Chapter VIII: Part 8

"But this was not by any means all. It appears that for some reason which was never quite clear, Captain Shillington, after he said good-night to Lady Angela, altered his mind about the proposed walk. It may have started to rain, or he may not, after all, have liked the idea of walking about the streets at night with twenty-five thousand pounds' worth of pearls in his pocket. Be that as it may, he hailed a passing taxi and drove to Mexfield House. The driver came forward voluntarily in answer to an advertisement put in the papers by the police. He stated that he remembered the circumstance quite well because of what followed. He remembered taking up a fare outside Stanhope Gate and being ordered to drive to Mexfield House in Somerset Street. When he slowed down close to Mexfield House he noticed a man with his hands in his pockets lounging under the doorway of one of the houses close by. As far as he could see the man was in evening dress and wore a light overcoat. He had on a silk hat tilted right over his eyes so that only the lower part of his face was visible, and he had a white or pale grey scarf tied loosely round his neck. The chauffeur also noticed that he had a large white flower, probably a carnation, in his buttonhole. After the taxi-man had put down his fare he drove off, and as he did so he saw the man in the light overcoat step out from under the doorway, where he had been lounging, and turn in the direction of Mexfield House. What happened after that he didn't know, as he drove away without taking further notice, but the police were already in touch with another man who had been watching that night in Somerset Street, where a portion of the road was up for repair. This man, whose name, I think, was William Rugger, remembered quite distinctly seeing a 'swell' in a light overcoat and wearing a light-coloured scarf round his neck, loafing around Mexfield House. He remembered the taxi drawing up and a gentleman getting out of it, whereupon the one in the light overcoat and the scarf went up to him and said, 'Hullo, Denver!' at which the other gent, the one who had come in the taxi, appeared very surprised, for Rugger heard him say, 'Good Lord, Henry, what are you doing here?'

"Rugger didn't hear any more because the gentleman in the light overcoat then took the other one by the arm and together the pair of them walked away down the street. When they had gone Rugger noticed a large white carnation lying on the pavement; he picked it up and subsequently took it home to his missis.

"You may imagine what a stir and excitement this story--which pretty soon leaked out in all its details--caused amongst the public. It seems that although neither the taxi-driver nor the man Rugger had seen the face of the man who had stepped out from under a neighbouring doorway and accosted Captain Shillington, they were both of them quite positive that he was in evening dress, and that he wore a silk hat, a light overcoat, and had a pale grey or white scarf wound round his neck. And besides that, there was the white carnation. But, of course, the crux of the whole evidence was Rugger's assertion that he heard one gentleman--the one who got out of the cab--say to the other in tones of great surprise, 'Good Lord, Henry, what are you doing here?' Questioned again and again he never wavered in this statement. He heard the name Henry quite distinctly and it stuck in his mind because his eldest boy was Henry. He was also asked whether the gentleman, who had stepped out of the taxi--obviously Captain Shillington, since the other had called to him, 'Hullo, Denver'--walked away reluctantly or willingly when he was thus summarily taken hold of by the arm. Rugger was under the impression that he walked away reluctantly; he freed his arm once, but the other got hold of him again, and, though Rugger did not catch the actual words, he certainly thought that the two gentlemen were quarrelling.

"And thus public opinion, which at first had been dead against the Australian Captain, now went equally dead against Henry Buckley. Ugly stories were current of his extravagance, his gambling debts, his addiction to drink. People who knew him remembered one or two ugly pages in his life's history: altercations with the police, raids on gambling clubs of which he was a prominent member; there was even a fraudulent bankruptcy which had been the original cause of his being sent out to Australia by his harassed parents until the worst of the clouds had rolled by.

"The only thing that told in his favour, as far as the public was concerned, was the bitter vindictiveness displayed against him by Miss Shillington. That the girl had cause for bitterness was not to be denied. For a time, at any rate, public opinion had branded her brother as a common trickster and a thief, and she and her mother had no doubt suffered terribly under the stigma; in consequence of this, Mrs. Shillington's health, always in a precarious state, had completely broken down and the old lady had taken to her bed, not suffering from any particular disease, but just from debility of mind and body, obstinately refusing to see a doctor, declaring that nothing would cure her except the return of her son.

"And on the top of all that came the growing conviction that the son never would return and that he had been foully murdered for the sake of Lady Angela's pearls, which he so foolishly was carrying in his pocket that night. No wonder, then, that his sister Marion felt bitter against the people who were the original cause of all these disasters; no wonder that she threw herself heart and soul into the search for evidence against the man whom she sincerely believed to be guilty of a most hideous crime.

