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Title: The shadow of the Wolf

Author: R. Austin Freeman

Release date: January 29, 2025 [eBook #75244]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: A. L. Burt Company, 1925

Credits: Brian Raiter


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHADOW OF THE WOLF ***


The Shadow of the Wolf

by R. Austin Freeman

Copyright, 1925, by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
Published by A. L. Burt Company (New York)



Contents

    I. In Which Two Men Go Forth and One Arrives
   II. In Which Margaret Purcell Receives a Letter
  III. In Which Margaret Purcell Consults Mr. Penfield
   IV. In Which Margaret Confers with Dr. Thorndyke
    V. In Which Thorndyke Makes a Few Inquiries
   VI. In Which Mr. Varney Prepares a Deception
  VII. The Flash Note Factory
 VIII. In Which Thorndyke Tries Over the Moves
   IX. In Which Mr. Penfield Receives a Shock
    X. In Which Thorndyke Sees a New Light
   XI. In Which Varney Has an Inspiration
  XII. In Which Mr. Varney Once More Pulls the Strings
 XIII. In Which the Medico-legal Worm Arrives
  XIV. In Which Mr. Varney Is Disillusioned
   XV. In Which Thorndyke Opens the Attack
  XVI. In Which John Rodney Is Convinced
 XVII. In Which There Is a Meeting and a Farewell



CHAPTER I

In Which Two Men Go Forth and One Arrives

About half-past eight on a fine, sunny June morning, a small yacht
crept out of Sennen Cove near the Land’s End and headed for the open
sea. On the shelving beach of the Cove two women and a man, evidently
visitors (or “foreigners” to use the local term), stood watching her
departure with valedictory waving of cap or handkerchief, and the
boatman who had put the crew on board, aided by two of his comrades,
was hauling his boat up above the tide-mark.

A light northerly breeze filled the yacht’s sails and drew her
gradually seaward. The figures of her crew dwindled to the size of
dolls; shrank with the increasing distance to the magnitude of
insects; and at last, losing all individuality, became mere specks
merged in the form of the fabric that bore them. At this point the
visitors turned their faces inland and walked away up the beach, and
the boatmen, having opined that “she be fetchin’ a tidy offing”
dismissed the yacht from their minds and reverted to the consideration
of a heap of netting and some invalid lobster pots.

On board the receding craft two men sat in the little cockpit. They
formed the entire crew, for the _Sandhopper_ was only a ship’s
lifeboat, timbered and decked, of light draught and, in the matter of
spars and canvas, what the art critics would call “reticent.”

Both men, despite the fineness of the weather, wore yellow oilskins
and sou’westers, and that was about all they had in common. In other
respects they made a curious contrast, the one small, slender,
sharp-featured, dark almost to swarthiness, and restless and quick in
his movements: the other large, massive, red-faced, blue-eyed, with
the rounded outlines suggestive of ponderous strength: a great ox of a
man, heavy, stolid, but much less unwieldy than he looked.

The conversation incidental to getting the yacht under way had ceased
and silence had fallen on the occupants of the cockpit. The big man
grasped the tiller and looked sulky, which was probably his usual
aspect; and the small man watched him furtively. The land was nearly
two miles distant when the latter broke the silence with a remark very
similar to that of the boatman on the beach.

“You’re not going to take the shore on board, Purcell. Where are we
supposed to be going to?”

“I am going outside the Longships,” was the stolid answer.

“So I see,” rejoined the other. “It’s hardly the shortest course for
Penzance though.”

“I like to keep an offing on this coast,” said Purcell; and once more
the conversation languished.

Presently the smaller man spoke again; this time in a more cheerful
and friendly tone. “Joan Haygarth has come on wonderfully the last few
months; getting quite a fine-looking girl. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes,” answered Purcell; “and so does Phil Rodney.”

“You’re right,” agreed the other. “But she isn’t a patch on her sister
though; and never will be. I was looking at Maggie as we came down the
beach this morning and thinking what a handsome girl she is. Don’t you
agree with me?”

Purcell stooped to look under the boom and answered without turning
his head:

“Yes, she’s all right.”

“All right!” exclaimed the other. “Is that the way—”

“Look here, Varney,” interrupted Purcell; “I don’t want to discuss my
wife’s looks with you or any other man. She’ll do for me or I
shouldn’t have married her.”

A deep, coppery flush stole into Varney’s cheeks. But he had brought
the rather brutal snub on himself and apparently had the fairness to
recognize the fact, for he mumbled an apology and relapsed into
silence.

When he next spoke he did so with a manner diffident and uneasy as
though approaching a disagreeable or difficult subject.

“There’s a little matter, Dan, that I’ve been wanting to speak to you
about when we got a chance of a private talk.” He glanced a little
anxiously at his stolid companion, who grunted, and then, without
removing his gaze from the horizon ahead, replied: “You’ve a pretty
fair chance now, seeing that we shall be bottled up together for
another five or six hours. And it’s private enough unless you bawl
loud enough to be heard at the Longships.”

It was not a gracious invitation. But that Varney had hardly expected;
and if he resented the rebuff he showed no sign of annoyance, for
reasons which appeared when he opened his subject.

“What I wanted to say,” he resumed, “was this. We’re both doing pretty
well now on the square. You must be positively piling up the shekels
and I can earn a decent living, which is all I want. Why shouldn’t we
drop this flash note business?”

Purcell kept his blue eye fixed on the horizon and appeared to ignore
the question; but after an interval, and without moving a muscle he
said gruffly: “Go on,” and Varney continued:

“The lay isn’t what it was, you know. At first it was all plain
sailing. The notes were first-class copies and not a soul suspected
anything until they were presented at the bank. Then the murder was
out; and the next little trip that I made was a very different affair.
Two or three of the notes were suspected quite soon after I had
changed them, and I had to be precious fly, I can tell you, to avoid
complications. And now that the second batch has come into the Bank,
the planting of fresh specimens is going to be no sinecure. There
isn’t a money-changer on the continent of Europe that isn’t keeping
his weather eyeball peeled, to say nothing of the detectives that the
Bank people have sent abroad.”

He paused and looked appealingly at his companion. But Purcell, still
minding his helm, only growled, “Well?”

“Well, I want to chuck it, Dan. When you’ve had a run of luck and
pocketed your winnings is the time to stop play.”

“You’ve come into some money then, I take it,” said Purcell.

“No, I haven’t. But I can make a living now by safe and respectable
means, and I’m sick of all this scheming and dodging with the gaol
everlastingly under my lee.”

“The reason I asked,” said Purcell, “is that there is a trifle
outstanding. You hadn’t forgotten that, I suppose?”

“No, I hadn’t forgotten it, but I thought that perhaps you might be
willing to let me down a bit easily.”

The other man pursed up his thick lips, but continued to gaze stonily
over the bow.

“Oh, that’s what you thought, hey?” he said; and then, after a pause,
he continued: “I fancy you must have lost sight of some of the facts
when you thought that. Let me just remind you how the case stands. To
begin with, you start your career with a little playful forgery and
embezzlement; you blew the proceeds and you are mug enough to be found
out. Then I come in. I compound the affair with old Marston for a
couple of thousand, and practically clean myself out of every penny I
possess, and he consents to regard your temporary absence in the light
of a holiday.

“Now, why do I do this? Am I a philanthropist? Devil a bit. I’m a man
of business. Before I ladle out that two thousand, I make a business
contract with you. I happen to possess the means of making and the
skill to make a passable imitation of the Bank of England paper: you
are a skilled engraver and a plausible scamp. I am to supply you with
paper blanks: you are to engrave plates, print the notes and get them
changed. I am to take two-thirds of the proceeds; and, although I have
done the most difficult part of the work, I agree to regard my share
of the profits as constituting repayment of the loan. Our contract
amounts to this: I lend you two thousand without security—with an
infernal amount of insecurity in fact—you ‘promise, covenant and
agree,’ as the lawyers say, to hand me back ten thousand in
instalments, being the products of our joint industry. It is a verbal
contract which I have no means of enforcing; but I trust you to keep
your word and up to the present you have kept it. You have paid me a
little over four thousand. Now you want to cry off and leave the
balance unpaid. Isn’t that the position?”

“Not exactly,” said Varney. “I’m not crying off the debt; I only want
time. Look here, Dan: I’m making about five-fifty a year now. That
isn’t much, but I’ll manage to let you have a hundred a year out of
it. What do you say to that?”

Purcell laughed scornfully. “A hundred a year to pay off six thousand!
That’ll take just sixty years; and as I’m now forty-three, I shall be
exactly a hundred and three years of age when the last instalment is
paid. I think, Varney, you’ll admit that a man of a hundred and three
is getting a bit past his prime.”

“Well, I’ll pay you something down to start. I’ve saved about eighteen
hundred pounds out of the note business. You can have that now, and
I’ll pay off as much as I can at a time until I’m clear. Remember that
if I should happen to get clapped in chokee for twenty years or so,
you won’t get anything. And, I tell you, it’s getting a risky
business.”

“I’m willing to take the risk,” said Purcell.

“I daresay you are!” Varney retorted passionately; “because it’s my
risk. If I am grabbed, it’s my racket, you sit out. It’s I who passed
the notes and I’m known to be a skilled engraver. That’ll be good
enough for them. They won’t trouble about who made the paper.”

“I hope not,” said Purcell.

“Of course they wouldn’t; and you know I shouldn’t give you away.”

“Naturally. Why should you? Wouldn’t do you any good.”

“Well, give me a chance, Dan,” Varney pleaded. “This business is
getting on my nerves. I want to be quit of it. You’ve had four
thousand; that’s a hundred per cent. You haven’t done so badly.”

“I didn’t expect to do badly. I took a big risk. I gambled two
thousand for ten.”

“Yes, and you got me out of the way while you put the screw on to poor
old Haygarth to make his daughter marry you.” It was an indiscreet
thing to say, but Purcell’s stolid indifference to his danger and
distress had ruffled Varney’s temper somewhat.

Purcell however was unmoved. “I don’t know,” he said, “what you mean
by getting you out of the way. You were never in the way. You were
always hankering after Maggie, but I could never see that she wanted
you.”

“Well, she certainly didn’t want you,” Varney retorted; “and, for that
matter, I don’t think she wants you now.”

For the first time Purcell withdrew his eye from the horizon to turn
it on his companion. And an evil eye it was, set in the great, sensual
face, now purple with anger.

“What the devil do you mean?” he exclaimed furiously; “you infernal,
sallow-faced little whipper-snapper! If you mention my wife’s name
again I’ll knock you on the head and pitch you overboard.”

Varney’s face flushed darkly and for a moment he was inclined to try
the wager of battle. But the odds were impossible, and if Varney was
not a coward, neither was he a fool. But the discussion was at an end.
Nothing was to be hoped for now. Those indiscreet words of provocation
had rendered further pleading impossible; and as Varney relapsed into
sullen silence, it was with the knowledge that for weary years to
come, he was doomed, at best, to tread the perilous path of crime, or,
more probably to waste the brightest years of his life in a convict
prison. For it is a strange fact, and a curious commentary on our
current ethical notions, that neither of these rascals even
contemplated as a possibility the breach of a merely verbal covenant.
A promise had been given. That was enough. Without a specific release,
the terms of that promise must be fulfilled to the letter. How many
righteous men—prim lawyers or strait-laced, church-going men of
business—would have looked at the matter in the same way?

The silence that settled down on the yacht and the aloofness that
encompassed the two men were conducive to reflection. Each of the men
ignored the presence of the other. When the course was altered
southerly Purcell slacked out the sheets with his own hand as he put
up the helm. He might have been sailing single-handed. And Varney
watched him askance but made no move, sitting hunched up on the
locker, nursing a slowly-matured hatred and thinking his thoughts.

Very queer thoughts they were; rambling, but yet connected and very
vivid. He was following out the train of events that might have
happened, pursuing them to their possible consequences. Supposing
Purcell had carried out his threat? Well, there would have been a
pretty tough struggle, for Varney was no weakling. But a struggle with
that solid fifteen stone of flesh could end only in one way. He
glanced at the great, purple, shiny hand that grasped the knob of the
tiller. Not the sort of hand that you would want at your throat! No,
there was no doubt; he would have gone overboard.

And what then? Would Purcell have gone back to Sennen Cove, or sailed
alone into Penzance? In either case he would have had to make up some
sort of story; and no one could have contradicted him whether the
story was believed or not. But it would have been awkward for Purcell.

Then there was the body. That would have washed up sooner or later, as
much of it as the lobsters had left. Well, lobsters don’t eat clothes
or bones, and a dent in the skull might take some accounting for. Very
awkward, this, for Purcell. He would probably have had to clear out—to
make a bolt for it, in short.

The mental picture of this great bully fleeing in terror from the
vengeance of the law gave Varney appreciable pleasure. Most of his
life he had been borne down by the moral and physical weight of this
domineering brute. At school Purcell had fagged him; he had even
bullied him up at Cambridge; and now he had fastened on for ever like
the Old Man of the Sea. And Purcell always got the best of it. When
he, Varney, had come back from Italy after that unfortunate little
affair, behold! the girl whom they had both wanted (and who had wanted
neither of them) had changed from Maggie Haygarth into Maggie Purcell.
And so it was even unto this day. Purcell, once a bookkeeper in a
paper-mill, now a prosperous “financier”—a money-lender, as Varney
more than suspected—spent a part of his secret leisure making, in
absolute safety, those accursed paper blanks; which he, Varney, must
risk his liberty to change into money. Yes, it was quite pleasant to
think of Purcell sneaking from town to town, from country to country
with the police at his heels.

But in these days of telegraphs and extradition there isn’t much
chance for a fugitive. Purcell would have been caught to a certainty;
and he would have been hanged; no doubt of it. And passing lightly
over less attractive details, Varney considered luxuriously the
circumstances of the execution. What a figure he would have made, that
great human ox, turning round and round at the end of a taut rope,
like a baron of beef on a colossal roasting-jack. Varney looked
gloatingly at his companion; considered his large, sullen face, and
thought how it would swell and grow purple as the rope tightened round
the thick, crimson neck.

A disagreeable picture, perhaps; but not to Varney, who saw it through
the distorting medium of years of accumulated dislike. Then, too,
there was the consideration that in the very moment that those brawny
limbs had ceased to twitch, Maggie would have been free—would have
been a widow. Not that that would have concerned him, Varney; he would
have been in some Cornish churchyard, with a dent in his skull. Still
it was a pleasant reflection.

The imagined picture of the execution gave him quite a lengthy
entertainment. Then his errant thoughts began to spread out in search
of other possibilities. For, after all, it was not an absolute
certainty that Purcell could have got him overboard. There was just
the chance that he might have gone overboard himself. That would have
been a very different affair.

Varney settled himself composedly to consider the new and interesting
train of consequences that would thus have been set going. They were
more agreeable to contemplate than the others because they did not
include his own demise. The execution scene made no appearance in this
version. The salient fact was that his oppressor would have vanished;
that the intolerable burden of his servitude would have been lifted
for ever; that he would have been free.

The thought of his regained freedom set him dreaming of the future,
the future that might have been if he could have been rid of this
monstrous parasite; the future that might even have held a place for
Maggie—for she would have been free, too. It was all very pleasant to
think about, though rather tantalizing. He almost wished he had let
Purcell try to put him over.

Of course, some explanation would have had to be given, some sort of
story told; and people might not have believed him. Well, they could
have pleased themselves about that. To be sure, there would have been
the body; but if there were no marks of violence what of it? Besides,
it really need never have washed ashore: that could easily have been
prevented and if the body had never been found, who was to say that
the man had gone overboard at all?

This again was a new view of the case and it set his thoughts
revolving afresh. He found himself roughly sketching out the
conditions under which the body might have vanished for ever. It was
mere idle speculation to while away a dull hour with an uncongenial
companion, and he let his thoughts ramble at large. Now he was away in
the imagined future, a future of peace and prosperity and honourable
effort; and now his thoughts came back unbidden to fill in some
forgotten detail. One moment he was dreamily wondering whether Maggie
would ever have listened to him, ever have come to care for him; the
next, he was back in the yacht’s cabin where hung from a hook on the
bulkhead the revolver that the Rodneys used to practise at floating
bottles. It was usually loaded, he knew, but if not, there was a
canvas bag full of cartridges in the starboard locker. Again he found
himself dreaming of the home that he would have had, a home very
different from the cheerless lodgings in which he moped at present;
and then his thoughts had flitted back to the yacht’s hold and were
busying themselves with the row of half-hundredweights that rested on
the timbers on either side of the kelson.

It was a curious mental state; rambling, seemingly incoherent, yet
quite purposeful: the attention oscillating between the great general
idea and its various component details. He was like a painter roughing
out the preliminary sketch of a picture; at first carelessly smearing
in the general effect, then pausing from time to time to sharpen an
edge, to touch in a crisp light, to define the shape of a shadow, but
never losing sight of the central motive. And as in the sketch
definable shapes begin to grow out of the formless expanse and a vague
suggestion crystallizes into an intelligible composition; so in
Varney’s mind a process of gradual integration turned a vague and
general idea into a clear picture, sharp, vivid, complete.

When Varney had thus brought his mental picture, so to speak, to a
finish, its completeness surprised him. It was so simple, so secure.
He had actually planned out the scheme of a murder; and behold! there
was nothing in it. Any one could have done it and no one could have
been any the wiser. Here he found himself wondering whether many
murders passed undetected. They well might if murders were as easy and
as safe as this. A dangerous reflection for an injured and angry man.
And at this critical point his meditations were broken in on by
Purcell, continuing the conversation as if there had been no pause.

“So you can take it from me, Varney, that I expect you to stick to
your bargain. I paid down my money and I’m going to have my pound of
flesh.”

“You won’t agree to any sort of compromise?”

“No. There are six thousand pounds owing. If you’ve got the money you
can hand it over. If you haven’t, you’ll have to go on the lay and get
it. That’s all I’ve got to say. So now you know.”

It was a brutal thing to say and it was brutally said. But more than
that, it was inopportune—or opportune, as you will. For it came as a
sort of infernal doxology to the devil’s anthem that had been, all
unknown, ringing in Varney’s soul.

Purcell had spoken without looking round. That was his unpleasant
habit. Had he looked at his companion, he might have been startled. A
change in Varney’s face might have given him pause: a warm flush, a
sparkle of the eye, a look of elation, of settled purpose, deadly,
inexorable—the look of a man who has made a fateful resolution. But he
never looked; and the warning of the uplifted axe passed him by.

It was so simple, so secure! That was the burden of the song that
echoed in Varney’s brain. So safe! And there abroad were the watchful
money-changers waiting for the clever forger to come once too often.
There were the detectives lurking in ambush for him. No safety there!
Rather the certainty of swift disaster, with the sequel of judge and
jury, the clang of an iron door, and thereafter the dreary prison
eating up the years of his life.

He glanced over the sea. They had opened the south coast now and he
could see, afar off, a fleet of black-sailed luggers heading east.
_They_ wouldn’t be in his way. Nor would the big four-master that was
creeping away to the west, for she was hull down already; and other
ships there were none. There was one hindrance though. Dead ahead, the
Wolf Rock lighthouse rose from the blue water, its
red-and-white-ringed tower looking like some gaudily painted toy. The
keepers of lonely lighthouses have a natural habit of watching the
passing shipping through their glasses; and it was possible that one
of their telescopes might be pointed at the yacht at this very moment.
That was a complication.

Suddenly there came down the wind a sharp report like the firing of a
gun quickly followed by a second. Both men recognized the duplicate
report and both looked round. It was the explosive signal from the
Longships lighthouse, but when they looked there was no lighthouse to
be seen; and the dark blue heaving water faded away at the foot of an
advancing wall of vapour.

Purcell cursed volubly. A pretty place, this, to be caught in a fog!
And then, as his eye lighted on his companion, he demanded angrily:
“What the devil are you grinning at?” For Varney, drunk with
suppressed excitement, snapped his fingers at rocks and shoals; he was
thinking only of the light keeper’s telescope and of the revolver that
hung on the bulkhead. He must make some excuse presently to go below
and secure that revolver.

But no excuse was necessary. The opportunity came of itself. After a
hasty glance at the vanishing land and another at the compass, Purcell
put up the helm to jibe the yacht round on to an easterly course. As
she came round, the single headsail that she carried in place of jib
and foresail shivered for a few seconds and then filled suddenly on
the opposite tack. And at this moment, the halyard parted with a loud
snap; the end of the rope flew through the blocks and, in an instant,
the sail was down and its upper half trailing in the water alongside.

Purcell swore furiously, but kept an eye to business. “Run below,
Varney,” said he, “and fetch up that coil of new rope out of the
starboard locker while I haul the sail on board. And look alive. We
don’t want to drift down on to the Wolf.”

Varney obeyed with silent alacrity and a curious feeling of elation.
It was going to be even easier and safer than he had thought. He
slipped through the hatch into the cabin and, as he heard Purcell
scrambling along the side-deck overhead, he quietly took the revolver
from its hook and examined the chambers. Finding them all loaded, he
cocked the hammer and slipped the weapon carefully into the inside
breast pocket of his oilskin coat. Then he took the coil of rope from
the locker and went on deck.

As he emerged from the hatch he perceived that the yacht was already
enveloped in fog, which drifted past in steamy clouds and swirling
streamers, and that she had come up head to wind. Purcell was kneeling
on the forecastle, tugging at the sail, which had caught under the
forefoot, and punctuating his efforts with deep-voiced curses.

Varney stole silently along the deck, steadying himself by mast and
shroud; softly laid down the coil of rope and approached. Purcell was
quite engrossed with his task; his back was towards Varney, his face
over the side, intent on the entangled sail. It was a chance in a
thousand.

With scarcely a moment’s hesitation, Varney stooped forward, steadying
himself with a hand on the little windlass, and softly drawing forth
the revolver, pointed it at the back of Purcell’s head at the spot
where the back seam of his sou’wester met the brim. The report rang
out, but weak and flat in that open space, and a cloud of smoke
mingled with the fog; but it blew away immediately and showed Purcell
almost unchanged in posture, crouching on the sail with his chin
resting on the little rim of bulwark, while behind him his murderer,
as if turned into bronze, still stood stooping forward, one hand
grasping the windlass, the other still pointing the revolver.

Thus the two figures remained for some seconds motionless like some
horrible waxworks, until the little yacht, lifting to the swell, gave
a more than usually lively curvet, when Purcell rolled over onto his
back, and Varney relaxed the rigidity of his posture like a golf
player who has watched his ball drop. He bent over the prostrate
figure with no emotion but curiosity; looked into the wide-open,
clear, blue eyes; noted how the great red face had faded to a pallid
mauve against which the blood on lips and chin stood out like the
painted patches on a clown’s face; but he felt not a single twinge of
compunction.

Purcell was dead. That was the salient fact. The head wagged to and
fro as the yacht pitched and rolled; the limp arms and legs seemed to
twitch, the limp body to writhe uneasily. But Varney was not
disturbed. Lifeless things will move on an unsteady deck. He was only
interested to notice how the passive movements produced the illusion
of life. But it was only illusion. Purcell was dead. There was no
doubt of that.

The double report from the Longships came down the wind and then, as
if in answer, a prolonged deep bellow. That was the fog-horn of the
lighthouse on the Wolf Rock; and it sounded surprisingly near. But, of
course, these signals were meant to be heard at a distance. Then a
stream of hot sunshine pouring down on deck, startled him and made him
hurry. The body must be got overboard before the fog lifted. With an
uneasy glance at the clear sky overhead, he hastily cast off the
broken halyard from its cleat and cut off a couple of fathoms. Then he
hurried below and, lifting the trap in the cabin floor, hoisted out
one of the iron half-hundred weights with which the yacht was
ballasted. As he stepped on deck with the weight in his hand the sun
was shining overhead; but the fog was still thick below and the horn
sounded once more from the Wolf. And again it struck him as
surprisingly near.

He passed the length of rope that he had cut off twice round Purcell’s
body, hauled it tight and secured it with a knot. Then he made the
ends fast to the handle of the iron weight.

Not much fear of Purcell drifting ashore now! That weight would hold
him as long as there was anything to hold. But it had taken some time
to do, and the warning bellow from the Wolf seemed to draw nearer and
nearer. He was about to heave the body over when his eye fell on the
dead man’s sou’wester, which had fallen off when the body rolled over.
That hat must be got rid of, for Purcell’s name was worked in silk on
the lining and there was an unmistakable bullet-hole through the back.
It must be destroyed; or, which would be simpler and quicker, lashed
securely on the dead man’s head.

Hurriedly, Varney ran aft and descended to the cabin. He had noticed a
new ball of spun yarn in the locker when he had fetched the rope. This
would be the very thing.

He was back again in a few moments with the ball in his hand,
unwinding it as he came, and, without wasting time, he knelt down by
the body and fell to work. There was a curious absence of repugnance
in his manner, horrible as his task would have seemed. He had to raise
the dead man’s head to fit on the hat, and in so doing covered his
left hand with blood. But he appeared to mind no more than if he had
been handling a seal that he had shot or a large and dirty fish. Quite
composedly, and with that neatness in the handling of cordage that
marks the sailor-man, whether amateur or professional, he proceeded
with his task, intent only on making the lashing secure and getting it
done quickly.

And every half-minute the deep-voiced growl of the Wolf came to him
out of the fog, and each time it sounded nearer and yet nearer.

By the time he had made the sou’wester secure the dead man’s face and
chin were encaged in a web of spun-yard that made him look like some
old-time, grotesque-vizored Samurai warrior. But the hat was now
immoveable. Long after that burly corpse had dwindled to a mere
skeleton, it would hold; would still cling to the dead head when the
face that looked through the lacing of cords was the face of a bare
and grinning skull.

Varney rose to his feet. But his task was not finished yet. There was
Purcell’s suit-case. That must be sunk, too; and there was something
in it that had figured in the detailed picture that his imagination
had drawn. He ran to the cockpit, where the suit-case lay, and having
tried its fastenings and found it unlocked, he opened it and took out
with his right hand—the clean one—a letter that lay on top of the
other contents. This he tossed through the hatch into the cabin. Then
his eye caught, Purcell’s fountain pen, slipped neatly through a loop
in the lid. It was filled, he knew, with the peculiar black ink that
Purcell always used. The thought passed swiftly through his mind that
perchance it might be of use to him. In a moment he had drawn it from
its loop and slipped it into his pocket. Then, having closed and
fastened the suit-case, he carried it forward and made it fast to the
iron weight with a half-dozen turns of spun yarn.

That was really all; and indeed it was time. As he rose once more to
his feet the growl of the fog-horn burst out, as it seemed right over
the stern of the yacht; and she was drifting stern-foremost who could
say how fast. Now, too, he caught a more ominous sound, which he might
have heard sooner had he listened: the wash of water, the boom of
breakers bursting on a rock.

A sudden revulsion came over him. He burst into a wild, sardonic
laugh. And had it come to this, after all? Had he schemed and laboured
only to leave himself alone on an unmanageable craft drifting down to
shipwreck and certain death? Had he taken all this thought and care to
secure Purcell’s body, when his own might be resting beside it on the
sea bottom within an hour?

But his reverie was brief. Suddenly, from the white void over his very
head, as it seemed, there issued a stunning, thunderous roar that
shook the very deck under his feet. The water around him boiled into a
foamy chaos; the din of bursting waves was in his ears; the yacht
plunged and wallowed amidst clouds of spray; and, for an instant a
dim, gigantic shadow loomed through the fog and was gone.

In that moment his nerve had come back. Holding on, with one hand, to
the windlass, he dragged the body to the edge of the forecastle,
hoisted the weight outboard, and then, taking advantage of a heavy
lurch, gave the corpse a vigorous shove. There was a rattle and a
hollow splash; and corpse and weight and suit-case had vanished into
the seething water.

He clung to the swinging mast and waited. Breathlessly he told out the
allotted seconds until, once again, the invisible Titan belched forth
his thunderous warning. But this time the roar came over the yacht’s
bow. She had drifted past the rock then. The danger was over; and
Purcell would have to go down to Davy Jones’ Locker companionless
after all.

Very soon, the water around ceased to boil and tumble, and, as the
yacht’s wild plunging settled down once more into the normal rise and
fall on the long swell, Varney turned his attention to the refitting
of the halyard. But what was this on the creamy, duck sail? A pool of
blood and a gory imprint of his own hand! That wouldn’t do at all. He
would have to clear that away before he could hoist the sail; which
was annoying, as the yacht was helpless without her headsail and was
evidently drifting out to sea.

He fetched a bucket, a swab and a scrubbing-brush and set to work. The
bulk of the large blood stain cleared off pretty completely after he
had drenched the sail with a bucketful or two and given it a good
scrubbing. But the edge of the stain, where the heat of the deck had
dried it, remained like the painted boundary on a map, and the
hand-print—which had also dried—though it faded to a pale buff,
continued clearly visible.

Varney began to grow uneasy. If those stains would not come
out—especially the hand-print—it would be very awkward; they would
take such a deal of explaining. He decided to try the effect of marine
soap, and fetched a cake from the cabin; but even this did not
obliterate the stains completely, though it turned them a faint,
greenish-brown, very unlike the colour of blood. Still he scrubbed on
until at last the hand-print faded away entirely and the large stain
was reduced to a faint, green wavy line; and that was the best he
could do—and quite good enough; for, if that faint line should ever be
noticed, no one would ever suspect its origin.

He put away the bucket and proceeded with the refitting. The sea had
disengaged the sail from the forefoot and he hauled it on board
without difficulty. Then there was the reeving of the new halyard; a
troublesome business, involving the necessity of his going aloft,
where his weight—small man as he was—made the yacht roll most
infernally, and set him swinging to and fro like the bob of a
metronome. But he was a smart yachtsman and active, though not
powerful, and a few minutes’ strenuous exertion ended in his sliding
down the shrouds with the new halyard running fairly through the upper
block. A vigorous haul or two at the new, hairy rope sent the head of
the dripping sail aloft, and the yacht was once more under control.

The rig of the _Sandhopper_ was not smart but it was handy. She
carried a short bowsprit to accommodate the single headsail and a
relatively large mizzen, of which the advantage was that, by judicious
management of the mizzen-sheet, the yacht would sail with very little
attention to the helm. Of this advantage Varney was keenly
appreciative just now, for he had several things to do before entering
port. The excitement of the last hour and the bodily exertion had left
him shaky and faint. He wanted refreshment, he wanted a wash and the
various traces of recent events had to be removed. Also, there was
that letter to be attended to. So that it was convenient to be able to
leave the helm in charge of a lashing for a minute now and again.

When he had washed, he put the kettle on the spirit stove and, while
it was heating, busied himself in cleaning the revolver, flinging the
empty cartridge-case overboard and replacing it with a cartridge from
the bag in the locker. Then he picked up the letter that he had taken
from Purcell’s suit-case and examined it. It was addressed to “Joseph
Penfield, Esq., George Yard, Lombard Street,” and was unstamped,
though the envelope was fastened up. He affixed a stamp from his
pocketbook; and, when the kettle began to boil, he held the envelope
in the steam that issued from the spout. Very soon the flap of the
envelope loosened and curled back, when he laid it aside to mix
himself a mug of hot grog, which, together with the letter and a
biscuit-tin, he took out into the cockpit. The fog was still dense,
and the hoot of a steamer’s whistle from somewhere to the westward
caused him to reach the foghorn out of the locker and blow a long
blast on it. As if in answer to his treble squeak, came the deep bass
note from the Wolf, and, unconsciously, he looked round. He turned
automatically as one does towards a sudden noise, not expecting to see
anything but fog; and what he did see startled him not a little.

For there was the lighthouse—or half of it, rather—standing up above
the fog-bank, clear, distinct and hardly a mile away. The gilded vane,
the sparkling lantern, the gallery and the upper half of the
red-and-white-ringed tower, stood sharp against the pallid sky; but
the lower half was invisible. It was a strange apparition—like half a
lighthouse suspended in mid-air—and uncommonly disturbing, too. It
raised a very awkward question. If he could see the lantern, the light
keepers could see him. But how long had the lantern been clear of the
fog? That was the question; and the answer to it might come in a
highly disagreeable form.

Thus he meditated, as with one hand on the tiller, he munched his
biscuit and sipped his grog. Presently he picked up the stamped
envelope and drew from it a letter which he tore into fragments and
dropped overboard. Then, from his pocketbook, he took a similar but
unaddressed envelope from which he drew out its contents; and very
curious those contents were. There was a letter, brief and laconic,
which he read over thoughtfully. “These,” it ran, “are all I have by
me, but they will do for the present and when you have planted them I
will let you have a fresh supply.” There was no date and no signature,
but the rather peculiar handwriting in jet black ink was similar to
that on the envelope addressed to Joseph Penfield, Esq.

The other contents consisted of a dozen sheets of blank paper, each of
the size of a Bank of England note. But they were not quite blank, for
each bore an elaborate watermark, identical with that of a
twenty-pound bank note. They were, in fact, the “paper blanks” of
which Purcell had spoken. The envelope with its contents had been
slipped into his hand by Purcell, without remark, only three days ago.

Varney refolded the “blanks,” enclosed them within the letter and
slipped letter and “blanks” together into the stamped envelope, the
flap of which he licked and reclosed.

“I should like to see old Penfield’s face when he opens that envelope”
was his reflection as, with a grim smile, he put it away in his
pocketbook. “And I wonder what he will do,” he added, mentally;
“however, I shall see before many days are over.”

Varney looked at his watch. He was to meet Jack Rodney on Penzance
Pier at a quarter to three. He would never do it at this rate, for
when he opened Mount’s Bay, Penzance would be right in the wind’s eye.
That would mean a long beat to windward. Then Rodney would be there,
first, waiting for him. Deuced awkward this. He would have to account
for his being alone on board; would have to invent some lie about
having put Purcell ashore at Mousehole or Newlyn. But a lie is a very
pernicious thing. Its effects are cumulative. You never know when you
have done with it. Apart from moral considerations, lies should be
avoided at all cost of present inconvenience; that is unless they are
absolutely unavoidable; and then they should be as probable as can be
managed, and not calculated to provoke inquiry. Now, if he had reached
Penzance before Rodney, he need have said nothing about Purcell—for
the present, at any rate; and that would have been so much safer.

When the yacht was about abreast of Lamorna Cove, though some seven
miles to the south, the breeze began to draw ahead and the fog cleared
off quite suddenly. The change of wind was unfavourable for the
moment, but when it veered round yet a little more until it blew from
east-north-east, Varney brightened up considerably. There was still a
chance of reaching Penzance before Rodney arrived; for now, as soon as
he had fairly opened Mount’s Bay, he could head straight for his
destination and make it on a single board.

Between two and three hours later, the _Sandhopper_ entered Penzance
Harbour, and, threading her way among an assemblage of luggers and
small coasters, brought up alongside the Albert pier at the foot of a
vacant ladder.

Having made the yacht fast to a couple of rings, Varney divested
himself of his oilskins, locked the cabin scuttle and climbed the
ladder. The change of wind had saved him after all and, as he strode
away along the pier he glanced complacently at his watch. He still had
nearly half an hour to the good.

He seemed to know the place well and to have a definite objective, for
he struck out briskly from the foot of the pier into Market Jew Street
and from thence by a somewhat zig-zag route to a road which eventually
brought him out about the middle of the Esplanade. Continuing
westward, he entered the Newlyn Road along which he walked rapidly for
about a third of a mile, when he drew up opposite a small letter-box
which was let into a wall. Here he stopped to read the tablet on which
was printed the hours of collection and then, having glanced at his
watch, he walked on again but at a less rapid pace.

When he reached the outskirts of Newlyn he turned and began slowly to
retrace his steps, looking at his watch from time to time with a
certain air of impatience. Presently a quick step behind him caused
him to look round. The newcomer was a postman, striding along, bag on
shoulder, with the noisy tread of a heavily-shod man and evidently
collecting letters. Varney let him pass; watched him halt at the
little letter-box, unlock the door, gather up the letters and stow
them in his bag; heard the clang of the iron door and finally saw the
man set forth again on his pilgrimage. Then he brought forth his
pocketbook and drawing from it the letter addressed to Joseph
Penfield, Esq., stepped up to the letter-box. The tablet now announced
that the next collection would be at 8.30 p.m.

Varney read the announcement with a faint smile, glanced again at his
watch, which stood at two minutes past four, and dropped the letter
into the box.

As he walked up the pier, with a large paper bag under his arm, he
became aware of a tall man who was doing sentry-go before a Gladstone
bag that stood on the coping opposite the ladder; and who, observing
his approach, came forward to meet him.

“Here you are, then, Rodney,” was Varney’s rather unoriginal greeting.

“Yes,” replied Rodney, “and here I’ve been for nearly half an hour.
Purcell gone?”

“Bless you! yes; long ago,” answered Varney.

“I didn’t see him at the station. What train was he going by?”

“I don’t know. He said something about taking Falmouth on the way; had
some business or other there. But I expect he’s gone to have a feed at
one of the hotels. We got hung up in a fog—that’s why I’m so late;
I’ve been up to buy some prog.”

“Well,” said Rodney, “bring it on board. It’s time we were under way.
As soon as we are outside, I’ll take charge and you can go below and
stoke up at your ease.”

The two men descended the ladder and proceeded at once to hoist the
sails and cast off the shore-ropes. A few strokes of an oar sent them
clear of the lee of the pier, and in a few minutes the yacht
_Sandhopper_ was once more outside, heading south with a steady breeze
from east-north-east.



CHAPTER II

In Which Margaret Purcell Receives a Letter

Daylight dies hard in the month of June and night comes but tardily
into her scanty reversion. The clock on the mantelpiece stood at
half-past nine, and candles twinkled on the supper table, but even now
the slaty-grey band of twilight was only just stealing up behind the
horizon to veil the fading glories of the western sky.

Varney sat at the old-fashioned, oval gate-legged table with an air of
placid contentment, listening to and joining in the rather
disconnected talk (for hungry people are poor conversationalists) with
quiet geniality but with a certain remoteness and abstraction. From
where he sat he could see out through the open window the great ocean
stretching away to the south and west, the glittering horizon and the
gorgeous evening sky. With quiet pleasure he had watched the changing
scene; the crimson disc of the setting sun, the flaming gold softening
down into the sober tints of the afterglow, and now, as the grey
herald of the night spread upwards, his eye dwelt steadily on one spot
away in the south-west. At first faintly visible, then waxing as the
daylight waned, a momentary spark flashed in the heart of the twilight
grey; now white like the sparkle of a diamond, now crimson like the
flash of a ruby. It was the light on the Wolf Rock.

He watched it thoughtfully as he talked:
white—red—white—red—diamond—ruby; so it would go on every fifteen
seconds through the short summer night; to mariners a warning and a
guide; to him, a message of release; for another, a memorial.

As he looked at the changing lights, he thought of his enemy lying out
there in the chilly depths on the bed of the sea. It was strange how
often he thought of Purcell. For the man was dead; had gone out of his
life utterly. And yet, in the two days that had passed, every trivial
incident had seemed to connect itself and him with the man who was
gone. And so it was now. All roads seemed to lead to Purcell. If he
looked out seaward, there was the lighthouse flashing its secret
message, as if it should say, “We know, you and I; he is down here.”
If he looked around the table, still everything spoke of the dead man.
There was Phillip Rodney—Purcell and he had talked of him on the
yacht. There was Jack Rodney who had waited on the pier for the man
who had not come. There, at the hostess’s right hand, was the quiet,
keen-faced stranger whom Purcell, for some reason, had not wished to
meet; and there, at the head of the table, was Margaret herself, the
determining cause of it all. Even the very lobsters on the table
(lobsters are plentiful at the Land’s End) set him thinking of dark,
crawling shapes down in that dim underworld, groping around a larger
shape tethered to an iron weight.

He turned his face resolutely away from the sea. He would think no
more of Purcell. The fellow had dogged him through life, but now he
was gone. Enough of Purcell. Let him think of something more pleasant.

The most agreeable object of contemplation within his field of vision
was the woman who sat at the head of the table—his hostess. And, in
fact, Margaret Purcell was very pleasant to look upon, not only for
her comeliness, though she was undoubtedly a pretty, almost a
beautiful, woman, but because she was sweet-faced and gracious and
what men compliment the sex by calling “womanly.” She was evidently
under thirty, though she carried a certain matronly sedateness and an
air of being older than she either looked or was; which was
accentuated by the fashion in which she wore her hair, primly parted
in the middle—a rather big woman, quiet and reposeful, as big women
often are.

Varney looked at her with a kind of wonder. He had always thought her
lovely and now she seemed lovelier than ever. And she was a widow,
little as she suspected it; little as any one but he suspected it. But
it was a fact. She was free to marry, if she only knew it.

He hugged himself at the thought and listened dreamily to the mellow
tones of her voice. She was talking to her guest and the elder Rodney,
but he had only a dim idea of what she was saying; he was enjoying the
music of her speech rather than attending to the matter. Suddenly she
turned to him and asked:

“Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Varney?”

He pulled himself together, and, after a momentarily vacant look,
answered:

“I always agree with you, Mrs. Purcell.”

“And so,” said Rodney, “as the greater includes the less, he agrees
with you now. I am admiring your self-possession, Varney: you haven’t
the least idea what we were talking about.”

Varney laughed and reddened, and Margaret looked at him with playful
reproach.

“Haven’t you?” she asked. “But how deceitful of you to answer so
readily. I was remarking that lawyers have a way of making a solemn
parade and exactness and secrecy when there is no occasion. That was
my statement.”

“And it is perfectly correct,” said Varney. “You know it is, Rodney.
You’re always doing it. I’ve noticed it constantly.”

“Oh, this is mere vindictiveness because he unmasked your deceit. I
wasn’t alluding to Mr. Rodney, or any one in particular. I was just
speaking generally.”

“But,” said Varney, “something must have suggested the reflection.”

“Certainly. Something did: a letter that I have just received from Mr.
Penfield; a most portentous document, and all about nothing.”

At the mention of the lawyer’s name Varney’s attention came to a sharp
focus.

“It seems,” Margaret continued, “that Dan, when he wrote to Mr.
Penfield the other day, put the wrong letter in the envelope; a silly
thing to do, but we all do silly things sometimes.”

“I don’t,” said Rodney.

“Well, ordinary persons, I mean. Then Mr. Penfield, instead of simply
stating the fact and returning the letter, becomes mysterious and
alarming. He informs me that the envelope was addressed in Dan’s
handwriting, that the letter was posted at Penzance at eight-thirty
p.m., that it was opened by him in person, and that the contents,
which have been seen by no one but himself, are at present reposing in
his private safe, of which he alone has the key. What he does not tell
us is what the contents of the envelope were; which is the only thing
that matters. It is most extraordinary. From the tone of his letter
one would think that the envelope had contained something dreadful and
incriminating.”

“Perhaps it did,” said Varney. “Dan’s political views are distinctly
revolutionary and he is as secret as a whole barrel of oysters. That
letter may have contained particulars of some sort of Guy Fawkes
conspiracy enclosing samples of suitable explosives. Who knows?”

Margaret was about to reply, when her glance happened to light on Jack
Rodney, and something in that gentleman’s expressive and handsome face
gave her pause. Had she been chattering indiscreetly? And might Mr.
Penfield have meant something after all? There were some curious
points about his letter. She smilingly accepted the Guy Fawkes theory
and then adroitly changed the subject.

“Speaking of Penzance, Mr. Varney, reminds me that you haven’t told us
what sort of voyage you had. There was quite a thick fog, wasn’t
there?”

“Yes. It delayed us a lot. Purcell would steer right out to sea for
fear of going ashore. Then the breeze failed for a time and then it
veered round easterly and headed us, and, as a wind-up to the chapter
of accidents, the jib-halyard carried away and we had to reeve a new
one. Nice, crazy gear you keep on your craft, Rodney.”

“I suspected that rope,” said Rodney; “in fact I had meant to fit a
new halyard before I went up to town. But I should have liked to see
Purcell shinning up aloft.”

“So should I—from the shore,” said Varney. “He’d have carried away the
mast, or capsized the yacht. No, my friend, I left him below as a
counterpoise and went aloft myself.”

“Did Dan go straight off to the station?” Margaret asked.

“I should say not,” replied Varney. “He was in a mighty hurry to be
off; said he had some things to see to—I fancy one of them was a
grilled steak and a bottle of Bass. We were both pretty ravenous.”

“But why didn’t you go with him, if you were ravenous, too?”

“I had to snug up the yacht and he wouldn’t wait. He was up the ladder
like a lamplighter almost before we had made fast. I can see him now,
with that great suit-case in his hand, going up as light as a feather.
He is wonderfully active for his size.”

“Isn’t he?” said Rodney. “But these big men often are. Look at the way
those great lumping pilots will drop down into a boat; as light as
cats.”

“He is a big fellow, too,” said Varney. “I was looking at him as he
stopped at the top of the ladder to sing out, ‘So long.’ He looked
quite gigantic in his oilskins.”

“He actually went up into the town in his oilskins, did he?” exclaimed
Margaret. “He must have been impatient for his meal! Oh, how silly of
me! I never sewed on that button that had come off the collar of his
oilskin coat! I hope you didn’t have a wet passage.”

“You need not reproach yourself, Mrs. Purcell,” interposed Phillip
Rodney. “Your neglect was made good by my providence. _I_ sewed on
that button when I borrowed the coat on Friday evening to go to my
diggings in.”

“You told me you hadn’t a spare oilskin button,” said Margaret.

“I hadn’t, but I made one—out of a cork.”

“A cork!” Margaret exclaimed, with an incredulous laugh.

“Not a common cork, you know,” Phillip explained. “It was a flat,
circular cork from one of my collecting jars, waterproofed with
paraffin wax; a most superior affair, with a beautiful round
label—also waterproofed by the wax—on which was typed ‘marine worms.’
The label was very decorative. It’s my own invention and I’m rather
proud of it.”

