hardiman's collection."
"This is very interesting," said Quarles. "Would you look at the pieces in that bag and tell us if any of them are useless."
Majendie spent some minutes in examining them, and then gave it as his opinion that they all contained a jewel.
"Now that knife—"
"I thought no knife had been found," said Majendie.
"That has just been found on the ship," said Quarles. "It is an absurd question, but as a matter of form I must ask it. Have you ever seen that knife before?"
Majendie took it up and looked at it.
"Hardiman was apparently stabbed with a rusty knife," Quarles remarked.
"Stabbed! You could not stab any one with this, and certainly I have never seen it before."
I did not understand why Quarles was passing this off as the real weapon. He took it up, grasped it firmly, and stabbed the air with it.
"I don't know, it might—"
He shook his head and put the knife on the table again. Majendie took it up and in his turn stabbed the air with it.
"Utterly impossible," he said. "This could not have been the knife used; besides, there would surely be stains on it."
"I am inclined to think you are right," said Quarles. "You must forgive the captain for detaining you, Mr. Majendie, and of course you can land this afternoon. The captain wishes us to lunch on board; perhaps you will join us?"
"With pleasure. So long as I am in London to-night no harm is done."
When he had gone Quarles turned to the captain.
"Pardon my impudence, but we must not lose sight of Majendie. You must follow him this afternoon, Wigan, and locate him in London. You must have him watched until we get to the bottom of this affair. Now let us see Bennett."
The man-servant proved to be a bundle of nerves, and it was hardly to be wondered at if the story he told was true. A question or two set him talking without any reticence apparently.
Time seemed to have lost half its meaning for him. He could not fix how long he and his master had been away from England; many years was all he could say. They had traveled much in South America, latterly in the wilds of Patagonia. There they had fallen into the hands of savages, and for a long time were not sure of their lives from hour to hour. Always Mr. Hardiman seemed able to impress their captors that he was a dangerous man to kill; fooled them, in fact, until they came to consider him a god. Master and man were presently lodged in a temple, and were witnesses of some horrible rites which they dared not interfere with. Finally, at a great feast, Hardiman succeeded in convincing them that he was their national and all-powerful deity, and that he had come to give them victory over all their enemies. By his command the wooden figure of one of their gods was taken from the temple, and, together with two curious drums used for religious purposes, and other sacred things, was carried through the forest to a certain spot which Hardiman indicated. The whole company was then to go back three days' march, spend seven days in religious feasting, and return. In the meanwhile he and his servant must be left quite alone with these sacred things.
"I suppose they returned," Bennett went on, "but they did not find us. They did not find anything. The spot my master had fixed upon was within a day's march of help. We set out as soon as those devils had left us, and, having got assistance, my master would go back and fetch the wooden figure and the other things. They are in the cases in this ship."
"What was the main object of your master's travels?" I asked.
"He was writing a book about tribes and their customs."
"And he took a great interest in stones and bits of rock?"
"That was only recently, and I never understood it, sir. He put some in my trunk and some in his own, but what they were for I do not know. I don't suppose he did himself. He was always peculiar."
"Always or recently, do you mean?" Quarles asked.
"Always, but more so lately. Can you wonder after all we went through?You can't imagine the horrors that were done in that heathen temple."
He told us some of them, but I shall not set them down here. It is enough to say that human sacrifices were offered. The mere remembrance of Bennett's narrative makes me shudder.
"It is a wonder it did not drive you both mad," said Quarles.
"That is what the master was afraid of," was the answer, "and it is the cause of all this trouble. He did not seem to think it would affect me, but he was very much afraid for himself."
"He told you so?"
"He did more than that. He said that if I saw he was going mad I was to shoot him, and so—"
"Wait a minute," said Quarles, "when did he say this to you?"
"The first time was when we got those things from the place in the forest where they had been left. Then he said it two or three times during the voyage. The last time was when I was cutting his nails."
"Cutting his nails?" I said.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Hardiman could never cut the nails on his right hand. He was very helpless with his left hand in things like that, always was. On this particular day he said his hand was growing stronger, and declared it all was because of will-power. He was quite serious about it, and then he was suddenly afraid he was growing mad. 'Shoot me if I am going mad, Bennett.' That is what he said."
"And how were you to know?" asked Quarles.
"He said I should know for certain when it happened, and I did. The next evening he began telling me that we were bringing a lot of diamonds back to England. He promised me more money than I had ever heard of. I should have shot him then, only I wasn't carrying a revolver."
"So you did it later in the evening?"