"It was mainly due to her that the police came on the track of William Rugger, the night-watchman, and through the latter that the driver of the taxi-cab was advertised for, because Rugger remembered seeing the gentleman alight from a taxi outside Mexfield House. But Miss Shillington's valuable assistance in the matter of investigation went even further than that. She at last prevailed upon the old man-servant at Mexfield House to come forward like a man and to speak the truth. He was a poor creature, not really old, probably not more than fifty, but timid and almost abject. He had at first declined to make any statement whatever, declaring that he had nothing to say. To every question put to him by the police, he gave the one answer, 'I saw nothing, sir, I 'eard nothing. I went to bed as usual on the Friday night. The Captain 'e never expected me to sit up for 'im when 'e was out to parties, and I never 'ear 'im come in, as I sleep at the top of the 'ouse. No, sir, I didn't 'ear nothing that night. The last I seed of the Captain was at nine o'clock, when 'e got into the car and said good-night to me.' When he was shown the blood-stained hat, he burst out crying, and said, 'Yes, sir! Yes, sir! That is the Captain's 'at. My Lord! What 'as become of 'im?' He also failed to identify the scarf as being his master's property.

"Then one day Miss Shillington, still suffering from a cold in the head, but otherwise very business-like and brisk, arrived at Scotland Yard with the man--James Rose was his name--in tow. By what means she had persuaded him to speak the truth at last no one ever knew, but in a tremulous voice and shaken with nervousness, he did tell what he swore to be the truth. 'I must 'ave dropped to sleep in the dining-room,' he said. 'I was very tired that evening, and I remember after I 'ad cleared supper away I just felt as 'ow I couldn't stand on my legs any longer, and I sat down in an armchair and must 'ave dozed off. What woke me was the front-door bell which rings in the 'all as well as in the basement. I looked at the clock, it was past midnight. Captain forgot 'is key, that's what I thought. Lucky I 'adn't gone to bed, or I should never 'ave 'eard 'im. Funny 'is forgetting 'is key, I thought. Never done such a thing before, I thought, and went to open the door for 'im. But it wasn't the Captain,' Rose went on, his voice getting more and more husky as no doubt he realised the deadly importance of what he was about to say. 'No, it wasn't the Captain,' he reiterated, and shook his head in a doleful manner.

"'Who was it?' the Inspector demanded.

"'The young gentleman who sometimes came to the 'ouse,' Rose repeated under his breath. 'Mr. 'Enery Buckley it was, sir. Yes, Mr. 'Enery, that's 'oo it was.'

"'What did he say?' Rose was asked.

"''E asked if the Captain was in, and I said no, not as I knew, but I would go and see. So up I went to the Captain's room and saw 'e wasn't there. Not yet. And I told Mr. 'Enery so when I came down again.'

"'Then what happened?'

"'Mr. 'Enery 'e told me that 'e wouldn't wait and that I was to tell the Captain 'e 'ad called, and that 'e would call again in 'arf an hour. I said that I was going to bed and I wouldn't probably see the Captain. 'E might be ever so late. Then Mr. 'Enery 'e just said, "Very good," and "Never mind," and "Good-night, Rose," 'e said, and then I let 'im out.'

"'Well? And what happened after that?'

"'I don't know, sir,' the old man concluded. 'I went to bed and I never seed the Captain again, nor yet Mr. 'Enery--not from that day to this, sir. No, not again, sir.' And Rose once more shook his head in the same doleful manner. Of course the police were very down on him for keeping back this valuable piece of information, and they were even inclined to look with suspicion upon the man. They wanted to know something about his antecedents and why he seemed so frightened of facing the police authorities. Fortunately for him, however, Miss Shillington could give them all the information they wanted. She said that James Rose had been for years in the service of a Mrs. O'Shea, who was a great friend of Mrs. Shillington's. When Mrs. O'Shea died she left him a hundred pounds. But the poor thing had never been very strong, and he was nothing to look at, he couldn't get another place, and the hundred pounds vanished bit by bit. About a month ago Mrs. Shillington, who was requiring a man-servant, advertised for one in the _Daily Mail_. Rose answered the advertisement, and though the poor thing in the meanwhile had gone terribly downhill physically, Mrs. Shillington, remembering how honest and respectable he had always been when he was in Mrs. O'Shea's service, engaged him out of compassion and for the sake of old times. Miss Shillington gave him an excellent character and the police were satisfied.

"I think," the Old Man in the Corner said, amorously contemplating a marvellously intricate knot, which he had just made in his bit of string, "I think that the police were mainly satisfied because at last they felt that 'they had made out a case.' From that moment the detectives and inspectors in charge became absolutely convinced that Henry Buckley had enticed Captain Denver Shillington to some place of evil fame close to the river and there, in collusion probably with other disreputable characters, had robbed and murdered him. To say the least, the case looked black enough against Buckley. His fast living, his mountain of debt, the absence in him of moral rectitude as proved by his fraudulent bankruptcy, all told against him; and now it was definitely proved that he had sought out and actually been in the company of Captain Shillington the night that the latter disappeared. A light grey overcoat similar to the one described by Rugger and by the chauffeur as worn by the gentleman who was loafing in Somerset Street was found to be a part of his wardrobe; no one could swear, however, as to the scarf, but it turned out that he never went out in the evening without wearing a large, white carnation in his button-hole.