“You may well be. And I suppose you sewed it on with ropeyarn and a
sail-needle?” Margaret suggested.

“Not at all. It was secured with cat-gut; the fag end of an E string
that I happened to have in my pocket. You see, I had no needle or
thread, so I made two holes in the cork with the marline spike in my
pocket-knife, two similar holes in the coat, poked the ends of the
fiddle-string through, tied a reef knot inside and there it was, tight
as wax—paraffin wax.”

“It was very ingenious and resourceful of you,” Varney commented, “but
the product wasn’t very happily disposed of on Dan’s coat—I mean as to
your decorative label. I take it that Dan’s interest in marine worms
is limited to their use as bait. Now if you could have fitted out Dr.
Thorndyke with a set there would have been some appropriateness in it,
since marine worms are the objects of his devotion; at least so I
understand,” and he looked interrogatively at Margaret’s guest.

Dr. Thorndyke smiled. “You are draping me in the mantle of my friend,
Professor D’Arcy,” he said. “He is the real devotee. I have merely
come down for a few days to stay with him and be an interested
spectator of the chase. It is he who should have the buttons.”

“Still,” said Varney, “you aid and abet him. I suppose you help him to
dig them up.”

Phillip laughed scornfully. “Why, you are as bad as Dan, Varney. You
are thinking in terms of bait. Do you imagine Dr. Thorndyke and the
professor go a-worming with a bully-beef tin and a garden fork as you
do when you are getting ready for a fishing jaunt?”

“Well, how was I to know?” retorted Varney. “I am not a naturalist.
What do they do? Set traps for ’em with bits of cheese inside?”

“Of course they don’t,” laughed Margaret. “How absurd you are, Mr.
Varney. They go out with a boat and a dredge; and very interesting it
must be to bring up all those curious creatures from the bottom of the
sea.”

She spoke rather absently, for her thoughts had gone back to Mr.
Penfield’s letter. There was certainly something a little cryptic in
its tone, which she had taken for mere professional pedantry, but
which she now recalled with vague uneasiness. Could the old lawyer
have stumbled on something discreditable and written this ambiguously
worded letter as a warning? Her husband was not a communicative man
and she could not pretend to herself that she had an exalted opinion
of his moral character. It was all very disquieting.

The housekeeper, who had been retained with the furnished house,
brought in the coffee, and, as Margaret poured it out she continued
her reflections, watching Varney with unconscious curiosity as he
rolled a cigarette. The ring-finger of his left hand had a stiff
joint—the result of an old injury—and was permanently bent at a sharp
angle. It gave his hand an appearance of awkwardness, but she noted
that he rolled his cigarette as quickly and neatly as if all his
fingers were sound. The stiff finger had become normal to him. And she
also noted that Dr. Thorndyke appeared quite interested in the
contrast between the appearance of awkwardness and the actual
efficiency of the maimed finger.

From Varney her attention—or inattention—wandered to her guest.
Absently she dwelt on his powerful, intellectual face, his bold,
clean-cut features, his shapely mouth, firm almost to severity; and
all the time she was thinking of Mr. Penfield’s letter.

“Have we all finished?” she asked at length; “and if so, where are we
going to smoke our pipes and cigars?”

“I propose that we go into the garden,” said Phillip. “It is a lovely
evening and we can look at the moonlight on the sea while we smoke.”

“Yes,” Margaret agreed, “it will be more pleasant out there. Don’t
wait for me. I will join you in a few minutes, but I want first to
have a few words with Mr. Rodney.”

Phillip, who, like the others, understood that this was a consultation
on the subject of Mr. Penfield’s letter, rose and playfully shepherded
Varney out of the door which his brother held invitingly open.

“Now then, Varney, out you go. No lagging behind and eavesdropping.
The pronouncements of the oracle are not for the likes of you and me.”

Varney took his dismissal with a smile and followed Dr. Thorndyke out,
though as he looked at the barrister’s commanding figure and handsome
face, he could not repress a twinge of jealousy. Why could not Maggie
have consulted him? He was an old friend, and he knew more about old
Penfield’s letter than Rodney did. But, of course, she had no idea of
that.

As soon as they were alone, Margaret and Rodney resumed their seats
and the former opened the subject without preamble.

“What do you really think of Mr. Penfield’s letter?” she asked.

“Could you give me, in general terms, the substance of what he says?”
Rodney answered, cautiously.

“I had better show you the letter itself,” said Margaret. She rose and
left the room, returning almost immediately with an official-looking
envelope which she handed to Rodney. The letter which he extracted
from it and spread out on the table, was not remarkably legible; an
elderly solicitor’s autograph letters seldom are. But barristers, like
old-fashioned druggists, are usually expert decipherers and Rodney
read the letter without difficulty. It ran thus:—

                “George Yard,
        “Lombard Street, E. C.
                “25th June, 1911.

  “Dear Mrs. Purcell,

  “I have just received from your husband a letter with certain
  enclosures which have caused me some surprise. The envelope is
  addressed to me in his handwriting and the letter, which is
  unsigned, is also in his hand; but neither the letter nor the other
  contents could possibly have been intended for me and it is manifest
  that they have been placed in the wrong envelope.

  “The postmark shows that the letter was posted at Penzance at 8.30
  p.m. on the 23rd instant. It was opened by me, and the contents,
  which have been seen by no one but me, have been deposited in my
  private safe, of which I alone have the key.

  “Will you very kindly acquaint your husband with these facts and
  request him to call on me at his early convenience?

  “I am, dear Mrs. Purcell,

        “Yours sincerely,
            “Joseph Penfield.

  “Mrs. Daniel Purcell,
      “Sennen, Cornwall.”

Rodney read the solicitor’s letter through twice, refolded it,
replaced it in its envelope and returned it to Margaret.

“Well, what do you think of it?” the latter asked.

Rodney reflected for some moments.

“It’s a very careful letter,” he replied at length.

“Yes, I know, and that is a very careful answer, but not very helpful.
Now do drop the lawyer and tell me just what you think like a good
friend.”

Rodney looked at her quickly with a faint smile and yet very
earnestly. He found it strangely pleasant to be called a good friend
by Margaret Purcell.

“I gather,” he said slowly, “from the tone of Mr. Penfield’s letter
that he found something in that envelope that your husband would not
have wished him to see; something that he had reasons for wishing no
one to see but the person for whom it was meant.”

“Do you mean something discreditable or compromising?”

“We mustn’t jump at conclusions. Mr. Penfield is very reticent so,
presumably, he has some reasons for reticence; otherwise he would have
said plainly what the envelope contained. But why does he write to
you? Doesn’t he know your husband’s address?”

“No, but he could have got it from Dan’s office. I have been
wondering, myself, why he wrote to me.”

“Has your husband arrived at Oulton yet?”

“Heavens! Yes. It doesn’t take two days and a half to get to Norfolk.”

“Oh, then he wasn’t staying at Falmouth?”

Margaret stared at him. “Falmouth!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

“I understood Varney to say that he was going to call at Falmouth.”

“No, certainly not. He was going straight to London and so on to
Oulton the same night. I wonder what Mr. Varney can have meant.”

“We must find out presently. Have you heard from your husband since he
left?”

“No. Oddly enough, he hasn’t written, which is unlike him. He
generally sends me a line as soon as he arrives anywhere.”

“You had better send him a telegram in the morning to make sure of his
whereabouts and then let him have a copy of Mr. Penfield’s letter at
once. And I think I wouldn’t refer to the subject before any of our
friends if I were you.”

“No. I oughtn’t to have said what I did. But, of course, I didn’t
dream that Mr. Penfield really meant anything. Shall we go out into
the garden?”

Rodney opened the door for her and they passed out to where their
three companions sat in deck chairs facing the sea. Two chairs had
been placed for them, and, as they seated themselves, Varney remarked:

“I take it that the oracle has spoken; and I hope he was more explicit
than oracles are usually.”

“He was explicit and discreet—especially discreet,” Margaret replied.

“Oh, they are always that,” said Varney; “discretion is the oracular
specialty. The explicitness is exceptional.”

“I believe it is,” replied Margaret, “and I am glad you set so much
value on it because I am coming to you, now, for information. Mr.
Rodney tells me that Dan said something to you about Falmouth. What
was it?”

“He said he was going to call in there; at least, so I understood.”

“But he wasn’t, you know. He was going direct to London and straight
on to Oulton the same night. You must have misunderstood him.”

“I may have done, but I don’t think I did. Still, he only mentioned
the matter casually and I wasn’t paying particular attention.”

Margaret made no rejoinder and the party became somewhat silent.
Phillip, realizing Margaret’s uneasy preoccupation, engaged Dr.
Thorndyke in an animated conversation respecting the natural history
of the Cornish coast and the pleasures of dredging.

The other three became profoundly thoughtful. To each, the solicitor’s
letter had its special message, though to one only was that message
clearly intelligible. Rodney was puzzled and deeply suspicious. To him
the letter had read like that of a man washing his hands of a
disagreeable responsibility. The curious reticence as to the nature of
the enclosures and the reference to the private safe sounded ominous.
He knew little of Purcell—he had been a friend of the Haygarths—and
had no great opinion of him. Purcell was a financier, and financiers
sometimes did queer things. At any rate, Penfield’s excessive caution
suggested something fishy—possibly something illicit. In fact, to
speak colloquially, Rodney smelt a rat.

Margaret also was puzzled and suspicious, but, woman-like, she allowed
her suspicions to take a more special form. She, too, smelt a rat, but
it was a feminine rat. The lawyer’s silence as to the contents of that
mysterious envelope seemed to admit of no other interpretation. It was
so pointed. Of course he could not tell her, though he was an old
friend and her trustee; so he had said nothing.

She reflected on the matter with lukewarm displeasure. Her relations
with her husband were not such as to admit of jealousy in the ordinary
sense; but still she was married to him, and any affair on his part
with another woman would be very disagreeable and humiliating to her.
It might lead to a scandal, too, and from that her ingrained delicacy
revolted.

Varney, meanwhile, sat with his head thrown back, wrapped in thought
of a more dreamy quality. He knew all about the letter and his mind
was occupying itself with speculation as to its effects. Rodney’s view
of it he gauged pretty accurately; but what did _she_ think of it? Was
she anxious, worried at the prospect of some unpleasant disclosure? He
hoped not. At any rate, it could not be helped. And she was free, if
she only knew it.

He had smoked out his cigarette and now, as he abstractedly filled his
pipe, his eye insensibly sought the spot where the diamond and ruby
flashed out alternately from the bosom of the night. A cloud had crept
over the moon and the transitory golden and crimson gleam shone out
bright and clear amidst the encompassing darkness—white—red,
white—red, diamond—ruby; a message in a secret code from the tall,
unseen sentinel on that solitary, wave-washed rock, bidding him be of
good cheer, reminding him again and again of the freedom that was
his—and hers—made everlastingly secure by a friendly iron sinker.

The cloud turned silvery at the edge and the moon sailed out into the
open. Margaret looked up at it thoughtfully. “I wonder where Dan is
to-night,” she said; and in the pause that followed a crimson spark
from the dim horizon seemed to Varney to signal, “Here” and instantly
fade into discreet darkness.

“Perhaps,” suggested Phillip, “he is having a moonlight sail on the
Broad, or more probably, taking a whisky and soda with Bradford in the
inn-parlour where the stuffed pike is. You remember that stuffed pike,
Jack?”

His brother nodded. “Can I ever forget it, or the landlord’s
interminable story of its capture? I wonder why people become so
intolerably boresome about their fishing exploits. The angler is
nearly as bad as the golfer.”

“Still,” said Varney, “he has more excuse. It is more of an
achievement to catch a pike or a salmon than merely to whack a ball
with a stick.”

“Isn’t that rather a crude description of the game?” asked Margaret.
“It is to be hoped that Dr. Thorndyke is not an enthusiast.”

“I am not,” he assured her; “in fact I was admiring Mr. Varney’s
simplification. His definition of the game is worthy of Dr. Johnson.
But I must tear myself away. My host is an early bird and I expect you
are, too. Good night, Mrs. Purcell. It has been very delightful to
meet you again. I am only sorry that I should have missed your
husband.”

“So am I,” said Margaret, shaking his hand warmly, “but I think it
most kind of you to have remembered me after all these years.”

As Dr. Thorndyke rose, the other three men stood up. “It is time for
us to go, too,” said Rodney, “so we will see you to the end of the
road, Thorndyke. Good night, Mrs. Purcell.”

“Good night, gentlemen all,” she replied. “Eight o’clock breakfast,
remember.”

The four men went into the house to fetch their hats and took their
departure, walking together as far as the cross-roads; where Thorndyke
wished the other three good night and left them to pursue their way to
the village.

The lodging accommodation in this neighbourhood was not sumptuous, but
our three friends were not soft or fastidious. Besides, they only
slept at their “diggings,” taking their meals and making their home at
the house which Purcell had hired, furnished, for the holiday. It was
a somewhat unconventional arrangement, now that Purcell had gone, and
spoke eloquently of his confidence in the discretion of his attractive
wife.

The three men were not in the same lodgings. Varney was “putting up”
at the “First and Last” inn in the adjoining village—or “church-town,”
to give it its local title—of Sennen, while the Rodneys shared a room
at the “Ship” down in Sennen Cove, more than a mile away. They
proceeded together as far as Varney’s hostel, when, having wished him
“good night,” the two brothers strode away along the moonlit road
towards the Cove.

For a while neither spoke, though the thoughts of both were occupied
by the same subject, the solicitor’s letter. Phillip had fully taken
in the situation, although he had made no remark on it, and the fact
that his brother had been consulted quasi-professionally on the
subject made him hesitate to refer to it. For, in spite of his gay,
almost frivolous, manner, Phillip Rodney was a responsible medical
practitioner and really a man of sound judgment and discretion.

Presently his scruples yielded to the consideration that his brother
was not likely to divulge any confidence and he remarked:

“I hope Purcell hasn’t been doing anything shady. It sounded to me as
if there was a touch of Pontius Pilate in the tone of Penfield’s
letter.”

“Yes, a very guarded tone, with a certain note of preparation for
unpleasant possibilities. So it struck me. I do sincerely hope there
isn’t anything in it.”

“So do I, by Jove! but I shouldn’t be so very astonished. Of course we
don’t know anything against Purcell—at least I don’t—but somehow he
doesn’t strike me as a very scrupulous man. His outlook on life jars a
bit; don’t you feel that sometimes?”

“The commercial standard isn’t quite the same as the professional, you
know,” Jack Rodney answered evasively; “and financial circles are not
exactly hotbeds of the higher morality. But I know of nothing to
Purcell’s discredit.”

“No, of course not. But he isn’t the same class as his wife; she’s a
lot too good for a coarse, bucolic fellow like that. I wonder why the
deuce she married him. I used to think she rather liked you.”

“A woman can’t marry every man she rather likes, you know, Phil,
unless she happens to live in Ladak; and even there I believe there
are limits. But to come back to Purcell, we may be worrying ourselves
about nothing. To-morrow we shall get into touch with him by telegraph
and then we may hear something from him.”

Here the consideration of Purcell and his affairs dropped so far as
conversation went; but in the elder man’s mind certain memories had
been revived by his brother’s remark and occupied it during the
remainder of the walk. For he, too, had once thought that Maggie
Haygarth rather liked him, and he now recalled the shock of
disagreeable surprise with which he had heard of her marriage. But
that was over and done with long ago, and the question now was, how
was the _Sandhopper_—at present moored in Whitesand Bay—to be got from
the Land’s End to her moorings above Westminster Bridge; a problem
that engaged the attention of the two brothers until they turned into
their respective beds, and the laggard, according to immemorial
custom, blew out the light.

In spite of Mrs. Purcell’s admonition they were some minutes late on
the following morning. Their two friends were already seated at the
breakfast table and it needed no extraordinary powers of observation
to see that something had happened. Their hostess was pale and looked
worried and somewhat frightened and Varney was preternaturally grave.
A telegram lay open on the table by Margaret’s place, and, as Rodney
advanced to shake hands, she held it out to him without a word. He
took the paper and read the brief, but ominous, message that confirmed
but too plainly his misgivings of the previous night.

  “Where is Dan? Expected him here Tuesday night. Hope nothing wrong.
        Bradford. Angler’s Hotel. Oulton.”

Rodney laid down the telegram and looked at Margaret. “This is a queer
business,” said he. “Have you done anything?”

“No,” she replied. “What can we do?”

Rodney took a slip of paper and a pencil from his pocket. “If you will
write down the name of the partner or clerk who is attending at the
office and the address, and that of the caretaker of your flat, I will
go and send off reply-paid telegrams to them asking for information as
to your husband’s whereabouts and I will also reply to Mr. Bradford.
It is just possible that Purcell may have gone home after all.”

“It’s very unlikely,” said Margaret. “The flat is shut up, and he
would surely have written. Still, we may as well make sure, if you
will be so kind. But won’t you have your breakfast first?”

“We’d better waste no time,” he answered; and, pocketing the paper,
strode away on his errand.

Little was said until he returned, and even then the breakfast
proceeded in a gloomy silence that contrasted strangely with the usual
vivacity of the gatherings around that hospitable table. A feeling of
tense expectation pervaded the party and a vivid sense of impending
disaster. Dreary efforts were made to keep some kind of conversation
going, but the talk was colourless and disjointed with long and
awkward pauses.

Varney especially was wrapped in deep meditation. Outwardly he
preserved an appearance of sympathetic anxiety, but inwardly he was
conscious of a strange, rather agreeable excitement, almost of
elation. When he looked at Margaret’s troubled face he felt a pang of
regret, of contrition; but principally he was sensible of a feeling of
power, of knowledge. He sat apart, as it were, godlike, omniscient. He
knew all the facts that were hidden from the others. The past lay
clear before him to the smallest detail; the involved present was as
an open book which he read with ease; and he could even peer
confidently into the future.

And these men and the woman before him, and those others afar off; the
men at the office, the caretaker, Penfield, the lawyer, and Bradford
at his inn in Norfolk; what were they but so many puppets, moving
feverishly hither and thither as he, the unseen master-spirit,
directed them by a pull at the strings? It was he who had wound them
up and set them going, and here he sat, motionless and quiet, watching
them do his bidding. He was reminded of an occasion when he had been
permitted for a short time to steer a five-thousand-ton steamer. What
a sense of power it had given him to watch the stupendous consequences
of his own trifling movements! A touch of the little wheel, the
movement of a spoke or two to right or left, and what a commotion
followed! How the steam gear had clanked with furious haste to obey
and the great ship had presently swerved round, responsive to the
pressure of his fingers. What a wonderful thing it had been! There was
that colossal structure with its enormous burden of merchandise, its
teeming population sweating in the stokehold or sleeping in the dark
forecastle; its unconscious passengers chatting on the decks, reading,
writing or playing cards in saloon or smoking-room; and he had it all
in the grasp of one hand, had moved it and turned it about with the
mere touch of a finger.

And so it was now. The magical pressure of his finger on the trigger,
a few turns of a rope, the hoisting of an iron weight; and behold! the
whole course of a human life—probably of several human lives—was
changed utterly.

It was a tremendous thought.

In a little over an hour the replies to Rodney’s discreetly worded
inquiries had come in. Mr. Purcell had not been home nor had he been
heard of at the office. Mr. Penfield had been enquiring as to his
whereabouts and so had Mr. Bradford. That was all. And what it
amounted to was that Daniel Purcell had disappeared.

“Can’t you remember exactly what Dan said about going to Falmouth, Mr.
Varney?” Margaret asked.

“I am sorry to say I can’t,” replied Varney. “You see he just threw
the remark off casually and I didn’t ask any questions. He isn’t very
fond of being questioned, you know.”

“I wonder what he could have been going to Falmouth for,” she mused.
In reality she did not wonder at all. She felt pretty certain that she
knew. But pride would not allow her publicly to adopt that explanation
until it was forced on her.

“It seems to me that there is only one course,” she continued. “I must
go up to town and see Mr. Penfield. Don’t you think so, Mr. Rodney?”

“Certainly. He is the only one who knows anything and is able to
advise.” He hesitated a moment and then added: “Hadn’t we better come
up with you?”

“Yes,” said Varney eagerly; “let us all go up.”

Margaret considered for a few moments. “It is excessively kind and
sympathetic of you all, and I am glad you offered, because it makes me
feel that I have good, loyal friends; which is a great deal to know
just now. But really there would be no use in breaking up your
holidays. What could you do? We can’t make a search in person. Why not
take over the house and stay on here?”

“We don’t want the house if you’re not in it,” said Phillip.

“No,” agreed Jack Rodney; “if we can’t be of use to you, we shall get
afloat and begin to crawl round the coast homewards.”

“I think I shall run over to Falmouth and see if I can pick up any
news,” said Varney.

“Thank you,” said Margaret. “I think that would be really useful,” and
Rodney agreed heartily, adding: “Why not come round on the yacht,
Varney? We shall probably get there to-morrow night.”

Varney reflected. And suddenly it was borne in upon him that he felt
an unspeakable repugnance to the idea of going on board the yacht and
especially to making the voyage from Sennen to Penzance. The feeling
came to him as an utter surprise, but there was no doubt of its
reality. “I think I’ll go over by train,” he said. “It will save a
day, you know.”

“Then we will meet you there,” said Rodney; “and, Mrs. Purcell, will
you send us a letter to the Green Banks Hotel, Falmouth, and let us
know what Mr. Penfield says and if you would like us to come up to
town to help you?”

“Thank you, yes, I will,” Margaret replied heartily. “And I promise
that, if I want your help, I will ask for it.”

“That is a solemn promise, mind,” said Rodney.

“Yes, I mean it—a solemn promise.”

So the matter was arranged. By twelve o’clock—the weather being
calm—the yacht was got under way for Penzance. And even as on that
other occasion, she headed seaward with her crew of two, watched from
the shore by a woman and a man.



CHAPTER III

In Which Margaret Purcell Consults Mr. Penfield

Mr. Joseph Penfield was undeniably in a rather awkward dilemma. For he
had hooked the wrong fish. His letter to Maggie Purcell had been
designed to put him immediately in touch with Purcell himself; whereas
it had evoked an urgent telegram from Maggie announcing her intention
of calling on him “on important business” and entreating him to
arrange an interview.

It was really most unfortunate. There was no one in the world that he
had less desire to see, at the present moment, than Margaret Purcell.
And yet there was no possible escape; for not only was he her
solicitor and her trustee, but he was an old family friend and not a
little attached to her in his dry way. But he didn’t want her just
now. He wanted Purcell; and he wanted him very badly.

For a solicitor of irreproachable character and spotless reputation,
his position was highly unpleasant. As soon as he had opened the
letter from Penzance he had recognized the nature of the enclosures
and had instantly connected them with the forgeries of Bank of England
notes of which he had heard. The intricate watermarks on the “blanks”
were unmistakable. But so was the handwriting of the accompanying
letter. It was Daniel Purcell’s beyond a doubt; and the peculiar,
intensely black ink was equally characteristic. And, short as the note
was, it made perfectly clear its connection with the incriminating
enclosures. It wrote down Daniel Purcell a bank-note forger.

Now Mr. Penfield was, as we have said, a man of irreproachable
character. But he was a very secretive and rather casuistical old
gentleman, and his regard for Margaret had led him to apply his
casuistry to the present case; pretending to himself that his
discovery of the illicit blanks came within the category of “clients’
secrets” which he need not divulge. But in his heart he knew that he
was conniving at a felony; that he ought to give information to the
police or to the Bank, and that he wasn’t going to. His plan was to
get hold of Purcell, make him destroy the blanks in his presence, and
deliver such a warning as would put a stop to the forgeries.

But if he did not propose to give Purcell away, neither did he intend
to give himself away. He would share his compromising secret with no
one—especially with a lady. And this consideration raised the
difficult question, What on earth was he to say to Margaret Purcell
when she arrived? A question which he was still debating with her
telegram spread out before him and his silver snuff-box in his hand
when a clerk entered his private office to announce the unwelcome
visitor.

Fortifying himself with a pinch of snuff, he rose and advanced towards
the door to receive her, and as she entered he made a quick mental
note of her anxious and troubled expression.

“How do you do, Mrs. Purcell?” said he, with a ceremonious bow. “You
have had a long journey and rather an early one. How very unfortunate
that this business, to which you refer in your telegram, should have
arisen while you were on holiday so far away.”

“You have guessed what the business is, I suppose,” said Margaret.

Mr. Penfield smiled deprecatingly. “We lawyers,” said he, “are not
much addicted to guessing, especially when definite information is
available. Pray be seated; and now,” he continued, as Margaret
subsided into the clients’ chair and he resumed his own, resting his
elbows on the arms and placing his finger-tips together, “let us hear
what this new and important business is.”

“It is about that mysterious letter that you had from my husband,”
said Margaret.

“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Penfield. “What a pity that you should have
taken this long journey for such a trifling affair; and I thought I
gave you all the particulars.”

“You didn’t mention whom the letter was from.”

“For several excellent reasons,” replied Mr. Penfield, checking them
off on his fingers. “First, I don’t know; second, it is not my
business; third, your husband, whose business it is, does know. My
object in writing to you was to get into touch with him so that I
could hand back to him this letter which should never have come into
my possession. Shall I take down his address now?”

“I haven’t it myself,” Margaret replied with a faint flush. “I have no
idea where he is at present. He left Sennen on the 23rd to go to
Oulton via Penzance. But he never arrived at Oulton. He has not been
home, he has not been to the office and he has not written. It is
rather alarming, especially in connection with your mysterious
letter.”

“Was my letter mysterious?” said Mr. Penfield, rapidly considering
this new, but not very surprising development. “I hardly think so. It
was not intended to be. What was there mysterious about it?”

“Everything,” she replied, producing the letter from her bag and
glancing at it as she spoke. “You emphasize that Dan’s letter and the
other contents have been seen by no eye but yours and that they are in
a receptacle to which no one has access but yourself. There is a
strong hint of something secret and compromising in the nature of
Dan’s letter and the enclosures.”

“I would rather say ‘confidential,’” murmured Mr. Penfield.

“And,” Margaret continued, “you must see that there is an evident
connection between this misdirected letter and Dan’s disappearance.”

Mr. Penfield saw the connection very plainly, but he was admitting
nothing. He did, indeed, allow that “it was a coincidence” but would
not agree to “a necessary connection.” “Probably you will hear from
your husband in a day or two, and then the letter can be returned.”

“Is there any reason why you should not show me Dan’s letter?”
Margaret demanded. “Surely I am entitled, as his wife, to see it.”

Mr. Penfield pursed up his lips and took a deliberate pinch of snuff.

“We must not confuse,” said he “the theological relations of married
people with their legal relations. Theologically they are one; legally
they are separate persons subject to a mutual contract. As to this
letter, it is not mine and consequently I can show it to no one; and I
must assume that if your husband had desired you to see it he would
have shown it to you himself.”

“But,” Margaret protested impatiently, “are not my husband’s secrets
my secrets?”

“That,” replied the lawyer, “is a delicate question which we need not
consider. There is the question of the secrets of a third party. If I
had the felicity to be a married man, which unfortunately I have not,
you would hardly expect me to communicate your private, and perhaps
secret, affairs to my wife. Now would you?”

Margaret had to admit that she would not. But she instantly countered
the lawyer by inquiring: “Then I was apparently right in inferring
that this letter and the enclosures contained matter of a secret and
compromising character.”

“I have said nothing to that effect,” replied Mr. Penfield,
uncomfortably; and then, seeing that he had no choice between a
downright lie and a flat refusal to answer any questions, he
continued: “The fact is that it is not admissible for me to make any
statement. This letter came to me by an error and my position must be
as if I had not seen it.”

“But it can’t be,” Margaret persisted, “because you have seen it. I
want to know if Dan’s letter was addressed to any one whom I know. You
could tell me that, surely?”

“Unfortunately I cannot,” replied the lawyer, glad to be able to tell
the literal truth for once. “The letter was without any formal
opening. There was nothing to indicate the identity or even the sex of
the person to whom it was addressed.”

Margaret noted this curious fact and then asked: “With regard to the
enclosures. Did they consist of money?”

“They did not,” was the reply, “nor cheques.”

A brief silence followed during which Margaret reflected rapidly on
what she had learned, and what she had not learned. At length she
looked up with a somewhat wry smile and said: “Well, Mr. Penfield, I
suppose that is all I shall get out of you?”

“I am afraid it is,” he replied. “The necessity of so much reservation
is most distasteful, I assure you; but it is the plain duty of a
lawyer to keep not only his own counsel but other people’s.”

“Yes, of course, I quite understand that. And now, as we have finished
with the letter, there is the writer to consider. What had I better do
about Dan?”

“Why do anything? It is only four days since he left Sennen.”

“Yes, but something has evidently happened. He may have met with an
accident and be in some hospital. Do you think I ought to notify the
police that he is missing?”

“No; certainly not,” Mr. Penfield replied emphatically; for, to his
mind, Purcell’s disappearance was quite simply explained. He had
discovered the mistake of the transposed letter, and knew that
Penfield held the means of convicting him of a felony, and he had gone
into hiding until he should discover what the lawyer meant to do. To
put the police on his track would be to convince him of his danger and
drive him hopelessly out of reach. But Mr. Penfield could not explain
this to Margaret; and to cover his emphatic rejection of police
assistance he continued: “You see, he can hardly be said to be
missing; he may merely have altered his plans and neglected to write.
Have patience for a day or two, and if you still hear no tidings of
him, send me a line and I will take what measures seem advisable for
trying to get into touch with him.”

“Thank you,” said Margaret, not very enthusiastically, rising to take
her departure. She was in the act of shaking Mr. Penfield’s hand when,
with a sudden afterthought she asked:

“By the way, was there anything in Dan’s letter that might account for
his disappearance in this fashion?”

This was rather a facer for Mr. Penfield, who, like many casuists,
hated telling a direct lie. For the answer was clearly “yes,” whereas
the sense that he was compelled to convey was “no.”

“You are forgetting that the letter was not addressed to me,” he said.
“And that reminds me that there must have been another letter—the one
that _was_ addressed to me and that must have been put into the other
person’s envelope. May I ask if that letter has been returned?”

“No, it has not,” replied Margaret.

“Ha!” said Mr. Penfield. “But it probably will be in the course of a
day or two. Then we shall know what he was writing to me about and who
is the other correspondent. Good day, good day, Mrs. Purcell.”

He shook her hand warmly and hastened to open the door for her in the
hope—justified by the result—that she would not realize until she had
left that her very significant question had not been answered.

Indeed she did not realize how adroitly the old solicitor had evaded
that question until she was too far away to return and put it afresh,
even if that had seemed worth while; for her attention was occupied by
the other issue that he had so artfully raised. She had overlooked the
presumable existence of the second transposed letter, the one that
should have been in Mr. Penfield’s envelope. It ought to have been
returned at once. Possibly it was even now waiting at Sennen to be
forwarded. If it arrived, it would probably disclose the identity of
the mysterious correspondent. On the other hand it might not; and if
it were not returned at all, that would confirm the suspicion that
there was something gravely wrong. And it was at this point that
Margaret became conscious of Mr. Penfield’s last evasion.

Its effect was to confirm the generally disagreeable impression that
she had received from the interview. She was a little resentful of the
lawyer’s elaborate reticence, which, coupled with the strange
precautionary terms of his letter to her, convinced her that her
husband had embarked on some questionable transaction and that Mr.
Penfield knew it and knew the nature of that transaction. His instant
rejection of the suggestion that an accident might have occurred and
that the police might be notified seemed to imply that he had some
inkling of Purcell’s proceedings, and his final evasion of her
question strongly suggested that the letter, or the enclosures, or
both, contained some clue to the disappearance.

Thus, as she took her way home, Margaret turned over again and again
the puzzling elements of the mystery; and at each reshuffling of the
scanty facts the same conclusion emerged; her husband had absconded
and he had not absconded alone. The secret that Mr. Penfield was
guarding was such a secret as might, if divulged, have pointed the way
to the Divorce Court. And with this conclusion and a frown of disgust,
she turned into the entry of her flat and ascended the stairs.

As she let herself in, the maid met her in the hall.

“Mr. Varney is in the drawing-room, ma’am,” she said. “He came about
ten minutes ago. I am getting tea for him.”

“Thank you, Nellie,” said Margaret, “and you might get me some, too.”
She passed on to her bedroom for a hasty wash and change and then
joined her visitor in time to pour out the tea.

“How good of you, Mr. Varney,” she said warmly as they shook hands,
“to come to me so quickly. You must have only just arrived.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I came straight on from the station. I thought you
would be anxious to know if I had heard anything.”

“And have you?”

“Well,” Varney replied, hesitatingly, “I’m rather afraid not. I seem
to have drawn a blank.”

Margaret looked at him critically. There was something in his manner
suggestive of doubt and reservation.

“Do you mean an absolute blank? Did you find out nothing at all?”

Again Varney seemed to hesitate and Margaret’s attention sharpened.

“There isn’t much use in making guesses,” said he. “I found no
definite traces of Dan. He hadn’t been at the ‘Ship,’ where I put up
and where he used to stay when he went to Falmouth, and of course I
couldn’t go round the other hotels making inquiries. But I went down
the quay-side and asked a few discreet questions about the craft that
had left the port since Monday, especially the odd craft, bound for
small ports. I felt that if Dan had any reason for slipping off
quietly, he wouldn’t go by a passenger boat to a regular passenger
port. He would go on a cargo boat bound to some out-of-the-way place.
So I found out what I could about the cargo boats that had put out of
Falmouth; but I didn’t have much luck.”

Again he paused irresolutely, and Margaret asked, with a shade of
impatience: “Did you find out anything at all?”

“Well, no; I can’t say that I did,” Varney replied in the same slow,
inconclusive manner. “It’s disappointing in a way, especially as I
really thought at one time that I had got on his track. But that
turned out a mistake after all.”

“You are sure it was a mistake,” said Margaret, eagerly. “Tell me
about it.”

“I picked up the clue when I was asking about a Swedish steamer that
had put out on Tuesday morning. She had a lading of China clay and was
bound for Malmo, but she was calling at Ipswich to pick up some other
cargo. I learned that she took one or two passengers on board, and one
of them was described to me as a big, red-faced man of about forty who
looked like a pilot or a ship’s officer. That sounded rather like Dan;
and when I heard that he was carrying a biggish suit-case and had a
yellow oilskin coat on his arm, I made pretty sure that it was.”

“And how do you know that it was not Dan?”

“Why,” replied Varney, “it turned out that this man had a woman with
him.”

“I see,” said Margaret, hastily, flushing scarlet and turning her head
away. For a while she could think of nothing further to say. To her,
of course, the alleged disproof of the passenger’s identity was
“confirmation strong as Holy Writ.” But her pride would not allow her
to confess this, at any rate to Varney; and she was in difficulties as
to how to pursue the inquiry without making the admission. At length
she ventured: “Do you think that is quite conclusive? I mean, is it
certain that the woman belonged to the man? There is the possibility
that she may have been merely a fellow passenger whom he had casually
accompanied to the ship. Or did you ascertain that they were
actually—er—companions?”

“No, by Jove!” exclaimed Varney. “I never thought of any other
possibilities. I heard that the man went on board with a woman and at
once decided that he couldn’t be Dan. But you are quite right. They
may have just met at the hotel or elsewhere and walked down to the
ship together. I wonder if it’s worth while to make any further
inquiries about the ship; I mean at Ipswich, or, if necessary, at
Malmo.”

“Do you remember the ship’s name?”

“Yes; the _Hedwig_ of Hernosand. She left Falmouth early on the
Tuesday morning so she will probably have gone to Ipswich some time
yesterday. She may be there now; or, of course, she may have picked up
her stuff and gone to sea the same day. Would you like me to run down
to Ipswich and see if I can find out anything?”

Margaret turned on him with a look that set his heart thumping and his
pulses throbbing.

“Mr. Varney,” she said, in a low, unsteady voice, “you make me ashamed
and proud: proud to have such a loyal, devoted friend, and ashamed to
be such a tax on him.”

“Not at all,” he replied. “After all”—here his voice, too, became a
little unsteady—“Dan was my pal; is my pal still,” he added huskily.
He paused for a moment and then concluded: “I’ll go down to-night and
try to pick up the scent while it is fresh.”

“It _is_ good of you,” she exclaimed; and as she spoke her eyes
filled, but she still looked at him frankly as she continued: “Your
faithful friendship is no little compensation for”—she was going to
say “his unfaithfulness,” but altered the words to “the worry and
anxiety of this horrid mystery. But I am ashamed to let you take so
much trouble, though I must confess that it would be an immense relief
to me to get _some_ news of Dan. I don’t hope for good news, but it is
terrible to be so completely in the dark.”

“Yes, that is the worst part of it,” Varney agreed; and then, setting
his cup on the table, he rose. “I had better be getting along now,” he
said, “so that I can catch the earliest possible train. Good-bye, Mrs.
Purcell, and good luck to us both.”

The leave-taking almost shattered Varney’s self-possession, for
Margaret, in the excess of her gratitude, impulsively grasped both his
hands and pressed them warmly as she poured out her thanks. Her touch
made him tingle to the finger-ends. Heavens! How beautiful she looked,
this lovely, unconscious young widow. And to think that she might in
time be his own! A wild impulse surged through him to clasp her in his
arms; to tell her that she was free and that he worshipped her. Of
course that was a mere impulse that interfered not at all with his
decorous, deferential manner. And yet a sudden, almost insensible
change in hers made him suspect that his eyes had told her more than
he had meant to disclose. Nevertheless, she followed him to the lobby
to speed him on his errand, and when he looked back from the foot of
the stairs, she was standing at the open door smiling down on him.

The thoughts of these two persons, when each was alone, were strangely
different. In Margaret’s mind there was no doubt that the man on the
steamer was her unworthy husband. But what did Varney think? That a
man of the world should have failed to perceive that an unexplained
disappearance was most probably an elopement seemed to her incredible.
Varney could not be such an innocent as that. The only alternative was
that he, like Mr. Penfield, was trying to shield Dan; to hush up the
disreputable elements of the escapade. But whereas the lawyer’s
obstinate reticence had aroused some slight resentment, she felt no
resentment towards Varney. For he was Dan’s friend first of all and it
was proper that he should try to shield his “pal.” And he was really
serving husband and wife equally. To hush things up would be the best
for both. She wanted no scandal. Loyal and faithful wife as she had
been, her feelings towards her husband were of that somewhat tepid
quality that would have allowed her to receive him back without
reproaches and to accept the lamest explanations without question or
comment. Varney’s assumed policy was as much to her interest as to
Dan’s; and he was certainly playing the part of a devoted friend to
them both.

One thing did, indeed, rather puzzle her. Her marriage had been—on her
husband’s side—undoubtedly a love-match. It was for no mercenary
reasons that he had forced the marriage on her and her father; and up
to the last he had seemed to be, in his rather brutal way, genuinely
in love with her. Why, then, had he suddenly gone off with another
woman? To her constant, faithful nature the thing was inexplicable.

Varney’s reflections were more complex. A vague consciousness of the
cumulative effects of actions was beginning to steal into his mind; a
faint perception that he was being borne along on the current of
circumstance. He had gone to Falmouth with the express purpose of
losing Purcell. But it seemed necessary to pick up some trace of the
imaginary fugitive; for the one essential to Varney’s safety was that
Purcell’s disappearance must appear to date from the landing at
Penzance. That landing must be taken as an established fact. There
must be no inquiry into or discussion of the incidents of that tragic
voyage. But to that end it was necessary that Purcell should make some
reappearance on shore; must leave some traces for possible pursuers to
follow. So Varney had gone to Falmouth to find such traces—and to lose
them. That was to have been the end of the business so far as he was
concerned.

But it was not the end; and as he noted this, he noted too, with a
curious interest unmixed with any uneasiness, how one event generates
others. He had invented Purcell’s proposed visit to Falmouth to give a
plausible colour to the disappearance and to carry the field of
inquiry beyond the landing at Penzance. Then the Falmouth story had
seemed to commit him to a visit to Falmouth to confirm it. That visit
had committed him to the fabrication of the required confirmatory
traces, which were to be found and then lost. But he had not quite
succeeded in losing them. Margaret’s question had seemed to commit him
to tracing them further; and now he had got to find and lose Purcell
at Ipswich. That, however, would be the end. From Ipswich Purcell
would have to disappear for good.

The account that he had given Margaret was founded on facts. The ship
that he had described was a real ship which had sailed when he had
said that she sailed and for the ports that he had named. Moreover,
she had carried one or two passengers. But the red-faced man with the
suit case and his female companion were creatures of Varney’s
imagination.

Thus we see Varney already treading the well-worn trail left by
multitudes of wrongdoers; weaving around himself a defensive web of
illusory appearances, laying down false tracks that lead always away
from himself; never suspecting that the web may at last become as the
fowler’s snare, that the false tracks may point the way to the hounds
of destiny. It is true that, as he fared on his way to Ipswich, he was
conscious that the tide of circumstance was bearing him farther than
he had meant to travel; but not yet did he recognize in this
hardly-perceived compulsion the abiding menace of accumulating
consequences that encompasses the murderer.



CHAPTER IV

In Which Margaret Confers with Dr. Thorndyke

The sun was shining pleasantly on the trees of King’s Bench Walk,
Inner Temple, when Margaret approached the handsome brick portico of
number 5A and read upon the jamb of the doorway the name of Dr. John
Thorndyke under the explanatory heading “First pair.” She was a little
nervous of the coming interview, partly because she had met the famous
criminal lawyer only twice before, but more especially by reason of a
vague fear that her uneasy suspicions of her husband might presently
be turned into something more definite and disagreeable.

Her nervousness on the first score was soon dispelled, for her gentle
summons on the little brass knocker of the inner door—the “oak” was
open—was answered by Dr. Thorndyke himself, who greeted her as an old
friend and led her into the sitting-room, where tea-things were set
out on a small table between two armchairs. The homely informality of
the reception, so different from the official stiffness of Mr.
Penfield, instantly put her at her ease; and when the tea-pot arrived
in the custody of a small gentleman of archdiaconal aspect and
surprisingly crinklyness of feature, she felt as if she were merely
paying some rather unusual kind of afternoon call.

Dr. Thorndyke had what would, in his medical capacity, have been
called a fine bedside manner; pleasant, genial, sympathetic, but never
losing touch with the business on hand. Insensibly a conversation of
pleasing generality slipped into a consultation, and Margaret found
herself stating her case, apparently of her own initiative. Having
described her interview with Mr. Penfield and commented on the old
lawyer’s very unhelpful attitude, she continued:

“It was Mr. Rodney who advised me to consult you. As a civil lawyer
with no experience of criminal practice, he felt hardly competent to
deal with the case. That was what he said. It sounds rather ominous;
as if he thought there might be some criminal element in the affair.”

“Not necessarily,” said Thorndyke. “But your husband is missing; and a
missing man is certainly more in my province than in Rodney’s. What
did he suggest that you should ask me to do?”

“I should wish, of course,” replied Margaret, “to get into
communication with my husband. But if that is not possible, I should
at least like to know what has become of him. Matters can’t be left in
their present uncertain state. There is the future to think of.”

“Precisely,” agreed Thorndyke, “and as the future must be based upon
the present and the past, we had better begin by setting out what we
actually know and can prove. First, I understand that on the 23rd of
June, your husband left Sennen, and was seen by several persons to
leave, on a yacht in company with Mr. Varney and that there was no one
else on board. The yacht reached Penzance at about half-past two in
the afternoon and your husband went ashore at once. He was seen by Mr.
Varney to land on the pier and go towards the town. Did any one
besides Mr. Varney see him go ashore?”

“No—at least I have not heard of any one. Of course, he may have been
seen by some fisherman or strangers on the pier. But does it matter?
Mr. Varney saw him land and he certainly was not on the yacht when Mr.
Rodney arrived half an hour later. There can’t be any possible doubt
that he did land at Penzance.”

“No,” Thorndyke agreed; “but as that is the last time that he was
certainly seen alive and as the fact that he landed may have to be
proved in a court of law, additional evidence would be worth
securing.”

“But that was not the last time that he was seen alive,” said
Margaret; and here she gave him an account of Varney’s expedition to
Falmouth, explaining why he went and giving full particulars
respecting the steamer; all of which Thorndyke noted down on the
note-book which lay by his side on the table.

“This is very important,” said he, when she had finished. “But you see
that it is on a different plane of certainty. It is hearsay at the
best and there is no real identification. What luck did Mr. Varney
have at Ipswich?”

“He went down there on the evening of the 27th—the day after his visit
to Falmouth. He went straight to the quay-side and made inquiries
about the steamer _Hedwig_, which he learned had left about noon,
having come in about nine o’clock on the previous night. He talked to
various quay loafers and from one of them ascertained that a single
passenger had landed; a big man, carrying a large bag or portmanteau
in his hand and a coat of some kind on his arm. The passenger landed
alone. Nothing was seen of any woman.”

“Did Mr. Varney take the name and address of his informant at Ipswich
or the one at Falmouth?”

“I am afraid not. He said nothing about it.”

“That is unfortunate,” said Thorndyke, “because these witnesses may be
wanted as they might be able to identify a photograph of your husband.
We must find out from Mr. Varney what he did in the matter.”

Margaret looked at Dr. Thorndyke with a slightly puzzled expression.
“You speak of witnesses and evidence,” said she, “as if you had
something definite in your mind. Some legal proceedings, I mean.”