"I cannot tell you exactly when I did it," the man answered. "I knew the time had come, but I do not remember the actual doing of it. Only one thing I am certain of—I didn't use a knife. He was always particular to tell me to shoot him."
"You are sure you did kill him?" I said.
"Shot him—yes. I did not stab him. That is a mistake."
"Do you know that your cabin companion says you did not leave your bunk at all that night?" said Quarles.
"That must be another mistake," was the answer.
When he had gone the professor remarked that John Bennett was far nearer an asylum than a prison.
"If Hardiman had been shot I should think the servant had shot him, but he was not shot. You see, Captain, the case is not so easy. These bits of rock complicate it, and we must keep an eye on Majendie."
There was a man I knew well attached to the Liverpool police, and I was fortunate enough to get hold of him to follow Majendie to London that afternoon. Bennett, having virtually confessed to the crime, was kept in custody, and I was free to remain with Quarles and examine the cases which Hardiman had brought to England. After certain formalities had been complied with, we carried out this examination in one of the shipping company's sheds. There were many things of extreme interest of which I could write a lengthy account, but they had no bearing on our business. The things which concerned us were the Patagonian relics.
The two drums did not interest the professor much, but the figure of the god did. It was about three-quarters life size, roughly carved into a man's shape. The wood was light in weight and in color, but had been smeared to a darker hue over the breast and loins. One arm hung by the figure's side, was, indeed, only roughly indicated; but the other, slightly bent, was stretched out in front of the figure. There was nothing actually horrible about the image, but, remembering Bennett's description of some of the rites performed in that temple, it became sinister enough. Quarles's inspection took a long time, and during it I do not think he uttered a word.
"I think we may go back to Chelsea, Wigan," he said at last.
Late on the following night we were in the empty room. At the professor's suggestion I repeated the whole story for Zena's benefit, although I fancy Quarles wanted to have a definite picture before his mind, as it were, and to find out whether any particular points had struck me. Zena's comment when I had finished was rather surprising.
"This Mr. Majendie must be a clumsy thrower," she said.
Quarles sat up in his chair as if his interest in the conversation had only become keen at that moment.
"She hits the very heart of the mystery, Wigan."
"There is no certainty that it was Majendie," I replied.
"Whether it was or not is immaterial for the moment. The fact remains that some one who was anxious to get rid of incriminating evidence was so clumsy that he threw it where any one could pick it up. Not one man in a thousand would have done that, no matter what state of agitation he was in. The packet was deliberately thrown away, remember; it was not done in a moment of sudden fear."
"I am all attention to hear what theory you base upon it," I returned.
"We will begin with the wound," said Quarles. "Sir Robert Gibbs and Dr. Williams agree that it could not have been self-inflicted. Sir Robert suggested that I should try to stab myself in the same way and see how impossible it was. Remember it was a stab and a pull of the blade to one side. It was impossible for a right-handed man, difficult even for a left-handed one, but not impossible. That was the first point I made a mental note of."
"Why did you not speak of the possibility?"
"Chiefly, I think, because I was convinced that Sir Robert expected me to do so, was waiting for me to do so, in fact. He is far too cute a man not to have considered the possibility, and was prepared to prove that Hardiman was a right-handed man, as we know he was from his servant. In all probability Sir Robert knew that Bennett had to cut his master's nails. I was not disposed to give the doctor such an opening as that, although no doubt he thought me a fool for not thinking of it."
"Then we do away with the theory of suicide?" I said.
"Well, the absence of any weapon appears to do that," said Quarles. "What was the weapon? A knife of some kind, a rusty knife and rather jagged, I fancy. The wound suggested that it was jagged, and in spite of the washing my lens revealed traces of rust. Rather a curious knife to commit murder with. That was my second mental note. We had to be prepared for a curious personality somewhere in the business."
"Mr. Majendie," I said.
"He is hardly such an abnormal individual as the servant Bennett. We will consider Bennett first. His story is a straightforward one, nervously told, dramatically told. We might easily assume that imagination had much to do with that story were it not for the contents of those packing-cases. They are corroborative evidence. We may grant that the man's recent experiences have had their effect upon him, have laid bare his nerves, as it were, but since the most unlikely part of his story is true we may assume that the rest of it is. We need not go over it again in detail. The man was evidently attached to his master, and was prepared to shoot him if he exhibited signs of madness. Considering the state of his own nerves, I can believe that Bennett watched for these signs, and felt convinced of his master's madness when he spoke of a wealth of diamonds. Bennett knew they had no diamonds in their possession. He only knew of those bits of rock. So he determined to shoot Hardiman. However, I am convinced that he did not leave his cabin that night. Sleep prevented his carrying out the intention, but when in the morning he found that his master was dead—murdered—he immediately translated his intention into action, and concluded that he had done it. There was no one else who would be likely to murder him. That he should do it was natural under the circumstances. He would not look upon it as a crime. He had only carried out his instructions to the letter, as I have little doubt he has been accustomed to do for years."