“I have,” he replied. “If your husband makes no sign and if he does
not presently appear, certain legal proceedings will become
inevitable.” He paused for a few moments and then continued: “You must
understand, Mrs. Purcell, that when a man of any position—and
especially a married man—disappears from ‘his usual places of resort,’
as the phrase goes, he upsets all the social adjustments that connect
him with his surroundings, and, sooner or later, those adjustments
have to be made good. If he disappears completely, it becomes
uncertain whether he is alive or dead; and this uncertainty
communicates itself to his property and to his dependents and
relatives. If he is alive, his property is vested in himself; if he is
dead it is vested in his executors or in his heirs or next of kin.
Should he be named as a beneficiary in a will and should the person
who has made that will die after his disappearance, the question
immediately arises whether he was dead or alive at the time of the
testator’s death; a vitally important question, since it affects not
only himself and his heirs but also the other persons who benefit
under the will. And then there is the status of the wife, if the
missing man is married; the question whether she is a married woman or
a widow has, in justice to her, to be settled if and when possible.

“So you see that the disappearance of a man like your husband sets
going a process that generates all sorts of legal problems. You cannot
simply write him off and treat him as non-existent. His life must be
properly wound up so that his estate may be disposed of, and this will
involve the necessity of presuming his death; and presumption of death
may raise difficult questions of survivorship, although these may
arise at any moment.”

“What is meant by a question of survivorship?” Margaret asked.

“It is a question which arises in respect of two persons, both of whom
are dead and concerning one or both of whom the exact date of death is
unknown. One of them must have died before the other—unless they both
died at the same instant. The question is, which survived the other?
Which of them died first? It is a question on which may turn the
succession to an estate, a title, or even a kingdom.”

“Well,” said Margaret, “it is not likely to arise in respect of Dan.”

“On the contrary,” Thorndyke dissented, “it may arise to-morrow. If
some person who has left him a legacy should die to-day, that person’s
will could not be administered until it had been decided whether your
husband was or was not alive at the time the testator died; that is,
whether or not he survived the testator. But, as matters stand, we can
give no answer to that question. We can prove that he was alive at
half-past two on the 23rd of June. Thenceforward we have no knowledge
of him.”

“Excepting what Mr. Varney has told us.”

“Mr. Varney’s information is legally worthless unless he can produce
the witnesses and unless they can identify a photograph or otherwise
prove that the man whom they saw was actually Mr. Purcell. You must
ask Mr. Varney about it. However, at the moment you are more concerned
to find out what has become of your husband. I suppose I may ask a few
necessary questions?”

“Oh, certainly,” she replied. “Pray don’t have any scruples of
delicacy. Ask anything you want to know.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Purcell,” said Thorndyke; “and to begin with the
inevitable question: Do you know of, or suspect, any kind of
entanglement with any woman?”

The direct, straightforward question came rather as a relief to
Margaret, and she answered without embarrassment: “Naturally, I
suspect, because I can think of no other reason for his leaving me in
this way. But to be honest, I have never had the slightest grounds of
complaint in regard to his behaviour with other women. He married me
because he fell in love with me, and he has never seemed to change.
Whatever he has been to other people, to me he has always appeared, in
his rough, taciturn way, as devoted as his nature allowed him to be.
This affair is an utter surprise to me.”

Thorndyke made no comment on this, but following the hint that
Margaret had dropped, asked: “As to his character in general, what
sort of man is he? Is he popular, for instance?”

“No,” replied Margaret, “he is not very much liked; in fact, with the
exception of Mr. Varney, he has no really intimate friends, and I have
often wondered how poor Mr. Varney put up with the way he treated him.
The truth is that Dan is rather a bully; he is strong, big and
pugnacious and used to having his own way and somewhat brutal, at
times, in his manner of getting it. He is a very self-contained,
taciturn, rather secretive man and—well, perhaps he is not very
scrupulous. I am not painting a very flattering picture, I am afraid.”

“It sounds like a good portrait, though,” said Thorndyke. “When you
say that he is not very scrupulous, are you referring to his business
transactions?”

“Well, yes; and to his dealings with people generally.”

“By the way,” asked Thorndyke, “what is his occupation?”

Margaret uttered a little apologetic laugh. “It sounds absurd, but I
really don’t quite know what his business is. He is so very
uncommunicative. I have always understood that he is a financier,
whatever that may be. I believe he negotiates loans and buys and sells
stocks and shares but he is not on the Stock Exchange. He has an
office in Coleman Street in the premises of a firm of outside brokers
and he keeps a clerk, a man named Levy. It seems to be quite a small
establishment, though it appears to yield a fair income. That is all I
can tell you, but I daresay Mr. Levy could give you other particulars
if you wanted them.”

“I will make a note of the address, at any rate,” said Thorndyke, and,
having done so, he asked: “As to your husband’s banking account; do
you happen to know if any considerable sum has been drawn out quite
lately, or if any cheques have been presented since he disappeared?”

“His current account is intact,” she replied. “I have an account at
the same bank and I saw the manager a couple of days ago. Of course,
he was not very expansive, but he did tell me that no unusual amounts
had been withdrawn and that no cheque has been presented since the
21st of June, when Dan drew a cheque for me. It is really rather odd,
especially as the balance is somewhat above the average. Don’t you
think so?”

“I do,” he answered. “It suggests that your husband’s disappearance
was unpremeditated and that extreme precautions are being taken to
conceal his present whereabouts. But the mystery is what he is living
on if he took no considerable sum with him and has drawn no cheques
since. However, we had better finish with the general questions. You
don’t appear to know much about your husband’s present affairs; what
do you know of his past?”

“Not a great deal; and I can think of nothing that throws any light on
his extraordinary conduct in taking himself off as he has done. I met
him at Maidstone about six years ago. He was then employed in the
office of a large paper mill—Whichboy’s mill, I think it was—as a
clerk or accountant. He had then recently come down from Cambridge and
seemed in rather low water. After a time, he left Whichboy’s and went
to London, and very shortly his circumstances began to improve in a
remarkable way. It was then that he began his present business, which
I know included the making of loans because he lent my father money;
in fact it was through these transactions and his visits on business
to my father that the intimacy grew which resulted finally in our
marriage. He then seemed, as he always has, to be a keen business man,
very attentive to the main chance, not at all sentimental in his
dealings, and, as I have said, not overscrupulous as to his methods.”

Thorndyke nodded gravely but made no comment. The association of loans
to the father with marriage with an evidently not infatuated daughter
seemed to throw a sufficiently suggestive light on Daniel Purcell’s
methods.

“And as to his personal habits and tastes?” he asked.

“He has always been reasonably temperate, though he likes good living
and has a robust appetite; and he really has no vices beyond a rather
unpleasant temper and excessive keenness on money. His principal
interest is in boating, yachting and fishing; he does not bet or
gamble, and his relations with women have always seemed to be
perfectly correct.”

“You spoke of his exceptional intimacy with Mr. Varney. Is the
friendship of long standing?”

“Yes, quite. They were school-fellows, they were at Cambridge together
and they both came down about the same time and for a similar reason.
Both their fathers got suddenly into financial difficulties. Dan’s
father was a stockbroker, and he failed suddenly, either through some
unlucky speculations or through the default of a client. Mr. Varney’s
father was a clergyman, and he, too, lost all his money, and at about
the same time. I have always suspected that there was some connexion
between the two failures, but I have never heard that there actually
was. Dan is as close as an oyster, and, of course, Mr. Varney has
never referred to the affair.”

“Mr. Varney is not associated with your husband in business?”

“No. He is an artist—principally an etcher, and a very clever one too.
I think he is doing quite well now, but he had a hard struggle when he
first came down from Cambridge. For a couple of years he worked for an
engraver, doing ordinary copperplate work for the trade, and I
understand that he is remarkably skilful at engraving. But now he does
nothing but etchings and mezzotints.”

“Then his activities are entirely concerned with art?”

“I believe so, now, at any rate. After he left the engraver he went to
a merchant in the City as a clerk. But he was only there quite a short
time, and I fancy he left on account of some sort of unpleasantness,
but I know nothing about it. After that he went abroad and travelled
about for a time making sketches and drawings of the towns to do his
etchings from; in fact he only came back from Belgium a couple of
months ago. But I am afraid I am wasting your time with a lot of
irrelevant gossip.”

“It is my fault if you are,” said Thorndyke, “since I put the
questions. But the fact is that nothing is irrelevant. Your husband
has vanished into space in a perfectly unaccountable manner, and we
have to find, if we can, something in his known circumstances which
may give us a clue to the motive and the manner of his disappearance
and his probable whereabouts at present. Has he any favourite haunts
abroad or at home?”

“He is very partial to the Eastern counties, especially the broads and
rivers of Norfolk. You remember he was on his way to Oulton Broad when
he disappeared.”

“Yes; and one must admit that the waterways of Norfolk and Suffolk,
with all their endless communications, would form an admirable
hiding-place. In a small yacht or covered boat a man might lose
himself in that network of rivers and lakes and lie hidden for months;
creeping from end to end of the county without leaving a trace. We
must bear that possibility in mind. By the way, have you brought me a
copy of that very cautious letter of Mr. Penfield’s?”

“I have brought the letter itself,” she replied, producing it and
laying it on the table.

“Thank you,” said Thorndyke. “I will make a copy of it and let you
have the original back. And there is another question: has the letter
which Mr. Penfield ought to have received been returned to you?”

“No,” replied Margaret.

“Ha!” said Thorndyke. “That is important because it is undoubtedly a
remarkable circumstance and rather significant. A letter in the wrong
envelope practically always implies another letter in another wrong
envelope. Now a letter was almost certainly written to Mr. Penfield
and almost certainly sent. It was presumably a business letter and of
some importance. It ought certainly to have been returned to the
sender, and under ordinary circumstances would have been. Why has it
not been returned? The person to whom it was sent was the person to
whom the mysterious communication that Mr. Penfield received was
addressed. That communication, we judge from Mr. Penfield’s letter,
contained some highly confidential matter. But that implies some
person who was in highly confidential relations with your husband. The
suggestion seems to be that your husband discovered his mistake after
he had posted the letter or letters and that he went at once to this
other person and informed him of what had happened.”

“Informed her,” Margaret corrected.

“I must admit,” said Thorndyke, “that the circumstances give colour to
your inference; but we must remember that they would apply equally to
a man. They certainly point to an associate of some kind. The
character of that associate and the nature of the association are
questions that turn on the contents of that letter that Mr. Penfield
received.”

“Do you think,” asked Margaret, “that Mr. Penfield would be more
confidential with you than he was with me?”

“I doubt it,” was the reply. “If the contents of that letter were of a
secret nature, he will keep them to himself; and quite right, too. But
I shall give him a trial all the same, and you had better let him know
that you have consulted me.”

This brought the conference to an end, and shortly afterwards Margaret
went on her way, now more than ever convinced that the inevitable
woman was at the bottom of the mystery. For some time after she had
gone Thorndyke sat with his notes before him, wrapped in profound
thought and deeply interested in the problem that he was called upon
to solve. He did not share Margaret’s suspicions, though he had not
strongly contested them. To his experienced eye, the whole group of
circumstances, with certain points which he had not thought fit to
enlarge on, suggested something more sinister than a mere elopement.

There was Purcell’s behaviour, for instance. It had all the
appearances of an unpremeditated flight. No preparations seemed to
have been made; no attempt to wind up his affairs. His banking account
was left intact, though no one but he could touch it during his
lifetime. He had left or sent no letter of farewell, explanation or
apology to his wife; and now that he was gone, he was maintaining a
secrecy as to his whereabouts so profound that apparently he did not
even dare to draw a cheque.

But even more significant was the conduct of Mr. Penfield. Taking from
its envelope the mysterious letter that had come to Sennen and
exploded the mine, Thorndyke spread it out and slowly read it through;
and his interpretation of it now was the same as on the occasion when
he heard Margaret’s epitome of it at Sennen. It was a message to
Purcell through his wife, telling him that something which had been
discovered was not going to be divulged. What could that something be?
The answer, in general terms, seemed to be given by Penfield’s
subsequent conduct. He had been absolutely uncommunicative to
Margaret. Yet Margaret, as the missing man’s wife, was a proper person
to receive any information that could be given. Apparently, then, the
information that Penfield possessed was of a kind that could not be
imparted to any one. Even its very nature could not be hinted at.

Now what kind of information could that be? The obvious inference was
that the letter which had come to Penfield contained incriminating
matter. That would explain everything. For if Penfield had thus
stumbled on evidence of a crime, either committed or contemplated, he
would have to choose between denouncing the criminal or keeping the
matter to himself. But he was not entitled to keep it to himself; for,
other considerations apart, this was not properly a client’s secret.
It had not been communicated to him; he had discovered it by accident.
He was therefore not bound to secrecy and he could not, consequently,
claim a lawyer’s privilege. In short, if he had discovered a crime and
chose to suppress his discovery, he was, in effect, an accessory,
before or after the fact, as the case might be; and he would
necessarily keep the secret because he would not dare to divulge it.

This view was strongly supported by Purcell’s conduct. The
disappearance of the latter coincided exactly with the delivery of the
mysterious letter to Penfield. The inference was that Purcell, having
discovered his fatal mistake, and assuming that Penfield would
immediately denounce him to the police, had fled instantly and was now
in hiding. Purcell’s and Penfield’s conduct were both in complete
agreement with this theory.

But there was a further consideration. If the contents of that letter
were incriminating, they incriminated some one besides Purcell. The
person for whom the letter was intended must have been a party to any
unlawful proceedings referred to in it. He—or she—must, in fact, have
been a confederate. Now, who could that confederate be? Some one,
apparently who was unknown to Margaret, unless it might be the
somewhat shadowy Mr. Levy. And that raised yet a further question:
What was Purcell? How did he get his living? His wife evidently did
not know, which was a striking and rather suspicious fact. He had been
described as a financier. But that meant nothing. The word financier
covered a multitude of sins; the question was, what sins did it cover
in the present instance? And the answer to that question seemed to
involve a visit of exploration to Coleman Street.

As Thorndyke collected his notes to form the nucleus of a dossier of
the Purcell Case he foresaw that his investigations might well unearth
some very unlovely skeletons. But that was no fault of his, nor need
the disclosures be unnecessarily paraded. But Margaret Purcell’s
position must be secured and made regular. Her missing husband must
either be found and brought back or he must be written off and
disposed of in a proper and legal fashion.



CHAPTER V

In Which Thorndyke Makes a Few Inquiries

If Mr. Penfield had been reluctant to arrange an interview with
Margaret Purcell he was yet more unwilling to accept one with Dr. John
Thorndyke. It is true that, as a lawyer of the old school, he regarded
Thorndyke with a certain indulgent contempt, as a dabbler in law, an
amateur, a mere doctor masquerading as a lawyer. But coupled with this
contempt was an acknowledged fear. For it was not unknown to him that
this medico-legal hermaphrodite had strange and disconcerting methods;
that he had a habit of driving his chariot through well-established
legal conventions and of using his eyes and ears in a fashion not
recognized by orthodox legal precedent.

Accordingly, when he received a note from Thorndyke announcing the
intention of the writer to call on him, he would have liked to decline
the encounter. A less courageous man would have absented himself. But
Mr. Penfield was a sportsman to the backbone, and, having got himself
into difficulties by that very quality, elected to “face the music”
like a man; and so it happened that when Thorndyke arrived in the
clerk’s office, he was informed that Mr. Penfield was at liberty and
was duly announced and ushered into the sanctum.

The old solicitor received him with a sort of stiff cordiality, helped
himself to a pinch of snuff and awaited the opening of the offensive.
“You have heard from Mrs. Purcell, I presume?” said Thorndyke.

“Yes. I understand that you are commissioned by her to ascertain the
whereabouts of her husband; a very desirable thing to do, and I wish
you every success.”

“I am sure you do,” said Thorndyke, “and it is with that conviction
that I have called on you to enable you to give effect to your good
wishes.”

Mr. Penfield paused, with his snuff-box open and an infinitesimal
particle between his finger and thumb, to steal a quick glance at
Thorndyke.

“In what way?” he asked.

“You received a certain communication concerning which you wrote to
Mrs. Purcell at—”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Penfield, “but I received no
communication. A communication was no doubt dispatched by Mr. Purcell,
but it never reached me.”

“I am referring to a letter which did reach you; a letter with certain
enclosures, apparently put into the wrong envelope.”

“And which,” said Penfield, “is consequently no concern of mine, or,
if you will pardon my saying so, of yours.”

“Of that,” said Thorndyke, “you are doubtless a better judge than I
am, since you have read the letter and I have not. But I am instructed
to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Purcell, and as this letter
appears to be connected with this disappearance, it naturally becomes
an object of interest to me.”

“Why do you assume that it is connected with the disappearance?”
Penfield demanded.

“Because of the striking coincidence of the time of its arrival and
the time of the disappearance,” replied Thorndyke.

“That seems a very insufficient reason,” said Penfield.

“Not, I think,” rejoined Thorndyke, “if taken in conjunction with the
terms of your own letter to Mrs. Purcell. But, do I understand you to
say that there was no connection?”

“I did not say that. What I say is that I have inadvertently seen a
letter which was not addressed to me and which I was not intended to
see. You will agree with me that it would be entirely inadmissible for
me to divulge or discuss its contents.”

“I am not sure that I do agree with you, seeing that the writer of the
letter is the husband of our client and the consignee is a person
unknown to us both. But you will naturally act on your own
convictions. Would it be admissible for you to indicate the nature of
the enclosures?”

“It would be entirely inadmissible,” replied Mr. Penfield.

There was a short silence, during which Mr. Penfield refreshed himself
with a pinch of snuff and Thorndyke rapidly turned over the situation.
Obviously the old solicitor did not intend to give any information
whatever—possibly for very good reasons. At any rate his decision had
to be accepted, and this Thorndyke proceeded to acknowledge.

“Well, Mr. Penfield,” he said, “I mustn’t urge you to act against your
professional conscience. I am sure you would help me if you could. By
the way, I assume that there would be no objection to my inspecting
the envelope in which that letter was contained?”

“The envelope!” exclaimed Penfield, considerably startled. “Why, what
information could you possibly gather from the envelope?”

“That is impossible to say until I have seen it,” was the reply.

“However,” said Penfield, “I am afraid that the same objection
applies, sorry as I am to refuse.”

“But,” persisted Thorndyke, “why should you refuse? The letter, as you
say, was not addressed to you; but the envelope was. It is your own
envelope and is entirely at your disposal.”

Mr. Penfield was cornered and he had the wisdom to recognize the fact.
Reluctant as he was to let Thorndyke examine even the envelope in
which those incriminating blanks were enclosed, he saw that a refusal
might arouse suspicion; and suspicion was what he must avoid at all
costs. Nevertheless, he made a last effort to temporize.

“Was there any point on which I could enlighten you—in respect of the
envelope? Can I give you any information?” he asked.

“I am afraid not,” replied Thorndyke. “My experience has taught me
always to examine the exteriors of letters closely. By doing so one
often picks up unexpected crumbs of evidence; but, naturally, one
cannot tell in advance what there may be to observe.”

“No,” agreed Penfield. “Quite so. It is like cross-examination. Well,
I am afraid you won’t pick up much this time, but if you really wish
to inspect the envelope, I suppose, as you say, I need not scruple to
place it in your hands.”

With this he rose and walked over to the safe, and opened it, opened
an inner drawer, and, keeping his back towards Thorndyke, took out the
envelope, which he carefully emptied of its contents. Thorndyke sat
motionless, not looking at the lawyer’s back but listening intently.
Not a sound, however, reached his ears until the iron drawer slid back
into its case, when Penfield turned and, without a word, laid the
empty envelope on the table before him.

For a few moments Thorndyke looked at the envelope as it lay, noting
that, although empty, it retained the bulge caused by its late
contents, and that those contents must have been somewhat bulky. Then
he picked it up and inspected it methodically, committing his
observations to memory, since written notes seemed unadvisable under
the circumstances. It was an oblong, “commercial” envelope about six
inches long by three and three quarters wide. The address was written
with a pen of medium width and unusually black ink in a rather small,
fluent, legible hand with elegant capitals of a distinctly uncial
type. The postmark was that of Penzance, dated the 23rd of June, 8.30
p.m. But of more interest to Thorndyke than the date, which he already
knew, was an impression which the postmark stamp had made by striking
the corner of the enclosure and thus defining its position in the
envelope. From this he was able to judge that the object enclosed was
oblong in shape, about five inches long or a little more and somewhat
less than three inches wide, and that it consisted of some soft
material—presumably folded paper—since the blow of the metal stamp had
left but a blunt impression of the corner. He next examined the edge
of the flap, first with the naked eye and then with his pocket lens,
and finally, turning back the flap from the place where the envelope
had been neatly cut open, he closely scrutinized its inner surface.

“Have you examined this envelope, Mr. Penfield?” he asked.

“Not in that exhaustive and minute manner,” replied the solicitor, who
had been watching the process with profound disfavour. “Why do you
ask?”

“Because there appears to me a suggestion of its having been opened by
moistening the flap and then reclosed, Just look at it through the
glass, especially at the inside, where the gum seems to have spread
more than one would expect from a single closing and where there is a
slight cockling of the paper.” He handed the envelope and the lens to
Penfield, who seemed to find some difficulty in managing the latter
and after a brief inspection returned both the articles to Thorndyke.

“I have not your experience and skill,” he said. “You may be right,
but all the probabilities are against your suggestion. If Purcell had
reopened the letter, it would surely have been to correct an error
rather than to make one. And the letter certainly belonged to the
enclosures.”

“On the other hand,” said Thorndyke, “when an envelope has been
steamed or damped open, it will be laid down flap uppermost, with the
addressed side hidden and a mistake might occur in that way. However,
there is probably nothing in it. That, I gather, is your opinion?”

Unfortunately it was. Very glad would Penfield have been to believe
that the envelope had been opened and the blanks put in by another
hand. But he had read Purcell’s letter and knew its connection with
the enclosures.

“May I ask if you were expecting a letter from Purcell?” Thorndyke
asked.

“Yes. I had written to him and was expecting a reply.”

“And would that letter have contained enclosures of about the same
size as those which were sent?”

“I have no reason to suppose that it would have contained any
enclosures.” Penfield replied. “None were asked for.”

Thorndyke made a mental note of this reply and of the fact that
Penfield did not seem to perceive its bearing, and rose to depart.

“I am sorry to have had to be so reticent,” said Penfield as they
shook hands, “but I hope your visit has not been entirely unfruitful,
and I speed you on your quest with hearty good wishes.”

Thorndyke replied in similarly polite terms and went on his way,
leaving Mr. Penfield in a state of profound relief at having got rid
of him, not entirely unmingled with twinges of apprehension lest some
incriminating fact should have leaked out unnoticed by him. Meanwhile
Thorndyke, as soon as he emerged into Lombard Street, halted and made
a detailed memorandum in his pocketbook of the few facts that he had
gleaned.

Having thus disposed of Mr. Penfield, he turned his steps in the
direction of Coleman Street with the purpose of calling on Mr. Levy;
not, indeed, with the expectation of extracting much information from
him, but rather to ascertain, if possible, how Purcell got his living.
Arrived at the number that Margaret had given him, he read through the
list of occupants in the hall but without finding among them the name
of Purcell. There was, however, on the second floor a firm entitled
Honeyball Brothers, who were described as “financial agents,” and as
this description was the only one that seemed to meet the case he
ascended the stairs and entered a small, well-furnished office bearing
on its door the Honeyball superscription. The only occupant was a
spectacled youth who was busily directing envelopes.

“Is Mr. Levy in?” Thorndyke enquired.

“I’ll see,” was the cautious reply. “What name?”

Thorndyke gave his name and the youth crossed to a door marked
“Private” which he opened and, having passed through, closed it behind
him. His investigations in the sanctum resulted in the discovery that
Mr. Levy was there, a fact which he announced when he reappeared,
holding the door open and inviting Thorndyke to enter. The latter
accordingly walked through into the private office, when the door
immediately closed behind him and a smartly-dressed, middle-aged man
rose from a writing-chair and received him with an outstretched hand.

“You are Mr. Levy?” enquired Thorndyke.

“I am Mr. Levy,” was the answer, accompanied by an almost affectionate
handshake and a smile of the most intense benevolence; “at your entire
service, Dr. Thorndyke. Won’t you sit down? This is the more
comfortable chair and is nearer to my desk and so more convenient for
conversation. Ahem. We are always delighted to meet members of your
profession, Doctor. We do business with quite a number of them and I
may say that we find them peculiarly appreciative of the delicacy with
which our transactions are conducted. Ahem. Now, in what way can I
have the pleasure of being of service to you?”

“The fact is,” replied Thorndyke, “I have just called to make one or
two inquiries—”

“Quite so,” interrupted Mr. Levy. “You are perfectly right. The wisdom
of our ancestors, Dr. Thorndyke, expresses itself admirably in the old
adage, ‘Look before you leap.’ Don’t be diffident, sir. The more
inquiries you make the better we shall be pleased. Now, what is the
first point?”

“Well,” Thorndyke replied, “I suppose the first point to dispose of is
whether I have or have not come to the right office. My business is
concerned with Mr. Daniel Purcell.”

“Then,” said Mr. Levy, “I should say that you have come to the right
office. Mr. Purcell is not here at the moment, but that is of no
consequence. I am his authorized deputy. What is the nature of your
business, Doctor?”

“I am acting for Mrs. Purcell, who has asked me to ascertain her
husband’s whereabouts, if possible.”

“I see,” said Levy. “Family doctor, hey? Well, I hope you’ll find out
where he is, because then you can tell me. But isn’t Mr. Penfield
looking into the matter?”

“Possibly. But Mr. Penfield is not very communicative and it is not
clear that he is taking any steps to locate Purcell. May I take it
that you are willing to help us, so far as you can?”

“Certainly,” replied Levy; “I’m willing enough. But if you want
information you are in the same position as myself. All I know is that
I haven’t got his present address, but I have no doubt I shall hear
from him in due course. He is away on holiday, you must remember.”

“You know of no reason for supposing that he has gone away for good?”

“Lord bless you, no,” replied Levy. “The first I heard of anything
unusual was when old Penfield came round to ask if he had been to the
office. Of course he hadn’t, but I gave Penfield his address at Oulton
and I wrote to Oulton myself. Then it turned out that he hadn’t gone
to Oulton after all. I admit that it is queer he hasn’t written,
seeing how methodical he usually is; but there is nothing to make a
fuss about. Purcell isn’t the sort of man to go off on a jaunt that
would involve his dropping money; I can tell you that.”

“And meanwhile his absence is not causing any embarrassment in a
business sense?”

Mr. Levy rose with a somewhat foxy smile. “Do I look embarrassed?” he
asked. “Try me. I should like to do a bit of business with you. No?
Well, then, I will wish you good morning and good luck; and don’t
worry too much about the lost sheep. He is very well able to take care
of himself.” He shook hands once more with undiminished cordiality and
personally escorted Thorndyke out on to the landing.

There was one other matter that had to be looked into. Mr. Varney’s
rather vague report of the voyage from Falmouth to Ipswich required to
be brought into the region of ascertained fact. Accordingly, from
Purcell’s office Thorndyke took his way to Lloyd’s, where a brief
investigation put him in possession of the name and address of the
owner of the steamship _Hedwig_ of Hernosand. With this in his
note-book he turned homeward to the Temple with the immediate purpose
of writing to the owner and the captain of the ship asking for a list
of the passengers from Falmouth and of those who disembarked at
Ipswich and further giving a description of Purcell in case he should
have travelled, as was highly probable, under an assumed name.

With these particulars it would be possible at least to attempt to
trace the missing man, while, if it should turn out that Varney had
been misinformed, the trouble and expense of a search in the wrong
place would be avoided.



CHAPTER VI

In Which Mr. Varney Prepares a Deception

Varney’s domestic arrangements were of the simplest. Unlike the
majority of those who engage in dishonest transactions, he was frugal,
thrifty and content with little. Of what he earned, honestly or
otherwise, he saved as much as he could; and now that he was free of
the parasite who had clung to him for so long and had a future to look
forward to, he was more than ever encouraged to live providently well
within his modest means. For residence he occupied a couple of
furnished rooms in Ampthill Square, Camden Town, but he spent little
of his time in them, for he had a little studio in a quiet turning off
the High Street, which he held on lease and which contained his few
household goods and formed his actual home. Thither he usually
repaired as soon as he had breakfasted, buying a newspaper on the way
and sitting in the Windsor armchair by the gas fire—alight or not,
according to the season—to smoke his morning pipe and glance over the
news before beginning work. Following his usual custom, on a bright,
sunny morning near the end of October, he arrived at the studio with a
copy of the _Times_ under his arm, and, letting himself in with his
latch-key, laid the paper on the work-bench, hung up his hat and put a
match to the gas fire. Then, having drawn the chair up to the fire, he
drew forth his pipe and pouch and sauntered over to the bench, where
he stood, filling his pipe and gazing absently at the bench whereon
the paper lay while his thoughts travelled along a well-worn, if
somewhat vague track into a pleasant and tranquil future. Not for him
alone was that future pleasant and tranquil. It held another figure—a
sweet and gracious figure that lived in all his countless day-dreams.
She should be happy, too, freed, like himself, from that bloated
parasite who had fastened upon her. Indeed, she was free now, if only
she could be made to know it.

Again, for the thousandth time, he wondered, did she care for him? It
was impossible to guess. She seemed always pleased to see him; she was
warmly appreciative of his attentiveness and his efforts to help her,
and her manner towards him was cordial and friendly. There was no
doubt that she liked him; and what more could he ask until such time
as the veil should be lifted and her freedom revealed to her? For
Maggie Purcell was not only a pure-minded and innocent woman; she was
the very soul of loyalty, even to the surly brute who had intruded
unbidden into her life. And for this Varney loved her the more. But it
left his question unanswered and unanswerable. For while her husband
lived—in her belief—no thought of love for any other could be
consciously admitted to that loyal heart.

He had filled his pipe, had taken a match-box from his pocket and was
in the act of striking a match when, in an instant, his movement was
arrested and he stood rigid and still with the match poised in his
hand and his eyes fixed on the newspaper. But no longer absently; for
his wandering glance, travelling unheedingly over the printed page,
had lighted by chance upon the name Purcell, printed in small
capitals. For a few moments he stood with his eyes riveted on the
familiar name; then he picked up the paper and read eagerly.

It was an advertisement in the “Personal” column and read thus:
“_Purcell, (D)_ is requested to communicate at once with Mr. J.
Penfield, who has important information to impart to him _in re_
Catford, deceased. The matter is urgent as the will has been proved
and must now be administered.”

Varney read the advertisement through twice, and as he read it he
smiled grimly, not, however, without a certain vague discomfort. There
was nothing in the paragraph which affected him, but yet he found it,
in some indefinable way, disquieting. And the more he reflected on the
matter the more disturbing did it appear. Confound Purcell! The fellow
was dead, and there was an end of it; at least that was what he had
intended and what he wished. But it seemed that it was not the end of
it. Ever since that tragic voyage when he had boldly cut the Gordian
knot of his entanglements, Purcell had continued to reappear in one
way or another, still, as ever, seeming to dominate his life. From his
unknown and unsuspected grave, fathoms deep in the ocean, mysterious
and disturbing influences seemed to issue as though, even in death,
his malice was still active. When would it be possible to shake him
off for good?

Varney laid down the paper, and, flinging himself into the chair, set
himself to consider the bearings of this new incident. How did it
affect him? At the first glance it appeared not to affect him at all.
Penfield would get no reply and after one or two more trials he would
have to give it up. That was all. The affair was no concern of his.

But was that all? And was it no concern of his? Reflection did not by
any means confirm these assumptions. Varney knew little about the law
but he realized that a will which had been proved was a thing that had
to be dealt with in some conclusive manner. When Penfield failed to
get into touch with Purcell, what would he do? The matter, as he had
said, was urgent. Something would have to be done. Quite probably
Penfield would set some inquiries on foot. He would learn from Maggie,
if he did not already know, of Purcell’s supposed visit to Falmouth
and the mythical voyage to Ipswich. Supposing he followed up those
false tracks systematically? That might lead to complications. Those
inventions had been improvised rather hastily, principally for
Maggie’s benefit. They might not bear such investigation as a lawyer
might bring to bear on them. There was the ship, for instance. It
would be possible to ascertain definitely what passengers she carried
from Falmouth. And when it became certain that Purcell was not one of
them, at the best, the inquiry would draw a blank; at the worst there
might be some suspicion of a fabrication of evidence on his part. In
any case the inquiry would be brought back to Penzance.

That would not do at all. Inquiries must be kept away from Penzance.
He was the only witness of that mythical landing on the pier and
hitherto no one had thought of questioning his testimony. He believed
that his own arrival on the pier had been unnoticed. But who could
say? A vessel entering a harbour is always an object of interest to
every nautical eye that beholds her. Who could say that some unseen
watcher had not observed the yacht’s arrival and noted that she was
worked single-handed and that one man only had gone ashore? It was
quite possible, though he had seen no such watcher; and the risk was
too great to be thought of. At all costs, the inquiry must be kept
away from Penzance.

How was that to be managed? The obvious way was to fabricate some sort
of reply to the advertisement purporting to come from Purcell; a
telegram, for instance, from France or Belgium, or even from some
place in the Eastern Counties. The former was hardly possible,
however. He could not afford the time or expense of a journey abroad,
and, moreover, his absence from England would be known and its
coincidence with the arrival of the telegram might easily be noticed.
Coincidences of that kind were much better avoided.

On reflection, the telegram did not commend itself. Penfield would
naturally ask himself “Why a telegram when a letter would have been
equally safe and so much more efficient?” For both would reveal,
approximately, the whereabouts of the sender. No, a telegram would not
answer the purpose. It would not be quite safe; for telegrams, like
typewritten letters, are always open to suspicion as to their
genuineness. Such suspicions may lead to inquiries at the telegraph
office. On the other hand, a letter, if it could be properly managed,
would have quite the contrary effect. It would be accepted as
convincing evidence, not only of the existence of the writer but of
his whereabouts at the time of writing—if only it could be properly
managed. But could it be?

He struck a match and lit his pipe—to little purpose, for it went out
and was forgotten in the course of a minute. Could he produce a letter
from Purcell? A practicable letter which would pass without suspicion
the scrutiny, not only of Penfield himself, who was familiar with
Purcell’s handwriting, but also of Maggie, to whom it would almost
certainly be shown. It was a serious question, and he gave it very
serious consideration, balancing the chances of detection against the
chances of success and especially dwelling upon the improbability of
any question arising as to its authenticity.

Now Varney was endowed in a remarkable degree with the dangerous gift
of imitating handwriting; indeed it was this gift, and its untimely
exercise, that had been the cause of all his troubles. And the natural
facility in this respect had been reinforced by the steadiness of hand
and perfect control of line that had come from his years of practice
as a copperplate engraver. In that craft his work had largely
consisted of minute and accurate imitation of writing and other linear
forms and he was now capable of reproducing his “copy” with
microscopic precision and fidelity. Reflecting on this, and further,
that he was in possession of Purcell’s own fountain pen with its
distinctive ink, he decided confidently that he could produce a letter
which would not merely pass muster but would even defy critical
examination—to which it was not likely to be subjected.

Having decided that the letter could be produced, the next question
was that of ways and means. It would have been best for it to be sent
from some place abroad, but that could not very well be managed.
However, it would answer quite well if it could be sent from one of
the towns or villages of East Anglia; in fact that would perhaps be
the best plan as it would tend to confirm the Falmouth and Ipswich
stories and be, in its turn, supported by them. But there was the
problem of getting the letter posted. That would involve a journey
down to Suffolk or Norfolk, and to this there were several objections.
In the first place he could ill spare the time, for he had a good deal
of work on hand; he had an engagement with a dealer on the present
evening, he had to arrange about an exhibition on the following day
and in the evening he was to dine with Maggie and Phillip Rodney. None
of these engagements, but especially the last, was he willing to
cancel; and yet, if the letter was to be sent, there ought not to be
much delay. But the most serious objection was the one that had
occurred to him in relation to the telegram. His absence from town
would probably be known and he might even be seen, either at his East
Anglian destination or on his way thither or returning and the
coincidence of those movements with the arrival of the letter could
hardly fail to be noticed. Indeed, if he were seen in the locality
from whence the letter came, or going or returning, that would be a
perilously striking coincidence.

What, then, was the alternative? He reflected awhile; and presently he
had an idea. How would it answer if he should not post the letter at
all, but simply drop it into Penfield’s letter-box? There was
something to be said for that. It would go to prove that Purcell must
be lurking somewhere in London; not an unlikely thing in itself, for
London is so large that it is hardly a locality at all, and it is
admittedly one of the safest of hiding-places. But, for that matter,
why not post the letter, say in Limehouse or Ratcliff and thus suggest
a lurking-place in the squalid and nautical east? That did not seem a
bad idea. But still his preference leaned towards the Eastern
Counties; somewhere in the neighbourhood of Ipswich, which would give
consistency to the account of the voyage from Falmouth. It was
something of a dilemma and he turned over the alternative plans for
some time without coming to any conclusion.

As he sat thus meditating, his eye roamed idly about the bare but
homely studio; and presently it encountered an object that started a
new and interesting train of thought. Pushed away in a corner was a
small lithographic press, now mostly disused; for the little
“auto-lithographs” that he used to produce had ceased to be profitable
now that there was a fair demand for his etchings and mezzotints. But
the press was in going order and he was a moderately expert
lithographer; quite expert enough to produce a perfectly convincing
post-mark on a forged letter, especially if that post-mark were
carefully indented after printing, to disguise the process by which it
had been produced.

It was a brilliant idea. In his pleased excitement he started up from
his chair and began rapidly to pace up and down the studio. A most
admirable plan! For it not only disposed of all the difficulties but
actually turned them into advantages. He would get the letter
prepared; he would keep his engagement with Maggie; then, after
leaving her, he would make his way to George Yard and there drop the
letter into Penfield’s letter-box. It would be found on the following
morning and would appear to have been posted the previous evening and
delivered by the first post. He would actually be present in Maggie’s
flat at the very moment when the letter was (apparently) being posted
in Suffolk. A most excellent scheme!

Chuckling with satisfaction, he set himself forthwith to carry it out.
The means and appliances were in a cupboard that filled a recess; just
a plain wall-cupboard, but fitted with a chub lock of the highest
class. Unlocking this he cast his eye over the orderly shelves. Here,
standing upright in an empty ink-bottle, was the thick-barrelled
fountain pen that had once been Purcell’s. Varney took out the pen in
its container and stood it on the table. Next from the back of the
cupboard he reached out an expanding letter file, and, opening it,
took from the compartment marked “P” a small bundle of letters
docketed “Purcell” which he also laid on the table. They were all
harmless, unimportant letters (saved for that very reason), and if one
should have asked why Varney had kept them, the answer—applicable to
most of the other contents of the file—would have been that they had
been preserved in obedience to the forger’s instinct to keep a few
originals in stock on the chance that they might come in handy one
day.

He drew a chair up to the table and began methodically to look through
the letters, underlining with a lead pencil the words that he would
probably want to copy. In the third letter that he read he had an
unexpected stroke of luck, for it contained a reference to Mr.
Penfield, to whom some enclosed document was to be sent, and it
actually gave his full name and address. This was a windfall indeed!
As he encircled the address with a pencil mark, Varney smiled
complacently and felt that Fortune was backing him up handsomely.

Having secured the “copy” for the handwriting, the next thing was to
get the post-mark drawn and printed. The letters in the file had no
envelopes, but he had in his pocket a letter that he had received that
morning from an inn-keeper at Tenterden, to whom he had written for
particulars as to accommodation. It was probably a typical country
letter and its post-mark would serve as well as any other. He took it
from his pocket and laying it on a small drawing-board, pinned a piece
of tracing-paper over it and made a very careful tracing of the
postmark. Then he drew away the letter and slipped in its place a
small piece of lithographic transfer paper with a piece of black lead
transfer paper over it and went over the tracing carefully with a hard
pencil. He now had a complete tracing of the post-mark on the
lithographic paper including the name “Tenterden” and the date and
time, which he had included to give the dimensions and style of the
lettering. But he now patiently erased them, excepting the year date,
and replaced them, in the same style and size, with the inscription,
“Woodbridge, Oct. 28, 4:30 P.M.,” drawn firmly with a rather soft
pencil.

He now fetched his lithographic ink and pens from the cupboard, and,
with the original before him, inked in the tracing, being careful to
imitate all the accidental characters of the actual post-mark such as
the unequal thickness of the lines due to the uneven pressure of the
marking-stamp. When he had finished, he turned the envelope over and
repeated the procedure with the London post-mark; only here he made an
exact facsimile excepting as to the date and time, which he altered to
Oct. 29, 11:20 P.M.

The next proceeding was to transfer the inked tracings to a
lithographic stone. He used a smallish stone, placing the two
post-marks a convenient distance apart, so that they could be printed
separately. When the transfer and the subsequent “etching” processes
were completed and the stone was ready for printing, he inked up and
took a trial proof of the two post-marks on a sheet of paper. The
result was perfectly convincing. Ridiculously so. As he held the paper
in his hand and looked at those absurd post-marks, he chuckled aloud.
With a little ingenuity, how easy it was to sprinkle salt on the
forensic tail of the inscrutable Penfield! He was disposed to linger
and picture to himself the probable proceedings of that astute
gentleman when he received the letter. But there was a good deal to do
yet and he must not waste time. There was the problem of printing the
Woodbridge post-mark fairly on the stamp; and then there was the
addressing and writing of the letter.

The first problem he solved by tracing the outline of an envelope on
the sheet that he had printed, with the post-mark in the correct place
for the stamp; cutting this piece out and using it to make register
marks on the stone. Then he affixed a stamp exactly to the correct
spot on the envelope, inked up the stone, laid the envelope against
the register marks and passed the stone under the roller. When he
picked up the envelope, the stamp bore the Woodbridge post-mark with
just that slight inaccuracy of imposition that made it perfectly
convincing. The London post-mark presented no difficulty as it did not
matter to half an inch where it was placed. Another inking-up and
another turn of the crank-handle and the envelope was ready for the
penmanship.

Although Varney was so expert a copyist he decided to take no
unnecessary risks. Accordingly he made a careful tracing of Penfield’s
name and address from the original letter and transferred this in
black lead to the envelope. Then, with Purcell’s pen, charged with its
special black ink, and with the original before him, he inked in the
tracing with a free and steady hand and quickly enough to avoid any
tell-tale wavering or tremor of the line. It was certainly a masterly
performance, and when it was done, it would have puzzled a much
greater expert than Penfield to distinguish between the copy and the
original.

Varney regarded it with deep satisfaction. He was about to put it
aside to dry, before he should rub out the tracing-marks, when it
occurred to him that Purcell would almost certainly have marked it
“confidential” or “personal.” It was, in fact, rather desirable that
this missive should be opened by Penfield himself. The fewer hands it
passed through the better; and then, of course, it was not worth while
to let any of the clerks into the secret of Purcell’s disappearance.
Accordingly, with the original letter still before him, he wrote at
the top of the envelope, in bold and rather large characters, the word
“Personal.” That ought to make it safe.

He put the envelope aside and began to think out the text of the
letter that he was going to write. As he did so, his eye rested
gloatingly on the work that he had done, and done to such a perfect
finish. It was really a masterpiece of deception. Even a Post Office
sorter would have been taken in by it. He took it up and again
regarded it admiringly. Then he began to consider whether
“Confidential” would not have been better than “Personal.” It was
certainly most desirable that this letter should not be opened even by
the chief clerk; for it would let the cat out of the bag rather
completely. He held the envelope irresolutely for a full minute,
turning the question over. Finally he picked up the pen, and, laying
the envelope before him, turned the full stop into an “and” and
followed this with the word “Confidential.” There was not as much
space as he would have liked, and in his anxiety to preserve the
character of the handwriting while compressing the letters the tail of
the final l strayed on to the edge of the stamp, which to his critical
eye looked, a little untidy; but that was of no consequence, in fact
it was rather an additional realistic touch.

He now set to work upon the letter itself. It was to be but a short
letter and it took him only a few minutes to draft out the matter in
pencil. Then, spreading Purcell’s letter before him, he studied it
word by word and letter by letter. When he had got the character of
the writing well into his mind, he took a sheet of note-paper, and,
with a well-sharpened H pencil, made a very careful copy of his draft,
constantly referring to Purcell’s original and even making tracings of
important words and of the signature. Having compared the lightly
pencilled copy with Purcell’s letter and made one or two corrections,
he picked up the pen and traced over the pencil writing with the
sureness and steadiness that his training as an engraver made
possible.

The letter being finished with a perfect facsimile of the signature,
he made a final comparison of the handwriting with Purcell’s, and,
finding it beyond criticism, read through the letter again,
speculating on Mr. Penfield’s probable proceedings when he received
it. The text of the letter ran thus:

  “Dear Mr. Penfield:

  “I have just seen your advertisement in _The Times_ and am writing
  to let you know that circumstances render it impossible for me to
  call on you, and for the same reason I am unable to give you my
  present address. If there is anything connected with the Catford
  business that you wish me to know, perhaps you could put it briefly
  in another advertisement to which I could reply if necessary. Sorry
  to give you this trouble.

        “Yours sincerely,
            “Daniel Purcell.”

Laying down the letter Varney once more turned to the envelope. First,
with a piece of artist’s soft rubber he removed the pencil marks of
the tracing. Then, placing the envelope on a sheet of blotting paper,
he carefully traced over the post-marks with an agate tracing-style,
following the two concentric circles of each with their enclosed
letters and figures with minute accuracy and pressing somewhat firmly.
The result was that each of the two post-marks was visibly indented,
as if made by a sharply-struck marking-stamp. It only remained to
erase the pencil marks from the letter, to place it in the envelope
and close the latter; and, when this was done, Varney rose and having
once more lit his pipe, began to replace the materials in the
cupboard, where also he bestowed the letter for the present.

He was in the act of closing the cupboard door when his glance fell on
a small deed-box on the top shelf. He looked at it thoughtfully for a
few moments, then lifted it down, placed it on the table and unlocked
it. The contents were three paper packets, each sealed with his
ring-seal, He broke the seals of all three and opened the packets. Two
of them contained engraved copper plates, of a twenty-pound and a
five-pound note respectively. The third packet contained a sheaf of
paper blanks. Varney took out the latter and counted them, holding
each one up to the light to examine the water-mark. There were twelve
of them, all five-pound notes. He laid them down and cogitated
profoundly; and unconsciously his eyes turned to the etching press at
the end of the bench. A few minutes’ work, a smear of ink and a turn
of the press, would convert those blanks into actual notes, so good
that they could be passed with perfect safety. Twelve fives; sixty
pounds—it was handsome pay for half an hour’s work; and five-pound
notes were so easy to get rid of.

It was a severe temptation to a comparatively poor man whose ethical
standards were none of the highest. Prosperous as he now thought
himself, with the growing demand for his etchings, sixty pounds
represented the product of nearly two months’ legitimate work. It was
a great temptation. There were the blanks, all ready for the magic
change. It seemed a pity to waste them. There were only a dozen, and,
there would be no more. This would really be the end of the lay. After
this he could go straight and live a perfectly reputable life.

The gambler’s lure, the attraction of easily-won wealth, was beginning
to take effect. He had actually picked up the five-pound plate and was
moving towards the bench when something in his mind brought him
suddenly to a stop. In that moment there had risen before his mental
vision the sweet and gracious figure of Margaret Purcell. Instantly
his feelings underwent a revulsion. That which, but a minute ago, had
seemed natural and reasonable now looked unspeakably sordid and base.
No compulsion now urged him on unwillingly to crime. It would be his
own choice—the choice of mere greed. Was it for this that he had set
her and himself free? Could he stand in her presence and cherish
thoughts of honourable love with this mean crime—committed of his own
free will—on his conscience? Assuredly not. The very corpse of Purcell
cried out from its dark tomb beneath the Wolf on this voluntary
resumption of the chains which he had broken at the cost of murder.

Once more he turned towards the bench, but now with a different
purpose. Hurriedly, as if fearful of another backsliding, he caught up
a large graver and drove its point across the plate from corner to
corner, ploughing up the copper in a deep score. That finished the
matter. Never again could that plate be printed from. But he did not
leave it at that. With a shaving scraper he pared off the surface of
the plate until the engraving on it was totally obliterated. He
fetched the other plate and treated it in a similar manner. Then he
flung both plates into a porcelain dish and filled it with strong
nitric acid mordant. Finally, as the malodorous, red fumes began to
rise from the dish, he took up the sheaf of blanks and held them in
the flame of the gas stove. When the last blackened fragments had
fallen to the earth, he drew a deep breath. Now at last he was free.
Really free. Free even from the peril of his own weakness.

His labours had consumed the best part of the morning, but in any case
he was in no mood for his ordinary work. Opening the window a little
wider to let the fumes escape, he took his hat from the peg and went
forth, turning his steps in the direction of Regent’s Park.



CHAPTER VII

The Flash Note Factory

To the lover of quiet and the admirer of urban comeliness, the
ever-increasing noise and turmoil of London and its ever-decreasing
architectural interest and charm give daily an added value to the Inns
of Court, in whose peaceful precincts quiet and comeliness yet
survive. And of the Inns of Court, if we except Old Buildings,
Lincoln’s Inn, The Temple with its cloisters, its fountain and its
ancient church, makes the strongest appeal to the affections of that
almost extinct creature, the Londoner; of which class the last
surviving genuine specimens are to be found in its obsolete chambers,
living on amidst the amenities of a bygone age.

But it was neither the quiet nor the architectural charm of the old
domestic buildings that had caused Mr. Superintendent Miller of the
Criminal Investigation Department to take the Temple on his way from
Scotland Yard to Fleet Street (though it was as short a way as any),
nor was it a desire to contemplate the houses attributed to Wren that
made him slow down when he reached King’s Bench Walk and glance
hesitatingly up and down that pleasant thoroughfare—if a thoroughfare
it can be called. The fact is that Mr. Miller was engaged in certain
investigations, which had led him, as investigations sometimes do,
into a blind alley; and it was in his mind to see if the keen vision
of Dr. John Thorndyke could detect a way out. But he did not want a
formal consultation. Rather, he desired to let the matter arise, as it
were, by chance, and he did not quite see how to manage it.

Here, as he stood hesitating opposite Thorndyke’s chambers, Providence
came to his aid; for, at this moment, a tall figure emerged from the
shadow of the covered passage from Mitre Court and came with an easy,
long-legged swing down to tree-shaded foot-way. Instantly, the
Superintendent strode forward to intercept the newcomer and the two
met halfway up the Walk.

“You were not coming to see me, by any chance?” Thorndyke asked when
the preliminary greetings had been exchanged.

“No,” replied Miller, “though I had half a mind to look in on you,
just to pass the time of day. I am on my way to Clifford’s Inn to look
into a rather queer discovery that has been made there.”

Here the Superintendent paused with an attentive eye on Thorndyke’s
face, though experience should have told him that he might as well
study the expression of a wig-maker’s block. As Thorndyke showed no
sign of rising to the bait, he continued: “A remarkably queer affair.
Mysterious, in fact. Our people are rather stuck, so I am going to
have a look round the chambers to see if I can pick up any traces.”

“That is always a useful thing to do,” said Thorndyke. “Rooms, like
clothes, tend to take certain impressions from those who live in them.
Careful inspection, eked out by some imagination, will usually yield
something of interest.”

“Precisely,” agreed Miller. “I realized that long ago from watching
your own methods. You were always rather fond of poking about in empty
houses and abandoned premises. By the way,” he added, forced into the
open by Thorndyke’s impassiveness, “I wonder if you would care to
stroll up with me and have a look at these chambers?”

“Are the facts of the case available?” asked Thorndyke.

“Certainly,” replied Miller, “to you—so far as they are known. If you
care to walk up with me, I’ll tell you about the case as we go along.”

Thereupon Thorndyke (to whom the insoluble mystery and especially the
untenanted chambers were as a hot scent to an eager fox-hound) turned
and retraced his steps in company with the Superintendent.

“The history of the affair,” the latter began, “is this: At No. 92
Clifford’s Inn, a man named Bromeswell had chambers on the second
floor. He had been there several years and was an excellent tenant,
paying his rent and other liabilities with clockwork regularity on, or
immediately after quarter day. He had never been known to be even a
week in arrear with rent, gas or anything else. But at Midsummer he
failed to pay up in his usual prompt manner, and after a fortnight had
passed a polite reminder was dropped into his letter-box. But still he
made no sign. However, as he was an old tenant and his character was
so excellent, nothing was done beyond dropping in another reminder.
Once or twice the porter went to the door of the chambers, but he
always found the ‘oak’ shut and when he hammered on it with a stick,
he got no answer.

“Well, the time ran on and the porter began to think that things
looked a bit queer, but still nothing was done. Then, one day the
postman brought a batch of letters—or rather circulars—to the Lodge,
addressed to Bromeswell. He had tried to drop them into Bromeswell’s
letter-box but couldn’t get them in as the box was choke-full. Now
this made it pretty clear that Bromeswell had not been in his chambers
for some considerable time, unless he was dead and his body shut up in
them, so the porter acquainted the Treasurer with the state of affairs
and consulted with him as to what was to be done. There were no means
of getting into the chambers without breaking in, for the tenant had
at some time fixed a new patent lock on the outer door and the porter
had no duplicate key. But the chambers couldn’t be left indefinitely,
especially as there was possibly a dead man inside, so the Treasurer
decided to send a man up a ladder to break a window and let himself
in. As a matter of fact, the porter went up, himself; and as soon as
he got into the chambers and had a look round, he began to smell a
rat.

“The appearance of the place, and especially the even coating of dust
that covered everything, showed that no one had been in those rooms
for two or three months at least; but what particularly attracted the
attention of the porter—who is a retired police sergeant—was a rather
queer-looking set of apparatus that suggested to him the outfit of a
maker of flash notes. On this he began to make some inquiries; and
then it transpired that nobody knew anything about Bromeswell. Mr.
Duskin, the late porter, must have known him, since he must have let
him the chambers; but Duskin left the Inn some years ago, and the
present porter has never met this tenant. It seems an incredible thing
but it appears to be a fact that no one even knows Bromeswell by
sight.”

“That does really seem incredible,” said Thorndyke, “in the case of a
man living in a place like Clifford’s Inn.”

“Ah, but he wasn’t living there. That was known, because no milk or
bread was ever left there and no laundress ever called for washing.
There are no resident chambers in Number 92. The porter had an idea
that Bromeswell was a press artist or something of that kind and used
the premises to work in. But of course it wasn’t any concern of his.”

“How was the rent paid?”

“By post, in treasury notes. And the gas was paid in the same way;
never by cheque. But, to go on with the history: the porter’s
suspicions were aroused, and he communicated them to the Treasurer,
who agreed with him that the police ought to be informed. Accordingly
they sent us a note and we instructed Inspector Monk, who is a
first-class expert on flash notes, to go to Clifford’s Inn and
investigate, but to leave things undisturbed as far as possible. So
Monk went to the chambers and had a look at the apparatus; and what he
saw made him pretty certain that the porter was right. The apparatus
was a complete paper-maker’s plant in miniature, all except the
moulds. There were no moulds to be seen, and until they were found it
was impossible to say that the paper was not being made for some
lawful purpose, though the size of the pressing plates—eighteen inches
by seven—gave a pretty broad hint. However, there was an iron safe in
the room—one of Wilkins’ make—and Monk decided that the moulds were
probably locked up in it. He also guessed what the moulds were like.
You may have heard of a long series of most excellent forgeries of
Bank of England notes.”

“I have,” said Thorndyke. “They were five-pound and twenty-pound
notes, mostly passed in France, Belgium, Switzerland and Holland.”

“That’s the lot,” said Miller, “and first-class forgeries they were;
and for a very good reason. They were made with the genuine moulds.
Some six years ago, two moulds were lost or stolen from the works at
Maidstone where the Bank of England makes its paper. They were the
moulds for five- and twenty-pound notes, respectively, and each mould
would make a sheet that would cut into two notes—a long, narrow sheet
sixteen and three-quarter inches by five and five thirty-seconds in
the case of a five-pound note. Well, we have been on the lookout for
those forgers for years, but, naturally, they were difficult to trace,
for the forgeries were so good that no one could tell them from the
real thing but the experts at the Bank. You see, it is the paper that
the forger usually comes a cropper over. The engraving is much easier
to imitate. But this paper was not only made in the proper moulds with
all the proper water-marks, but it seemed to be made by a man who knew
his job. So you can reckon that Monk was as keen as mustard on getting
those moulds.

“And get them he did. On our authority, Wilkins made him a duplicate
key—we didn’t want to blow the safe open—and sure enough, as soon as
he opened the door, there were the two moulds. So that’s that. There
is an end of those forgeries. But the question is, Who and where the
devil is this fellow Bromeswell? And there is another question. This
only accounts for the paper. The engraving and printing were done
somewhere else and by some other artist. We should like to find out
who he is. But, for the present, he is a bird in the bush. Bromeswell
is our immediate quarry.”

“He seems to be pretty much in the bush, too,” remarked Thorndyke. “Is
there no trace of him at all? What about his agreement and his
references?”

“Gone,” replied Miller. “When the Inn was sold most of the old papers
were destroyed. They were of no use.”

“It is astonishing,” said Thorndyke, “that a man should have been in
occupation of those chambers for years and remain completely unknown.
And yet one sees how it can have happened with the change of porters.
Duskin was the only link that we have with Bromeswell and Duskin is
gone. As to his not being known by sight, he probably came to the
chambers only occasionally, to make a batch of paper; and if there
were no residents in his block no one would be likely to notice him.”

“No,” Miller agreed; “Londoners are not inquisitive about their
neighbours, especially in a business quarter. This is the place, and
those are his rooms on the second floor.”

As he paused by an ancient lamp-post near the postern gate that opens
on Fetter Lane, the Superintendent indicated a small, dark entry and
then nodded at a range of dull windows at the top of the old house.
Then he crossed a tiny courtyard, plunged into the dark entry and led
the way up the narrow stair, groping with his hand along the unseen
hand-rail, and closely followed by Thorndyke.

At the first floor they emerged for a moment into modified daylight
and then ascended another flight of dark and narrow stairs, which
opened on a grimy landing whose only ornaments were an iron dust-bin
and a gas meter, and which displayed a single iron-bound door above
which appeared in faded white lettering the inscription “Mr.
Bromeswell.”

The Superintendent unlocked the massive outer door, which opened with
a rusty creak, revealing an inner door fitted with a knocker. This
Miller pushed open and the two men entered the outer room of the “set”
of chambers, halting just inside the door to make a general survey of
the room, of which the most striking feature was its bareness. And
this was really a remarkable feature when the duration of the tenancy
was considered. In the course of some years of occupation the
mysterious tenant had accumulated no more furniture than a small
kitchen table, a Windsor chair, a canvas-seated camp armchair, a
military camp bedstead with a sleeping-bag and a couple of rugs and a
small iron safe.

“It is obvious,” said Thorndyke, “that Bromeswell never lived here.
Apparently he visited the place only at intervals, but when he came,
he stayed until he had finished what he had come to do. Probably, he
brought a supply of food and never went out between his arrival and
departure.”

He strolled into the tiny kitchen, where a gas-ring, a teapot, a cup
and saucer, one or two plates, a tin of milk-powder, one of sugar,
another of tea and a biscuit tin containing an unrecognizable mildewy
mass, bore out his suggestion. With a glance at the loaded letter-box,
he crossed the room and, opening a door, entered what was intended to
be the bedroom but had been made into a workshop. And very complete it
was, being fitted with a roomy sink and tap, a small boiler—apparently
a dentist’s vulcanizer—and a mixer or beater worked by a little
electric motor, driven by a bichromate battery, there being no
electric light in the premises. By the window was a strong bench on
which was a powerful office press, a stack of long, narrow copper
plates and a pile of pieces of felt of a similar shape but somewhat
larger. Close to the bench was a trough made from a stout wooden box,
lined with zinc and mounted on four legs, in which was folded
newspaper containing a number of neat coils of cow-hair cord, each
coil having an eye-splice at either end, evidently to fit on the hooks
which had been fixed in the walls.

“Those cords,” Miller explained, as Thorndyke took them from the paper
to examine them, “were used as drying lines to hang the damp sheets of
paper on. They are always made of cow-hair because that is the only
material that doesn’t mark the paper. But I expect you know all about
that. Is there anything that catches your eye in particular? You seem
interested in those cords.”

“I was looking at these two,” said Thorndyke, holding out two cords
which he had uncoiled. “This one, you see, was too long, it had been
cut the wrong length, or more probably was the remainder of a long
piece. But, instead of cutting off the excess, our friend has
thriftily shortened this rather expensive cord by working a sheepshank
on it. Now it isn’t every one who knows how to make a sheepshank and
the persons who do are not usually paper-makers.”

“That’s perfectly true, Doctor,” assented Miller. “I’m one of the
people who don’t know how to make that particular kind of knot. What
is the other point?”

“This other cord,” replied Thorndyke, “which looks new, has an
eye-splice at one end only, but it is, as you see, about five inches
longer than the other; just about the amount that would be taken up by
working the eye-splice. That looks as if Bromeswell had worked the
splices himself and if you consider the matter you will see that is
probably the case. The length of these cords is roughly the width of
this room. They have been cut to a particular measure; but the cord
was most probably bought in a single length, as this extra long piece
suggests.”

“Yes,” agreed Miller. “They wouldn’t have been sold with the
eye-splices worked on them, and in fact, I don’t see what he wanted
with the eye-splices at all. A simple knotted loop would have answered
the purpose quite as well.”

“Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “They were not necessary. They were a
luxury, a refinement; and that emphasizes the point that they suggest,
which is that Bromeswell is a man who has some technical knowledge of
cordage, is probably a sailor, or in some way connected with the sea.
As you say, a common knotted loop, such as a bowline knot, would have
answered the purpose perfectly. But that is true of most of the cases
in which a sailor uses an eye-splice. Then why does he take the
trouble to work the splice? Principally for the sake of neatness of
appearance, because, to an expert eye, a tied loop with its projecting
end looks slovenly.

“Now this man will have had quite a lot of time on his hands. He will
have had to wait about for hours while the pulp was boiling and while
it was being beaten up. A sailor would very naturally spend a part of
his idle time in tidying up the cordage.”

The Superintendent nodded reflectively. “Yes,” he said, “I think you
are right, Doctor; and it is an important point. This fellow was a
fairly expert paper-maker. He wasn’t a mere amateur like most of the
note-forgers. If he was some kind of sailor man as well, that would
make him a lot easier to identify if we should get on his track. But
that’s just what we can’t do. There is nothing to start from. He is a
mere name, and pretty certainly a false name at that.”

As he spoke, Miller looked about him discontentedly, running his eye
over the bench and its contents. Suddenly he stepped over to the press
and diving into the shadowed space between it and the wall, brought up
his hand grasping a silver-mounted briar pipe.

“Now, Doctor,” he said with a grin, handing it to Thorndyke when he
had inspected it, “here is something in your line. Just run your eye
over that pipe and tell me what the man is like.”

Thorndyke laughed as he took the pipe in his hand. “You are thinking
of the mythical anatomist and the fossil bone,” said he. “I am afraid
this relic will not tell us much. It is a good pipe; it must have cost
half a guinea, which would have meant more if its owner had been
honest. The maker’s name tells us that it was bought in Cheapside near
the Bank, its weight and the marks on the mouthpiece tell us that the
owner has a strong jaw and a good set of teeth, its good condition
suggests a careful, orderly man and its presence here makes it likely
that the owner was Mr. Bromeswell. That isn’t much but it confirms the
other appearances.”

“What other appearances?” demanded Miller.

“Those of the bed, the chair, the bench, the hooks and the trough.
They all point to a big, heavy man. The bedstead is about six feet,
six inches long but the heel-marks are near the foot and the pillow is
right at the head, This bench and the trough have been put up for this
man’s use—they were apparently knocked up by himself; and they are
both of a suitable height for you or me. A short man couldn’t work at
either. The hooks are over seven feet from the floor. The canvas seat
of the chair is deeply sagged although the woodwork looks in nearly
new condition, and the canvas of the bed is in the same condition. Add
this massive, hard-bitten pipe to those indications and you have the
picture of a tall, burly, powerful man. We must have a look at his
pillow and rugs to see if we can pick up a stray hair or two, and get
an idea of his complexion. What did he make the pulp from? I don’t see
any traces of rags.”

“He didn’t use rags. He used Whatman’s water-colour paper, which is a
pure linen paper. Apparently he tore it up into tiny fragments and
boiled it in soda lye until it was ready to go into the beater. Monk
found a supply of the paper in a cupboard and some half-cooked stuff
in the boiler.” As he spoke, Miller unscrewed and raised the lid of
the boiler, which was then seen to be half-filled with a clear liquid
at the bottom of which was a mass of sodden fragments of shredded
paper. From the boiler he turned to a small cupboard and opened the
door. “That seems to be his stock of material,” he said, indicating a
large roll of thick white paper. He took out a sheet and handed it to
Thorndyke, who held it up to the light and read the name “Whatman”
which formed the water-mark.

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, as he returned the sheet. “His method of work
seems clear enough, but that is not of much interest as you have the
moulds. What we want is the man himself. You have no description of
him, I suppose?”

“Not if your description of him is correct,” replied Miller. “The
suspected person, according to the Belgian police, is a smallish,
slight, dark man. They may be on the wrong track, or their man may be
a confederate. There must have been a confederate, perhaps more than
one. But Bromeswell only made the paper. Some one else must have done
the engraving and the printing. As to planting the notes, that may
have been done by some other parties, or by either or both of these
two artists. I should think they probably kept the game to themselves,
judging by what we have seen here. This seems to be a one man show,
and it looks as if even the engraver didn’t know where the paper was
made, or the moulds wouldn’t have been left in this way. Shall we go
and look for those hairs that you spoke of?”

They returned to the outer room, where they both subjected the little
pillow of the camp bed to a searching scrutiny. But though they
examined both sides and even took off the dusty pillow-case, not a
single hair was to be found. Then they turned their attention to the
rugs, which had been folded neatly and placed on the canvas—there was
no mattress—unfolding them carefully and going over them inch by inch.
Here, too, they seemed to have drawn a blank, for they had almost
completed their examination when the Superintendent uttered an
exclamation and delicately picked a small object from near the edge of
the rug.

“This seems to be a hair, Doctor,” said he, holding it up between his
finger and thumb. “Looks like a moustache hair, but it’s a mighty
short one.”

Thorndyke produced his pocket lens and a sheet of note-paper; and
holding the latter while Miller cautiously dropped the hair on it, he
inspected the find through his lens.

“Yes,” he said, “it is a moustache hair, about half an inch long,
decidedly thick, cleanly cut and of a lightish red-brown colour.
Somehow it seems to fit the other characters. A close-cropped,
bristly, sandy moustache appears to go appropriately with the stature
and weight of the man and that massive pipe. There is a tendency for
racial characters to go together, and the blond races run to height
and weight. Well, we have a fairly complete picture of the man, unless
we have made some erroneous inferences, and we seem to have finished
our inspection. Have you been through the stuff in the letter-box?”

“Monk went through it, but we may as well have a look at it to make
sure that he hasn’t missed anything. I’ll hand the things out if you
will put them on the table and check them.”

As Miller took out the letters in handfuls Thorndyke received them
from him and laid them out on the table. Then he and Miller examined
the collection systematically.

“You see, Doctor,” said the latter, “they are all circulars; not a
private letter among them excepting the two notes from the Treasurer
about the rent. And they are quite a miscellaneous lot. None of these
people knew anything about Bromeswell, apparently, they just copied
the address out of the directory. Here’s one from a money-lender.
Bromeswell could have given him a tip or two. The earliest post-mark
is the eleventh of June, so we may take it that he wasn’t here after
the tenth, or the morning of the eleventh.”

“There is a slight suggestion that he left at night,” said Thorndyke,
as he made a note of the date. “The place where you found the pipe
would be in deep shadow by gaslight, but not by daylight. Certainly
the blind was up, but he would probably have drawn it up after he
turned the gas out, as its being down during the day might attract
attention.”

“Yes,” said Miller, “you are probably right about the time; and that
reminds me that Monk found a small piece of paper under the bench—I’ve
got it in my pocket—which seems to bear out your suggestion.” He took
from his pocket a bulky letter-case, from an inner recess of which he
extracted a little scrap of Whatman paper.

“Here it is,” he said, handing it to Thorndyke. “He seems to have just
jotted down the times of two trains; and, as you say, they were
probably night trains.”

Thorndyke looked with deep attention at the fragment, on which was
written, hastily but legibly in very black ink, “8:15 and 11:1. P,”
and remarked:

“Quite a valuable find in its way. The writing is very characteristic,
and so is the ink. Probably it would be more so when seen through the
microscope. Magnification brings out shades of colour that are
invisible to the naked eye.”

“Well, Doctor,” said Miller, “if you can spare the time to have a look
at it through the microscope, I wish you would, and let us know if you
discover anything worth noting. And perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a
glance at the hair, too, to settle the colour more exactly.”

He transferred the latter, which he had carefully folded in paper and
put in his pocketbook, to Thorndyke, who deposited it, with the scrap
of paper, in his letter-case, after pencilling on the wrapper a note
of the nature and source of the object.

“And that,” said the Superintendent, “seems to be the lot. We haven’t
done so badly, after all. If you are right—as I expect you are—we have
got quite a serviceable description of the man Bromeswell. But it is a
most mysterious affair. I can’t imagine what the deuce can have
happened. It is pretty clear that he came here about the tenth of June
and probably made a batch of paper which we shall hear of later. But
what can have happened to the man? Something out of the common,
evidently. He would never have stayed away voluntarily with the
certainty that the premises would be entered, his precious moulds
found and the whole thing blown upon. If he had intended to clear out
he would certainly have taken the moulds with him, or at least
destroyed them if he thought that the game was up. What do you think,
Doctor?”

“It seems to me,” replied Thorndyke, “that there are three
possibilities. He may be dead, and if so he probably died suddenly,
before he was able to make any arrangements; he may be in prison on
some other charge; or he may have got a scare that we know nothing of
and had to keep out of sight. You said that the Belgian police were
taking some action.”

“Yes, they have got an officer over here, by agreement with us, who is
making inquiries about the man who planted the notes in Belgium. But
he isn’t after Bromeswell. He is looking for quite a different man, as
I told you. But he doesn’t pretend that he could recognize him.”

“It doesn’t follow that Bromeswell knows that. If the confederate has
discovered that inquiries are being made, he may have given his friend
a hint, and the pair of them may have absconded. But that is mere
speculation. As you say, something extraordinary must have happened,
and it must have been something sudden and unforeseen. And that is all
that we can say at present.”

By the time that this conclusion was reached, they had emerged from
Clifford’s Inn Passage into Fleet Street; and here they parted, the
Superintendent setting a course westward and Thorndyke crossing the
road to the gateway of Middle Temple Lane.



CHAPTER VIII

In Which Thorndyke Tries Over the Moves

It was in a deeply meditative frame of mind that Thorndyke pursued his
way towards his chambers after parting with the Superintendent. For
the inspection which he had just made had developed points of interest
other than those which he had discussed with the detective officer.

To his acute mind, habituated to rapid inference, the case of the
mysterious Mr. Bromeswell had inevitably presented a parallelism with
that of Daniel Purcell. Bromeswell had disappeared without leaving a
trace. If he had absconded, he had done so without premeditation or
preparation, apparently under the compulsion of some unforeseen but
imperative necessity. But that was precisely Purcell’s case, and the
instant the mere comparison was made, other points of agreement began
to appear and multiply in the most startling manner.

The physical resemblance between Purcell and the hypothetical
Bromeswell was striking but not conclusive. Both were big, heavy men;
but such men are not uncommon and the resemblance in the matter of the
moustache had to be verified—or disproved. But the other points of
agreement were very impressive—impressive alike by their completeness
and by their number. Both men were connected with the making of paper,
and of the same kind—hand-made paper. The banknote moulds had been
stolen or lost at Maidstone about six years ago. But at that very time
Purcell was at Maidstone and was then engaged in the paper industry.
Bromeswell appeared to have a sailor’s knowledge and skill in respect
of cordage. But Purcell was a yachtsman and had such knowledge and
skill. Then the dates of the two disappearances coincided very
strikingly. Bromeswell disappeared from London about the tenth of
June; Purcell disappeared from Penzance on the twenty-third of June.
Even in trivial circumstances there was curious agreement. For
instance, it was a noticeable coincidence that Bromeswell’s pipe
should have been bought at a shop within a minute’s walk of Purcell’s
office.

But there was another coincidence that Thorndyke had noted, even while
he was examining the premises at Clifford’s Inn. Those premises were
concerned exclusively with the making of the paper blanks on which the
notes would later be printed. Of the engraving and printing activities
there was no trace. Bromeswell was a paper-maker, pure and simple; but
somewhere in the background there must have been a confederate who was
an engraver and a printer, to whom Bromeswell supplied the paper
blanks, and who engraved the plates and printed the notes. But Purcell
had one intimate friend; and that friend was a skilful engraver who
was able to print from engraved plates. Moreover the rather vague
description given by the Belgian police of the man who uttered the
forged notes, while it obviously could not apply to Purcell, agreed
very completely with Purcell’s intimate friend.

And there was yet another agreement, perhaps more striking than any.
If it were assumed that Bromeswell and Purcell were one and the same
person, the whole of the mystery connected with Mr. Penfield’s letter
was resolved. Everything became consistent and intelligible—up to a
certain point. If the mysterious “enclosures” were a batch of paper
blanks with the Bank of England water-mark on them, it was easy to
understand Mr. Penfield’s reticence; for he had made himself an
accessory to a felony, to say nothing of the offence that he was
committing by having these things in his possession. It would also
account completely for Purcell’s sudden flight and his silence as to
his whereabouts; for he would, naturally, assume that no lawyer would
be such an imbecile as to accept the position of an accessory to a
crime that he had no connection with. He would take it for granted
that Penfield would forthwith hand the letter and enclosures to the
police.

But there were one or two difficulties. In the first place the theory
implied an incredible lack of caution on the part of Penfield, who was
a lawyer of experience and would fully appreciate the risk he was
running. Then it assumed an equally amazing lack of care and caution
in the case of Purcell; a carelessness quite at variance with the
scrupulous caution and well-maintained secrecy of the establishment at
Clifford’s Inn. But the most serious discrepancy was the presence of
the paper blanks in a letter. The letter into which they ought to have
been put would be addressed to the confederate; and that confederate
was assumed to be Varney. But why should they have been sent in a
letter to Varney? On the very day on which the letter was posted,
Varney and Purcell had been alone together for some hours on the
yacht. The blanks could have been handed to Varney then, and naturally
would have been. The discrepancy seemed to render the hypothesis
untenable, or at any rate to rule out Varney as the possible
confederate.

But it was impossible to dismiss the hypothesis as untenable. The
agreements with the observed facts were too numerous; and as soon as
the inquiry was transferred to a new field, a fresh set of agreements
came into view. Very methodically Thorndyke considered the theory of
the identity of Purcell with Bromeswell in connection with his
interviews with Mr. Penfield and Mr. Levy.

Taking the latter first, what had it disclosed? It had shown that
Purcell was a common money-lender; not an incriminating fact, for the
business of a money-lender is not in itself unlawful. But it is a
vocation to which little credit attaches, and its practice is
frequently associated with very unethical conduct. It is rather on the
outside edge of lawful industry.

But what of Levy? Apparently he was not a mere employé. He appeared to
be able to get on quite well without Purcell and seemed to have the
status of a partner. Was it possible that he was a partner in the
other concern, too? It was not impossible. A money-lender has
excellent opportunities for getting rid of good flash notes. His
customers usually want notes in preference to cheques; and he could
even get batches of notes from the Bank and number his forgeries to
correspond, thus protecting himself in case of discovery. But even if
Levy were a confederate, he would not exclude Varney, for there was no
reason to suppose that he was an engraver, whereas Varney was both an
engraver and an old and constant associate of Purcell’s. In short,
Levy was not very obviously in the picture at all, and, for the time
being, Thorndyke dismissed him and passed on to the other case. Taking
now the interview with Penfield, there were the facts elicited by the
examination of the envelope. That envelope had contained a rather
bulky mass, apparently of folded paper, about five inches long, or a
little more, and somewhat less than three inches wide. Thorndyke rose,
and taking from the bookshelves a manuscript book labelled
“Dimensions,” found in the index the entry “Bank-notes” and turned to
the page indicated. Here the dimensions of a five-pound note were
given as eight inches and three-eighths long by five inches and five
thirty-seconds wide. Folded lengthwise into three it would thus be
five inches and five thirty-seconds—or say five and an eighth long by
two and three-quarters wide, if folded quite accurately, or a fraction
more if folded less exactly. The enclosure in Penfield’s envelope was
therefore exactly the size of a small batch of notes folded into
three. It did not follow that the enclosures actually were banknotes.
They might have been papers of some other kind but of similar size.
But the observed facts were in complete agreement with the supposition
that they were banknotes; and taken in conjunction with Penfield’s
extraordinary secrecy and the wording of his letter to Margaret
Purcell, they strongly supported that supposition.

Then there was the suggestion that the envelope had been steamed open
and reclosed. It was only a suggestion; not a certainty. The
appearances might be misleading. But to Thorndyke’s expert eye the
suggestion had been very strong. The gum had smeared upwards on the
inside, which seemed impossible if the envelope had been closed once
for all; and the paper showed traces of cockling, as if it had been
damped. Mr. Penfield had rejected the suggestion; partly for the
excellent reasons that he had given, but also, perhaps, because
Purcell’s flight implied that he had discovered the mistake and that
therefore the mistake was presumably his own.

But there was one important point that Penfield seemed to have
overlooked. The letter that he expected to receive would (presumably)
have contained no enclosures. The letter that he did receive contained
a bulky enclosure which bulged the envelope. The two letters must
therefore have been very different in appearance. Now, ordinarily,
when two letters are put each into the envelope of the other, when
once the envelopes are closed the mistake is covered up. There is
nothing in their exterior to suggest that any mistake has occurred.
But in the present case the error was blatantly advertised by the
appearance of the closed letters. Penfield’s envelope, which should
have been flat, bulged with its contents. The other envelope—if there
was one, as there almost certainly must have been—which should have
bulged, was conspicuously flat. Of course, Penfield may have been
wrong in assuming that no enclosures were to be sent to him. Both
letters may have held enclosures. But taking the evidence as it was
presented, it was to the effect that there were enclosures in only one
of the letters. And if that were the case, the mistake appeared
incredible. It became impossible to understand how Purcell could have
handled the two letters and finally put them into the post without
seeing that the enclosures were in the wrong envelope.

What was the significance of the point? Well, it raised the question
whether Purcell could possibly have posted this letter himself, and
this question involved the further question whether the envelope had
been opened and reclosed. For if it had, the transposition of the
contents must have taken place after the letters left Purcell’s hands.
Against this was the fact of Purcell’s flight, which made it
practically certain that he had become aware of the transposition. But
it was not conclusive, and having noted the objection, Thorndyke
proceeded to follow out the alternative theory. Accepting for the
moment, the hypothesis that the letter had been opened and the
transposition made intentionally, certain other questions arose.
First, Who had the opportunity? Second, What could have been the
purpose of the act? and, third, Who could have had such a purpose?
Thorndyke considered these questions in the same methodical fashion,
taking them one by one, in the order stated.

Who had the opportunity? That depended, among other things, on the
time at which the letter was posted. Penfield had stated that the
letter had been posted at 8:30 p.m. If that were true, it put Varney
out of the problem, for he had left Penzance some hours before that
time. But it was not true. The time shown by the post-mark was not the
time at which the letter was posted but that at which it was sorted at
the post office. It might have been posted at a pillar-box some hours
previously. It was therefore not impossible that it might have been
posted by Varney. And if it was physically possible, it at once became
the most probable assumption, since there was no reasonable
alternative. It was inconceivable that Purcell should have handed the
letters to a stranger to post, and if he had, it was inconceivable
that that stranger should have opened the letters and transposed their
contents. There was, indeed, the possibility that Purcell had met a
confederate at Penzance and had handed him the letters—one of which
would be addressed to himself—to post; and that this confederate might
have made the transposition. But this was pure speculation without a
particle of evidence to support it; whereas Varney, as an intimate
friend, even if not a confederate, might conceivably have had the
letters handed to him to post, though this was profoundly improbable,
seeing that Purcell was going ashore and Varney was in charge of the
yacht. In effect, there was no positive evidence that anybody had had
the opportunity to make the transposition; but if it had not been done
by Purcell, himself, then Varney appeared to be the only possible
agent.

From this vague and unsatisfactory conclusion Thorndyke proceeded to
the second question; assuming the transposition to have been made
intentionally, what could have been the purpose of the act? To this
question, so far as the immediate purpose was concerned, the answer
was obvious enough, since only one was possible. The blanks must have
been put into Mr. Penfield’s envelope for the express purpose of
notifying the solicitor that Purcell was a bank-note forger; in short,
for the purpose of exposing Purcell. This led at once to the third
question: Who could have had such a purpose? But to this also the
answer was obvious. The only person who could have had such a purpose
would be a confederate; for no one else would have been in possession
of the knowledge that would make such a purpose possible. The
transposition could have been made only by some one who knew what the
contents of the envelopes were.

But why should any confederate have done this? The exposure of Purcell
involved at least a risk of the exposure of his confederate; and it
could be assumed that if Purcell suspected that he had been betrayed,
he would certainly denounce his betrayer. The object, therefore, could
not have been to secure the arrest of Purcell, a conclusion that was
confirmed by the fact that Purcell had become aware of the
transposition, and if he had not done it himself, must apparently have
been informed in time to allow of his escaping.

But what other object could there be? Was it possible that the
confederate wished to get rid of Purcell and made this exposure with
the express purpose of compelling him to disappear? That raised the
question: When did Purcell become aware that the transposition had
been made? And the answer was somewhat perplexing. He could not have
become aware of it immediately, or he would have telegraphed to
Penfield and stopped the letter; and yet he seemed to have absconded
at once, before the letter could have been delivered to Penfield. He
was due at Oulton the following day and he never arrived there. He was
stated to have gone from Penzance to Falmouth. That might or might not
be true; but the voyage to Ipswich was evidently a myth. The answer
that he had received from the owners of the _Hedwig_, enclosing a
report from the captain of the ship, showed that the only passengers
who embarked at Falmouth were three distressed Swedish sailors, who
travelled with the ship to Malmo, and that no one went ashore at
Ipswich. It followed that Varney had either been misinformed or had
invented the incidents; but when it was considered that he must, if he
was telling the truth, have been misinformed in the same manner on two
separate occasions, it seemed much more probable that the story of the
voyage was a fabrication. In that case the journey to Falmouth—of
which no one but Varney had heard—was probably a fabrication, too.
This left Penzance as the apparent starting-point of the flight.
Purcell had certainly landed at Penzance and had forthwith disappeared
from view. What became of him thereafter it was impossible to guess.
He seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Arrived at this point, Thorndyke’s quietly reflective attitude
suddenly gave place to one of more intense attention. For a new and
somewhat startling question had presented itself. With an expression
of deep concentration, he set himself to consider it.

Hitherto he had accepted Purcell’s landing at Penzance as an
undeniable fact from which a secure departure could be taken. But was
it an undeniable fact? The only witness of that landing was Varney;
and Varney had shown himself a very unreliable witness. Apparently he
had lied about the Ipswich voyage; probably, too, about the visit to
Falmouth. What if the landing at Penzance were a fabrication, too? It
seemed a wild suggestion; but it was a possibility; and Thorndyke
proceeded carefully to develop the consequences that would follow if
it were true.

Suppose that Purcell had never landed at Penzance at all. Then several
circumstances hitherto incomprehensible became understandable. The
fables of Purcell’s appearance at Falmouth and Ipswich, which had
seemed to be motiveless falsehoods, now showed a clear purpose; which
was to create a certainty that Purcell had landed from the yacht as
stated and to shift the search for the missing man from Penzance to
Ipswich. Again, if Purcell had never landed at Penzance, the letter
could not have been posted by him and it became practically certain
that it must have been posted there by Varney and the transposition
made by him. And this made the transposition understandable by
developing a very evident purpose. When Penfield opened the letter and
when, later, he heard of Purcell’s disappearance, he would at once
assume that Purcell had absconded to avoid being arrested. The purpose
of the transposition, then, was to furnish a reasonable explanation of
a disappearance that had already occurred.

But what had become of Purcell? If he had not landed at Penzance, he
certainly had not landed anywhere else, for there had not been time
for the yacht to touch at any other port. Nor could it be supposed
that he had transhipped on to another vessel during the voyage. There
was no reason why he should. The letter had not been posted; and until
it had been posted, there was no reason for flight. The only
reasonable inference from the facts, including Varney’s false
statements, was that something had happened during the voyage from
Sennen; that Purcell had disappeared—presumably overboard—and that
Varney had reasons for concealing the circumstances of his
disappearance. In short, that Purcell was dead and that Varney was
responsible for his death.

It was an appalling theory. Thorndyke hardly dared even to propound it
to himself. But there was no denying that it fitted the facts with the
most surprising completeness. Once assume it to be true and all the
perplexing features of the case became consistent and understandable.
Not only did it explain Varney’s otherwise inexplicable anxiety to
prove that Purcell had been seen alive at a date subsequent to that of
the alleged landing at Penzance; it accounted for the facts that
Purcell had taken no measures to provide himself with a stock of cash
before disappearing and that he had made no communication of any sort
to his wife since his departure, though he could have done so with
perfect safety. It was in perfect agreement with all the known facts
and in disagreement with none. It was a complete solution of the
mystery; and there was no other.

When Thorndyke reached this conclusion, he roused himself from his
reverie, and, filling his pipe, took an impartial survey of the scheme
of circumstantial evidence that he had been engaged in constructing.
It was all very complete and consistent. There were, so far, no
discrepancies or contradictions. All the evidence pointed in the one
direction. The assumed actions of Varney were in complete agreement
with the circumstances that were known and the others that were
inferred as well as with the assumed motives. But it was largely
hypothetical and might turn out to be entirely illusory. If only one
of the assumed facts should prove to be untrue, the whole structure of
inference would come tumbling down. He took out of his pocketbook the
folded paper containing the single moustache hair that the
Superintendent had found in the Clifford’s Inn rooms. Laying it on a
sheet of white paper, he once more examined it, first through his
lens, then under the microscope, noting the length, thickness and
colour and mentally visualizing the kind of moustache from which it
had come. Here was an indispensable link in the chain of evidence. If
Purcell had had such a moustache, that would not prove that he and
Bromeswell were one and the same person, but it would be consistent
with their identity. But if Purcell had no such moustache, then it was
probable—indeed, nearly certain—that he and Bromeswell were different
persons. And if they were, the whole hypothetical scheme that he had
been working out collapsed. Both Purcell and Varney ceased to have any
connection with the forged notes; the mysterious “enclosures” could
not be of the nature that he had assumed; and all the deductions from
those assumed facts ceased to be valid. It was necessary without delay
to test this essential link; to ascertain whether this derelict hair
could have been derived from Daniel Purcell.

Enclosed with it was the slip of paper with the notes of the trains,
which he had, for the moment, forgotten. He now examined it minutely
and was once more struck by the intense blackness of the ink; and he
recalled that a similar intensity of blackness had been noticeable in
the address on Mr. Penfield’s envelope. It had appeared almost like
the black of a carbon ink, but he had decided that it was not. So it
was with the present specimen; but now he had the means of deciding
definitely. Fetching the microscope, he laid the paper on the stage
and examined it, first by reflected, then by transmitted light. The
examination made it clear that this was an iron-tannin ink of unusual
concentration with a “provisional” blue pigment—probably methyl blue.
There was only one letter—P—and this he tried to compare with the P on
Penfield’s envelope, so far as he could remember it, but he could not
get beyond a belief that there was a resemblance; a belief that would
have to be tested by a specimen of Purcell’s handwriting.

Having finished with the paper he returned to the hair. He decided to
write to Margaret, asking for a description of her missing husband,
and had just reached out to the stationery case when an elaborate and
formal tattoo on the small brass knocker of the inner door arrested
him. Rising, he crossed the room and threw the door open, thereby
disclosing the dorsal aspect of a small, elderly gentleman. As the
door opened the visitor turned about and Thorndyke immediately, not
without surprise, recognized him. It was Mr. Penfield.



CHAPTER IX

In Which Mr. Penfield Receives a Shock

Mr. Penfield greeted Thorndyke with a little stiff bow and bestowed
upon the extended hand a formal and somewhat rheumatic shake.

“I must apologize,” he said, as his host ushered him into the room,
“for disturbing you by this visit, but I had a little matter to
communicate to you and thought it better to make that communication
personally rather than by correspondence.”

“You are not disturbing me at all,” Thorndyke replied. “On the
contrary, I expect that your visit will save me the necessity of
writing a letter.”

“To me?” asked Penfield.

“No; to Mrs. Purcell. I was on the point of writing to her to ask for
a description of her husband. As I have never met him I thought it as
well that I should get from her such details of his appearance as
might be necessary for purposes of identification.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Penfield. “Very desirable indeed. Well, I think I
can tell you all you want to know, unless you want very minute
details. And it happens that your inquiry comes rather opportunely in
respect of the matter that I have to communicate. Shall we dispose of
your question first?”

“If you please,” replied Thorndyke. He took from a drawer a pad of
ruled paper, and, uncapping his fountain pen, looked at Mr. Penfield,
whom he had inducted into an easy chair.

“May I offer you a cigar, Mr. Penfield?” he asked.

“I thank you,” was the reply, “but I am not a smoker. Perhaps—” Here
he held out his snuff-box tentatively. “No? Well, it is an obsolete
vice, but I am a survivor from an obsolete age.” He refreshed himself
with a substantial pinch and continued: “With regard to Purcell: his
person is easy to describe and should be easy to identify. He is a big
lump of a man; about six feet or a fraction over. Massive, heavy, but
not fat; just elephantine. Rather slow in his movements but strong,
active and not at all clumsy. As to his face, I would call it beefy; a
full, red face with thick, bright red, crinkly ears and full lips.
Eyes, pale blue; hair, yellowish or light brown, cropped short. No
beard or whiskers but a little, bristly, pale-reddish moustache cut
short like a sandy toothbrush. Expression surly; manner, short,
brusque, taciturn and rather morose. Big, thick, purple hands that
look, in spite of their size, capable, neat and useful hands. In fact
the hands are an epitome of Purcell; a combination of massive strength
and weight with remarkable bodily efficiency. How will that do for
you?”

“Admirably,” replied Thorndyke, inwardly somewhat surprised at the old
solicitor’s powers of observation. “It is a very distinctive picture
and quite enough for what we may call _prima facie_ identification. I
take it that you know him pretty well?”

“I have seen a good deal of him since his marriage, when his wife
introduced him to me, and I have managed his legal business for some
years. But I know very little of his private affairs. Very few people
do, I imagine. I never met a less communicative man. And now, if we
have done with his appearance, let us come to the question of his
present whereabouts. Have you any information on the subject?”

“There is a vague report that he was seen some months ago at Ipswich.
It is quite unconfirmed and I attach no importance to it.”

“It is probably correct, though,” said Penfield. “I have just had a
letter from him and the post-mark shows that it came from that very
locality.”