"It is a theory, of course, but—"
"Oh, it is more than a theory now," said Quarles, interrupting me. "He admits his guilt, yet we know that Hardiman was stabbed, not shot. We conclude, therefore, that Bennett, although he fully intended to kill his master, did not do so."
"So we come to Majendie," I said.
"Yes, and to the yellow diamonds which Bennett knew nothing about. I admit that Majendie was a distinct surprise to me. He had to prove that the sailor of the watch was mistaken, that he was not the person who threw the stones away. How does he do it? By asking whether he, an expert in diamonds, would be likely to throw away what he knew to be valuable. This was a very ingenious argument. He did not deny that he knew Hardiman had these stones in his possession, because he believed that people must have seen him go into Hardiman's cabin. We have his statement that Hardiman invited him to do so, and that the invitation was given in the hearing of others. So he asked a perfectly simple question to show that the sailor was mistaken."
"Evidently you do not believe that the sailor was mistaken."
"We will go on considering Majendie," said Quarles. "Now, when he took up the knife and imitated my action of stabbing the air with it I made a discovery. He did so with his left hand. Since my first mental note concerned a left-handed man the coincidence is surprising. The sailor in his pantomime had used the right hand. Majendie's action was unexpected, and for a time I did not see its significance. But let us suppose for a moment that Majendie did throw the bag of stones away. He might argue that some one might possibly see the action, and would note that it was done by a left-handed man, so used his right hand to deceive any one who might be there. Hence his bad aim."
I shook my head.
"Wait," said Quarles. "Some one had stolen those bits of rock, else how came they in that canvas bag, and why were they thrown away? Majendie told us that only certain of those stones had at the heart of them a diamond, yet he also said that all those in the bag had. That looks as if they had been picked out and stolen by an expert, and when we remember that Hardiman had shown him the contents of the trunk suspicion points very strongly to Majendie as the thief. Of course, when Hardiman was found dead, he would get rid of evidence which must incriminate him. We must see Majendie, Wigan, and ask him a few questions."
"Then he did not kill Hardiman?" said Zena.
"I do not think so."
"Who did?"
"Nobody. Hardiman was mad and committed suicide, and in a particular way. Think of Bennett's description of that Patagonian temple, Wigan. Those savages were persuaded that Hardiman was a god; possibly human sacrifices were offered to him, and he dared not interfere. That was sufficient to start a man on the road to madness. That wooden god he brought home tells us something. It was the left arm which was stretched out, and in the closed fist was a hole into which a knife had been fixed, a symbol of vengeance and sacrifice, a symbol, mind you, not a weapon which was actually used. I imagine that time had caused it to become rusty and jagged. Now, I think Hardiman removed that knife before packing the figure, kept it near him, because obsessed with it; went mad, in short. We know from Bennett that he believed his left hand was becoming stronger, and I believe his madness compelled him to practise his left hand until it became strong enough to grasp the knife firmly and strike the blow. Since the god was left-handed, his priests were probably so too, and the victims would be slain with the left hand. There was some religious significance attached to the fact, no doubt, and Hardiman's madness would compel him to be exact."
"But what became of the knife?" I asked.
"The porthole was found open," said Quarles. "I think he deliberately put it out of the porthole, his madness suggesting to him that no one should know how he died. He would have strength enough to do this, for he died quietly, bled to death, in fact, and gradually fell into a comatose condition, hence no sign of a struggle. It is impossible to conceive what devilish power may lurk about those things which have been used for devilish purposes. I am very strong on this point, as you know, Wigan."
Of course it was quite impossible to prove whether Quarles was right about the knife, but he was correct as regards Majendie, who had hoped to get possession of a few of these stones without Hardiman missing them, and then, when the unexpected tragedy happened, had tried to get rid of them, using his right hand to throw them away. Amongst the dead man's papers there was a will providing amply for his servant Bennett—who, I may add, recovered his normal health after a time—and leaving his relics to different museums, and any other property he was possessed of to charities. I believe the yellow diamonds proved less valuable than Majendie imagined, but at any rate the various charities benefited considerably.