“There is no address on the letter, then?”

“No; and I am invited to reply by advertisement. The occasion of the
letter was this: a client of mine, a Mrs. Catford, who is a relative
of Mrs. Purcell’s, had recently died, leaving a will of which I am the
executor and residuary legatee. By the terms of that will, Mrs.
Purcell and her husband each benefits to the extent of a thousand
pounds. Now as Mrs. Catford’s death occurred subsequently to Purcell’s
disappearance it became necessary to establish his survival of the
testatrix—or the contrary—in order that the will might be
administered. As his whereabouts were unknown, the only method that I
could think of was to put an advertisement in the ‘personal’ column of
_The Times_ on the bare chance that he might see it, asking him to
communicate with me. By a lucky chance, he did see it and did
communicate with me. But he gave no address; and any further
communication from me will have to be by advertisement, as he
suggests. That, however, is of no importance to me. His letter tells
me all I want to know; that he is alive at a date subsequent to the
death of the testatrix and that the bequest in his favour can
consequently take effect. I am not concerned with his exact
whereabouts. That matter is in your province.”

As he concluded, punctuating his conclusion with a pinch of snuff, the
old lawyer looked at Thorndyke with a sly and slightly ironical smile.

Thorndyke reflected rapidly on Mr. Penfield’s statement. The
appearance of this letter was very remarkable, and the more so coming
as it did on top of the confirmatory evidence respecting the moustache
hair. It was now highly probable—almost certain—that Bromeswell and
Purcell were one and the same person. But if that were so, all the
probabilities went to show that Purcell must be dead. And yet here was
a letter from him, not to a stranger but to one who knew his
handwriting well. It was very remarkable.

Again, the report of Purcell’s voyage from Falmouth to Ipswich was
certainly untrue. But if it was untrue, there was no reason for
supposing that Purcell had ever been at Ipswich at all. Yet here was a
letter sent by Purcell from that very locality. That was very
remarkable, too. Clearly, the matter called for further investigation;
and that involved, in the first place, an examination of this letter
that had come so mysteriously to confirm a report that was certainly
untrue. He returned Mr. Penfield’s smile and then asked:

“You accept this letter, then, as evidence of survival?”

Mr. Penfield looked astonished. “But, my dear sir, what else could I
do? I may be insufficiently critical, and I have not your great
special knowledge of this subject, but to my untrained intelligence it
would appear that the circumstance of a man’s having written a letter
affords good presumptive evidence that he was alive at the date when
it was written. That is my own view and I propose to administer the
will in accordance with it. Do I understand that you dissent from it?”

Thorndyke smiled blandly. He was beginning rather to like Mr.
Penfield.

“As you state the problem,” said he, “you are probably right. At any
rate the administration of the will is your concern and not mine. As
you were good enough to remark, my concern is with the person and the
whereabouts of Mr. Purcell and not with his affairs. Were you
proposing to allow me to inspect the envelope of this letter?”

“It was for that very purpose that I came,” replied Penfield with a
smile and a twinkle of mischief in his eyes; “but I will not restrict
you to the envelope this time. You shall inspect the letter as well,
if a mere letter will not be superfluous when the envelope has given
up its secrets.”

He produced a wallet from his pocket and, opening it, took out a
letter which he gravely handed to Thorndyke. The latter took it from
him, and as he glanced at the jet-black writing of the address, said:
“I take it that you are satisfied that the handwriting is Purcell’s?”

“Certainly,” was the reply. “But whose else should it be? The question
does not seem to arise. However, I may assure you that it is
undoubtedly Purcell’s writing, and also Purcell’s ink, though that is
less conclusive. Still, it is a peculiar ink. I have never seen any
quite like it. My impression is that he prepares it himself.”

As Penfield was speaking, Thorndyke examined the envelope narrowly.
Presently he rose and, taking a reading-glass from the mantel-shelf,
went over to the window, where, with the aid of the glass, he
scrutinized the envelope inch by inch on both sides. Then, laying down
the reading-glass, he took from his pocket a powerful doublet lens
through which he examined certain parts of the envelope, particularly
the stamp and the London post-mark. Finally he took out the letter,
opened the envelope and carefully examined its interior, and then
inspected the letter itself before unfolding it, holding it so that
the light fell on it obliquely and scrutinizing each of the four
corners in succession. At length he opened the letter, read it
through, again examined the corners, and compared some portions of the
writing with that on the envelope.

These proceedings were closely observed by Mr. Penfield, who watched
them with an indulgent smile. He was better able than on the last
occasion to appreciate the humour of Thorndyke’s methods. There was
nothing about this letter that he had need to conceal. He could afford
to let the expert find out what he could this time; and Mr. Penfield,
from a large and unfavourable experience of expert witnesses,
suspected that the discovery would probably take the form of a mare’s
nest.

“Well,” he said, as Thorndyke returned to his chair with the letter in
his hand, “has the oracle spoken? Have we made any startling
discoveries?”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘discoveries,’” replied Thorndyke, “which
seems to imply facts definitely ascertained; but there are certain
appearances which suggest a rather startling inference.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Penfield, taking snuff with great enjoyment. “I
somehow expected that they would when I decided to show you the
letter. What is the inference that is suggested?”

“The inference is,” replied Thorndyke, “that this letter has never
been through the post.”

Mr. Penfield paused with his hand uplifted, holding a minute pinch of
snuff, and regarded Thorndyke in silent astonishment.

“That,” he said, at length, “is certainly a startling inference; and
it would be still more startling if there were any possibility that it
could be true. Unfortunately the letter bears a post-mark showing that
it was posted at Woodbridge, and another showing that it was sorted at
the London office. But no doubt you have observed and allowed for
those facts.”

“The appearances,” said Thorndyke, “suggest that when the post-marks
were made, the envelope was empty and probably unaddressed.”

“But, my dear sir,” protested Penfield, “that is a manifest
impossibility. You must see that for yourself. How could such a thing
possibly have happened?”

“That is a separate question,” replied Thorndyke. “I am now dealing
only with the appearances. Let me point them out to you. First, you
will notice that the words ‘Personal and Confidential’ have been
written at the top of the envelope. Apparently the word ‘Personal’ was
first written alone and the words ‘and Confidential’ added as an
afterthought. That is suggested by the change in the writing and the
increasingly condensed form of the letters towards the end due to the
want of space. But in spite of the squeezing up of the letters, the
tail of the final l has been forced onto the stamp and actually
touches the circle of the post-mark; and if you examine it through
this lens, you can see plainly that the written line is on top of the
post-mark. Therefore the post-mark was already there when that word
was written.”

He handed the envelope and the lens to Mr. Penfield, who, after some
ineffectual struggles, rejected the lens and had recourse to his
spectacles.

“It has somewhat the appearance that you suggest,” he said at length;
“but I have not your expert eye and therefore not your confidence. I
should suppose it to be impossible to say with certainty whether one
written mark was on top of or underneath another.”

“Very well,” said Thorndyke; “then we will proceed to the next point.
You will notice that both of the post-marks are deeply indented;
unusually so. As a matter of fact, post-marks are usually not visibly
indented at all; and it is a noticeable coincidence that this envelope
should bear two different post-marks, each unusually indented.”

“Still,” said Penfield, “that might easily have happened. The laws of
chance are not applicable to individual cases.”

“Quite so,” Thorndyke agreed. “But now observe another point. These
post-marks are so deeply indented that, in both cases, the impression
is clearly visible on the opposite side of the envelope, especially
inside. That is rather remarkable, seeing that, if the letter was
inside, the impression must have penetrated four thicknesses of
paper.”

“Still,” said Penfield, “it is not impossible.”

“Perhaps not,” Thorndyke admitted. “But what does seem impossible is
that it should have done so without leaving any trace on the letter
itself. But that is what has happened. If you will examine the letter
you will see that there is not a vestige of an indentation on any part
of it. From which, you must agree with me that the only reasonable
inference is that when the indentations were made, the letter was not
in the envelope.”

Mr. Penfield took the letter and the envelope and compared them
carefully. There was no denying the obvious facts. There was the
envelope with the deeply indented post-marks showing plainly on the
reverse sides, and there was the letter with never a sign of any mark
at all. It was certainly very odd. Mr. Penfield was a good deal
puzzled and slightly annoyed. To his orthodox legal mind this prying
into concrete facts and physical properties was rather distasteful. He
was accustomed to sworn testimony, which might be true or might be
untrue (but that was the witnesses’ lookout) but which could be
accepted as admitted evidence. He could not deny that the facts were
apparently as Thorndyke had stated. But that unwilling admission
produced no conviction. He was a lawyer, not a scientific observer.

“Yes,” he agreed, reluctantly, “the appearances are as you say. But
they must be in some way illusory. Perhaps some difference in the
properties of the paper may be the explanation. At any rate, I cannot
accept your inference, for the simple reason that it predicates an
impossibility. It assumes that this man, or some other, posted a
blank, empty envelope, got it back, put a letter in it, addressed it,
and then delivered it by hand, having travelled up from Woodbridge to
do so. That would be an impossibility, unless the person were a
post-office official; and then, what on earth could be the object of
such an insane proceeding? Have you asked yourself that question?”

As a matter of fact, Thorndyke had; and he had deduced a completely
sufficient answer. But he did not feel called upon to explain this. It
was not his concern to convince Mr. Penfield. That gentleman’s beliefs
were a matter of perfect indifference to him. He had considered it
fair to draw Mr. Penfield’s attention to the observed facts and even
to point out the inferences that they suggested. But if Mr. Penfield
chose to shut his eyes to the facts, or to reject the obvious
inferences, that was his affair.

“At the moment,” he replied, “I am concerned with the appearances and
the immediate inferences from them. When I am sure of my facts I shall
go on to consider their bearing; those questions of motive, for
instance, to which you have referred. That would be premature until I
have verified the facts by a more searching examination. Would it be
convenient for you to leave this letter with me for a few hours, that
I might examine it more completely?”

Mr. Penfield would have liked to refuse. But there was no pretext for
such refusal. He therefore made a virtue of necessity and replied
graciously:

“Certainly, certainly. By all means. I will just take a copy and then
you can do as you please with the original, short of destroying it.
But don’t, pray don’t let it lead you astray.”

“In what respect?”

“Well,” said Penfield, taking a deprecating pinch of snuff, “it has
sometimes seemed to me that the specialist has a tendency—just a
tendency, mark you—to mislead himself. He looks for a certain thing,
which might be there, and—well, he finds it. I cannot but remark your
own unexpected successes in your search for the—ha—the unusual, shall
we say. On two occasions I have shown you an envelope. On both
occasions you have made most surprising discoveries, involving the
strangest aberrations of conduct on the part of Purcell and others.
To-day you have found unheard-of anomalies in the post-marks, from
which you infer that Purcell or another has exerted immense ingenuity
and overcome insuperable obstacles in order to behave like a fool. On
the previous occasion you discovered that Purcell had been at the
trouble of ungumming the envelope which he had undoubtedly addressed
with his own hand, for the express purpose of taking out the right
contents which were already in it, and putting in the wrong ones.
Perhaps you have made some other discoveries which you did not
mention,” Mr. Penfield added after a slight pause, and as Thorndyke
only bowed slightly—which was not very explicit—he further added:
“Would it be indiscreet or impertinent to enquire whether you did, in
fact, make any further discoveries? Whether, for instance, you arrived
at any opinion as to the nature of the enclosures, which were, I
think, the objects of your investigations?”

Thorndyke hesitated. For a moment he was disposed to take the old
solicitor into his confidence. But experience had taught him, as it
teaches most of us, that when the making or withholding of confidences
are alternatives, he chooses the better part who keeps his own
counsel. Nevertheless he gave Penfield a cautionary hint.

“Those enclosures,” said he, “have ceased to interest me. Any opinions
that I formed as to their nature had be better left unstated. I seek
no verification of them. Opinions held but not disclosed commit the
holder to nothing; whereas actual knowledge has its responsibilities.
I do not know what those enclosures were and I do not want to know.”

For some moments after Thorndyke finished speaking there was a
slightly uncomfortable silence. Mr. Penfield’s dry facetiousness
evaporated rather suddenly, and he found himself reading a somewhat
alarming significance into Thorndyke’s ambiguous and even cryptic
reply. ‘He did not know and he did not want to know.’ Now Mr. Penfield
did know and would have given a good deal to be without that
knowledge; for to possess the knowledge was to be an accessory. Was
that what Thorndyke meant? Mr. Penfield had a dark suspicion that it
was.

“Probably you are right,” he said presently. “You know what opinions
you formed and I do not. But there is one point that I should like to
have made clear. We are both acting in Mrs. Purcell’s interest, but
her husband is also my client. Is there any conflict in our purposes
with regard to him?”

“I think not,” replied Thorndyke. “At any rate, I will say this much:
that I should under no circumstances take any action that might be
prejudicial to him without your concurrence, or at least, without
placing you in possession of all the facts. But I feel confident that
no such necessity will arise. We are dealing with separate aspects of
the case, but it would be foolish for us to get at cross purposes.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Penfield. “That is my own feeling. And with regard
to this letter; if it should yield any further suggestions and you
should consider them as being of any interest to me, perhaps you would
be so good as to inform me of them.”

“I will, certainly,” Thorndyke replied; “and, by the way, what are you
going to do? Shall you issue any further advertisement?”

“I had not intended to,” said Penfield; “but perhaps it would be well
to try to elicit a further reply. I might ask Purcell to send a
receipt for the legacy, which I shall pay into his bank. He knows the
amount, so that I need not state it.”

“I think that would be advisable,” said Thorndyke; “but my impression
is that there will be no reply.”

“Well, we shall see,” said Penfield, rising and drawing on his gloves.
“If an answer comes, you shall see it, and if there is no answer, I
will advise you to that effect. You will agree with me that we keep
our own counsel about the matters that we have discussed;” and as
Thorndyke assented, he added: “of course the actual receipt of the
letter is no secret.”

With this and a stiff handshake Mr. Penfield took his departure,
cogitating profoundly as he wended his way eastward, wondering how
much Thorndyke really knew about those unfortunate enclosures and how
he came by his knowledge.

Meanwhile Thorndyke, as soon as he was alone, resumed his examination
of the letter, calling in now the aid of more exact methods. Placing
on the table a microscope specially constructed for examining
documents, he laid the envelope on the stage and inspected the
post-mark at the point where the tail of the l touched it. The higher
magnification at once resolved any possible uncertainty. The written
line was on top of the post-mark beyond all doubt. But it also brought
another anomaly into view. It was now evident that the indentation of
the post-mark did not coincide with the whole width of the printed
line. The indented line was somewhat narrower. It consisted of a
furrow, deepest in the middle, which followed the printed line but did
not completely occupy it, and in one or two places strayed slightly
outside it. On turning the envelope over and testing the other
post-mark, the same peculiarity was observable. The indentation was a
thing separate from the printed mark and had been produced by a
separate operation; apparently with a bluntly-pointed tool; which
would account for its excessive depth.

It was an important discovery in two respects. First it confirmed the
other evidence that the letter had never been posted; and, secondly,
it threw some light on the means by which the post-mark had been
produced. What was the object of the indentation? Evidently to imitate
the impression of metal types and disguise the method that had
actually been used.

What was that method? It was not photography, for the marks were in
printers’ ink. It was not copperplate, for the engraved plate throws
up a line in relief, whereas these lines were flat like the lines of a
lithograph. In fact lithography appeared to be the only alternative;
and with this view the appearances agreed completely, particularly the
thick, black ink, quite different from the rather fluid ink used by
the Post Office.

From the post-marks Thorndyke now transferred his attention to the
writing. He had been struck by the exact resemblance of the name
“Penfield” on the envelope to the same name in the letter. Each was a
perfect facsimile of the other. Placing them together, he could not
see a single point of difference or variation between them. With a
delicate caliper-gauge he measured the two words, taking the total
length, the height of each letter and the distance between various
points. In all cases the measurements were practically identical. Now
such perfect repetition as this does not happen in natural writing. It
is virtually diagnostic of forgery; of a forgery by means of a careful
tracing from an original. And Thorndyke had no doubt that this was
such a forgery.

Confirmation was soon forthcoming. An exploration with the microscope
of the surfaces of the envelope and the letter showed in both a number
of minute spindle-shaped fragments of rubber. Something had been
rubbed out. Then, on examining the words by transmitted light powerful
enough to turn the jet-black writing into a deep purple, there could
be seen through the ink a broken grey line—the remains of a pencil
line which the ink had partly protected from the rubber. Similar
remains of a pencil tracing were to be seen in other parts of the
letter, especially in the signature. In short there was no possible
doubt that the whole production, letter and post-marks alike, was a
forgery.

The next question was: Who was the forger? But the answer to that
seemed to be contained in the further question: What was the purpose
of the forgery? For the evident purpose of this letter was to furnish
evidence that Purcell was still alive; and as such it had been
accepted by Mr. Penfield. That distinctly pointed to Varney, who had
already made two false—or at least incorrect—statements, apparently
with the same object. The skill with which the forgery had been
executed also pointed to him, for an engraver must needs be a skilful
copyist. There was only one doubtful point. Whoever had prepared this
letter was a lithographer; not a mere draughtsman but a printer as
well. Now was Varney a lithographer? It was extremely probable. Many
etchers and mezzotinters work also on the stone. But until it had been
ascertained that he was, the authorship of the letter must be left in
suspense. But assuming the letter to be Varney’s work, it was evident
that Mr. Penfield’s visit had added materially to the body of
circumstantial evidence. It had established that Purcell had worn a
moustache apparently identical in character with that of the elusive
Bromeswell; which, taken in conjunction with all the other known
facts, made it nearly a certainty that Bromeswell and Purcell were one
and the same person. But that assumption had been seen to lead to the
inference that Purcell was dead and that Varney was responsible for,
or implicated in, the circumstances of his death. Then there was this
letter. It was a forged letter, and its purpose was to prove that
Purcell was alive. But the fact that it was necessary to forge a
letter to prove that he was alive, was in itself presumptive evidence
that he was not alive. Subject to proof that Varney was a lithographer
and therefore capable of producing this forgery, the evidence that Mr.
Penfield had brought furnished striking confirmation of the hypothesis
that Thorndyke had formed as to what had become of Daniel Purcell.



CHAPTER X

In Which Thorndyke Sees a New Light

“We shall only be three at dinner, after all,” said Margaret. “Mr.
Rodney will be detained somewhere, but he is coming in for a chat
later in the evening.”

Varney received the news without emotion. He could do without Rodney.
He would not have been desolated if the other guest had been a
defaulter, too. At any rate, he hoped that he would not be needlessly
punctual and thus shorten unduly the tête-à-tête with Margaret which
he—Varney—had secured by exercising the privilege of an old friend to
arrive considerably before his time.

“You have only met Dr. Thorndyke once before, I think?” said Margaret.

“Yes; at Sennen, you know; the day that queer letter came from Mr.
Penfield, and I didn’t see much of him then. I remember that I was a
little mystified about him; couldn’t quite make out whether he was a
lawyer, a doctor or a man of science.”

“As a matter of fact, he is all three. He is what is called a medical
jurist; a sort of lawyer who deals with legal cases that involve
medical questions. I understand that he is a great authority on
medical evidence.”

“What legal cases do involve medical questions?”

“I don’t know much about it,” replied Margaret, “but I believe they
include questions of survivorship and cases of presumption of death.”

“Presumption of death!” repeated Varney. “What on earth does that
mean?”

“I am not very clear about it myself,” she replied, “but from what I
am told, I gather that it is a sort of legal proceeding that takes
place when a person disappears permanently and there is uncertainty as
to whether he or she is dead or alive. An application is made to the
court for permission to presume that the person is dead; and if the
court gives the permission, the person is then legally presumed to be
dead and his will can be administered and his affairs wound up. That
is an instance of the kind of case that Dr. Thorndyke undertakes. He
must have had quite a lot of experience of persons who have
disappeared, and for that reason Mr. Rodney advised me to consult him
about Dan.”

“Do you mean with a view to presuming his death?” asked Varney,
inwardly anathematizing Dan for thus making his inevitable appearance
in the conversation, but keenly interested nevertheless.

“No,” replied Margaret. “I consulted him quite soon after Dan went
away. What I asked him to do was to find out, if possible, what had
become of him, and if he could discover his whereabouts, to get into
touch with him.”

“Well,” said Varney, “he doesn’t seem to have had much luck up to the
present. He hasn’t been able to trace Dan, has he?”

“No,” she replied; “at least, I suppose not. But we know where the
lost sheep is now. Had you heard about the letter?”

“The letter?”

“Yes. From Dan. He wrote to Mr. Penfield a few days ago.”

“Did he though?” said Varney with well-simulated surprise. “From
somewhere abroad, I suppose?”

“No. The post-mark was Woodbridge—there was no address;” and here
Margaret briefly explained the circumstances.

“It sounds rather as if he were afloat,” said Varney. “That is an
ideal coast for lurking about in a smallish yacht. There is endless
cover in the rivers and the creeks off the Colne, the Roach, the
Crouch and the Blackwater. But it looks as if he had made more
preparations for the flitting than we thought at the time. He hasn’t
written to you?”

Margaret shook her head. The affront was too gross for comment.

“It was beastly of him,” said Varney. “He might have sent you just a
line. However, Dr. Thorndyke will have something to go on now. He will
know whereabouts to look for him.”

“As far as I am concerned,” Margaret said coldly, “the affair is
finished. This insult was the last straw. I have no further interest
in him and I hope I may never see him again. But,” she added earnestly
after a brief pause, “I should like to be rid of him completely. I
want my freedom.” As she spoke—with unusual emphasis and energy—she
looked, for a moment, straight into Varney’s eyes. Then suddenly she
flushed scarlet and turned her head away.

Varney was literally overwhelmed. He felt the blood rush to his head
and tingle in the tips of his fingers. After one swift glance, he too
turned away his head. He did not dare to look at her. Nor, for some
seconds did he dare to trust his voice. At last it had come! In the
twinkling of an eye, his dim hopes, more than half distrusted, had
changed into realities. For there could be no doubt. That look into
his eyes, that sudden blush, what could they be but an unpremeditated,
unintended confession? She wanted her freedom. That unguarded glance
told him why; and then her mantling cheeks while they rebuked the
glance, but served to interpret its significance.

With an effort, he regained his normal manner. His natural delicacy
told him that he must not be too discerning. He must take no
cognizance of this confidence that was never intended. She must still
think that her secret was locked up in her own breast secure from
every eye—even from his.

And yet what a pitiful game of cross-purposes they were playing! She
wanted her freedom! And behold! she was free; and he knew it and could
not tell her. What a tangle it was! And how was it ever going to be
straightened out? In life, Purcell had stood between him and liberty;
and now the ghost—nay! less than the ghost. The mere unsubstantial
name of Purcell stood between him and a lifelong happiness that
Fortune was actually holding out to him.

It was clear that, sooner or later, the ghost of Purcell would have to
be laid. But how? And here it began to dawn upon him that the
ingenious letter, on which he had been congratulating himself, had
been a tactical mistake. He had not known about Dr. Thorndyke, and he
had never heard before of the possibility of presuming a person’s
death. He had been busying himself to produce convincing evidence that
Purcell was alive, whereas it was possible that Thorndyke had been
considering the chances of being able to presume his death. It was
rather a pity; for Purcell had got to be disposed of before he could
openly declare himself to Maggie; and this method of legal presumption
of death appeared to be the very one that suited the conditions. He
wished he had known about it before.

These reflections flashed through his mind in the silence that had
followed Margaret’s unguarded utterance. For the moment Varney had
been too overcome to reply. And Margaret suddenly fell silent with an
air of some confusion. Recovering himself, Varney now replied in a
tone of conventional sympathy.

“Of course you do. The bargain is off on the one side, and it is not
reasonable that it should hold on the other. You don’t want to be
shackled forever to a man who has gone out of your life. But I don’t
quite see what is to be done.”

“Neither do I,” said Margaret. “Perhaps the lawyers will be able to
make some suggestion—and I think I hear one of them arriving.”

A moment or two later the door opened and the housemaid announced “Dr.
Thorndyke.” Varney stood up, and as the guest was ushered in, he
looked with deep curiosity, not entirely unmingled with awe, at this
tall, imposing man who held in his mind so much recondite knowledge
and doubtless so many strange secrets.

“I think you know Mr. Varney,” said Margaret as she shook hands,
“though you hadn’t much opportunity to improve his acquaintance at
Sennen.”

“No,” Thorndyke agreed. “Mr. Penfield’s bombshell rather distracted
our attention from the social aspects of that gathering. However, we
are free from his malign influence this evening.”

“I am not sure that we are,” said Varney. “Mrs. Purcell tells me that
he has just produced another mysterious letter.”

“I shouldn’t call it mysterious,” said Thorndyke. “On the contrary, it
resolves the mystery. We now know, approximately, where Mr. Purcell
is.”

“Yes, it ought to be easy to get on his track now. That, I understand,
is what you have been trying to do. Do you propose to locate him more
exactly?”

“I see no reason for doing so,” replied Thorndyke. “His letter answers
Mr. Penfield’s purpose, which was to produce evidence that he is
alive. But his letter does raise certain questions that will have to
be considered. We shall hear what Mr. Rodney has to say on the
subject. He is coming to-night, isn’t he?”

“He is not coming to dinner,” said Margaret, “but he is going to drop
in later. There goes the gong. Shall we go into the dining room?”

Thorndyke held the door open and they crossed the corridor to the
pleasant little room beyond. As soon as they had taken their places at
the table, Margaret led off the conversation with a rather definite
change of subject. “Have you brought any of your work to show us, Mr.
Varney?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied; “I have brought one or two etchings that I don’t
think you have seen, and a couple of aquatints.”

“Aquatints,” said Margaret. “Isn’t that a new departure?”

“No. It is only a revival. I used to do a good deal of aquatint work,
but I have not done any for quite a long time until I attacked these
two. I like a change of method now and again. But I always come back
to etchings.”

“Do you work much with the dry point?” asked Thorndyke.

“Not the pure dry point,” was the reply. “Of course, I use it to do
finishing work on my etchings, but that is a different thing. I have
done very few dry points proper. I like the bitten line.”

“I suppose,” said Thorndyke, “an etcher rather looks down on
lithography.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Varney. “I don’t certainly. It is a fine
process and an autograph process, like etching and mezzotint. The
finished print is the artist’s own work, every bit of it, as much as
an oil painting.”

“Doesn’t the printer take some of the credit?” Thorndyke asked.

“I am assuming that the artist does his own printing. If he doesn’t, I
should not call him a lithographer. He is only a lithographic
draughtsman. When I used to work at lithography, I always did my own
printing. It is more than half the fun. I have the little press
still.”

“Then perhaps you will revive that process, too, one day?”

“I don’t think so,” Varney replied. “The flat surface of a lithograph
is rather unsatisfying after the rich raised lines of an etching. I
shall never go back to lithography, except, perhaps, for some odd
jobs;” and here a spirit of mischievous defiance impelled him to add,
“I did a little lithograph only the other day, but I didn’t keep it.
It was a crude little thing.”

Thorndyke noted the statement with a certain grim appreciation. In
spite of himself, he could not but like Varney; and this playful,
sporting attitude in respect of a capital crime appeared to him as a
new experience. It established him and Varney as opposing players in a
sort of grim and tragic game, and it confirmed him in certain opinions
that he had formed as to the antecedents and motives of the crime.
For, as to the reality of the crime he now had no doubt. The statement
that Varney had just made in all the insolence of his fancied security
had set the keystone on the edifice that Thorndyke had built up.
Circumstantial evidence has a cumulative quality. It advances by a
sort of geometrical progression in which each new fact multiplies the
weight of all the others. The theory that Varney had made away with
Purcell involved the assumption that Varney was a lithographer who was
able to print. It was now established that Varney was a lithographer
and that he owned a press. Thus the train of circumstantial evidence
was complete.

It was a most singular situation. In the long pauses which tend to
occur when good appetites coincide with a good dinner, the two men,
confronting one another across the table, sat, each busy with his
thoughts behind the closed shutters of his mind, each covertly
observant of the other and each the object of the other’s meditations.
To Varney had come once more that queer feeling of power that he had
experienced at Sennen when Mr. Penfield’s letter had arrived; the
sense of an almost godlike superiority and omniscience. Here were
these simple mortals, full of wonder, perplexity and speculation as to
the vanished Purcell. And they were all wrong. But he knew everything.
And he was the motive power behind all their ineffectual movements. It
was he who, by the pressure of a finger, had set this puppet-show in
motion; and he had but to tweak a string in his quiet studio and they
were all set dancing again. Every one of them was obedient to his
touch; Maggie, Penfield, Rodney, even this strong-faced, inscrutable
man whose eye he had just met; all of them were the puppets whose
movements, joint or separate, were directed by his guiding hand.

Thorndyke’s reflections were more complex. From time to time he
glanced at Varney—he was too good an observer to need to
stare—profoundly interested in his appearance. No man could look less
like a murderer than this typical artist with his refined face, dreamy
yet vivacious, and his suave, gentle manners. Yet that, apparently,
was what he was. Moreover, he was a forger of banknotes—perhaps of
other things, too, as suggested by the very expert production of this
letter—and had almost certainly uttered the forged notes. That was, so
to speak, the debit side of his moral account; and there was no
denying that it was a pretty heavy one.

On the other hand, he was evidently making a serious effort to earn an
honest living. His steady industry was clear proof of that. It was
totally unlike a genuine criminal to work hard and with enthusiasm for
a modest income. Yet that was what he was evidently doing. It was a
very singular contradiction. His present mode of life, which was
evidently adapted to his temperament, seemed totally irreconcilable
with his lurid past. There seemed to be two Varneys; the criminal
Varney, practising felonies and not stopping short of murder, and the
industrious, artistic Varney, absorbed in his art and content with the
modest returns that it yielded.

Which of them was the real Varney? As he debated this question,
Thorndyke turned to the consideration of the other partner in the
criminal firm. And this seemed to throw an appreciable light on the
question. Purcell had clearly been the senior partner. The initiative
must have been his. The starting-point of the banknote adventure must
have been the theft of the note-moulds at Maidstone. That had been
Purcell’s exploit; probably a lucky chance of which he had taken
instant advantage. But the moulds were of no use to him without an
engraver, so he had enlisted Varney’s help. Now, to what extent had
that help been willingly given?

It was, of course, impossible to say. But it was possible to form a
reasonable opinion by considering the characters of the two men. On
the one hand, Varney, a gentle, amiable, probably pliable man. On the
other, Purcell, a strong, masterful bully; brutal, selfish,
unscrupulous; ready to trample ruthlessly on any rights or interests
that conflicted with his own desires. That was, in effect, the picture
of him that his wife had painted—the wife whom he had married,
apparently against her inclination, by putting pressure on her father
who was his debtor. Purcell was a money-lender, a usurer; and even at
that, a hard case, as Mr. Levy’s observations seemed to hint. Now a
usurer has certain affinities with a blackmailer. Their methods are
somewhat similar. Both tend to fasten on their victim and bleed him
continuously. Both act by getting a hold on the victim and putting on
the screw when necessary; and both are characterized by a remorseless
egoism.

Now Purcell was clearly of the stuff of which blackmailers are made.
Was it possible that there was an element of blackmail in his
relations with Varney? The appearances strongly suggested it. Here
were two men jointly engaged in habitual crime. Suddenly one of them
is eliminated by the act of the other; and forthwith the survivor rids
himself of the means of repeating the crime and settles down to a life
of lawful industry. That was what had happened. The instant Varney had
got rid of Purcell, he had proceeded to get rid of the paper blanks by
sending them to Mr. Penfield, instead of printing them and turning
them into money; and by thus denouncing the firm, had made it
impossible, in any case, to continue the frauds. Then he had settled
down to regular work in his studio. That seemed to be the course of
events.

It was extremely suggestive. Purcell’s disappearance coincided with
the end of the criminal adventure and the beginning of a reputable
mode of life. That seemed to supply the motive for the murder—if it
had been a murder. It suggested that no escape from the life of crime
had been possible so long as Purcell was alive; that Purcell had
obtained some kind of hold on Varney which enabled him to compel the
latter to continue in the criminal partnership; and that Varney had
taken the only means that were possible to rid himself of his
parasite. That was what it looked like.

Of course this was mere guess-work. No proof was possible. But it
agreed with all the facts and it made Varney’s apparent dual
personality understandable. The real and essential Varney appeared to
be the artist, not the criminal. He appeared to be a normal man who
had committed a murder under exceptional circumstances. With the
bank-note business Thorndyke was not concerned and he had no knowledge
of its circumstances. But the murder was his concern and he set
himself to consider it.

The hypothesis was that Purcell had been, in effect, a blackmailer and
that Varney had been his victim. Now, it must be admitted that
Thorndyke held somewhat unconventional views on the subject of
blackmail. He considered that a blackmailer acts entirely at his own
risk and that the victim (since the law can afford him but a very
imperfect protection) is entitled to take any available measures for
his own protection, including the elimination of the blackmailer. But
if the blackmailer acts at his own risk, so does the victim who elects
to make away with him. Morally, the killing of a blackmailer may be
justifiable homicide, but it has no such legal status. In law,
self-defence means defence against bodily injury, it does not include
defence against moral injury. Whoever elects to rid himself of a
blackmailer by killing him accepts the risk of a conviction on a
charge of murder. But that appeared to be Varney’s position. He had
accepted the risk. It was for him to avoid the consequences if he
could. As to Thorndyke, himself, though he might, like the Clerk of
Arraigns at the Old Bailey, wish the offender “a good deliverance,”
his part was to lay bare the hidden facts. He and Varney were players
on opposite sides. He would play impersonally, without malice and with
a certain good will to his opponent. But he must play his own hand and
leave his opponent to do the same.

These reflections passed swiftly through his mind in the intervals of
a very desultory conversation. As he reached his conclusion, he once
more looked up at Varney. And then he received something like a shock.
At the moment no one was speaking, and Varney was sitting with his
eyes somewhat furtively fixed on Margaret’s downcast face. Now, to an
experienced observer, there is something perfectly unmistakable in the
expression with which a man looks at a woman with whom he is deeply in
love. And such was the expression that Thorndyke surprised on Varney’s
face. It was one of concentrated passion, of adoration.

Thorndyke was completely taken aback. This was an entirely new
situation, calling for a considerable revision of his conclusions and
also of his sympathies. An eliminated blackmailer is one thing;
Uriah’s wife is another and a very different one. Thorndyke was rather
puzzled, for though the previous hypothesis hung fairly together, it
was now weakened by the possibility that the murder had been committed
merely to remove a superfluous husband. Not that it made any practical
difference. He was concerned with the fact of Purcell’s murder. The
motives were no affair of his.

His reflections were interrupted by a question from Margaret.

“You haven’t been down to Cornwall, I suppose, since you came to see
us at Sennen in the summer?”

“No; I have not, but Professor D’Arcy has; and he is starting for
another trip at the end of next month.”

“Is he still in search of worms? It was worms that you were going to
look for, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, marine worms. But he is not fanatical on the subject. All marine
animals are fish that come to his net.”

“You are using the word net in a metaphorical sense, I presume,” said
Varney. “Or does he actually use a net?”

“Sometimes,” replied Thorndyke. “A good many specimens can be picked
up by searching the shore at low tide, but the most productive work is
done with the dredge. Many species are found only below low-water
mark.”

“Is there anything particularly interesting about marine worms?”
Margaret asked. “There always seems something rather disgusting about
a worm, but I suppose that is only vulgar prejudice.”

“It is principally unacquaintance with worms,” replied Thorndyke.
“They are a highly interesting group of animals, both in regard to
structure and habits. You ought to read Darwin’s fascinating book on
earth-worms and learn what an important part they play in the
fashioning of the earth’s surface. But the marine worms are not only
interesting; some of them are extraordinarily beautiful creatures.”

“That was what Phillip Rodney used to say,” said Margaret, “but we
didn’t believe him, and he never showed us any specimens.”

“I don’t know that he ever got any,” said Varney. “He made great
preparations in the way of bottles and jars, and then he spent most of
his time sailing his yacht or line-fishing from a lugger. The only
tangible result of his preparations was that remarkable jury button
that he fixed on Dan’s oilskin coat. You remember that button, Mrs.
Purcell?”

“I remember something about a button, but I have forgotten the
details. What was it?”

“Why, Dan lost the top button from his oiler and never got it
replaced. One day he lent the coat to Phillip to go home in the wet,
and as Phil was going out line-fishing the next day and his own oilers
were on the yacht, he thought he would take Dan’s. So he proceeded to
fix on a temporary button and a most remarkable job he made of it. It
seems that he hadn’t got either a button or a needle and thread, so he
extemporized. He took the cork out of one of his little collecting
bottles—it was a flat cork, waterproofed with paraffin wax, and it had
a round label inscribed ‘marine worms.’ Well, as he hadn’t a needle or
thread, he bored two holes through the cork with the little
marlinspike in his pocket-knife, passed through them the remains of a
fiddle-string that he had in his pocket, made two holes in the
oilskin, threaded the cat-gut through them and tied a reef-knot on the
inside.”

“And did it answer?” asked Margaret. “It sounds rather clumsy.”

“It answered perfectly. So well that it never got changed. It was on
the coat when Dan went up the ladder at Penzance, and it is probably
on it still. Dan seemed quite satisfied with it.”

There was a brief silence, during which Thorndyke looked down
thoughtfully at his plate. Presently he asked.

“Was the label over the wax or under it?”

Varney looked at him in surprise, as also did Margaret. What on earth
could it matter whether the label were over or under the wax?

“The label was under the wax,” the former replied. “I remember Phillip
mentioning the fact that the label was waterproof as well as the cork.
He made quite a point of it, though I didn’t see why. Do you?”

“If he regarded the label as a decorative adjunct,” replied Thorndyke,
“he would naturally make a point of the impossibility of its getting
washed off, which was the object of the waxing.”

“I suppose he would,” Varney agreed in an absent tone and still
looking curiously at Thorndyke. He had a feeling that the latter’s
mildly facetious reply was not quite “in key” with the very definite
question. Why had that question been asked? Had Thorndyke anything in
his mind? Probably not. What could he have? At any rate it was of no
consequence to him, Varney.

In which he was, perhaps, mistaken. Thorndyke had been deeply
interested in the history of the button. Here was one of those queer,
incalculable trivialities which so often crop up in the course of a
criminal trial. By this time, no doubt, that quaint button was
detached and drifting about in the sea, or lying unnoticed on some
lonely beach among the high-water jetsam. The mere cork would be
hardly recognizable, but if the label had been protected by the wax,
it would be identifiable with absolute certainty. And, if ever it
should be identified, its testimony would go to prove the
improbability that Daniel Purcell ever went ashore at Penzance.



CHAPTER XI

In Which Varney Has an Inspiration

The adjournment to the drawing-room was the signal for Varney to fetch
his portfolio and exhibit his little collection, which he did with a
frank interest and pleasure in his works that was yet entirely free
from any appearance of vanity. Thorndyke examined the proofs with a
curiosity that was not wholly artistic. Varney interested him
profoundly. There was about him a certain reminiscence of Benvenuto
Cellini, a combination of the thoroughgoing rascal with the sincere
and enthusiastic artist. But Thorndyke could not make up his mind how
close the parallel was. From Cellini’s grossness Varney appeared to be
free; but how about the other vices. Had Varney been forced into
wrongdoing by the pressure of circumstances on a weak will? Or was he
a criminal by choice and temperament? That was what Thorndyke could
not decide.

An artist’s work may show only one side of his character, but it shows
that truthfully and unmistakably. A glance through Varney’s works made
it clear that he was an artist of no mean talent. There was not only
skill, which Thorndyke had looked for, but a vein of poetry which he
noted with appreciation and almost with regret.

“You don’t seem to value your aquatints,” he said, “but I find them
very charming. This sea-scape with the fleet of luggers half hidden in
the mist and the lighthouse peeping over the top of the fog-bank, is
really wonderful. You couldn’t have done that with the point.”

“No,” Varney agreed; “every process has its powers and its
limitations.”

“The lighthouse, I suppose, is no lighthouse in particular?”

“Well, no; but I had the Wolf in my mind when I planned this plate. As
a matter of fact, I saw a scene very like this when I was sailing
round with Purcell to Penzance the day he vanished. The lighthouse
looked awfully ghostly with its head out of the fog and its body
invisible.”

“Wasn’t that the time you had to climb up the mast?” asked Margaret.

“Yes; when the jib halyard parted and the jib went overboard. It was
rather a thrilling experience, for the yacht was out of control for
the moment and the Wolf rock was close under our lee. Dan angled for
sail while I went aloft.”

Thorndyke looked thoughtfully at the little picture and Varney watched
him with outward unconcern but with secret amusement and a sort of
elfish mischief.

And again he was conscious of a sense of power, of omniscience. Here
was this learned, acute lawyer and scientist looking in all innocence
at the very scene on which he, Varney, had looked as he was washing
the stain of Purcell’s blood from the sail. Little did he dream of the
event which this aquatint commemorated! For all his learning and his
acuteness, he, Varney, held him in the hollow of his hand.

To Thorndyke, the state of mind revealed by this picture was as
surprising as it was illuminating. This was, in effect, a souvenir of
that mysterious and tragic voyage. Whatever had happened on that
voyage was clearly the occasion of no remorse. There was no shrinking
from the memory of that day, but rather evidence that it was recalled
with a certain satisfaction. In that there seemed a most singular
callousness. But what did that callous indifference, or even
satisfaction, suggest? A man who had made away with a friend with the
express purpose of getting possession of that friend’s wife would
surely look back on the transaction with some discomfort; indeed would
avoid looking back on it at all. Whereas one who had secured his
liberty by eliminating his oppressor could hardly be expected to feel
either remorse or regrets. It looked as if the blackmail theory were
the true one, after all.

“That will be Mr. Rodney,” Margaret said, looking expectantly at the
door.

“I didn’t hear the bell,” said Varney. Neither had Thorndyke heard it;
but he had not been listening, whereas Margaret apparently had, which
perhaps accounted for the slightly preoccupied yet attentive air that
he had noticed once or twice when he had looked at her. A few moments
later John Rodney entered the room unannounced and Margaret went
forward quickly to welcome him. And for the second time that evening,
Thorndyke found himself looking, all unsuspected, into the secret
chamber of a human heart.

As Margaret had advanced towards the door, he and Varney stood up.
They were thus both behind her when Rodney entered the room. But on
the wall by the door was a small mirror; and in this Thorndyke had
caught an instantaneous glimpse of her face as she met Rodney. That
glimpse had told him what, perhaps, she had hardly guessed herself;
but the face which appeared for a moment in the mirror and was gone
was a face transfigured. Not, indeed, with the expression of
passionate adoration that he had seen on Varney’s face. That meant
passion consciously recognized and accepted. What Thorndyke saw on
Margaret’s face was a softening, a tender, joyful welcome such as a
mother might bestow on a beloved child. It spoke of affection rather
than passion. But it was unmistakable. Margaret Purcell loved John
Rodney. Nor, so far as Thorndyke could judge, was the affection only
on one side. Rodney, facing the room, naturally made no demonstration;
but still, his greeting had in it something beyond mere cordiality.

It was an extraordinarily complex situation; and there was in it a
bitter irony such as De Maupassant would have loved. Thorndyke glanced
at Varney—from whom Margaret’s face had been hidden—with a new
interest. Here was a man who had made away with an unwanted husband,
perhaps with the sole purpose of securing the reversion of the wife!
and behold! he had only created a vacancy for another man.

“This is a great pleasure, Thorndyke,” said Rodney, shaking hands
heartily. “Quite an interesting experience, too, to see you in evening
clothes, looking almost human. I am sorry I couldn’t get here to
dinner. I should like to have seen you taking food like an ordinary
mortal.”

“You shall see him take some coffee presently,” said Margaret. “But
doesn’t Dr. Thorndyke usually look human?”

“Well,” replied Rodney, “I won’t say that there isn’t a certain
specious resemblance of a human being. But it is illusory. He is
really a sort of legal abstraction like John Doe or Richard Roe. Apart
from the practice of the law there is no such person.”

“That sounds to me like a libel,” said Margaret.

“Yes,” agreed Varney. “You’ve done it now, Rodney. It must be
actionable to brand a man as a mere hallucination. There will be wigs
on the green—barrister’s wigs—when Dr. Thorndyke begins to deal out
writs.”

“Then I shall plead justification,” said Rodney, “and I shall cite the
present instance. For what do these pretences of customary raiment and
food consumption amount to? They are mere camouflage, designed to
cover a legal inquiry into the disappearances from his usual places of
resort of one Daniel Purcell.”

“Now you are only making it worse,” said Margaret, “for you are
implicating me. You are implying that my little dinner party is
nothing more than a camouflaged legal inquisition.”

“And you are implicating me, too,” interposed Varney, “as an accessory
before, during and after the fact. You had better be careful, Rodney.
It will be a joint action, and Dr. Thorndyke will produce scientific
witnesses who will prove anything he tells them to.”

“I call this intimidation,” said Rodney. “The circumstances seem to
call for the aid of tobacco—I see that permission has been given to
smoke.”

“And perhaps a cup of coffee might help,” said Margaret, as the maid
entered with the tray.

“Yes, that will clear my brain for the consideration of my defence.
But still, I must maintain that this is essentially a legal
inquisition. We have assembled primarily to consider the position
which is created by this letter that Penfield has received.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said Margaret. “I asked you primarily that I
might enjoy the pleasure of your society and secondly that you might
enjoy the pleasure of one another’s—”

“And yours.”

“Thank you. But as to the letter, I don’t see that there is anything
to discuss. We now know where Dan is, but that doesn’t seem to alter
the situation.”

“I don’t agree with you in either respect,” said Rodney. “There seems
to me a good deal to discuss; and our knowledge as to Dan’s
whereabouts alters the situation to this extent: that we can get into
touch with him if we want to—or, at least, Dr. Thorndyke can, I
presume.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Thorndyke. “But we could consider the
possibility if the necessity should arise. Had you anything in your
mind that would suggest such a necessity?”

“What I have in my mind,” replied Rodney, “is this; Purcell has left
his wife for reasons known only to himself. He has never sent a word
of excuse, apology or regret. Until this letter arrived, it was
possible to suppose that he might be dead, or have lost his memory, or
in some other way be incapable of communicating with his friends. Now
we know that he is alive, that he has all his faculties—except the
faculty of behaving like a decent and responsible man—and that he has
gone away and is staying away of his own free will and choice. If
there was ever any question as to his coming back, there is none now;
and if there could ever have been any excuse or extenuation of his
conduct there is now none. We see that, although he has never sent a
message of any kind to his wife, yet, when the question of a sum of
money arises, he writes to his solicitor with the greatest
promptitude. That letter is a gross and callous insult to his wife.”

Thorndyke nodded. “That seems to be a fair statement of the position,”
said he. “And I gather that you consider it possible to take some
action?”

“My position is this,” said Rodney. “Purcell has deserted his wife. He
has shaken off all his responsibilities as a husband. But he has left
her with all the responsibilities and disabilities of a wife. He has
taken to himself the privileges of a bachelor; but she remains a
married woman. That is an intolerable position. My contention is that,
since he has gone for good, the tow-rope ought to be cut. He should be
set adrift finally and completely and she should be liberated.”

“I agree with you entirely and emphatically,” said Thorndyke. “A woman
whose husband has left her, should, if she wishes it, revert to the
status of a spinster.”

“And she does wish it,” interposed Margaret.

“Naturally,” said Thorndyke. “The difficulty is in respect of ways and
means. Have you considered the question of procedure, Rodney?”

“It seems to me,” was the reply, “that the ways and means are provided
by the letter itself. I suggest that the terms of that letter and the
circumstances in which it was written, afford evidence of desertion,
or at least good grounds for action.”

“You may be right,” said Thorndyke, “but I doubt if it would be
accepted as evidence of an intention not to return. It seems to me
that a court would require something more definite. I suppose an
action for restitution, as a preliminary, would not be practicable?”

Rodney shook his head emphatically, and Margaret pronounced a most
decided refusal. “I don’t want restitution,” she exclaimed, “and I
would not agree to it. I would not receive him back on any terms.”

“He wouldn’t be likely to come back,” said Thorndyke; “and if he did
not, his failure to comply with the order of the court would furnish
definite grounds for further action.”

“But he might come back, at least temporarily,” objected Margaret, “if
only by way of retaliation.”

“Yes,” agreed Rodney, “it is perfectly possible; in, fact, it is
rather the sort of thing that Purcell would do—come back, make himself
unpleasant and then go off again. No; I am afraid that cat won’t
jump.”

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “we are in difficulties. We want the marriage
dissolved, but we haven’t as much evidence as the court would
require.”

“Probably more evidence could be obtained,” suggested Rodney, “and of
a different kind. Didn’t Penfield say something about an associate or
companion? Well, that is where our knowledge of Purcell’s whereabouts
should help us. If it were possible to locate him exactly and keep him
under observation, evidence of the existence of that companion might
be forthcoming, and then the case would be all plain sailing.”

Thorndyke had been expecting this suggestion and considering how he
should deal with it. He could not undertake to search the Eastern
Counties for a man who was not there; nor could he give his reasons
for not undertaking that search. Until his case against Varney was
complete he would make no confidences to anybody. And as he reflected,
he watched Varney (who had been a keenly interested listener to the
discussion), wondering what he was thinking about it all, and noting
idly how neatly and quickly he rolled his cigarettes and how little he
was inconvenienced by his contracted finger—the third finger of his
left hand.

“I think, Rodney,” he said, “that you overestimate the ease with which
we could locate Purcell. The Eastern Counties offer a large area in
which to search for a man—who may not be there, after all. The
post-mark on the letter tells us nothing of his permanent
abiding-place, if he has one. Varney suggests that he may be afloat,
and if he is, he will be very mobile and difficult to trace. And it
would be possible for him to change his appearance—by growing a beard,
for instance—sufficiently to make a circulated description useless.”

Rodney listened to these objections with hardly veiled impatience. He
had supposed that Thorndyke’s special practice involved the capacity
to trace missing persons; yet, as soon as a case calling for this
special knowledge arose, he raised difficulties. That was always the
way with these confounded experts. Now, to him—though, to be sure, it
was out of his line—the thing presented no difficulties at all. To no
man does a difficult thing look so easy as to one who is totally
unable to do it.

Meanwhile Thorndyke continued to observe Varney, who was evidently
reflecting profoundly on the impasse that had arisen. He of course
could see the futility of Rodney’s scheme. He, moreover, since he was
in love with Margaret, would be at least as keen on the dissolution of
this marriage as Rodney. Thorndyke, watching his eager face, began to
hope that he might make some useful suggestion. Nor was he
disappointed. Suddenly Varney looked up, and, addressing himself to
Rodney, said:

“I’ve got an idea. You may think it bosh, but it is really worth
considering. It is this. There is no doubt that Dan has cleared out
for good and it is rather probable that he has made some domestic
arrangements of a temporary kind. You know what I mean. And he might
be willing to have the chance of making them permanent; because he is
not free in that respect any more than his wife is. Now what I propose
is that we put in an advertisement asking him to write to his wife, or
to Penfield, stating what his intentions are. It is quite possible
that he might, in his own interests, send a letter that would enable
you to get a divorce without any other evidence. It is really worth
trying.”

Rodney laughed scornfully. “You’ve missed your vocation, Varney,” said
he. “You oughtn’t to be tinkering about with etchings. You ought to be
in the law. But I’m afraid the mackerel wouldn’t rise to your sprat.”

Thorndyke could have laughed aloud. But he did not. On the contrary,
he made a show of giving earnest consideration to Varney’s suggestion
and finally said: “I am not sure that I agree with you, Rodney. It
doesn’t seem such a bad plan.”

In this he spoke quite sincerely. But then he knew, which Rodney did
not, that if the advertisement were issued there would certainly be a
reply from Purcell; and, moreover, that the reply would be of
precisely the kind that would be most suitable for their purpose.

“Well,” said Rodney, “it seems to me rather a wild-cat scheme. You are
proposing to ask Purcell to give himself away completely. If you knew
him as well as I do, you would know that no man could be less likely
to comply. Purcell is one of the most secretive men I have ever known,
and you can see for yourself that he has been pretty secret over this
business.”

“Still,” Thorndyke persisted, “it is possible, as Varney suggests,
that it might suit him to have the tow-rope cut, as you express it.
What do you think, Mrs. Purcell?”

“I am afraid I agree with Mr. Rodney. Dan is as secret as an oyster,
and he hasn’t shown himself at all well-disposed. He wouldn’t make a
statement for my benefit. As to the question of another woman, I have
no doubt that there is one, but my feeling is that Dan would prefer to
have a pretext for not marrying her.”

“That is exactly my view,” said Rodney. “Purcell is the sort of man
who will get as much as he can and give as little in exchange.”

“I don’t deny that,” said Varney, “but I still think that it would be
worth trying. If nothing came of it we should be no worse off.”

“Exactly,” agreed Thorndyke. “It is quite a simple proceeding. It
commits us to nothing and it is very little trouble; and if, by any
chance it succeeded, see how it would simplify matters. In place of a
crowd of witnesses collected at immense trouble and cost, you would
have a letter which could be put in evidence and which would settle
the whole case in a few minutes.”

Rodney shrugged his shoulders and secretly marvelled how Thorndyke had
got his great reputation.

“There is no answering a determined optimist,” said he. “Of course
Purcell may rise to your bait. He may even volunteer to go into the
witness-box and make a full confession and offer to pay our costs. But
I don’t think he will.”

“Neither do I,” said Thorndyke. “But it is bad practice to reject a
plan because you think it probably will not succeed, when it is
possible and easy to give it a trial. Have you any objection to our
carrying out Mr. Varney’s suggestion?”

“I have no objection to _your_ carrying it out,” replied Rodney, “and
I don’t suppose Mrs. Purcell has; but I don’t feel inclined to act on
it myself.”

Thorndyke looked interrogatively at Margaret. “What do you say, Mrs.
Purcell?” he asked.

“I am entirely in your hands,” she replied. “It is very good of you to
take so much trouble, but I fear you will have your trouble for
nothing.”

“We shan’t lose much on the transaction even then,” Thorndyke
rejoined, “so we will leave it that I insert the advertisement in the
most alluring terms that I can devise. If anything comes of it, you
will hear before I shall.”

This brought the discussion to an end. If Rodney had any further ideas
on the subject, he reserved them for the benefit of Margaret or Mr.
Penfield, having reached the conclusion that Thorndyke was a pure
specialist—and probably overrated at that—whose opinions and judgment
on general law were not worth having. The conversation thus drifted
into other channels, but with no great vivacity, for each of the four
persons was occupied inwardly with the subject that had been outwardly
dismissed.

Presently Varney, who had been showing signs of restlessness, began to
collect his etchings in preparation for departure. Thereupon,
Thorndyke also rose to make his farewell.

“I have had a most enjoyable evening, Mrs. Purcell,” he said as he
shook his hostess’s hand. And he spoke quite sincerely. He had had an
extremely enjoyable evening, and he hoped that the entertainment was
even now not quite at an end. “May we hope that our plottings and
schemings may not be entirely unfruitful?”

“You can hope as much as you like,” said Rodney, “if hopefulness is
your specialty, but if anything comes of this plan of Varney’s, I
shall be the most surprised man in London.”

“And I hope you will give the author of the plan all the credit he
deserves,” said Thorndyke.

“He has got that now,” Rodney replied, with a grin.

“I doubt if he has,” retorted Thorndyke. “But we shall see. Are we
walking the same way, Varney?”

“I think so,” replied Varney, who had already decided, for his own
special reasons, that they were; in which he was in complete, though
unconscious, agreement with Thorndyke.

“Rodney seems a bit cocksure,” the former remarked as they made their
way towards the Brompton Road, “but it is no use taking things for
granted. I think it quite possible that Purcell may be willing to cut
his cable. At any rate it is reasonable to give him the chance.”

“Undoubtedly,” agreed Thorndyke. “There is no greater folly than to
take failure for granted and reject an opportunity. Now, if this plan
of yours should by any chance succeed, Mrs. Purcell’s emancipation is
as good as accomplished.”

“Is it really?” Varney exclaimed, eagerly.

“Certainly,” replied Thorndyke. “That is, if Purcell should send a
letter the contents of which should disclose a state of affairs which
would entitle his wife to a divorce. But that is too much to hope for
unless Purcell also would like to have the marriage dissolved.”

“I think it quite possible that he would, you know,” said Varney. “He
must have had strong reasons for going off in this way, and we know
what those strong reasons usually amount to. But would a simple
letter, without any witnesses, be sufficient to satisfy the court?”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Thorndyke. “A properly attested letter is good
evidence enough. It is just a question of what it contains. Let us
suppose that we have a suitable letter. Then our procedure is
perfectly simple. We produce it in court and it is read and put in
evidence. We say to the judge: Here is a letter from the respondent to
the petitioner—or her solicitor, as the case may be. It is in answer
to an advertisement also read and put in evidence; the handwriting has
been examined by the petitioner, by her solicitor and by the
respondent’s banker and each of them swears that the writing and the
signature are those of the respondent. In that letter the respondent
clearly and definitely states that he has left his wife for good; that
under no circumstances will he ever return to her; that he refuses
hereafter to contribute to her support, and that he has transferred
his affections to another woman who is now living with him as his
wife. On that evidence I think we should have no difficulty in
obtaining a decree.”

Varney listened eagerly. He would have liked to make a few notes, but
that would hardly do, though Thorndyke seemed to be a singularly
simple-minded and confiding man. And he was amazingly easy to pump.

“I don’t suppose Purcell would give himself away to that extent,” he
remarked, “unless he was really keen on a divorce.”

“It is extremely unlikely in any case,” Thorndyke agreed. “But we have
to bear in mind that if he writes at all, it will be with the object
of stating his intentions as to the future and making his position
clear. I shall draft the advertisement in such a way as to elicit this
information, if possible. If he is not prepared to furnish the
information, he will not reply. If he replies it will be because, for
his own purposes, he is willing to furnish the information.”

“Yes, that is true. So that he may really give more information than
one might expect. I wonder if he will write. What do you think?”

“It is mere speculation,” replied Thorndyke. “But if I hadn’t some
hopes of his writing, I shouldn’t be at the trouble of putting in the
advertisement. But perhaps Rodney is right; I may be unreasonably
optimistic.”

At Piccadilly Circus they parted and went their respective ways, each
greatly pleased with the other and both highly amused. As soon as
Thorndyke was out of sight, Varney whipped out his note-book, and, by
the light of a street lamp made a careful _précis_ of the necessary
points of the required letter. That letter also occupied Thorndyke’s
mind, and he only hoped that the corresponding agent of Daniel
Purcell, deceased, would not allow his enthusiasm to carry him to the
extent of producing a letter the contents of which would stamp the
case as one of rank collusion. For in this letter Thorndyke saw a way,
and the only way, out for Margaret Purcell. He knew—or at least was
fully convinced—that her husband was dead. But he had no evidence that
he could take into court, nor did he expect that he ever would have.
It would be years before it would be possible to apply to presume
Purcell’s death; and throughout those years Margaret’s life would be
spoiled. This letter was a fiction. The erring husband was a fiction.
But it would be better that Margaret should be liberated by a fiction
than that she should drag out a ruined life shackled to a husband who
was himself a fiction.



CHAPTER XII

In Which Mr. Varney Once More Pulls the Strings

For the second time, in connection with the death of Daniel Purcell,
Mr. Varney found it necessary to give an attentive eye to the
movements of the postman. He had ascertained from the post office the
times at which letters were delivered in the neighbourhood of
Margaret’s flat; and now, in the gloom of a December evening, he
lurked in the vicinity until he saw the postman approaching down the
street and delivering letters at the other flats on his way. Then he
entered the now familiar portals and made his way quietly up the
stairs until he reached Margaret’s outer door. Here he paused for a
few moments, standing quite still and listening intently. If he had
been discovered he would have simply come to pay a call. But he was
not; and the silence from within suggested that there was nobody in
the hall. With a furtive look round, he drew a letter from his pocket
and silently slipped it into the letter-box, catching the flap on his
finger as it fell to prevent it from making any sound. Then he turned
and softly stole down the stairs; and as he reached the ground floor
the postman walked into the entry.

It was not without reluctance that he came away. For she was behind
that door, almost certainly; she, his darling, for whose freedom from
the imaginary shackles that she wore, he was carrying out this
particular deception. But his own guilty conscience made it seem to
him that he had better not be present when the fabricated letter
arrived. So he tore himself from the beloved precincts and went his
way, thinking his thoughts and dreaming his dreams.

Varney’s surmise was correct. Margaret was within. But it was perhaps
as well that he had refrained from paying a call, for she was not
alone, and his visit would not have been entirely welcome. About half
an hour before his arrival, Jack Rodney had ascended those stairs and
had been admitted in time to join Margaret at a somewhat belated tea.

“My excuse for coming to see you,” said Rodney, “is in my pocket—the
front page of _The Times_.”

“I don’t know what you mean by an excuse,” Margaret replied. “You know
perfectly well that I am always delighted to see you. But perhaps you
mean an excuse to yourself for wasting your time in gossiping with
me.”

“Indeed I don’t,” said he, “I count no time so profitably employed as
that which I spend here.”

“I don’t quite see what profit you get,” she rejoined, “unless it is
the moral benefit of doing a kindness to a lonely woman.”

“I should like to take that view if I honestly could. But the fact is
that I come here for the very great pleasure of seeing you and talking
to you; and the profit that I get is that very great pleasure. I only
wish the proprieties allowed me to come oftener.”

“So do I,” she said, frankly. “But you know that, too. And now tell
what there is in the front page of _The Times_ that gave you this
sorely needed excuse.”

Rodney laughed in a boisterous, schoolboy fashion as he drew from his
pocket a folded leaf of the newspaper. “It’s the great advertisement,”
said he. “The Thorndyke-Varney or Varney-Thorndyke advertisement. It
came out yesterday morning. Compose yourself to listen and I’ll read
it out to you.”

He opened the paper out, refolded it into a convenient size, and with
a portentous preliminary “Ahem!” read aloud in a solemn sing-song:

“_Purcell, D._ is earnestly requested to communicate to M. or her
solicitor his intentions with regard to the future. If his present
arrangements are permanent she would be grateful if he would notify
her to that effect in order that she may make the necessary
modifications in her own.”

As he finished, he looked up at her and laughed contemptuously.

“Well, Maggie,” said he, “what do you think of it?”

She laughed merrily and looked at him with hardly-disguised fondness
and admiration. “What a schoolboy you are, John!” she exclaimed. “How
annoyed Dr. Thorndyke would be if he could hear you! But it is rather
funny. I can imagine Dan’s face when he reads it—if he ever does read
it.”

“So can I,” chuckled Rodney. “I can see him pulling down his lower lip
and saying ‘Gur’ in that pleasant way that he has. But isn’t it a
perfectly preposterous exhibition? Just imagine a man of Thorndyke’s
position doing a thing like this! Why, it is beneath the dignity of a
country attorney’s office-boy. I can’t conceive how he got his
reputation. He seems to be an absolute greenhorn.”

“Probably he is quite good at his own specialty,” suggested Margaret.

“But this _is_ his own specialty. The truth is that the ordinary
lawyer’s prejudice against experts is to a great extent justified.
They are really humbugs and pretenders. You saw what his attitude was
when I suggested that he should get Dan under observation. Of course
it was the obvious thing to do, and one would suppose that it would be
quite in his line. Yet as soon as I made the suggestion, he raised all
sorts of difficulties; whereas a common private inquiry agent would
have made no difficulty about it at all.”

“Do you think not?” Margaret asked, a little eagerly. “Perhaps it
might be worth while to employ one. It would be such a blessed thing
to get rid of Dan for good.”

“It would, indeed,” Rodney agreed heartily. “But perhaps we had better
see if Thorndyke gets a bite. If he fails, we can try the other plan.”

Margaret was slightly disappointed. She wanted to see some progress
made and was a little impatient of the law’s delays. But the truth is
that Rodney had been speaking rather at random. When he came to
consider what information he had to give to a private detective, the
affair did not look quite such plain sailing.

“Perhaps,” said Margaret, “Dr. Thorndyke was right in giving Mr.
Varney’s plan a trial. We are no worse off if it fails; and if it were
by any chance to succeed, oh, what a relief it would be! Not that
there is the slightest chance that it will.”

“Not a dog’s chance,” agreed Rodney, “and Thorndyke was an ass to have
anything to do with the advertisement. He should have let Varney put
it in. No one expects an artist to show any particular legal acumen.”

“Poor Mr. Varney!” murmured Margaret, with a faint smile; and at this
moment the housemaid entered the room with a couple of letters on a
salver. Margaret took the letters and, having thanked the maid, laid
them on the table by her side.

“Won’t you read your letters?” said Rodney. “You are not going to make
a stranger of me, I hope.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “If you will excuse me, I will just see whom
they are from.”

She took up the top letter, opened it, glanced through it and laid it
down. Then she picked up the second letter; and as her glance fell on
the address she uttered a little cry of amazement.

“What is it?” asked Rodney.

She held the envelope out for him to see. “It’s from Dan,” she
exclaimed; and forthwith she tore it open and eagerly took out the
letter. As she read it, Rodney watched her with mingled amusement,
vexation and astonishment. The utterly inconceivable thing had
happened. Thorndyke had taken odds of a million to one against and it
had come off. That was just a piece of pure luck. It reflected no
particular credit on Thorndyke’s judgment; but still Rodney rather
wished he had been less dogmatic.

When she had quickly read through the letter, Margaret handed it to
him without comment. He took it from her and rapidly ran through the
contents.

  “Dear Maggie [it ran]:

  “I have just seen your quaint advertisement and send you a few lines
  as requested. I don’t know what you mean by ‘modifying your
  arrangements’ but I can guess. However, that is no concern of mine
  and whatever your plans may be, I don’t want to stand in your way.
  So I will give you a plain statement and you can do what you like.

  “My present arrangements are quite permanent. You have seen the last
  of yours truly. I have no intention of ever coming back—and I don’t
  suppose you particularly want me. It may interest you to know that I
  have made fresh domestic arrangements—necessarily a little
  unorthodox, but also quite permanent.

  “With regard to financial questions: I am afraid I can’t contribute
  to your ‘arrangements,’ whatever they may be. You have enough to
  live on, and I have new responsibilities; but if you can get
  anything out of Levy you are welcome to it. You will be the first
  person who ever has. You can also try Penfield and I wish you the
  best of luck. And that is all I have got to say on the subject. With
  best wishes,

        “Yours sincerely,
            “Daniel Purcell.”

Rodney returned the letter with an expression of disgust. “It is a
brutal, hoggish letter,” said he; “typical of the writer. Where does
he write from?”

“The post-mark is Wivenhoe. It was posted last night at 7:30.”

“That looks as if Varney were right and he were afloat; but it is a
queer time of year for yachting on the East Coast. Well, I suppose you
are not much afflicted by the tone of that letter?”

“Not at all. The more brutal the better. I shall have no qualms now.
But the question is, will the letter do? What do you think?”

“It ought to do well enough—if it isn’t a little too good to be true.”

“I don’t quite understand. You don’t doubt the truth of what he says,
do you?”

“Not at all. What I mean is this: Divorce judges are pretty wary
customers. They have to be. The law doesn’t allow married people who
are tired of one another and would like to try a fresh throw of the
dice to make nice little mutual arrangements to get their marriage
dissolved. That is called collusion. And then there is a mischievous
devil called The King’s Proctor whose function is to ‘prevent us, O
Lord, in all our doings’ and to trip up poor wretches who have got a
decree and think they have escaped, and to send them back to
cat-and-dog matrimony until death do them part.

“Now the only pitfall about this letter of Dan’s is that it is so very
complete. He makes things so remarkably easy for us. He leaves us
nothing to prove. He admits everything in advance and covers the whole
of our case in our favour. That letter might have been dictated by a
lawyer in our interest.”

Margaret looked deeply disappointed. “You don’t mean to say that we
shan’t be able to act on it!” she exclaimed in dismay.

“I don’t say that,” he replied, “and I certainly think it will be
worth trying. But I do wish that we could produce evidence that he is
living with some woman, as he appears to state. That would be so much
more convincing. However, I will get an opinion from a counsel who has
had extensive experience of divorce practice; a man like Barnby, for
instance. I could show him a copy of the letter and hear what he
thinks.”

“Why not Dr. Thorndyke?” said Margaret. “He was really right, after
all, and we shall have to show him the letter.”

“Yes; and he must see the original. But as to taking his opinion, well
we shall have to do that as a matter of courtesy; but I don’t set much
value on his judgment. You see, he chose to go double Nap on this
letter and he happened to win. Events prove that he was right to take
the chance, but it was primitive strategy. It doesn’t impress me.”

Margaret made no immediate rejoinder. She was not a lawyer, and to her
the fact that the plan had succeeded was evidence that it was a good
plan. Accordingly, her waning faith in Thorndyke was strongly revived.

“I can’t help hoping,” she said, presently, “that this letter will
secure a decision in our favour. It really ought to. You see, there is
no question of arrangement or collusion on my side. Our relations were
perfectly normal and pleasant up to the moment of Dan’s disappearance.
There were no quarrels, no differences, nothing to hint at any desire
for a change in our relations; and I have waited six months for him to
come back, and have taken no action until he made it clear that he had
gone for good. Don’t you think that I have a fair chance of getting my
freedom?”

“Perhaps you are right, Maggie,” he replied. “I may be looking out for
snags that aren’t there. Of course, you could call me and Phillip and
Varney to prove that all was normal up to the last, and Penfield and
Thorndyke to give evidence of your efforts to trace Dan. Yes; perhaps
it is a better case than I thought. But all the same, I will show the
letter to Barnby when Thorndyke has seen it and get his opinion
without prejudice.”

He paused and reflected profoundly for a while. Suddenly he looked up
at Margaret; and in his eyes there was a new light.

“Supposing, Maggie,” he said in a low, earnest voice, “you were to get
this marriage dissolved. Then you would be free—free to marry. You
know that, years ago, when you were free, I loved you. You know that,
because I told you; and I thought, and I still think that you cared
for me then. The fates were against us at that time, but in the years
that have passed, there has been no change in me. You are the only
woman I have ever wanted. Of course I have kept my feelings to myself.
That had to be. But if we can win back your freedom, I shall ask you
to be my wife, unless you forbid me. What shall you say to me,
Maggie?”

Margaret sat with downcast eyes as Rodney was speaking. For a few
moments she had appeared pale and agitated, but she was now quite
composed and nothing but a heightened colour hinted at any confusion.
At the final question she raised her head and looked Rodney frankly in
the face.

“At present, John,” she said quietly, “I am the wife of Daniel Purcell
and as such have no right to contemplate any other marriage. But I
will be honest with you. There is no reason why I should not be. You
are quite right, John. I loved you in those days that you speak of,
and if I never told you, you know why. You know how I came to marry
Dan. It seemed to me then that I had no choice. Perhaps I was wrong;
but I did what I thought was my duty to my father.

“In the years that have passed since then—the long, grey years—I have
kept my covenant with Dan loyally in every respect. If I have ever
looked back with regret, it has been in secret. But through those
years you have been a faithful friend to me, and of all my friends the
best beloved. And so you are now. That is all I can say, John.”

“It is enough, Maggie,” he said; “and I thank you from my heart for
saying so much. Whatever your answer might have been, I would have
done everything in my power to set you free. But now I shall venture
to have a hope that I hold a stake in your freedom.”

She made no answer to this, and for some time both sat silently
engrossed with their own thoughts and each thinking much the same
thoughts as the other. The silence was at length broken by Rodney.

“It was an awful blow to me when I came home from my travels and found
you married. Of course I guessed what had happened, though I never
actually knew. I assumed that Dan had put the screw on your father in
some way.”

“Yes. He had lent my father money and the bills could not be met.”

“What a Juggernaut the fellow is!” exclaimed Rodney. “An absolutely
ruthless egoist. By the way, was he in the habit of lending money? I
notice that he refers in this letter to a person named Levy. Who is
Levy? And what does Dan do for a livelihood? He is out of the paper
trade, isn’t he?”

“I think so. The truth is, I have never known what his occupation is.
I have suspected that he is principally a money-lender. As to Mr.
Levy, I have always thought he was a clerk or manager; but it rather
looks as if he were a partner.”

“We must find out,” said Rodney. “And there is another thing that we
must look into: that mysterious letter that Penfield received from
Dan. Did you ever learn what was in it?”

“Never. Mr. Penfield refused to divulge the slightest hint of its
contents. But I feel convinced that it was in some way connected with
Dan’s disappearance. You remember it arrived on the day after Dan went
away. I think Dr. Thorndyke called on Mr. Penfield to see if he could
glean any information, but I assume that he didn’t succeed.”

“We can take that for granted,” said Rodney. “I don’t think Thorndyke
would get much out of a wary old bird like Penfield. But we must find
out what was in that letter. Penfield will have to produce it if we
put him in the witness-box, though he will be a mighty slippery
witness. However, I will see Thorndyke and ask him about it when I
have consulted Barnby. Perhaps I had better take charge of the
letter.”

Margaret handed him the letter, which he put securely in his wallet,
and, the plan of action being now settled, he stayed only for a little
further gossip and then took his leave.

On the following afternoon he called by appointment on Thorndyke, who,
having admitted him, closed the “oak” and connected the bell with the
laboratory upstairs where his assistant, Polton, was at work.

“So,” he said, “our fish has risen to the tin minnow, as I gather from
your note.”

“Yes. You have had better luck than I expected.”

“Or than I deserved, you might have added if you had been less polite.
Well, I don’t know that I should agree. I consider it bad practice to
treat an improbability as an impossibility. But what does he say?”

“All that we could wish—and perhaps a little more. That is the only
difficulty. He makes things a little too easy for us; at least that is
my feeling. But you had better see the letter.”

He took it from his wallet and passed it to Thorndyke, who glanced at
the post-mark, and, when he had taken out the letter, looked quickly
into the interior of the envelope.

“Wivenhoe,” he remarked. “Some distance from Woodbridge, but in the
same district.” He read carefully through the text, noting at the same
time the peculiarities that he had observed in the former letter. In
this case, too, the post-marks had been made when the envelope was
empty; a curious oversight on the part of Varney, in view of the care
and ingenuity otherwise displayed. Indeed, as he read through the
letter, Thorndyke’s opinion of that cunning artificer rose
considerably. It was a most skilful and tactful production. It did,
certainly, make things almost suspiciously easy, but then that was its
function. The whole case for the petition rested on it. But the brutal
attitude of the imaginary truant was admirably rendered, and, so far
as he could judge, the personality of the missing man convincingly
represented.

“It is not a courteous epistle,” he remarked, tentatively.

“No,” agreed Rodney, “but it is exactly the sort of letter that one
would expect from Purcell. It gives you his character in a nutshell.”

This was highly satisfactory and very creditable to Varney. “You
mentioned in your note that you were going to take Barnby’s opinion on
it. Have you seen him?”

“Yes, and he thinks the same as I do: that it would be a little risky
to base a petition on this letter alone. The judge might smell a rat.
He considers that if we could produce evidence that Purcell is
actually living with another woman, this letter would be good evidence
of desertion. He suggested putting a private inquiry agent on
Purcell’s tracks. What do you say to that?”

“In the abstract, it is an excellent suggestion. But how are you going
to carry it out? You speak of putting the agent on Purcell’s tracks.
But there are no tracks. There is no place in which he is known to
have been staying; there is no person known to us who has seen him
since he landed at Penzance. You would start your sleuth without a
scent to wander about Essex and Suffolk looking for a man whom he had
never seen and would probably not recognize if he met him, and who is
possibly not in either of those counties at all. It really is not a
practicable scheme.”

Rodney emitted a discontented grunt. “Doesn’t sound very encouraging
certainly,” he admitted. “But how do the police manage in a case of
the kind?”

“By having, not one agent, but a thousand, and all in communication
through a central office. And even the police fail if they haven’t
enough data. But with regard to Barnby; of course his opinion has
great weight. He knows the difficulties of these cases, and his
outlook will probably be the judge’s outlook. But did you make clear
to him the peculiarities of this case? The character of the
petitioner, her excellent relations with her husband, the sudden,
unforeseen manner of the disappearance and the total absence of any
grounds of a suspicion of collusion? Did you present these points to
him?”

“No, I didn’t. We merely discussed the letter.”

“Well, see him again and put the whole case to him. My feeling is that
a petition would probably succeed.”

“I hope you are right,” said Rodney, more encouraged than he would
have liked to admit. “I’ll see Barnby again. Oh, and there is another
point. That letter that Purcell sent to Penfield by mistake in June.
It probably throws some light on the disappearance and might be
important as evidence on our side. I suppose Penfield did not tell you
what was in it, or show it to you?”

“No, he would say nothing about it; but he allowed me, at my request,
to examine the envelope.”

Rodney grinned. “He might also have shown you the postman who
delivered the letter. But if he won’t tell us anything, we might put
him in the witness-box and make him disgorge his secret.”

“Yes, and you may have to if the Court demands to have the letter
produced. But I strongly advise you to avoid doing so, if you can. I
have the impression that the production of that letter would be very
much the reverse of helpful—might, in fact, be fatal to the success of
the case—and would in addition be very disagreeable to Mrs. Purcell.”

Rodney looked at him in astonishment. “Then you know what was in the
letter?” said he.

“No; but I have formed certain opinions which I have no doubt are
correct, but which I do not feel at liberty to communicate. I advise
you to leave Mr. Penfield alone. Remember that he is a lawyer, that he
is Mrs. Purcell’s friend, that he does know what is in the letter and
that he thinks it best to keep his knowledge to himself. But he will
have to be approached on the question as to whether he is willing to
act for Mrs. Purcell against her husband. If you undertake that office
you can raise the question of the letter with him; but I would urge
you most strongly not to force his hand.”

Rodney listened to this advice with a slightly puzzled expression.
Like Mr. Penfield, he viewed Thorndyke with mixed feelings, now
thinking of him as an amateur, a doctor who dabbled ineffectively in
law, and now considering the possibility that he might command some
means of acquiring knowledge that were not available to the orthodox
legal practitioner. Here was a case in point. He had examined the
envelope of that mysterious letter “at his own request” and evidently
for a specific purpose; and from that inspection he had in some
unaccountable way formed a very definite opinion as to what the
envelope had contained. That was very curious. Of course, he might be
wrong; but he seemed to be pretty confident. Then there was the
present transaction. Rodney, himself, had rejected Varney’s suggestion
with scorn. But Thorndyke had adopted it quite hopefully, and the plan
had succeeded in the face of all probabilities. Could it be that
Thorndyke had some unknown means of gauging those probabilities? It
looked rather like it.

“You are only guessing at the nature of that letter,” he said
tentatively, “and you may have guessed wrong.”

“That is quite possible,” Thorndyke agreed. “But Penfield isn’t
guessing. Put the case to him, hear what he says and follow his
advice. And if you see Varney again, it would be better to say nothing
about that letter. Penfield will advise you to keep it out of the case
if you can, and that is my advice, too.”

When Rodney took his departure, which he did a few minutes later, he
carried with him a growing suspicion that he had underestimated
Thorndyke; that the latter, perhaps, played a deeper game than at
first sight appeared and that he played with pieces unknown to
traditional legal practice.

For some time after his visitor had left Thorndyke remained wrapped in
profound thought. In his heart he was sensible of a deep distaste for
this case that he was promoting. If it were to succeed, it could only
be by misleading the Court. It is true that the parties were acting in
good faith, that the falsities which they would present were falsities
that they believed to be true. But the whole case was based on a
fiction, and Thorndyke detested fictions. Nor was he satisfied with
his own position, in an ethical sense. He knew that the case was
fictitious; that the respondent was a dead man and that the documents
to be produced in evidence were forgeries. He was, in fact, an
accessory to those forgeries. He did not like it at all. And he was
not so optimistic as to the success of the petition as he had led
Rodney to believe, though he was not very uneasy on that score. What
troubled him was that this was, in effect, a bogus case and that he
was lending it his support.

But what was the alternative? His thoughts turned to
Margaret—sweet-faced, sweet-natured, gracious-mannered, the perfect
type of an English gentlewoman—and he thought of the fine, handsome,
high-minded gentleman who had just gone away. These two loved one
another; loved as only persons of character can love. Their marriage,
if it could be achieved, would secure to them a lifelong happiness, in
so far as such happiness is attainable by mortals. But between them
and their happiness stood the fiction of Daniel Purcell. In order that
they might marry, Purcell must either be proved to be dead or assumed
to be alive.

Could he be proved to be dead? If he could, that were the better way,
because it would demonstrate the truth. But was it possible? In a
scientific sense it probably was. Science can accept a conclusion with
reservations. But the law has to say “yes” or “no” without any
reservations at all. This was not a case of death merely presumed. It
was a death alleged to have occurred at a specific time and place and
in a specific manner; and inseparably bound up with it was a charge of
murder. If Purcell was dead, Varney had murdered him, and the murder
was the issue that would be tried. But no jury would entertain for a
moment the guilt of the accused on such evidence as Thorndyke could
offer. And an acquittal would amount to a legal decision that Purcell
was not dead. On that decision Margaret’s marriage to Rodney would be
impossible.

Thus Thorndyke’s reflections led him back, as they always did, to the
conclusion that Purcell’s death was incapable of legal proof, and must
ever remain so, unless by some miracle, new and conclusive evidence
should come to light. But to wait for a miracle to happen was an
unsatisfactory policy. If Purcell could not be proved to be dead, and
if such failure of proof must wreck the happiness of two estimable
persons, then it would appear that it might be allowable to accept
what was the actual legal position and assume that he was alive.

So, once again, Thorndyke decided that he had no choice but to
continue to share with Varney the secret of Purcell’s death and to
hold his peace. And if this must be the petition must take its course,
aided and abetted, if necessary, by him. After all, nobody would be
injured and nothing done which was contrary either to public policy or
private morals. There were only two alternatives, as matters stood.
The fiction of Purcell as a living man would either keep Margaret and
Rodney apart, as it was now doing; or it would be employed (with other
fictions) to enable them to be united. And it was better that they
should be united.



CHAPTER XIII

In Which the Medico-legal Worm Arrives

Romance lurks in unsuspected places. As we go our daily round, we are
apt to look distastefully upon the scenes made dull by familiarity,
and to seek distraction by letting our thoughts ramble far away into
time and space, to ages and regions in which life seems more full of
colour. In fancy, perchance, we thread the ghostly aisles of some
tropical forest, or linger on the white beach of some lonely coral
island, where the cocoanut palms, shivering in the sea-breeze, patter
a refrain to the song of the surf; or we wander by moonlight through
the narrow streets of some southern city and hear the thrum of the
guitar rise to the shrouded balcony; and behold! all the time Romance
is at our very doors.

It was on a bright afternoon early in March that Thorndyke sat with
Phillip Rodney by his side on one of the lower benches of the lecture
theatre of the Royal College of Surgeons. Not a likely place, this, to
encounter Romance. Yet there it was—and Tragedy, too—lying unnoticed
at present on the green baize cover of the lecturer’s table, its very
existence unsuspected.

Meanwhile Thorndyke and Phillip conversed in quiet undertones, for it
still wanted some minutes to the hour at which the lecture would
commence.

“I suppose,” said Phillip, “you have had no report from that private
detective fellow—I forget his name?”

“Bagwell. No, excepting the usual weekly note stating that he is still
unable to pick up any trace of Purcell.”

“Ah,” commented Phillip; “that doesn’t sound encouraging. Must be
costing a lot of money, too. I fancy my brother and Maggie Purcell are
both beginning to wish they had taken your advice and relied on the
letter by itself. But Jack was overborne by Barnby’s insistence on
corroborative evidence, and Maggie let him decide. And now they are
sorry they listened to Barnby. They hadn’t bargained for all this
delay.”

“Barnby was quite right as to the value of the additional evidence,”
said Thorndyke. “What he didn’t grasp was the very great difficulty of
getting it. But I think I hear the big-wigs approaching.”

As he spoke, the usher threw open the lecturer’s door. The audience
stood up, the president entered, preceded by the mace-bearer and
followed by the officers and the lecturer, and took his seat; the
audience sat down and the lecture began without further formalities.

The theatre was nearly full. It usually was when Professor D’Arcy
lectured; for that genial savant had the magnetic gift of infusing his
own enthusiasm into the lecture, and so into his audience, even when,
as on this occasion, his subject lay on the outside edge of medical
science. To-day he was lecturing on the epidermic appendages of the
marine worms, and from the opening sentence he held his audience as by
a spell, standing before the great blackboard with a bunch of coloured
chalks in either hand, talking with easy eloquence—mostly over his
shoulder—while he covered the black surface with those delightful
drawings that added so much to the charm of his lectures. Phillip
watched his flying fingers with fascination and struggled frantically
to copy the diagrams into a large note-book with the aid of a handful
of coloured pencils, while Thorndyke, not much addicted to
note-taking, listened and watched with concentrated attention,
mentally docketing and pigeon-holing any new or significant fact in
what was to him a fairly familiar subject.

The latter part of the lecture dealt with those beautiful sea-worms
that build themselves tubes to live in—worms like the Serpula that
make their shelly or stony tubes by secretion from their own bodies,
or like the Sabella or Terebella, build them up with sand-grains,
little stones or fragments of shell. Each, in turn, appeared in lively
portraiture on the blackboard and the trays on the table were full of
specimens which were exhibited by the lecturer and which the audience
were invited to inspect more closely after the lecture.

Accordingly, when the last words of the peroration had been
pronounced, the occupants of the benches trouped down into the arena
to look at the exhibits and seek further details from the genial
professor. Thorndyke and Phillip held back for a while on the
outskirts of the crowd, but the professor had seen them on their bench
and now approached, greeting them with a hearty handshake and a
facetious question.

“What are you doing here, Thorndyke? Is it possible that there are
medico-legal possibilities even in a marine worm?”

“Oh, come, D’Arcy!” protested Thorndyke, “don’t make me such a
hidebound specialist. May I have no rational interests in life? Must I
live forever in the witness-box like a marine worm in its tube?”

“I suspect you don’t get very far out of your tube,” said the
professor with a chuckle and a sly glance at Phillip.

“I got far enough out last summer,” retorted Thorndyke, “to come and
aid and abet you in your worm-hunting. Have you forgotten Cornwall?”

“No, to be sure,” was the reply. “But that was only a momentary lapse,
and I expect you had ulterior motives. However, the association of
Cornwall, worm-hunting and medical jurisprudence reminds me that I
have something in your line. A friend of mine, who was wintering in
Cornwall, picked it up on the beach at Morte Hoe and sent it to me.
Now, where is it? It is on this table somewhere. It is a ridiculous
thing; a small, flat cork, evidently from a zoologist’s
collecting-bottle, for it has a label stuck on it with the inscription
‘marine worms.’ It seems that our zoologist was a sort of Robinson
Crusoe, for he had bored a couple of holes through it and evidently
used it as a button. But the most ludicrous thing about it is that a
Terebella has built its tube on it; as if the worm had been prowling
about, looking for lodgings and had read the label and forthwith
engaged the apartments. Ah! here it is.” He pounced on a little
cardboard box, and opening it, took out the cork button and laid it in
Thorndyke’s palm.

As the professor was describing the object Phillip looked at him with
a distinctly startled expression, and uttered a smothered exclamation.
He was about to speak, but suddenly checked himself and looked at
Thorndyke, who flashed at him a quick glance of understanding.

“Isn’t that a quaint coincidence?” chuckled the professor. “I mean
that the worm should have taken up his abode and actually built his
tube on the label.”

“Very quaint,” replied Thorndyke, still looking with deep interest at
the object that lay in his hand.

“You realize,” Phillip said in a low voice as the professor turned
away to answer a question, “that this button came from Purcell’s
oilskin coat?”

“Yes, I remember the incident. I realized what it was as soon as
D’Arcy described the button.” He glanced curiously at Phillip,
wondering whether he, too, realized exactly what this queer piece of
jetsam was. For to Thorndyke its message had been conveyed even before
the professor had finished speaking. In that moment it had been borne
to him that the unlooked-for miracle had happened and that Margaret
Purcell’s petition need never be filed.

“Well, Thorndyke,” said the Professor, “my friend’s treasure trove
seems to interest you. I thought it would as an instance of the
possibilities of coincidence. Quite a useful lesson to a lawyer, by
the way.”

“Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “In fact, I was going to ask you to allow
me to borrow it to examine at my leisure.”

The professor was delighted. “There now,” he chuckled with a
mischievous twinkle at Phillip, “what did I tell you? He hasn’t come
here for the comparative anatomy at all. He has just come to grub for
legal data. And now, you see, the medico-legal worm has arrived and is
instantly collared by the medical jurist. Take him, by all means,
Thorndyke. You needn’t borrow him. I present him as a gift to your
black museum. You needn’t return him.”

Thorndyke thanked the professor, and having packed the specimen with
infinite tenderness in its cotton wool, bestowed the box in his
waistcoat pocket. A few minutes later he and Phillip took their leave
of the professor and departed, making their way through Lincoln’s Inn
to Chancery Lane.

“That button gave me quite a shock for a moment,” said Phillip,
“appearing out of the sea on the Cornish Coast; for, of course, it was
on Purcell’s coat when he went ashore—at least I suppose it was. I
understood Varney to say so.”

“He did,” said Thorndyke. “He mentioned the incident at dinner one
evening and he then said definitely that the cork button was on the
coat when Purcell went up the ladder.”

“Yes, and it seemed rather mysterious at first, as Purcell went right
away from Cornwall. But there is probably quite a simple explanation.
Purcell went to the East Coast by sea; and it is most likely that,
when he got on board the steamer, he obtained a proper button from the
steward, cut off the jury button and chucked it overboard. But it is a
queer chance that it should have come back to us in this way.”

Thorndyke nodded. “A very queer chance,” he agreed. As he spoke, he
looked at Phillip with a somewhat puzzled expression. He was, in fact,
rather surprised. Phillip Rodney was a doctor, a man of science and an
unquestionably intelligent person. He knew all the circumstances that
were known and he had seen and examined the button; and yet he had
failed to observe the one vitally important fact that stared him in
the face.

“What made you want to borrow the button?” Phillip asked presently.
“Was it that you wanted to keep it as a relic of the Purcell case?”

“I want to examine the worm-tube,” replied Thorndyke. “It is a rather
unusual one; very uniform in composition. Mostly, Terebella tubes are
very miscellaneous as to their materials—sand, shell, little pebbles
and so forth. The material of this one seems to be all alike.”

“Probably the stuff that the worm was able to pick up in the
neighbourhood of Morte Hoe.”

“That is possible,” said Thorndyke, and the conversation dropped for a
moment, each man occupying himself with reflections on the other. To
Phillip it seemed rather surprising that a man like Thorndyke, full of
important business, should find time, or even inclination, to occupy
himself with trivialities like this. For, after all, what did it
matter whether this worm-tube was composed of miscellaneous gatherings
or of a number of similar particles? No scientific interest attached
to the question. It seemed rather a silly quest. And yet Thorndyke had
thought it worth while to borrow the specimen for this very purpose.