One's last adventure is apt to assume the place of first importance, the absorption in the details is so recent and the gratification at solving the problems still fresh. Used to his methods as I had become, Quarles's handling of the Daniel Hardiman case was constantly in my mind until I had become acquainted with the yellow taxi. I will not say his deductions in the taxi affair were more clever—you must judge that—but I am sure they were more of a mental strain to him, for he lost his temper with Zena.
We had been arguing various points, and seemed to have exhausted all our ideas.
"Give a dog a bad name and hang him," said Zena, breaking the silence which had seemed to indicate that our discussion was at an end.
"I repeat that had he been in a different position he would have been arrested at once," said Quarles testily; "but because he happens to be a prominent Member of Parliament, goes everywhere which is anywhere, and knows everybody who is anybody, it suits people to forget he is a blackguard and it suits Scotland Yard to neglect its duty."
An inquest in connection with a very extraordinary case had taken place that day, and had been adjourned.
On the previous Monday, between seven and eight in the evening, the traffic had become congested at Hyde Park Corner, chiefly owing to the fog, and the attention of a gentleman standing on the pavement—a Mr. Lester Williams—had been drawn suddenly to the occupant of a taxi. Possibly a street lamp, or the light on an adjacent motor, picked out the lady's face particularly, and he had opened the door before he called to the driver.
The lady was leaning back in the corner, but he saw at once that something was wrong, and when he touched her the horrible truth became apparent.
She was dead.
He called to the driver to draw up to the curb and then called a policeman. Williams jumped at once to the conclusion that a crime had been committed, and the police took the same view.
There was no difficulty as regards identification. She was Lady Tavener, wife of Sir John Tavener, M.P. The driver, Thomas Wood, had come from the other side of Twickenham and had taken up Sir John and his wife at their own front door. He had constantly driven them up to town and elsewhere, sometimes separately, sometimes together. On this occasion he had driven to a house on Richmond Green, where Sir John had got out. Lady Tavener was going on to the Piccadilly Hotel. Wood had got as far as Hyde Park Corner when a gentleman called to him. He had not seen the gentleman open the door of the taxi, knew nothing in fact until he was told to drive up to the curb and Lady Tavener was taken out dead.
At the inquest the evidence took rather a curious turn. It was common knowledge that Sir John had married Lady Tavener after her divorce from a Mr. Curtis, since dead, and Sir John's reputation was none of the best.
Veiled accusations were constantly made against him in those would-be smart journals catering for that public interested in this kind of scandal, and several questions founded on this knowledge were put to him at the inquest.
He came out of the ordeal very well, and gave his evidence in a straightforward manner. He did not pretend that he and his wife did not quarrel at times, sometimes rather severely he admitted, but he maintained there was no reason why his wife should commit suicide. He ignored altogether the idea that he was in any way responsible for her death. She seemed in perfect health when he had left her that evening. She was dining with some people called Folliott, and was going on to the theater with them afterwards. He also believed that a crime had been committed.
The medical evidence threw some doubt on this opinion, however. True, there were slight marks on Lady Tavener's throat, but it was possible she had caused them herself by catching hold of her own throat in some spasm. She was addicted to drugs, a fact which she had concealed from her husband apparently, and her general condition was such that a shock or some sudden excitement might very easily prove fatal. Two doctors were agreed upon this point, and said that she was in a condition known as status lymphaticus.
After the inquest I had gone to see Quarles, and his one idea was that Sir John should have been arrested. Zena's sarcastic suggestion that her grandfather would hang him merely because of his reputation, had made the old man lose his temper altogether.
As I was the representative of Scotland Yard in that empty room atChelsea, I felt compelled to say something in its defense.
"Have you read the evidence given to-day carefully?" I asked.
"I was there," he snapped.
I had not seen him and was astonished.
"Arrest Tavener," he went on, "and then you may be able to solve the problem. There may be extenuating circumstances, but they can be dealt with afterwards. Let us go into another room."
He got up and brought the discussion to a close. He was in one of those moods in which there was no doing anything with him.
Although I was at the inquest, I had had little to do with the case up to this point; now it came entirely into my hands, and it may be that Quarles's advice was at the back of my mind during my inquiries.
I made one or two rather interesting and significant discoveries. The Folliotts, with whom it was said Lady Tavener was dining that night, did not know Sir John, and moreover, they had no appointment with Lady Tavener that evening, nor were they dining at the Piccadilly Hotel. The people on Richmond Green, with whom Sir John had dined, admitted that he was in an excited condition. He made an expected division in the House of Commons an excuse for leaving early, directly after dinner in fact, but he had not gone to the House and did not arrive home until after midnight, when he found a constable waiting for him with the news of his wife's death.
These facts were given in evidence at the next hearing, but it was less due to them than to public feeling, I fancy, that a verdict of murder against Sir John Tavener was returned.
That night I went again to Chelsea.
"I see that you have arrested him, Wigan," was the professor's greeting.
"I don't believe he is guilty," I answered.
"Why not? Let us have the reasons. But tell me first, what was his demeanor when he heard the verdict? Was he astonished?"
"He seemed to be pitying a body of men who could make such a mistake."
"Ah, he will play to the gallery even when death knocks at his door. Why do you think he is not guilty, Wigan?"
"Intuition for one reason."
"Come, that is a woman's prerogative."
"That sixth sense, which is usually denied to men," corrected Zena.
"Then for tangible reasons," I said; "if he killed his wife he committed the crime between Twickenham and Richmond Green, knowing perfectly well that her death must be discovered at the end of her journey. He would know that suspicion would inevitably fall upon him."
"That seems a good argument, Wigan, but, as a fact, suspicion did not immediately fall upon him. He has only been arrested to-day, and even now you think he has been wrongly arrested. The very daring of the crime was in his favor."
"My second reason is this," I went on. "If he were guilty, would he deliberately have closed the door of escape open for him by the doctors and declare that he did not believe his wife committed suicide? Would he not have jumped at the idea?"
"That also sounds a good argument," said Quarles, "but is it? He could not deny that he and his wife quarreled rather badly at times, but he wanted to justify his position, and he felt confident the opinion of the doctors would stand, no matter what he might say. If no other facts come to light, suicide will be the line of defense, Wigan, and it will be exceedingly hard to get any judge and jury to convict him. Nothing carries greater weight than medical evidence, and you will find the doctors sticking to their opinion no matter what happens. No, Wigan, your reasons do not prove that he is not an exceedingly clever and calculating rascal. On the present evidence I think he would escape the hangman, but the public will continue to think him guilty unless some one else stands in the dock in his place."
"I wonder whether the Folliotts have told the truth," said Zena.
"Intuition, Wigan," laughed Quarles, "jumps to the end of the journey and wants to argue backwards."
"Do you not often do the same, dear?"
"Perhaps, but not this time. I think you said the taxi had been in charge of the police?"
"Yes," I answered.
"I should like to see it."
"We can go to-morrow."
I had already spent a couple of hours with that taxi, and I was rather anxious to see how Quarles would go to work with it.
He began with the metal work and the lamps, nodded his admiration at the way they were kept, and remarked that but for the vehicle number and the registering machine it might be a private car. He examined the engine and the tires, using his lens; seemed to be particularly interested in the texture of the rubber, and picked out some grains of soil which had stuck in the tire. All four tires came in for this close inspection.
Inside the taxi his lens went slowly over every inch of the upholstering, and with the blade of a penknife he scraped up some soil from the carpet. This he put on a piece of white paper and spent a long time investigating it. He opened and shut the door half a dozen times, and shook his head. Then he seated himself in the driver's seat, and in pantomime drove the car for a few moments. Afterwards, he stood back and regarded the car as a whole.
"Well, Wigan, it is a very good taxi; let us go and have a ride in another one."
He did not hail the first we encountered, and when he did call one it was for the sake of the driver, I fancy. He explained that he wanted to drive to Richmond Green by Hammersmith and Kew Bridge.
"And we don't want to go too fast," said Quarles.
"Don't you be afraid, guv'nor, I shan't run you into anything; you won't come to no harm with me."
"It isn't that," said Quarles, "but I'm out to enjoy myself. I'll add a good bit to what that clock thing says at the end of the run."
"Thank you, guv'nor."
"Now just get down and open this thing to let me have a look at the works."
The driver looked at me, and I nodded. No doubt he thought I was the old man's keeper.
Quarles looked at the engine.
"It isn't new," he remarked.
"No, guv'nor."
"How long has it been running?"
"I couldn't say. I'm not buying this on the hire system."
"You fellows do that sometimes, eh?"
"Yes, guv'nor, there are several of us chaps own their own taxi."
"That's good. Now for Richmond, and go slowly from Hyde Park Corner."
I never remember a more tedious journey. Quarles hardly spoke a word the whole way, but sat leaning forward, looking keenly from one side of the road to the other, as if he were bent on obtaining a mental picture of every yard of the way. Arriving at Richmond Green he did no more than just glance at the house where Sir John had dined that night, and then told the man to drive to Twickenham as fast as he liked to go.