Thorndyke, for his part, was more than ever astonished at the mental
obtuseness of this usually acute and intelligent man. Not only had he
failed in the first place to observe a most striking and significant
fact; he could not see that fact even when his nose was rubbed hard on
it.

As they passed through Old Buildings and approached the main gateway,
Phillip slowed down. “I am going in to my brother’s chambers, here, to
have tea with him. Do you care to join us? He will be glad to see
you.”

Thorndyke, however, was in no mood for tea and gossip. He had got a
first-class clue—a piece of really conclusive evidence. How conclusive
it was and how far its conclusiveness went, he could not tell at
present; and he was eager to get to work on the assay of this specimen
in an evidential sense—to see exactly what was the amount and kind of
evidence that the sea had cast up on the shore of Morte Hoe. He
therefore excused himself, and having bidden Phillip adieu, he strode
out into Chancery Lane and bore south towards the Temple.

On entering his chambers he discovered his assistant, Polton, in the
act of transferring boiling water from a copper kettle to a small
silver teapot; whereby he was able to infer that his approach had been
observed by the said Polton from his lookout in the laboratory above.
The two men, master and man, exchanged friendly greetings and
Thorndyke then observed:

“I have got a job to do later on, Polton, when I have finished up the
evening’s work. I shall want to grind some small sections of a mineral
that I wish to identify. Would you put out one or two small hones and
the other things that I shall need?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Polton. “I will put the mineral section outfit on
a tray and bring it down after tea. But can’t I grind the sections? It
seems a pity for you to be wasting your time on a mechanical job like
that.”

“Thank you, Polton,” replied Thorndyke. “Of course you could cut the
sections as well as, or better than, I can. But it is possible that I
may have to produce the sections in evidence, and in that case it will
be better if I can say that I cut them myself and that they were never
out of my own hands. The Courts don’t know you as I do, you see,
Polton.”

Polton acknowledged the compliment with a gratified smile and departed
to the laboratory. As soon as he was gone Thorndyke brought forth the
little cardboard box and having taken out the button, carried it over
to the window, where, with the aid of his pocket lens, he made a long
and careful examination of the worm-tube; the result of which was to
confirm his original observation. The mineral particles of which the
tube was built up were of various shapes and sizes, from mere
sand-grains up to quite respectable little pebbles. But, so far as he
could see, they were all of a similar material. What that material
was, an expert mineralogist would have been able, no doubt, to say
offhand; and an expert opinion would probably have to be obtained. But
in the meantime his own knowledge was enough to enable him to form a
fairly reliable opinion when he had made the necessary investigations.

As he drank his tea he reflected on this extraordinary windfall.
Circumstances had conspired in the most singular manner against
Varney. How much they had conspired remained to be seen. That depended
on how much the worm-tube had to tell. But even if no further light
were thrown on the matter by the nature of the mineral, there was
evidence enough to prove that Purcell had never landed at Penzance.
The Terebella had already given that much testimony. And the
cross-examination was yet to come.

Having finished tea, he fell to work on the reports and written
opinions which had to be completed and sent off by the last post; and
it was characteristic of the man that, though the button and its as
yet half-read message lurked in the subconscious part of his mind as
the engrossing object of interest, he was yet able to concentrate the
whole of his conscious attention on the matters with which he was
outwardly occupied. Twice during the evening Polton stole silently
into the room, once to deposit on a side table the little tray
containing the mineral section appliances and the second time to place
on a small table near the fire a larger tray bearing the kind of
frugal, informal supper that Thorndyke usually consumed when alone and
at work.

“If you wait a few moments, Polton, I shall have these letters ready
for the post. Then we shall both be free. I don’t want to see anybody
to-night unless it is something urgent.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Polton. “I will switch the bell on to the
laboratory and I’ll see that you are not disturbed unnecessarily.”

With this he took up the letters which Thorndyke had sealed and
stamped and reluctantly withdrew, not without a last, wistful glance
at the apparatus on the tray.

As the door closed behind him, Thorndyke rose, and, bringing forth the
button from the drawer in which he had bestowed it, began operations
at once. First, with a pair of fine forceps he carefully picked off
the worm-tube half-a-dozen of the largest fragments and laid them on a
glass slide. This he placed on the stage of the microscope and, having
fitted on a two-inch objective, made a preliminary inspection under
various conditions of light, both transmitted and reflected. When he
had got clearly into his mind the general character of the unknown
rock, he fetched from a store cabinet in the office a number of
shallow drawers filled with labelled specimens of rocks and minerals;
and he also placed on the table in readiness for reference one or two
standard works on geology and petrology. But before examining either
the books or the specimens in the drawers, he opened out a geological
chart of the British Isles and closely scrutinized the comparatively
small area with which the button was concerned—the Land’s End and the
North and South Coasts of Cornwall. A very brief scrutiny of the map
showed him that the enquiry could now be narrowed down to a quite
small group of rocks, the majority of which he could exclude at once
by his own knowledge of the more familiar types; which was highly
satisfactory. But there was evidently something more than this. Any
one who should have been observing him as he pored over the chart,
would have seen, by a suddenly increased attention, with a certain
repressed eagerness, that some really illuminating fact had come into
view; and his next proceedings would make clear to such an observer
that the problem had already changed from one search to a definite and
particular identification. From the chart he turned to the drawers of
specimens, running his eye quickly over their contents as if looking
for some specific object; and this object he presently found in a
little cardboard tray—a single fragment of a grey, compact rock, which
he pounced upon at once, and picking it out of its tray, laid it on
the slide with the fragments from the worm-tube. Careful comparison
gave the impression that they were identical in character, but the
great difference in the size of the fragments compared was a source of
possible error. Accordingly he wrapped the specimen lightly in paper,
and with a hammer from the tool-drawer struck it a sharp blow, which
broke it into a number of smaller fragments, some of them quite
minute. Picking out one or two of the smallest from the paper, and
carefully noting the “conchoidal” character of the fracture, he placed
them on a separate slide which he at once labelled “stock specimen,”
labelling the other slide “worm-tube.” Having taken this precaution
against possible confusion, he laid the two slides on the stage of the
microscope and once more made a minute comparison. And again the
conclusion emerged that the fragments from the worm-tube were
identical in all their characters with the fragments of the stock
specimen.

It now remained to test this conclusion by more exact methods. Two
more labelled slides having been prepared, Thorndyke laid them, label
downwards, on the table and dropped on each a large drop of melted
Canada balsam. In one drop, while it was still soft, he immersed two
or three fragments from the worm-tube; in the other a like number of
fragments of the stock specimen. Then he heated both slides over a
spirit lamp to liquefy the balsam and completely immerse the
fragments, and laid them aside to cool while he prepared the
appliances for grinding the sections.

This process was, as Polton had hinted, a rather tedious one. It
consisted in rubbing the two slides backwards and forwards upon a
wetted Turkey stone until the fragments of rock were ground to a flat
surface. The flattened surfaces had then to be polished upon a
smoother stone and when this had been done, the slides were once more
heated over the spirit lamp, the balsam liquefied, and each of the
fragments neatly turned over with a needle on its flat side. When the
balsam was cool and set hard, the grinding process was repeated until
each of the fragments was worn down to a thin plate or film with
parallel sides. Then the slides were again heated, a fresh drop of
balsam applied and a cover-glass laid on top. The specimens were now
finished and ready for examination.

On this, the final stage of the investigation, he bestowed the utmost
care and attention. The two specimens were examined exhaustively and
compared again and again by every possible method, including the use
of the polariscope and the spectroscope; and the results of each
observation were at once written down. Finally, Thorndyke turned to
the books of reference, and selecting a highly technical work on
petrology, checked his written notes by the very detailed descriptions
that it furnished of rocks of volcanic origin. And once again the
results were entirely confirmatory of the opinion that he had at first
formed. No doubt whatever was left in his mind as to the nature of the
particles of rock of which the worm had built its tube. But if his
opinion was correct, he held evidence producible in a court of law
that Daniel Purcell had never landed at Penzance; that, in fact, his
dead body was even now lying at the bottom of the sea.

As he consumed his frugal supper Thorndyke turned over the situation
in his mind. He had no doubts at all. But it would be necessary to get
his identification of the rock confirmed by a recognized authority who
could be called as a witness and whose statement would be accepted by
the court as establishing the facts. There was no difficulty about
that. He had a friend who was connected with the Geological Museum and
who was recognized throughout the world as a first-class authority on
everything relating to the physical and chemical proprieties of rocks
and minerals. He would take the specimens to-morrow to this expert and
ask him to examine them; and when the authoritative opinion had been
pronounced, he would consider what procedure he should adopt. Already
there was growing up in his mind a doubt as to the expediency of
taking action on purely scientific evidence; and in answer to that
doubt a new scheme began to suggest itself.

But for the moment he put it aside. The important thing was to get the
expert identification of the rock and so put his evidence on the basis
of established fact. The conversion of scientific into legal evidence
was a separate matter that could be dealt with later. And having
reached this conclusion, he took a sheet of note paper from the rack
and wrote a short letter to his friend at the museum making an
appointment for the following afternoon. A few minutes later he
dropped it into the box of the Fleet Street Post Office and for the
time being dismissed the case from his mind.



CHAPTER XIV

In Which Mr. Varney Is Disillusioned

Thorndyke’s visit to the Geological Museum was not a protracted
affair, for his friend, Mr. Burston, made short work of the
investigation.

“You say you have examined the specimens yourself,” said he. “Well, I
expect you know what they are; just come to me for an official
confirmation, hm? However, don’t tell me what your conclusion was. I
may as well start with an open mind. Write it down on this slip of
paper and lay it on the table face downwards. And now let us have the
specimens.”

Thorndyke produced from his pocket a cigar case from which he
extracted a pill-box and the labelled microscope-slide.

“There are two little water-worn fragments in the pill-box,” he
explained, “and three similar ones which I have ground into sections.
I am sorry the specimens are so small, but they are the largest I
had.”

Mr. Burston took the pill-box, and, tipping the two tiny pebbles into
the palm of his hand, inspected them through a Coddington lens.

“M’ yes,” said he, “I don’t think it will be very difficult to decide
what this is. I think I could tell you offhand. But I won’t. I’ll put
it through the regular tests and make quite sure of it; and meanwhile
you had better have a browse around the museum.”

He bustled off to some inner sanctum of the Curator’s domain and
Thorndyke adopted his advice by straying out into the galleries. But
he had little opportunity to study the contents of the cases, for in a
few minutes Mr. Burston returned with a slip of paper in his hand.

“Now,” he said facetiously as they re-entered the room, “you see
there’s no deception.” He laid his slip of paper on the table beside
Thorndyke’s and invited the latter to “turn up the cards.” Thorndyke
accordingly turned over the two slips of paper. Each bore the single
word “Phonolite.”

“I knew you had spotted it,” said Burston. “However, you have now got
corroborative evidence and I suppose you are happy. I only hope I
haven’t helped to send some poor devil to chokee or worse. Good-bye!
Glad you brought the things to me.” He restored the pill-box and slide
and, having shaken hands heartily, returned to his lair, while
Thorndyke went forth into Jermyn Street and took his way thoughtfully
eastward.

In a scientific sense the Purcell case was now complete. But the more
he thought about it the more did he feel the necessity for bringing
the scheme of evidence into closer conformity with traditional legal
practice. Even to a judge, a purely theoretical train of evidence
might seem inconclusive; to a jury who had been well pounded by a
persuasive counsel it would probably appear quite unconvincing. It
would be necessary to obtain corroboration along different lines and
in a new direction; and the direction in which it would be well to
explore in the first place was the ancient precinct of Lincoln’s Inn
where, at 62 Old Buildings, Mr. John Rodney had his professional
chambers.

Now, at the very moment when Thorndyke was proceeding with swift
strides from the neighbourhood of Jermyn Street towards Lincoln’s Inn
on business of the most critical importance to Mr. Varney, it was
decreed by the irony of fate that the latter gentleman should be
engaged in bringing his affairs to a crisis of another kind. For some
time past he had been watching with growing impatience the dilatory
proceedings of the lawyers in regard to Margaret’s petition.
Especially had he chafed at the farce of the private detective,
searching, as he knew, for a man whose body was lying on the bed of
the sea hundreds of miles away from the area of the search. He was
deeply disappointed, too. For when his advertisement scheme had been
adopted by Thorndyke, he had supposed that all was plain sailing; he
had but to send the necessary letter and the dissolution of the
marriage could be proceeded with at once. That was how it had appeared
to him. And as soon as the marriage was dissolved he would make his
declaration and in due course his heart’s desire would be
accomplished.

Very differently had things turned out. Months had passed and not a
sign of progress had been made. The ridiculous search for the missing
man—ridiculous to him only, however—dragged on interminably and made
him gnash his teeth in secret. His omniscience was now a sheer
aggravation; for it condemned him to look on at the futile activities
that Barnby had suggested and Rodney initiated, recognizing all their
futility but unable to utter a protest. To a man of his temperament it
was maddening.

But there was another source of trouble. His confidence in Margaret’s
feelings towards him had been somewhat shaken of late. It had seemed
to him there had been a change in her bearing towards him; a slight
change, subtle and indefinable, but a change. She seemed as friendly,
as cordial as ever; she welcomed his visits and appeared always glad
to see him; and yet there was a something guarded—so he felt—as if she
were consciously restraining any further increase of intimacy.

The thought of it troubled him profoundly. Of course it might be
nothing more than a little extra carefulness, due to her equivocal
position. She had need to keep clear of anything in the slightest
degree compromising; that he realized clearly. But still the feeling
lurked in his mind that she had changed, at least in manner; and
sometimes he was aware of a horrible suspicion that he might have been
overconfident. More than once he had been on the point of saying
something indiscreet; and as time went on he felt ever growing a
yearning to have his doubts set at rest.

On this present occasion he was taking tea with Margaret by invitation
with the ostensible object of showing her a set of etchings of some of
the picturesque corners of Maidstone. He always enjoyed showing her
his works because he could see that she enjoyed looking at them; and
these etchings of her native town would, he knew, have a double
appeal.

“What a lovely old place it is!” she exclaimed as she sipped her tea
with her eyes fixed on the etchings that Varney had placed before her
on a music stand. “Why is it, Mr. Varney, that an etching or a drawing
of any kind is so much more like the place than a photograph? It can’t
be a question of accuracy, for the photograph is at least as accurate
as a drawing and contains a great deal more detail.”

“Yes,” agreed Varney, “and that is probably the explanation. An artist
puts down what he sees and what any one else would see and recognize.
A photograph puts down what is there, regardless of how the scene
would look to a spectator. Consequently it is full of irrelevant
detail which gets in the way of the real effect as the eye would see
it; and it may show appearances that the eye never sees at all, as in
the case of Muybridge’s instantaneous photographs of galloping horses.
A photograph of a Dutch clock might catch the pendulum in the middle
of its swing, and then the clock would appear to have stopped. But an
artist would always draw it at the end of its swing where it pauses
for an instant; and that is where the eye sees it when the clock is
going.”

“Yes, of course,” said Margaret; “and now I understand why your
etchings of the old streets and lanes show just the streets and lanes
that I remember, whereas the photographs that I have all look more or
less strange and unfamiliar. I suppose they are full of details that I
never noticed; but your etchings pick out and emphasize the things
that I used to look at with pleasure and which live in my memory. It
is a long time since I have been to Maidstone. I should like to see it
again; indeed I am not sure that, if I were free to choose, I
shouldn’t like to live there again. It is a dear old town.”

“Yes; isn’t it? But you say ‘if you were free to choose.’ Aren’t you
free to choose where you will live?”

“In a sense, I am, I suppose,” she replied; “but I don’t feel that I
can make any definite arrangements for the future until—well, until I
know what my own future is to be.”

“But surely you know that now. You have got that letter of Dan’s. That
practically releases you. The rest is only a matter of time and legal
formalities. If Jack Rodney had only got Penfield or some other
solicitor to get the case started as soon as you had that letter, you
would have had your decree by now and have been your own mistress. At
least, that is my feeling on the subject. Of course I am not a lawyer
and I may be wrong.”

“I don’t think you are,” said Margaret. “I have thought the same all
along, and I fancy Mr. Rodney is beginning to regret that he did not
follow Dr. Thorndyke’s advice and rely on the letter only. But he felt
that he could hardly go against Mr. Barnby, who has had so much
experience in this kind of practice. And Mr. Barnby was very positive
that the letter was not enough.”

“Yes, Barnby has crabbed the whole business; and now after all these
months you are just where you were, excepting that you have dropped a
lot of money on this ridiculous private detective. Can’t you get
Rodney to send the fellow packing and get the case started in
earnest?”

“I am inclined to think that he is seriously considering that line of
action and I hope he is. Of course I have tried to influence him in
the matter. It is silly for a lay person to embarrass a lawyer by
urging him to do this or that against his judgment. But I must say
that I have grown rather despondent as the time has dragged on and
nothing has been done, and I shall be very relieved when a definite
move is made. I have an impression that it will be, quite soon.”

“That is good hearing,” exclaimed Varney, “because when a move is
made, it can’t fail to be successful. How can it? On that letter Dan
could offer no defence; and it is pretty obvious that he has no
intention of offering any. And if there is no defence, the case must
go in your favour.”

“Unless the judge suspects collusion, as Mr. Barnby seems to think he
may.”

“But,” protested Varney, “judges don’t give their decisions on what
they suspect, do they? I thought they decided on the evidence. Surely
collusion would have to be proved like anything else; and it couldn’t
be, because there has been no collusion. And I don’t see why any one
should suspect that there has been.”

“I agree with you entirely, Mr. Varney,” said Margaret, “and I do hope
you are right. You are making me feel quite encouraged.”

“I am glad of that,” said he, “and I am encouraging myself at the same
time. This delay has been frightfully disappointing. I had hoped that
by this time the affair would have been over and you would have been
free. However, we may hope that it won’t be so very long now.”

“It will take some months in any case,” said Margaret.

“Yes, of course,” he admitted; “but that is a mere matter of waiting.
We can wait patiently when we see the end definitely in view. And what
a relief it will be when it is over! Just think of it. When the words
are spoken and the shackles are struck off! Won’t that be a joyful
day?” As Varney was speaking, Margaret watched him furtively and a
little uneasily. For there had come into his face an expression that
she had seen more than once of late; an expression that filled her
gentle soul with forebodings of trouble for this impulsive
warm-hearted friend. And now the note of danger was heightened by
something significant in the words that he had used, something that
expressed more than mere friendly solicitude.

“It will certainly be a relief when the whole business is over,” she
said quietly; “and it is most kind and sympathetic of you to take such
a warm interest in my future.”

“It isn’t kind at all,” he replied, “nor particularly sympathetic. I
feel that I am an interested party. In a sense, your future is my
future.”

He paused a few moments, and she looked at him in something like
dismay. Vainly she cast about for some means of changing the current
of the conversation, of escaping to some less perilous topic. Before
she had time to recover from her confusion he looked up at her and
burst out passionately:

“Maggie, I want to ask you a question. I know I oughtn’t to ask it,
but you must try to forgive me. I can’t bear the suspense any longer.
I think about it day and night and it is eating my heart out. What I
want to ask you is this: When it is all over—when that blessed day
comes and you are free, will you—can I hope that you may be willing to
listen to me if I ask you to let me be your devoted servant, your
humble worshipper and to try to make up to you by love and faithful
service all that has been missing from your life in the past? For
years—for many years, Maggie, I have been your friend, a friend far
more loving and devoted than you have ever guessed, for in those days
I hardly dared to dream even of intimate friendship. But now the
barrier between us is no longer immoveable. Soon it will be cast down
for ever. And then—can it be, Maggie, that my dreams will come true?
That you will grant me a lifelong joy by letting me be the guardian of
your happiness and peace?”

For a moment there had risen to Margaret’s face a flush of resentment,
but it faded almost instantly and was gone, extinguished by a deep
sense of the tragedy of this unfortunate but real and great passion.
She had always liked Varney and she had recognized and valued his
quiet, unobtrusive friendship and the chivalrous deference with which
he had been used to treat her. And now she was going to make him
miserable, to destroy his cherished hopes of a future made happy in
the realization of his great love for her. The sadness of it left no
room for resentment, and her eyes filled as she answered unsteadily:

“You know, Mr. Varney, that, as a married woman, I have no right to
speak or think of the making of a new marriage. But I feel that your
question must be answered and I wish, dear Mr. Varney, I wish from my
heart that it could be answered differently. I have always valued your
friendship—with very good reason; and I value your love and am proud
to have been thought worthy of it. But I cannot accept it. I can never
accept it. It is dreadful to me, dear friend, to make you unhappy—you
whom I like and admire so much. But it must be so. I have nothing but
friendship to offer you, and I shall never have.”

“Why do you say you will never have, Maggie?” he urged. “May it not be
that you will change? That the other will come if I wait long enough?
And I will wait patiently—wait until I am an old man if need be, so
that only the door is not shut. I will never weary you with
importunities, but just wait your pleasure. Will you not let me wait
and hope, Maggie?”

She shook her head sadly. “No, Mr. Varney,” she answered. “Believe me
it can never be. There is nothing to wait for. There will be no
change. The future is certain so far as that. I am so sorry, dear,
generous friend! It grieves me to the heart to make you unhappy. But
what I have said is final. I can never say anything different.”

Varney looked at her in incredulous despair. He could not believe in
this sudden collapse of all his hopes; for his doubts of her had been
but vague misgivings born of impatience and unrest. But suddenly a new
thought flashed into his mind.

“How do you know that?” he asked. “Why are you so certain? Is there
anything now that you know of that—that must keep us apart for ever?
You know what I mean, Maggie. Is there anything?”

She was silent for a few moments. Naturally she was reluctant to
disclose to another the secret that she had held so long locked in her
own heart and that even now she dared but to whisper to herself. But
she felt that to this man, whose love she must reject and whose
happiness she must shatter, she owed a sacred duty. He must not be
allowed to wreck his life if a knowledge of the truth would save him.

“I will tell you, Mr. Varney,” she said. “You know how I came to marry
Dan?”

“I think so,” he replied. “He never told me, but I guessed.”

“Well, if I had not married Dan, I should have married John Rodney.
There was no engagement and nothing was said; but we were deeply
attached to one another and we both understood. Then circumstances
compelled me to marry Dan. Mr. Rodney knew what those circumstances
were. He cherished no resentment against me. He did not even blame me.
He has remained my friend ever since and he has formed no other
attachment. I know that he has never forgotten what might have been,
and neither have I. Need I say any more?”

Varney shook his head. “No,” he replied gruffly. “I understand.”

For some moments there was a deep silence in the room. Margaret
glanced timidly at her companion, shocked at the sudden change in his
appearance. In a moment all the enthusiasm, the eager vivacity had
died out of his face, leaving it aged, drawn and haggard. He had
understood; and his heart was filled with black despair. At a word all
his glorious dream-castles had come crashing down, leaving the world
that had been so sunny a waste of dust and ashes. So he sat for a
while silent, motionless, stunned by the suddenness of the calamity.
At length he rose and began, in a dull, automatic way to collect his
etchings and bestow them in his portfolio. When he had secured them
and tied the ribbons of the portfolio, he turned to Margaret and
standing before her looked earnestly in her face.

“Good-bye, Maggie,” he said in a strange, muffled voice; “I expect I
shan’t see you again for some time.”

She stood up, and with a little smothered sob, held out her hand. He
took it in both of his and, stooping, kissed it reverently. “Good-bye
again,” he said, still holding her hand. “Don’t be unhappy about me.
It couldn’t be helped. I shall often think of you and of how sweet you
have been to me to-day; and I shall hope to hear soon that you have
got your freedom. And I do hope to God that Rodney will make you
happy. I think he will. He is a good fellow, an honest man and a
gentleman. He is worthy of you and I wish you both long years of
happiness.”

He kissed her hand once more and then, releasing it, made his way
gropingly out into the hall and to the door. She followed him with the
tears streaming down her face and watched him, as she had watched him
once before, descending the stairs. At the landing he turned and waved
his hand; and even as she returned his greeting he was gone. She went
back to the drawing-room still weeping silently, very sad at heart at
this half-foreseen tragedy. For the time being, she could see, Varney
was a broken man. He had come full of hope and he had gone away in
despair; and something seemed to hint—it may have been the valedictory
tone of his last words—that she had looked on him for the last time;
that the final wave of his hand was a last farewell.

Meanwhile Varney, possessed by a wild unrest, hurried through the
streets, yearning, like a wounded animal, for the solitude of his
lair. He wanted to shut himself in his studio and be alone with his
misery. Presently he hailed a taxicab and from its window gazed out
impatiently to measure its progress. Soon it drew up at the familiar
entry, and when he had paid the driver he darted in and shut the door;
but hardly had he attained the sanctuary that he had longed for than
the same unrest began to engender a longing to escape. Up and down the
studio he paced, letting the unbidden thoughts surge chaotically
through his mind, mingling the troubled past with the future of his
dreams—the sunny future that might have been—and this with the empty
reality that lay before him.

On the wall he had pinned an early proof of the aquatint that
Thorndyke had liked and that he himself rather liked. He had done it
partly from bravado and partly as a memorial of the event that had set
both him and Maggie free. Presently he halted before it and let it set
the tune to his meditations. There was the lighthouse looking over the
fog-bank just as it had looked on him when he was washing the
blood-stain from the deck. By that time Purcell was overboard, at the
bottom of the sea. His oppressor was gone. His life was now his own;
and her life was her own.

He looked at the memorial picture and in a moment it seemed to him to
have become futile. The murder itself was futile—so far as he was
concerned, though it had set Maggie free. To what purpose had he
killed Purcell? It had been to ensure a future for himself; and behold
there was to be no future for him after all. Thus in the bitterness of
his disappointment he saw everything out of proportion and in false
perspective. He forgot that it was not to win Margaret but to escape
from the clutches of his parasite that he had pulled the trigger on
that sunny day in June. He forgot that he had achieved the very object
that was in his mind when he fired the shot; freedom to live a
reputable life safe from the menace of the law. His passion for
Margaret had become so absorbing that it had obscured all the other
purposes of his life; and now that it was gone, it seemed to him that
nothing was left.

As he stood thus gloomily reflecting with his eyes fixed on the little
picture he began to be aware of a new impulse. The lighthouse, the
black-sailed luggers, the open sea, seemed to take on an unwonted
friendliness. They were the setting of something besides tragedy.
There, in Cornwall, he had been happy in a way despite the abiding
menace of Purcell’s domination. There, at Sennen, he had lived under
the same roof with her, had sat at her table, had been her guest and
her accepted friend. It had not really been a happy period, but
memory, like the sun-dial, numbers only the sunny hours, and Varney
looked back on it with wistful eyes. At least his dream had not been
shattered then. So, as he looked at the picture he felt stirring
within him a desire to go back and look upon those scenes again.
Falmouth and Penzance and Sennen—especially Sennen—seemed to draw him.
He wanted to look out across the sea to the Longships and in the
gathering gloom of the horizon to see the diamond and the ruby sparkle
as they did that evening when he and the distant lighthouse seemed to
hold secret converse.

It was, perhaps, a strange impulse. Whence it came he neither knew nor
asked. It may have been the effect of memory and association. It may
have been mere unrest. Or it may have been that a dead hand beckoned
to him to come. Who shall say? He only knew that he was sensible of
the impulse and that it grew from moment to moment.

To a man in his condition, to feel an impulse is to act on it. No
sooner was he conscious of the urge to go back and look upon the
well-remembered scenes than he began to make his simple preparations
for the journey. Like most experienced travellers he travelled light.
Most of his kit, including his little case of sketching materials, was
in the studio. The rest could be picked up at his lodgings en route
for Paddington. Within ten minutes of his having formed the resolve to
go, he stood on the threshold locking the studio door from without
with the extra key that he used when he was absent for more than a
day. At the outer gate he paused to pocket the key and stood for a few
moments with his portmanteau in his hand, looking back at the studio
with a curiously reflective air. Then, at last, he turned and went on
his way. But if he could have looked, as the clairvoyant claims to
look, through the bricks and mortar of London, he might at this very
time have seen Dr. John Thorndyke striding up Chancery Lane from Fleet
Street; might have followed him to the great gateway of Lincoln’s Inn
(on the masonry whereof tradition has it that Ben Jonson worked as a
bricklayer) and seen him pass through into the little square beyond
and finally plunge into the dark and narrow entry of one of the
ancient red-brick houses that have looked down upon the square for
some three or four centuries, an entry on the jamb of which was
painted the name of Mr. John Rodney.

But Varney was not a clairvoyant, and neither was Thorndyke. And so it
befell that each of them went his way unconscious of the movements of
the other.



CHAPTER XV

In Which Thorndyke Opens the Attack

As Thorndyke turned the corner at the head of the stairs, he
encountered Phillip Rodney with a kettle in his hand, which he had
apparently been filling at some hidden source of water.

“This is a bit of luck,” said Phillip, holding out his disengaged
hand, “—for me, at least; not, perhaps, for you. I have only just
arrived, and Jack hasn’t come over from the Courts yet. I hope this
isn’t a business call.”

“In a sense it is,” replied Thorndyke, “as I am seeking information.
But I think you can probably tell me all I want to know.”

“That’s all right,” said Phillip. “I’ll just plant Polly on the gas
stove and while she is boiling we can smoke a preparatory pipe and you
can get on with the examination in chief. Go in and take the
presidential chair.”

Thorndyke entered the pleasant, homely room, half office, half
sitting-room and seating himself in the big armchair began to fill his
pipe. In a few moments Phillip entered and sat down on a chair which
commanded a view of the tiny kitchen and of “Polly,” seated on a gas
ring.

“Now,” said he, “fire away. What do you want to know?”

“I want,” replied Thorndyke, “to ask you one or two questions about
your yacht.”

“The deuce you do!” exclaimed Phillip. “Are you thinking of going in
for a yacht yourself?”

“Not at present,” was the reply. “My questions have reference to that
last trip that Purcell made in her and the first one is: When you took
over the yacht after that trip, did you find her in every respect as
she was before? Was there anything missing that you could not account
for, or any change in her condition, or anything about her that was
not quite as you expected it to be?”

Phillip looked at his visitor with undissembled surprise. “Now I
wonder what makes you ask that. Have you any reason to expect that I
should have found any change in her condition?”

“If you don’t mind,” said Thorndyke, “we will leave that question
unanswered for the moment. I would rather not say, just now, what my
object is in seeking this information. We can go into that later.
Meanwhile, do you mind just answering my questions as if you were in
the witness-box?”

A shade of annoyance crossed Phillip’s face. He could not imagine what
possible concern Thorndyke could have with his yacht and he was
inclined to resent the rather cryptic attitude of his questioner.
Nevertheless he answered readily: “Of course I don’t mind. But, in
fact, there is nothing to tell. I don’t remember noticing anything
unusual about the yacht, and there was nothing missing, so far as I
know.”

“No rope, or cordage of any kind, for instance?”

“No—at least nothing to speak of. A new ball of spunyarn had been
broached. I noticed that, and I meant to ask Varney what he used it
for. But there wasn’t a great deal of it gone; and I know of nothing
else. Oh, wait! If I am in the witness-box I must tell the whole
truth, be it never so trivial. There was a mark or stain or dirty
smear of some kind on the jib. Is that any good to you?”

“Are you sure it wasn’t there before that day?”

“Quite. I sailed the yacht myself the day before, and I will swear
that the jib was spotlessly clean then. So the mark must have been
made by Purcell or Varney, because I noticed it the very next day.”

“What was the mark like?”

“It was just a faint wavy line, as if some dirty water had been spilt
on the sail and allowed to dry partly before it was washed off.”

“Did you form any opinion as to how the mark might have been caused?”

Phillip struggled—not quite successfully—to suppress a smile. To him
there seemed something extremely ludicrous in this solemn
interrogation concerning these meaningless trifles. But he answered as
gravely as he could: “I could only make a vague guess. I assumed that
it was caused in some way by the accident that occurred. You may
remember that the jib halyard broke and the sail went overboard and
got caught under the yacht’s forefoot. That is when it must have
happened. Perhaps the sail may have picked some dirt off the keel.
Usually a dirty mark on the jib means mud on the fluke of the anchor,
but it wasn’t that. The anchor hadn’t been down since it was scrubbed.
The yacht rode at moorings in Sennen Cove. However, there was the
mark; how it came there you are as well able to judge as I am.”

“And that is all you know—this mark on the sail and the spunyarn.
There was no other cordage missing?”

“No, not so far as I know.”

“And there is nothing else missing? No iron fittings or heavy objects
of any kind?”

“Good Lord, no! How should there be? You don’t suspect Purcell of
having hooked off with one of the anchors in his pocket, do you?”

Thorndyke smiled indulgently, but persisted in his questions.

“Do you mean that you know there was nothing missing or only that you
are not aware of anything being missing?”

The persistence of the questions impressed Phillip with a sudden
suspicion that Thorndyke had something definite in his mind; that he
had some reason for believing that something had been removed from the
yacht. He ventured to suggest this to Thorndyke, who answered frankly
enough: “You are so far right, Phillip, that I am not asking these
questions at random. I would rather not say more than that just now.”

“Very well,” said Phillip; “I won’t press you for an explanation. But
I may say that we dismantled the yacht in rather a hurry and hadn’t
time to check the inventory, so I can’t really say whether there was
anything missing or not. But you have come at a most opportune time,
for it happens that we had arranged to go over to the place where she
is laid up, at Battersea, to-morrow afternoon for the very purpose of
checking the inventory and generally overhauling the boat and the
gear. If you care to come over with us, or meet us there, we can
settle your questions quite definitely. How will that suit you?”

“It will suit me perfectly,” replied Thorndyke. “If you will give me
the address and fix a time, I will meet you there.”

“It is a disused wharf with some empty workshops,” said Phillip. “I
will write down the directions and if you will be at the gate at three
o’clock to-morrow, we can go through the gear and fittings together.”

Thorndyke made a note of the whereabouts of the wharf, and having thus
dispatched the business on which he had come, he took an early
opportunity to depart, not having any great desire to meet John Rodney
and be subjected to the inevitable cross-examination. He could see
that Phillip was, naturally enough, extremely curious as to the object
of his inquiries, and he preferred to leave the two brothers to
discuss the matter. On the morrow his actions would be guided by the
results, if any, of the survey of the yacht.

Three o’clock on the following afternoon found him waiting at a large
wooden gate in a narrow thoroughfare close to the river. On the
pavement by his side stood the green canvas-covered “research-case”
which was his constant companion whenever he went abroad on
professional business. It contained a very complete outfit of such
reagents and apparatus as he might require in a preliminary
investigation; but on the present occasion its usual contents had been
reinforced by two large bottles, to obtain which Polton had that
morning made a special visit to a wholesale chemist’s in the Borough.

A church clock somewhere across the river struck the hour; and almost
at the same moment John and Phillip Rodney emerged from a tributary
alley and advanced towards the gate.

“You are here first, then,” said Phillip, “but we are not late. I
heard a clock strike a moment ago.”

He produced a key from his pocket with which he unlocked a wicket in
the gate, and, having pushed it open, invited Thorndyke to enter. The
latter passed through and the two brothers followed, locking the
wicket after them, and conducted Thorndyke across a large yard to a
desolate-looking wharf beyond which was a stretch of unreclaimed
shore. Here, drawn up well above high-water mark, a small,
sharp-sterned yacht stood on chocks under a tarpaulin cover.

“This is the yacht,” said Phillip, “but there is nothing on board of
her. All the stores and gear and loose fittings are in the workshop
behind us. Which will you see first?”

“Let us look at the gear,” replied Thorndyke; and they accordingly
turned towards a large disused workshop at the rear of the wharf.

“Phil was telling me about your visit last night,” said Rodney, with
an inquisitive eye on the research-case, “and we are both fairly
flummoxed. He gathered that these inquiries of yours are in some way
connected with Purcell.”

“Yes, that is so. I want to ascertain whether, when you resumed
possession of the yacht after Purcell left her, you found her in the
same condition as before and whether her stores, gear and fittings
were intact.”

“Did you suppose that Purcell might have taken some of them away with
him?”

“I thought it not impossible,” Thorndyke replied.

“Now I wonder why on earth you should think that,” said Rodney, “and
what concern it should be of yours if he had.”

Thorndyke smiled evasively. “Everything is my concern,” he replied. “I
am an Autolycus of the Law, a collector of miscellaneous trifles of
evidence and unclassifiable scraps of information.”

“Well,” said Rodney with a somewhat sour smile, “I have no experience
of legal curiosity shops and oddment repositories. But I don’t know
what you mean by ‘evidence.’ Evidence of what?”

“Of whatever it may chance to prove,” Thorndyke replied, blandly.

“What did you suppose Purcell might have taken with him?” Rodney asked
with a trace of irritability in his tone.

“I had thought it possible that there might be some cordage missing
and perhaps some iron fittings or other heavy objects. But of course
that is mere surmise. My object is, as I have said, to ascertain
whether the yacht was in all respects in the same condition when
Purcell left her as when he came on board.”

Rodney gave a grunt of impatience; but at this moment Phillip, who had
been wrestling with a slightly rusty lock, threw open the door of the
workshop and they all entered. Thorndyke looked curiously about the
long, narrow interior with its prosaic contents, so little suggestive
of the tragedy which his thoughts associated with them. Overhead the
yacht’s spars rested on the tie-beams, from which hung bunches of
blocks; on the floor reposed a long row of neatly-painted half-hundred
weights, a pile of chain cable, two anchors, a stove and other
oddments such as water-breakers, buckets, mops, etc.; and on the long
benches at the side, folded sails, locker-cushions, side-light
lanterns, the binnacle, the cabin lamp and other more delicate
fittings. After a long look round, in the course of which his eye
travelled along the row of ballast-weights, Thorndyke deposited his
case on a bench and asked: “Have you still got the broken jib-halyard
that Phillip was telling me about last night?”

“Yes,” answered Rodney, “it is here under the bench.”

He drew out a coil of rope, and, flinging it on the floor began to
uncoil it, when it separated into two lengths.

“Which are the broken ends?” asked Thorndyke.

“It broke near the middle,” replied Rodney, “where it chafed on the
cleat when the sail was hoisted. This is the one end, you see, frayed
out like a brush in breaking, and the other—” He picked up the second
half, and passing it rapidly through his hands, held up the end. He
did not finish the sentence, but stood, with a frown of surprise,
staring at the rope in his hand.

“This is queer,” he said, after a pause. “The broken end has been cut
off. Did you cut it off, Phil?”

“No,” replied Phillip; “it is just as I took it from the locker,
where, I suppose you or Varney stowed it.”

“I wonder,” said Thorndyke, “how much has been cut off. Do you know
what the original length of the rope was?”

“Yes,” replied Rodney. “Forty-two feet. It is down in the inventory,
but I remember working it out. Let us see how much there is here.”

He laid the two lengths of rope along the floor, and with Thorndyke’s
spring tape carefully measured them. The combined length was exactly
thirty-one feet.

“So,” said Thorndyke, “there are eleven feet missing, without allowing
for the lengthening of the rope by stretching.”

The two brothers glanced at one another and both looked at Thorndyke
with very evident surprise. “Well,” said Phillip, “you seem to be
right about the cordage. But what made you go for the jib-halyard in
particular?”

“Because, if any cordage had been cut off it would naturally be taken
from a broken rope in preference to a whole one.”

“Yes, of course. But I can’t understand how you came to suspect that
any rope was missing at all.”

“We will talk about that presently,” said Thorndyke. “The next
question is as to the iron fittings, chain and so forth.”

“It don’t think any of those can be missing,” said Rodney. “You can’t
very well cut a length of chain off with your pocketknife.”

“No,” agreed Thorndyke, “but I thought you might have some odd pieces
of chain among the ballast.”

“We have no chain except the cable. Our only ballast is in the form of
half-hundred weights. They are handier to stow than odd stuff.”

“How many half-hundred weights have you?”

“Twenty-four,” replied Rodney.

“There are only twenty-three in that row,” said Thorndyke. “I counted
them as we came in and noted the odd number.”

The two brothers simultaneously checked Thorndyke’s statement and
confirmed it. Then they glanced about the floor of the workshop under
the benches and by the walls; but the missing weight was nowhere to be
seen, nor was there any place in which an object of this size could
have got hidden.

“It is very extraordinary,” said Phillip. “There is certainly one
weight missing. And no one has handled them but Jack and I. We hired a
barrow and brought up all the gear ourselves.”

“There is just the chance,” said Thorndyke, “that one of them may have
been overlooked and left in the yacht’s hold.”

“It is very unlikely,” replied Phillip, “seeing that we took out the
floor-boards so that you can see the whole of the bilges from end to
end. But I will run down and make sure.”

He ran out, literally, and, crossing the wharf, disappeared over the
edge. In a couple of minutes he was back, breathing fast and evidently
not a little excited. “It isn’t there,” he said. “Of course it
couldn’t be. But the question is, what has become of it? It is a most
mysterious affair.”

“It is,” agreed Rodney. “And what is still more mysterious is that
Thorndyke seemed to suspect that it was missing, even before he came
here. Now, didn’t you, Thorndyke?”

“I suspected that some heavy object was missing, as I mentioned,” was
the reply; “and a ballast-weight was a likely object. By the way, can
you fix a date on which you know that all the ballast-weights were in
place?”

“Yes, I think I can,” replied Phillip. “A few days before Purcell went
to Penzance we beached the yacht to give her a scrape. Of course we
had to take out the ballast, and when we launched her again I helped
to put it back. I am certain that all the weights were there then
because I counted them after they were stowed in their places.”

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “it is virtually certain that they were all on
board when Purcell and Varney started from Sennen.”

“I should say it is absolutely certain,” said Phillip.

Thorndyke nodded gravely and appeared to reflect a while. But his
reflections were broken in upon by John Rodney.

“Look here, Thorndyke, we have answered your questions and given you
facilities for verifying certain opinions that you held and now it is
time that you were a little less reserved with us. You evidently
connected the disappearance of this rope and this weight in some way
with Purcell. Now we are all interested in Purcell. You have got
something up your sleeve and we should like to know what that
something is. It is perfectly obvious that you don’t imagine that
Purcell, when he went up the pier ladder at Penzance, had a couple of
fathoms of rope and a half-hundred weight concealed about his person.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Thorndyke, “I don’t imagine that Purcell
ever went up the ladder at Penzance at all.”

“But Varney saw him go up,” protested Phillip.

“Varney says he saw him go up,” Thorndyke corrected. “I do not accept
Mr. Varney’s statement.”

“Then what on earth do you suggest?” demanded Phillip. “And why should
Varney say what isn’t true?”

“Let us sit down on this bench,” said Thorndyke, “and thrash the
matter out. I will put my case to you and you can give me your
criticisms on it. I will begin by stating that some months ago I came
to the conclusion that Purcell was dead.”

Both the brothers started and gazed at Thorndyke in utter
astonishment. Then Rodney said: “You say ‘some months ago.’ You must
mean within the last three months.”

“No,” replied Thorndyke. “I decided that he died on the 23rd of last
June, before the yacht reached Penzance.”

An exclamation burst simultaneously from both of his hearers and
Rodney protested impatiently: “But this is sheer nonsense, if you will
pardon me for saying so. Have you forgotten that two persons have
received letters from him less than four months ago?”

“I suggest that we waive those letters and consider the other
evidence.”

“But you can’t waive them,” exclaimed Rodney. “They are material
evidence of the most conclusive kind.”

“I may say that I have ascertained that both those letters were
forgeries. The evidence can be produced, if necessary, as both the
letters are in existence, but I don’t propose to produce it now. I ask
you to accept my statement for the time being and to leave the letters
out of the discussion.”

“It is leaving out a good deal,” said Rodney. “I find it very
difficult to believe that they were forgeries or to imagine who on
earth could have forged them. However, we won’t contest the matter
now. When did you come to this extraordinary conclusion?”

“A little over four months ago,” replied Thorndyke.

“And you never said anything to any of us on the subject,” said
Rodney, “and what is more astonishing, you actually put in an
advertisement, addressed to a man whom you believed to be dead.”

“And got an answer from him,” added Phillip, with a derisive smile.

“Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “It was an experiment and it was justified
by the result. But let us get back to the matter that we have been
investigating. I came to the conclusion, as I have said, that Purcell
met his death during that voyage from Sennen to Penzance and that
Varney, for some reason, had thought it necessary to conceal the
occurrence, but I decided that the evidence in my possession would not
be convincing in a Court of Law.”

“I have no doubt that you were perfectly right in that,” Rodney
remarked drily.

“I further considered it very unlikely that any fresh evidence would
ever be forthcoming and that, since the death could not be proved, it
was, for many reasons, undesirable that the question should ever be
raised. Accordingly I never communicated my belief to anybody.”

“Then,” said Rodney, “are we to understand that some new evidence has
come to light, after all?”

“Yes. It came to light the other day at the College of Surgeons. I
dare say Phillip told you about it.”

“He told me that, by an extraordinary coincidence, that quaint button
of Purcell’s had turned up and that some sort of sea-worm had built a
tube on it. But if that is what you mean, I don’t see the bearing of
it as evidence.”

“Neither do I,” said Phillip.

“You remember that Varney distinctly stated that when Purcell went up
the ladder at Penzance he was wearing his oilskin coat and that the
button was then on it?”

“Yes. But I don’t see anything in that. Purcell went ashore, it is
true, and he went away from Cornwall. But he seems to have gone by
sea; and as I suggested the other day, he probably got a fresh button
when he went on board the steamer and chucked this cork one
overboard.”

“I remember your making that suggestion,” said Thorndyke; “and very
much astonished I was to hear you make it. I may say that I have
ascertained that Purcell was never on board that steamer—”

“Well, he might have thrown it into the sea somewhere else. There is
no particular mystery about its having got into the sea. But what was
there about my suggestion that astonished you so much?”

“It was,” replied Thorndyke, “that you completely overlooked a most
impressive fact which was staring you in the face and shouting aloud
for recognition.”

“Indeed,” said Phillip. “What fact was it that I overlooked?”

“Just consider,” replied Thorndyke, “what it was that Professor D’Arcy
showed us. It was a cork button with a Terebella tube on it. Now an
ordinary cork, if immersed long enough, will soak up water until it is
waterlogged and then sink to the bottom. But this one was impregnated
with paraffin wax. It could not get waterlogged and it could not sink.
It would float forever.”

“Well?” queried Phillip.

“But it _had_ sunk. It had been lying at the bottom of the sea for
months; long enough for a Terebella to build a tube on it. Then, at
last, it had broken loose, risen to the surface and drifted ashore.”

“You are taking the worm-tube as evidence,” said John Rodney, “that
the button had sunk to the bottom. Is it impossible—I am no
naturalist—but is it impossible that the worm could have built its
tube while the button was floating about in the sea?”

“It is quite impossible,” replied Thorndyke, “in the case of this
particular worm, since the tube is built up of particles of rock
gathered by the worm from the sea-bottom. You will bear me out in
that, Phillip?”

“Oh, certainly,” replied Phillip. “There is no doubt that the button
has been at the bottom for a good many months. The question is how the
deuce it can have got there, and what was holding it down.”

“You are not overlooking the fact that it _is_ a button,” said
Thorndyke. “I mean that it was attached to a garment.”

Both men looked at Thorndyke a little uncomfortably. Then Rodney
replied:

“Your suggestion obviously is that the button was attached to a
garment and that the garment contained a body. I am disposed to
concede the garment, since I can think of no other means by which the
button could have been held down; but I see no reason for assuming the
body. I admit that I do not quite understand how Purcell’s oilskin
coat could have got to the bottom of the sea, but still less can I
imagine how Purcell’s body could have got to the bottom of the sea.
What do you say, Phil?”

“I agree with you,” answered Phillip. “Something must have held the
button down, and I can think of nothing but the coat, to which it was
attached. But as to the body, it seems a gratuitous assumption—to say
nothing of the various reasons for believing that Purcell is still
alive. There is nothing wildly improbable in the supposition that the
coat might have blown overboard and been sunk by something heavy in
the pocket. As a matter of fact, it would have sunk by itself as soon
as it got thoroughly soaked. You must admit, Thorndyke, that that is
so.”

But Thorndyke shook his head. “We are not dealing with general
probabilities,” said he. “We are dealing with a specific case. An
empty oilskin coat, even if sunk by some object in the pocket, would
have been comparatively light, and, like all moderately light bodies,
would have drifted about the sea-bottom, impelled by currents and
tide-streams. But that is not the condition in the present case. There
is evidence that this button was moored immovably to some very heavy
object.”

“What evidence is there of that?” demanded Rodney.

“There is the conclusive fact that it has been all these months lying
continuously in one place.”

“Indeed!” said Rodney with hardly concealed scepticism. “That seems a
bold thing to say. But if you know that it has been lying all the time
in one place, perhaps you can point out the spot where it has been
lying.”

“As a matter of fact, I can,” said Thorndyke. “That button, Rodney,
has been lying all these months on the sea-bottom at the base of the
Wolf Rock.”

The two brothers started very perceptibly. They stared at Thorndyke,
then looked at one another and then Rodney challenged the statement.

“You make this assertion very confidently,” he said. “Can you produce
any evidence to support it?”

“I can produce perfectly convincing and conclusive evidence,” replied
Thorndyke. “A very singular conjunction of circumstances enables us to
fix with absolute certainty the place where that button has been
lying. Do you happen to be acquainted with the peculiar resonant
volcanic rock known as phonolite or clink-stone?”

Rodney shook his head a little impatiently. “No,” he answered, “I have
never heard of it before.”

“It is not a very rare rock,” said Thorndyke, “but in the
neighbourhood of the British Isles it occurs in only two places. One
is inland in the north and may be disregarded. The other is the Wolf
Rock.”

Neither of his hearers made any comment on this statement, though it
was evident that both were deeply impressed, and he continued:

“This Wolf Rock is a very remarkable structure. It is what is called a
‘volcanic neck’; that is, it is a mass of altered lava that once
filled the funnel of a volcano. The volcano has disappeared, but this
cast of the funnel remains standing up from the bottom of the sea like
a great column. It is a single mass of phonolite, and thus entirely
different in composition from the sea bed around or anywhere near
these islands. But, of course, immediately at its base, the sea-bottom
must be covered with decomposed fragments which have fallen from its
sides; and it is with these fragments that our Terebella has built its
tube. You remember, Phillip, my pointing out to you as we walked home
from the College, that the worm-tube appeared to be built of fragments
that were all alike. Now that was a very striking and significant
fact. It furnished _prima facie_ evidence that the button had been
moored in one place and that it had therefore been attached to some
very heavy object. That night I made an exhaustive examination of the
material of the tube, and then the further fact emerged that the
material was phonolite. This, as I have said, fixed the locality with
exactness and certainty. And I may add that, in view of the importance
of the matter in an evidential sense, I submitted the fragments
yesterday to one of the greatest living authorities on petrology, who
recognized them at once as phonolite.”

For some time after Thorndyke had finished speaking, the two brothers
sat wrapped in silent reflection. Both were deeply impressed, but each
in a markedly different way. To John Rodney, the lawyer, accustomed to
sworn testimony and documentary evidence, this scientific
demonstration appeared amazingly ingenious, but somewhat fantastic and
unconvincing. In the case of Phillip, the doctor, it was quite
otherwise. Accustomed to acting on inferences from facts of his own
observing, he gave full weight to each item of evidence and his
thoughts were already stretching out to the, as yet unstated,
corollaries.

John Rodney was the first to speak. “What inference,” he asked, “do
you wish us to draw from this very ingenious theory of yours?”

“It is rather more than a theory,” said Thorndyke, “but we will let
that pass. The inference I leave to you; but perhaps it would help you
if I were to recapitulate the facts.”

“Perhaps it would,” said Rodney.

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “I will take them in their order. This is the
case of a man who was seen to start on a voyage for a given
destination in company with one other man. His start out to sea was
witnessed by a number of persons. From that moment he was never seen
again by any person excepting his one companion. He is said to have
reached his destination, but his arrival there rests upon the
unsupported verbal testimony of one person, the said companion.
Thereafter he vanished utterly, and since then has made no sign of
being alive; he has drawn no cheques, though he has a considerable
balance at his bank, he has communicated with no one and he has never
been seen by anybody who could recognize him.”

“Is that quite correct?” interposed Phillip. “He is said to have been
seen at Falmouth and Ipswich, and then there are those letters.”

“His alleged appearance, embarking at Falmouth and disembarking at
Ipswich,” replied Thorndyke, “rest, like his arrival at Penzance, upon
the unsupported testimony of one person, his sole companion on the
voyage. That statement I can prove to be untrue. He was never seen
either at Falmouth or at Ipswich. As to the letters, I can prove them
both to be forgeries and for the present I ask you to admit them as
such, pending the production of proof. But if we exclude the alleged
appearances and the letters, what I have said is correct; from the
time when this man put out to sea from Sennen, he has never been seen
by any one but Varney and there has never been any corroboration of
Varney’s statement that he landed at Penzance.

“Some eight months later a portion of this man’s clothing is found. It
bears evidence of having been lying at the bottom of the sea for many
months, so that it must have sunk to its resting-place within a very
short time of the man’s disappearance. The place where it has been
lying is one over, or near, which the man must have sailed in the
yacht. It has been moored to the bottom by some very heavy object; and
a very heavy object has disappeared from the yacht. That heavy object
had apparently not disappeared when the yacht started, and it is not
known to have been on the yacht afterwards. The evidence goes to show
that the disappearance of that object coincided in time with the
disappearance of the man; and a quantity of cordage disappeared,
certainly, on that day.

“Those are the facts at present in our possession with regard to the
disappearance of Daniel Purcell; to which we may add that the
disappearance was totally unexpected, that it has never been explained
or accounted for excepting in a letter which is a manifest forgery,
and that even in the latter, apart from the fictitious nature of the
letter, the explanation is utterly inconsistent with all that is known
of the missing man in respect of his character, his habits, his
intentions and his circumstances.”



CHAPTER XVI

In Which John Rodney Is Convinced

Once more, as Thorndyke concluded, there was a long, uncomfortable
silence, during which the two brothers cogitated profoundly and with a
very disturbed expression. At length Rodney spoke.

“There is no denying, Thorndyke, that the body of circumstantial
evidence that you have produced, and expounded so skilfully and
lucidly, is extraordinarily complete. Of course it is subject to your
being able to prove that Varney’s reports as to Purcell’s appearance
at Falmouth and Ipswich were false reports and that the letters which
purported to be written and sent by Purcell were in fact not written
or sent by him. If you can prove those assertions there will
undoubtedly be a very formidable case against Varney, because those
reports and those letters would then be evidence that some one was
endeavouring to prove—falsely—that Purcell is alive. But this would
amount to presumptive evidence that he is not alive and that some one
has reasons for concealing the fact of his death. But we must look to
you to prove what you have asserted. You could hardly suggest that we
should charge a highly respectable gentleman of our acquaintance with
having murdered his friend and made away with the body—for that is
obviously your meaning—on a mass of circumstantial evidence which is,
you must admit, rather highly theoretical.”

“I agree with you completely,” replied Thorndyke. “The evidence
respecting the reports and the letters is obviously essential. But in
the meantime it is of the first importance that we carry this
investigation to an absolute finish. It is not merely a question of
justice or our duty on grounds of public policy to uncover a crime and
secure the punishment of the criminal. There are individual rights and
interests to be guarded; those, I mean, of the missing man’s wife. If
her husband is dead, common justice to her demands that his death
should be proved and placed on public record.”

“Yes, indeed!” Rodney agreed, heartily. “If Purcell is dead, then she
is a widow and the petition becomes unnecessary. By the way, I
understand now why you were always so set against the private
detective; but what I don’t understand is why you put in that
advertisement.”

“It is quite simple,” was the reply. “I wanted another forged letter,
written in terms dictated by myself—and I got it.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Rodney. And now, for the first time, he began to
understand how Thorndyke had got his great reputation.

“You spoke just now,” Rodney continued, “of carrying this
investigation to a finish. Haven’t you done so? Is there anything more
to investigate?”

“We have not yet completed our examination of the yacht,” replied
Thorndyke. “The facts that we have elicited enable us to make certain
inferences concerning the circumstances of Purcell’s death—assuming
his death to have occurred. We infer, for instance, that he did not
fall overboard, nor was he pushed overboard. He met his death on the
yacht and it was his dead body which was cast into the sea with the
sinker attached to it. That we may fairly infer. But we have, at
present, no evidence as to the way in which he came by his death.
Possibly a further examination of the yacht may show some traces from
which we may form an opinion. By the way, I have been looking at that
revolver that is hanging from the beam. Was that on board at the
time?”

“Yes,” answered Rodney. “It was hanging on the cabin bulkhead. Be
careful,” he added, as Thorndyke lifted it from its hook. “I don’t
think it has been unloaded.”

Thorndyke opened the breech of the revolver, and, turning out the
cartridges into his hand, peered down the barrel and into each chamber
separately. Then he looked at the cartridges in his hand.

“This seems a little odd,” he remarked. “The barrel is quite clean and
so is one chamber, but the other five chambers are extremely foul. And
I notice that the cartridges are not all alike. There are five Eleys
and one Curtis and Harvey. That is quite a suggestive coincidence.”

Phillip looked with a distinctly startled expression at the little
heap of cartridges in Thorndyke’s hand, and, picking out the odd one,
examined it with knitted brows.

“When did you fire the revolver last, Jack?” he asked, looking up at
his brother.

“On the day when we potted at those champagne bottles,” was the reply.

Phillip raised his eyebrows. “Then,” said he, “this is a very
remarkable affair. I distinctly remember on that occasion, when we had
sunk all the bottles, reloading the revolver with Eleys, and that
there were then three cartridges left over in the bag. When I had
loaded, I opened the new box of Curtis and Harveys, tipped them into
the bag and threw the box overboard.”

“Did you clean the revolver?” asked Thorndyke.

“No, I didn’t. I meant to clean it later, but forgot to.”

“But,” said Thorndyke, “it has undoubtedly been cleaned, and very
thoroughly as to the barrel and one chamber. Shall we check the
cartridges in the bag? There ought to be forty-nine Curtis and Harveys
and three Eleys if what you have told us is correct.”

Phillip searched among the raffle on the bench and presently unearthed
a small linen bag. Untying the string, he shot out on the bench a heap
of cartridges which he counted one by one. There were fifty-two in
all, and three of them were Eleys.

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “it comes to this: since you used that
revolver it has been used by some one else. That some one fired only a
single shot, after which he carefully cleaned the barrel and the empty
chamber and reloaded. Incidentally, he seems to have known where the
cartridge bag was kept, but he did not know about the change in the
make of cartridges or that the revolver had not been cleaned. You
notice, Rodney,” he added, “that the circumstantial evidence
accumulates.”

“I do, indeed,” Rodney replied, gloomily. “Is there anything else that
you wish to examine?”

“Yes. There is the sail. Phillip mentioned a stain on the jib. Shall
we see if we can make anything of that?”

“I don’t think you will make much of it,” said Phillip. “It is very
faint. However, you shall see it and judge for yourself.” He picked
out one of the bundles of white duck, and, while he was unfolding it,
Thorndyke dragged an empty bench into the middle of the floor under
the skylight. Over this the sail was spread so that the mysterious
mark was in the middle of the bench. It was very inconspicuous; just a
faint grey-green, wavy line like the representation of an island on a
map. The three men looked at it curiously for a few moments; then
Thorndyke asked: “Would you mind if I made a further stain on the
sail? I should like to apply some reagents.”

“Of course you must do what is necessary,” said Rodney. “The evidence
is more important than the sail.”

On this Thorndyke opened his research case and brought forth the two
bottles that Polton had procured from the Borough; of which one was
labelled “Tinct. Guiaci Dil.” and the other “Æther Ozon.” As they
emerged from the case Phillip read the labels with evident surprise,
remarking:

“I shouldn’t have thought that the guiacum test would be of any use
after all these months, especially as the sail seems to have been
scrubbed.”

“It will act, I think, if the pigment or its derivatives are there,”
said Thorndyke; and, as he spoke, he poured a quantity of the tincture
on the middle of the stained area. The pool of liquid rapidly spread
considerably beyond the limits of the stain, growing paler as it
extended. Then Thorndyke cautiously dropped small quantities of the
ozonic ether at various points around the stained area and watched
closely as the two liquids mingled in the fabric of the sail.
Gradually the ether spread towards the stain, and, first at one point
and then at another, approached and finally crossed the wavy grey
line; and at each point the same change occurred: first the faint grey
line turned into a strong blue line and then the colour extended to
the enclosed space until the entire area of the stain stood out a
conspicuous blue patch. Phillip and Thorndyke looked at one another
significantly and the latter said: “You understand the meaning of this
reaction, Rodney; this is a blood stain; and a very carefully washed
blood stain.”

“So I supposed,” Rodney replied; and for a while no one spoke.

There was something very dramatic and solemn, they all felt, in the
sudden appearance of this staring blue patch on the sail with the
sinister message that it brought. But what followed was more dramatic
still. As they stood silently regarding the blue stain, the mingled
liquids continued to spread; and suddenly, at the extreme edge of the
wet area, they became aware of a new spot of blue. At first a mere
speck, it grew slowly, as the liquid spread over the canvas, into a
small oval, and then a second spot appeared by its side. At this point
Thorndyke poured out a fresh charge of the tincture, and when it had
soaked into the cloth, cautiously applied a sprinkling of ether.
Instantly the blue spots began to elongate; fresh spots and patches
appeared, and as they ran together there sprang out of the blank
surface the clear impression of a hand—a left hand, complete in all
its details excepting the third finger, which was represented by a
round spot at some two thirds of its length.

The dreadful significance of this apparition and the uncanny and
mysterious manner of its emergence from the white surface produced a
most profound impression on all the observers, but especially on
Rodney, who stared at it with an expression of the utmost horror, but
spoke not a word. His brother was hardly less appalled, and when he at
length spoke it was in a hushed voice that was little above a whisper.

“It is horrible!” he murmured. “It seems almost supernatural, that
accusing hand springing into existence out of the blank surface after
all this time. I wonder,” he added after a pause, “why the third
finger made no mark, seeing that the others are so distinct.”

“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that the impression is there. That small
round spot looks like the mark of a finger-tip, and its position
rather suggests a finger with a stiff joint.”

As he made this statement, both brothers simultaneously uttered a
smothered exclamation.

“It is Varney’s hand!” gasped Phillip. “You recognize it, Jack, don’t
you? That is just where the tip of his stiff finger would come. Have
you ever noticed Varney’s left hand, Thorndyke?”

“You mean the ankylosed third finger? Yes; and I agree with you that
this is undoubtedly the print of Varney’s hand.”

“Then,” said Rodney, “the case is complete. There is no need for any
further investigation. On the evidence that is before us, to say
nothing of the additional evidence that you can produce, there cannot
be the shadow of a doubt that Purcell was murdered by Varney and his
body sunk in the sea. You agree with me, I am sure, Thorndyke?”

“Certainly,” was the reply. “I consider the evidence so far conclusive
that I have not the slightest doubt on the subject.”

“Very well,” said Rodney. “Then the next question is, what is to be
done? Shall I lay a sworn information, or will you? Or had we better
go to the police together and make a joint statement?”

“Whatever we do,” replied Thorndyke, “don’t let us be premature. The
evidence, as you say, is perfectly convincing. It leaves us with no
doubt as to what happened on that day last June. It would probably be,
in an intellectual sense, quite convincing to a judge. It might even
be to a jury. But would it be sufficient to secure a conviction? I
think it extremely doubtful.”

“Do you really?” exclaimed Phillip. “I should have thought it
impossible that any one who had heard the evidence could fail to come
to the inevitable conclusion.”

“You are probably right,” said Thorndyke. “But a jury who are trying
an accused person on a capital charge have got to arrive at something
more than a belief that the accused is guilty. They have got to be
convinced that there is, humanly speaking, no possible doubt as to the
prisoner’s guilt. No jury would give an adverse verdict on a balance
of probabilities, nor would any judge encourage them to do so.”

“But surely,” said Phillip, “this is something more than a mere
balance of probabilities. The evidence all points in the same
direction and there is nothing to suggest a contrary conclusion.”

Thorndyke smiled drily. “You might think differently after you have
heard a capable counsel for the defence. But the position is this: we
are dealing with a charge of murder. Now in order to prove that a
particular person is guilty of murder it is necessary first to
establish the _corpus delicti_, as the phrase goes; that is, to prove
that a murder has been committed by some one. But the proof that a
person has been murdered involves the antecedent proof that he is
dead. If there is any doubt that the alleged deceased is dead, no
murder charge can be sustained. But proof of death usually involves
the production of the body or of some identifiable part of it, or, at
least, the evidence of some person who has seen it and can swear to
its identity. There are exceptional cases, of course, and this might
be accepted as one. But you can take it that the inability of the
prosecution to produce the body or any part of it, or any witness who
can testify to having seen it, or any direct evidence that the person
alleged to have been murdered is actually dead, would make it
extremely difficult to secure the conviction of the accused.”

“Yes, I see that,” said Phillip. “But, after all, that is not our
concern. If we give the authorities all the information that we
possess, we shall have done our duty as citizens. As to the rest, we
must leave the Court to convict or acquit according to its judgment.”

“Not at all,” Thorndyke dissented. “You are losing sight of our
position in the case. There are two different issues, which are,
however, inseparably connected. One is the fact of Purcell’s death;
the other is Varney’s part in compassing it. Now it is the first issue
that concerns us; or, at least, concerns me. If we could prove that
Purcell is dead without bringing Varney into it at all, I should be
willing to do so; for I strongly suspect that there were extenuating
circumstances.”

“So do I,” said Rodney. “Purcell was a brute, whereas Varney has
always seemed to be a perfectly decent, gentlemanly fellow.”

“That is the impression that I have received,” said Thorndyke, “and I
feel no satisfaction in proceeding against Varney. My purpose, all
along, has been, not to convict Varney but to prove that Purcell is
dead. And that is what we have to do now, for Margaret Purcell’s sake.
But we cannot leave Varney out of the case. For if Purcell is dead, he
is dead because Varney killed him; and our only means of proving his
death is to charge Varney with having murdered him. But if we charge
Varney, we must secure a conviction. We cannot afford to fail. If the
Court is convinced that Purcell is dead, it will convict Varney; for
the evidence of his death is evidence of his murder; but if the Court
acquits Varney, it can do so only on the ground that there is no
conclusive evidence that Purcell is dead. Varney’s acquittal would
therefore leave Margaret Purcell still bound by law to a hypothetical
husband, with the insecure chance of obtaining her release at some
future time either by divorce or presumption of death. That would not
be fair to her. She is a widow and she is entitled to have her status
acknowledged.”

Rodney nodded gloomily. A consciousness of what he stood to gain by
Varney’s conviction lent an uncomfortable significance to Thorndyke’s
words.

“Yes,” he agreed, half reluctantly, “there is no denying the truth of
what you say, but I wish it might have been the other way about. If
Purcell had murdered Varney I could have raised the hue and cry with a
good deal more enthusiasm. I knew both the men well, and I liked
Varney but detested Purcell. Still, one has to accept the facts.”

“Exactly,” said Thorndyke, who had realized and sympathized with
Rodney’s qualms. “The position is not of our creating; and whatever
our private sentiments may be, the fact remains that a man who elects
to take the life of another must accept the consequences. That is
Varney’s position so far as we can see; and if he is innocent it is
for him to clear himself.”

“Yes, of course,” Rodney agreed; “but I wish the accusation had come
through different channels.”

“So do I,” said Phillip. “It is horrible to have to denounce a man
with whom one has been on terms of intimate friendship. But apparently
Thorndyke considers that we should not denounce him at present. That
is what I don’t quite understand. You seemed to imply, Thorndyke, that
the case was not complete enough to warrant our taking action, and
that some further evidence ought to be obtained in order to make sure
of a conviction. But what further evidence is it possible to obtain?”

“My feeling,” replied Thorndyke, “is that the case is at present, as
your brother expressed it just now, somewhat theoretical—or rather
hypothetical. The evidence is circumstantial from beginning to end.
There is not a single item of direct evidence to furnish a
starting-point. It would be insisted by the defence that Purcell’s
death is a matter of mere inference and that you cannot convict a man
of the murder of another who may conceivably be still alive. We ought,
if possible, to put Purcell’s death on the basis of demonstrable
fact.”

“But how is that possible?” demanded Phillip.

“The conclusive method of proving the death of a person is, as I have
said, to produce that person’s body, or some recognizable part of it.”

“But Purcell’s body is at the bottom of the sea!”

“True. But we know its whereabouts. It is a small area, with the
lighthouse as a landmark. If that area were systematically worked over
with a trawl or dredge, or, better still, with a set of creepers
attached to a good-sized spar, there should be a very fair chance of
recovering the body, or, at least, the clothing and the weight.”

Phillip reflected for a few moments. “I think you are right,” he said,
at length. “The body appears, from what you say, to be quite close to
the Wolf Rock, and almost certainly on the east side. With a good
compass and the lighthouse as a sailing mark, it would be possible to
ply up and down and search every inch of the bottom in the
neighbourhood of the rock.”

“There is only one difficulty,” said Rodney. “Your worm-tube was
composed entirely of fragments of the rock. But how large an area of
the sea-bottom is covered with those fragments? We should have to
ascertain that if we are to work over the whole of it.”

“It would not be difficult to ascertain,” replied Thorndyke. “If we
take soundings with a hand-lead as we approach the rock, the samples
that come up on the arming of the lead will tell us when we are over a
bottom covered with phonolite debris.”

“Yes,” Rodney agreed, “that will answer if the depth is within the
range of a hand-lead. If it isn’t we shall have to rig the tackle for
a deep-sea lead. It will be rather a gruesome quest. Do I gather that
you are prepared to come down with us and lend a hand? I hope you
are.”

“So do I!” exclaimed Phillip. “We shall be quite at home with the
navigation, but if—er—if anything comes up on the creepers, it will be
a good deal more in your line than ours.”

“I should certainly wish to come,” said Thorndyke, “and, in fact, I
think it rather desirable that I should, as Phillip suggests. But I
can’t get away from town just at present, nor, I imagine, can you. We
had better postpone the expedition for a week or so until the
commencement of the spring vacation. That will give us time to make
the necessary arrangements, to charter a suitable boat and so forth.
And in any case we shall have to pick our weather, having regard to
the sort of sea that one may encounter in the neighbourhood of the
Wolf.”

“Yes,” agreed Phillip, “it will have to be a reasonably calm day when
we make the attempt; so I suggest that we put it off until you and
Jack are free; and meanwhile I will get on with the preliminary
arrangements, the hiring of the boat and getting together the
necessary gear.”

While they had been talking, the evening had closed in and the
workshop was now almost in darkness. It being too late for the
brothers to carry out the business that had brought them to the wharf,
even if they had been in a state of mind suitable to the checking of
inventories, they postponed the survey to a later date, locked up the
workshop, and, in company with Thorndyke, made their way homeward.



CHAPTER XVII

In Which There Is a Meeting and a Farewell

It was quite early on a bright morning at the beginning of April when
Thorndyke and the two Rodneys took their way from their hotel towards
the harbour of Penzance. Phillip had been in the town for a day or
two, completing the arrangements for the voyage of exploration; the
other two had come down from London only on the preceding evening.

“I hope the skipper will be punctual,” said Phillip. “I told him to
meet us on the pier at eight o’clock, sharp. We want to get off as
early as possible, for it is a longish run out to the rock and we may
have to make a long day of it.”

“We probably shall,” said Rodney. “The Wolf Rock is a good departure
for purposes of navigation, but when it comes to finding a spot of
sea-bottom only a foot or two in extent, our landmark isn’t very
exact. It will take us a good many hours to search the whole area.”

“I wonder,” said Thorndyke, “what took them out there. According to
Varney’s description, and the evidence of the button, they must have
had the rock close aboard. But it was a good deal out of their way
from Sennen to Penzance.”

“It was,” agreed Phillip. “But you can’t make a bee-line in a sailing
craft. That’s why I chartered a motor boat for this job. Under canvas,
you can only keep as near to your course as the wind will let you. But
Purcell was a deuce of a fellow for sea-room. He always liked to keep
a good offing. I remember that on that occasion he headed straight out
to sea and got well outside the Longships before he turned south. I
watched the yacht from the shore and wondered how much longer he was
going to hold on. It looked as if he were heading for America. Then,
you remember, the fog came down and they may have lost their bearings
a bit; and the tides are pretty strong about here.”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “and as we may take it that the
trouble—whatever it was—came to a head while they were enveloped in
fog, it is likely that the yacht was left to take care of herself for
a time and may have drifted a good deal off her course. At any rate it
is clear that at one time she had the rock right under her lee and
must have drifted past within a few feet.”

“It would have been a quaint position,” said Phillip, “if she had
bumped onto it and gone to the bottom. Then they would have kept one
another company in Davy Jones’s locker.”

“It would have saved a lot of trouble if they had gone down together,”
his brother remarked. “But, from what you have just said, Thorndyke,
it seems that you have a more definite idea as to the position of the
body than I thought. Where do you suppose it to be?”

“Judging from all the facts taken together,” replied Thorndyke, “I
should say that it is lying close to the base of the rock on the east
side. We have it from Varney that the yacht drifted down towards the
rock during the fog, and I gathered that she drifted past close to the
east side. Then we also learned from him that the jib had then come
down, which was, in fact, the cause of her being adrift. But the
blood-stains on the sail prove that the tragedy occurred either before
the halyard broke or while the sail was down—almost certainly the
latter. And we may take it that it occurred during the fog; that the
fog created the opportunity, for we must remember that they were close
to the lighthouse, and therefore—apart from the fog—easily within
sight of it. For the same reason we may assume that the body was put
overboard before the fog lifted. All these circumstances point to the
body being quite close to the rock; and the worm-tube emphatically
confirms that inference.”

“Then,” said Phillip, “in that case there is no great point in taking
soundings.”

“Not in the first instance,” Thorndyke agreed. “But if we get no
result close to the rock, we may have to sample the bottom to see how
far from the base the conditions indicated by the worm-tube extend.”

They walked on in silence for some time. Presently Rodney remarked:
“This reminds me of the last time I came down to a rendezvous on
Penzance pier, when I expected to find Varney waiting for me and he
wasn’t there. I wonder where he was, by the way.”

“He had probably gone to post a letter to Mr. Penfield at some remote
pillar-box where collections were not too frequent,” said Thorndyke.

Rodney looked at him quickly, once more astonished at his intimate
knowledge of the details of the case. He was about to remark on it
when Thorndyke asked:

“Have you seen much of Varney lately?”

“I haven’t seen him at all,” replied Rodney. “Have you, Phil?”

“No,” replied Phillip; “not for quite a long time. Which is rather
odd, for he used to look in at Maggie’s flat pretty often to have tea
and show her his latest work. But he hasn’t been there for weeks, I
know, because I was speaking to her about him only a day or two ago.
She seemed to have an idea that he might have gone away on a sketching
tour, though I don’t think she had anything to go on.”

“He can’t have smelt a rat and cleared out,” mused Rodney. “I don’t
see how he could, though I shouldn’t be altogether sorry if he had. It
will be a horrid business when we have to charge him and give evidence
against him. But it isn’t possible that he can have seen or heard
anything.”

This was also Thorndyke’s opinion, but he was deeply interested in the
report of Varney’s disappearance. Nor was he entirely without a clue
to it. His observations of Margaret and Varney suggested a possible
explanation which he did not think it necessary to refer to. And, in
fact, the conversation was here interrupted by their arrival at the
pier, where an elderly fisherman who had been watching their approach
came forward and saluted them.

“Here you are then, Skipper,” said Phillip, “punctual to the minute.
We’ve got a fine day for our trip, haven’t we?”

“Ay, sir,” replied the skipper. “’Tis a wonderful calm day for the
time of year. And glad I am to see it, if we are to work close in to
the Wolf, for it’s a lumpy bit of water at the best of times around
the rock.”

“Is everything ready?” asked Phillip.

“Ay, sir. We are all ready to cast off this moment,” and in
confirmation he preceded the party to the head of the ladder and
indicated the craft lying alongside the pier beneath it—a small
converted Penzance lugger with a large open cockpit in the fore part
of which was the engine. The four men descended the ladder, and while
the skipper and the second fisherman, who constituted the crew, were
preparing to cast off the shore-ropes, Phillip took a last look round
to see that all was in order. Then the crew—who was named Joe
Tregenna—pushed off and started the engine, the skipper took the
tiller and the boat got under way.

“You see,” said Phillip, as the boat headed out to sea, “we have got
good strong tackle for the creeping operations.” He pointed over the
boat’s side to a long, stout spar which was slung outside the
bulwarks. It was secured by a chain bridle to a trawl-rope and to it
were attached a number of creepers—lengths of chain fitted with rows
of hooks—which hung down into the water and trailed alongside. The
equipment also included a spirit-compass fitted with sight-vanes, a
sextant, a hand-lead, which lay on the cockpit floor with its line
neatly coiled round it, and a deep-sea lead stowed away forward with
its long line and the block for lowering and hoisting it.

The occupants of the cockpit were strangely silent. It was a beautiful
spring day, bright and sunny, with a warm blue sky overhead and a
tranquil sea, heaving quietly to the long swell from the Atlantic,
showing a sunlit sparkle on the surface and clear sapphire in the
depths. “Nature painted all things gay,” excepting the three men who
sat on the side-benches of the cockpit, whose countenances were
expressive of the deepest gravity and even, in the case of the two
Rodneys, of profound gloom.

“I shall be glad when this business is over,” said Phillip. “I feel as
nervous as a cat.”

“So do I,” his brother agreed. “It is a gruesome affair. I find myself
almost hoping that nothing will come of it. And yet that would only
leave us worse off than ever.”

“We mustn’t be prepared to accept failure,” said Thorndyke. “The thing
is there and we have got to find it—if not to-day, then to-morrow or
some other day.”

The two brothers looked at Thorndyke, a little daunted by his resolute
attitude. “Yes, of course, you are right,” the elder admitted, “and it
is only cowardice that makes me shrink from what we have to do. But
when I think of what may come up, hanging from those creepers, I—bah!
It is too horrible to think of! But I suppose it doesn’t make that
sort of impression on you? You don’t find anything repulsive in the
quest that we are engaged in?”

“No,” Thorndyke admitted. “My attention is occupied by the scientific
and legal interest of the search. But I can fully sympathize with your
feelings on the matter. To you Purcell is a real person whom you have
known and talked with; to me he is a mere abstraction connected with a
very curious and interesting case. The really unpleasant part of that
case—to me—will come when we have completed our evidence, if we are so
fortunate; I mean when we have to set the criminal law in motion.”

“Yes,” said Phillip, “that will be perfectly beastly.”

Once more silence fell upon the boat, broken only by the throb of the
engine and the murmur of the water as it was cloven by the boat’s
stem. And meanwhile the distant coast slipped past until they were
abreast of the Land’s End and far away to the southwest the solitary
lighthouse rose on the verge of the horizon. Soon afterwards they
began to overtake the scattered members of a fleet of luggers, some
with lowered mainsails and hand-lines down, others with their black
sails set, heading for a more distant fishing-ground. Through the
midst of them the boat was threading her way when her occupants
suddenly became aware that one of the smaller luggers was steering so
as to close in. Observing this, the skipper was putting over the helm
to avoid her when a seafaring voice from the little craft was heard to
hail.

“Motor boat ahoy! Gentleman aboard wants to speak to you.”

The two Rodneys looked at one another in surprise and then at the
approaching lugger.

“Who the deuce can it be?” exclaimed Rodney. “But perhaps it is a
stranger who wants a passage. If it is, we shall have to refuse. We
can’t take any one on board.”

The boat slowed down, for, at a word from the skipper, Joe Tregenna
had reversed the propeller. The lugger closed in rapidly, watched
anxiously by the two Rodneys and Thorndyke. Suddenly a man appeared
standing on the bulwark rail and holding on by the mast stay while
with his free hand he held a binocular to his eyes. Nearer and nearer
the lugger approached and still the two Rodneys gazed with growing
anxiety at the figure on the bulwark. At length the man removed the
glasses from his eyes and waved them above his head; and as his face
became visible both brothers uttered a cry of amazement.

“God!” exclaimed Phillip. “It’s Varney! Sheer off, skipper! Don’t let
him come alongside.”

But it was too late. The boat had lost way and failed to answer her
helm. The lugger sheered in, sweeping abreast within a foot; and as
she crept past, Varney sprang lightly from her gunwale and dropped on
the side bench beside Jack Rodney.

“Well,” he exclaimed, “this is a queer meeting. I couldn’t believe my
eyes when I first spotted you through the glasses. Motor-boat, too!
Rather a come down, isn’t it, for seasoned yachtsmen?”

He looked curiously at his hosts, evidently a little perplexed by
their silence and their unresponsive bearing. The Rodneys were, in
fact, stricken dumb with dismay, and even Thorndyke was for the moment
disconcerted. The lugger which had brought Varney had already gone
about and was standing out to sea, leaving to them the alternative of
accepting this most unwelcome passenger or of pursuing the lugger and
insisting on his returning on board of her. But the Rodneys were too
paralyzed to do anything but gaze at Varney in silent consternation,
and Thorndyke did not feel that his position on the boat entitled him
to take any action. Indeed, no action seemed to be practicable.

“This is an odd show,” said Varney, looking inquisitively about the
boat. “What is the lay? You can’t be going out to fish in this craft.
And you seem to be setting a course for the Scillies. What is it?
Dredging? I see you’ve got a trawl-rope.”

As the Rodneys were still almost stupefied by the horror of the
situation, Thorndyke took upon himself to reply.

“The occasion of this little voyage was a rather remarkable
marine-worm that was sent to Professor D’Arcy and which came from the
locality to which we are bound. We are going to explore the bottom
there.”

Varney nodded. “You seem mighty keen on marine-worms. I remember, when
I met you down here before, you were in search of them; and so was
Phil, though I don’t fancy he got many. He had the bottles labelled
ready for them and that was about as far as he went. Do you remember
that button you made, Phil, from the cork of one?”

“Yes,” Phillip replied huskily, “I remember.”

During this conversation Thorndyke had been observing Varney with
close attention, and he noted a very appreciable change in his
appearance. He looked aged and worn, and there was in his expression a
weariness and dejection that seemed to confirm certain opinions that
Thorndyke had formed as to the reasons for his sudden disappearance
from surroundings which had certainly not been without their
attractions to him. And, not for the first time, a feeling of
compunction and of some distaste for this quest contended with the
professional interest and the sense of duty that had been the
impelling force behind the long, patient investigation.

Phillip’s curt reply was followed by a rather long, uncomfortable
silence. Varney, quick and sensitive by nature, perceived that there
was something amiss, that in some way his presence was a source of
embarrassment. He sat on the side-bench by Jack Rodney, gazing with a
far-away look over the sea towards the Longships, wishing that he had
stayed on board the lugger or that there were some means of escape
from this glum and silent company. And as he meditated he brought
forth from his pocket his tobacco-pouch and cigarette-book and half
unconsciously, with a dexterity born of long practice, rolled a
cigarette, all unaware that three pairs of eyes were riveted on his
strangely efficient maimed finger, that three minds were conjuring up
the vivid picture of a blue hand-print on a white sail.

When he had lit the cigarette Varney once more looked about the boat
and again his eye lighted on the big coil of trawl-rope with its end
passed out through a fair-lead. He rose, and, crossing the cockpit,
looked over the side.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “you’ve got a set of creepers! I thought you were
going dredging. You won’t pick up much with creepers, will you?”

“They will pick up anything with weed attached to it,” said Thorndyke.

Varney went back to his seat with a thoughtful, somewhat puzzled
expression. He smoked in silence for a minute or two and then suddenly
asked:

“Where is the place that you are going to explore for these worms?”

“Professor D’Arcy’s specimen,” replied Thorndyke, “came from the
neighbourhood of the Wolf Rock. That is where we are going to work.”

Varney made no comment on this answer. He looked long and steadily at
Thorndyke; then he turned away his head and once more gazed out to
sea. Evidently he was thinking hard, and his companions, who watched
him furtively, could have little doubt as to the trend of his
thoughts. Gradually, as the nature of the exploration dawned on him,
his manner changed more and more. A horrible pallor overspread his
face and a terrible restlessness took possession of him. He smoked
furiously cigarette after cigarette. He brought various articles out
of his pockets, fidgeted with them awhile and put them back. He picked
up the hand-lead, looked at its arming, ran the line through his
fingers and made fancy knots on the bight. And ever and anon his
glance strayed to the tall lighthouse, standing out of the sea with
its red-and-white ringed tower and drawing inexorably nearer and
nearer.

So the voyage went on until the boat was within half a mile of the
rock, when Phillip, having caught a glance and a nod from Thorndyke,
gave the order to stop the engine and lower the creepers. The spar was
cast loose and dropped into the water with a heavy splash, the
trawl-rope ran out through the fair-lead, and meanwhile Jack Rodney
took a pair of cross-bearings on the lighthouse and a point of the
distant land. Then the engine was restarted, the boat moved forward at
half speed and the search began.

It was an intensely disagreeable experience for all excepting the
puzzled but discreet skipper and the unconscious Joe. Varney, pale,
haggard and wild in aspect, fidgeted about the boat, now silent and
moody, now making miserable efforts to appear interested or
unconcerned; picking up and handling loose objects or portions of the
gear, but constantly returning to the hand-lead, counting up the
“marks” on the line or making and pulling out various knots with his
restless but curiously skilful fingers. And as his moods changed,
Thorndyke watched him furtively as if to judge by his manner how near
they were to the object of the search.

It was a long and wearisome quest. Slowly the boat plied up and down
on the eastern side of the rock, gradually approaching it nearer and
nearer at each return. From time to time the creepers caught on the
rocky bottom and had to be eased off; from time to time the dripping
trawl-rope was hauled in and the creepers brought to the surface;
offering to the anxious eyes that peered over the side nothing on the
hooks but, perchance, a wisp of Zostera or a clinging spider crab.

Calm as the day was and quiet as was the ocean, stirred only by the
slumberous echoes of the great Atlantic swell, the sea was breaking
heavily over the rock; and as the boat closed in nearer and nearer,
the water around boiled and eddied in an unpleasant and even dangerous
manner. The lighthouse keepers, who had for some time past been
watching from the gallery the movements of the boat, now began to make
warning signs and one of them bellowed through a megaphone to the
searchers to keep farther away.

“What do you say?” Rodney asked in a low voice. “We can’t go any
nearer. We shall be swamped or stove in. Shall we try another side?”

“Better try one more cast this side,” said Thorndyke; and he spoke so
definitely that all the others, including Varney, looked at him
curiously. But no one answered, and as the skipper made no demur, the
creepers were dropped for a fresh cast still nearer the rock. The boat
was then to the north of the lighthouse and the course set was to the
south so as to pass the rock again on the east side. As they
approached, the man with the megaphone bawled out fresh warnings and
continued to roar at them and flourish his arm until they were abreast
of the rock in a wild tumble of confused waves. At this moment,
Phillip, who had his hand on the trawl-rope between the bollard and
the fair-lead, reported that he had felt a pull, but that it seemed as
if the creepers had broken away. As soon, therefore, as the boat was
clear of the backwash and in comparatively smooth water, the order was
passed to haul in the trawl-rope and examine the creepers.

The two Rodneys looked over the side eagerly, but fearfully, for both
had noticed something new—a definite expectancy—in Thorndyke’s manner.
Varney too, who had hitherto taken but little notice of the creepers,
now knelt on the side-bench, gazing earnestly into the clear water
whence the trawl-rope was rising. And still he toyed with the
hand-lead and absently made clove-hitches on the line and slipped them
over his arm.

At length the spar came into view, and below it, on one of the
creepers, a yellowish object, dimly visible through the wavering
water.

“There’s somethin’ on this time,” said the skipper, craning over the
side and steadying himself by the tiller, which he still held. All
eyes were riveted on the half-seen yellowish shape, moving up and down
to the rise and fall of the boat. Apart from the others, Varney knelt
on the bench, not fidgeting now, but still, rigid, pale as wax,
staring with dreadful fascination, at the slowly-rising object.
Suddenly the skipper uttered an exclamation.

“Why, ’tis a sou’wester! And all laced about wi’ spuny’n! Surely ’tis—
Steady, sir! You’ll be overboard! My God!”

The others looked round quickly, and even as they looked, Varney fell,
with a heavy splash, into the water alongside. There was a tumultuous
rush to the place whence he had fallen and arms were thrust into the
water in vain efforts to grasp the sinking figure. Rodney darted
forward for the boat-hook, but by the time he was back with it the
doomed man was far out of reach; but for a long time—as it seemed—the
horror-stricken onlookers could see him through the clear, blue-green
water, sinking, sinking, growing paler, more shadowy, more shapeless,
but always steadily following the lead sinker until at last he faded
from their sight into the darkness of the ocean.

Not until some time after he had vanished did they haul on board the
creeper with its dreadful burden. Indeed, that burden, in its
entirety, was never hauled on board. As it reached the surface,
Tregenna stopped hauling and held the rope steady; and for a sensible
time all eyes were fixed upon a skull—with a great, jagged hole above
the brows—that looked up at them beneath the peak of the sou’wester,
through the web of spunyarn, like the face of some phantom warrior
looking out through the bars of his helmet. Then, as Phillip, reaching
out an unsteady hand, unhooked the sou’wester from the creeper, the
encircling coils of spunyarn slipped and the skull dropped into the
water. Still the fascinated eyes watched it as it sank, turning slowly
over and over and seeming to cast back glances of horrid valediction;
watched it grow green and pallid and small until it vanished into the
darkness even as Varney had vanished.

When it was quite invisible, Phillip turned, and, flinging the hat
down on the floor of the cockpit, sank on the bench with a groan.
Thorndyke picked up the hat and unwound the spunyarn.

“Do you identify it?” he asked; and then, as he turned it over, he
added: “But I see it identifies itself.”

He held it towards Rodney, who was able to read in embroidered
lettering on the silk lining: “Dan. Purcell.”

Rodney nodded. “Yes,” he said, “but of course there was no doubt. Is
it necessary for us to do anything more?” He indicated the creepers
with a gesture of weariness and disgust.

“No,” replied Thorndyke. “We have seen the body and can swear to its
identity and I can certify as to the cause of death. We can produce
this hat, with a bullet hole, as I perceive, in the back,
corresponding to the injury that we observed in the skull. I can also
certify as to the death of Varney and can furnish a sworn declaration
of the facts that are within my knowledge. That may possibly be
accepted, by the authorities, having regard to the circumstances, as
rendering any further inquiry unnecessary. But that is no concern of
ours. We have established the fact that Daniel Purcell is dead, and
our task is accomplished.”

“Yes,” said Rodney, “our quest has been successful beyond my
expectations. But it has been an awful experience. I can’t get the
thought of poor Varney out of my mind.”

“Nor I,” said Phillip. “And yet it was the best that could have
happened. And there is a certain congruity in it, too. They are down
there together. They had been companions, in a way friends, the best
part of their lives and in death they are not divided.”


  The End



Transcriber’s Notes

This transcription follows the text of the edition published by A. L.
Burt Company in 1925. However, the following alterations have been
made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the
text:

 * “the windless” has been changed to “the windlass” (Chapter I).
 * Three occurrences of unmatched quotation marks have been repaired.





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