"The fact that he had not stated from the beginning that he had called at Mexfield House that night, and subsequently met the missing man and walked away with him, naturally told terribly against him. Obviously the man lost his head. Questioned by the police, he tried at first to deny the whole thing: he declared that the man with the white carnation and the light-coloured scarf was some other man whose name happened to be Henry, and he tried to upset Rose's evidence by declaring that the man lied and that he had never called at Mexfield House that night. But, unfortunately for him, he had taken a taxi from his club to the house, the taxi-driver was found, and the noose was further tightened round the Honourable Henry Buckley's neck. In vain did he assert after that that Denver Shillington had told him to call at Mexfield House at a quarter-past midnight on that fatal Friday. He was no longer believed. He admitted that he was in financial difficulties, and that he had spoken about these to Captain Shillington earlier in the evening. He admitted, tardily enough, that he went to Mexfield House hoping that Denver would give him some money in order to wipe out his most pressing debts. When he found that the Captain had not yet come home, he left a message with the man-servant and thought he would go on to the club for a little while and return later to see Shillington. Unfortunately, he drank rather heavily whilst he was at the club and never thought any more either about his money worries or about the Captain. In fact, he remembered nothing very clearly beyond the fact that he went home, in the small hours and went straight to bed.

"He then went on to say that he woke up the next morning with a splitting headache. It was pouring with rain and London was looking particularly beastly, as he picturesquely termed it. He recollected that his sister Angela had planned to go down with old Square-toes to some friends near Newmarket for the weekend. He, too, had been asked but had declined the invitation, but now he began to wish he hadn't; while he was out of town money-lenders couldn't dun him, and a breath of country air would certainly do him good.

"And he was just cogitating over these matters at eight a.m. on that Saturday morning, when his sister Angela came into his room. 'She told me,' he went on, 'that old Square-toes was unable to accompany her to these friends in Cambridgeshire, that she didn't want to go alone, and would I hire a car and drive her down. She offered to pay for the car, and, as the scheme happened to suit me, I agreed. We drove down to Tatchford, and on the Tuesday I had an unpleasant reminder from one of my creditors and thought that I must get back to see what old Square-toes would do for me. I got home that same evening, and the next morning early Miss Shillington rang up and told me over the 'phone that they had heard nothing of Captain Shillington since the previous Friday and that they were getting anxious. And that's all I know,' he concluded. 'I swear that I never set eyes on Shillington after he drove off from the Duchess of Flint's, with my sister in his car. I did call at Mexfield House, but it was at Shillington's suggestion, but when the man told me that the Captain was not yet home, I did not loaf about the street, I went straight back to the club and then home.'

"Of course all this was very clear and very categorical, but there were one or two doubtful points in Buckley's statements, which the police--dead out now to prove him guilty of murder--made the most of. Firstly, there was his former denial on oath that he had not called at Mexfield House that night. It was only when he was confronted with the testimony of the taxi-cab driver that he made the admission. The employees at his club, which, by the way, was in Hanover Square, had seen him come in at about half-past eleven. He went out again twenty minutes later and the hall porter saw him hail a taxi-cab. He was once more in the club at half-past twelve, and it is a significant fact that two of the younger members chaffed him subsequently because he had not the usual white carnation in his button-hole.

"Then again it was more than strange that on the Friday he was so worried about his debts that he went in the middle of the night to his friend's house in order to try and borrow money from him, and yet when, according to his own statements, he never even saw his friend, off he went the very next morning to the country, stayed away four days, and on his return did not make any attempt seemingly to see the Captain or to ask him for money. Thirdly, it was equally inconceivable that Captain Shillington should have appointed to see Buckley at that hour of the night, however pressed the latter might have been for money. Why should he? The next morning would have done just as well, whether he meant to help him or whether he did not, and, according to the testimony of the night-watchman, William Rugger, when he was accosted by Buckley, he exclaimed in tones of great surprise, 'Good Lord, Henry, what are you doing here?' These are not words which a man would say to a friend whom he had appointed to meet at this very hour.

"However, this portion of the taxi-driver's and Rugger's testimony Buckley still strenuously denied. He could not deny the other. He had called at Mexfield House and reluctantly admitted that it had been nothing but 'blue funk' that had prompted him at first to hold his tongue about that and then to deny the fact altogether.

"But, above all, there was yet another fact which to the police was more conclusive, more damning than any other and that was that on the Wednesday morning the Honourable Henry Buckley had called at Messrs. Foster and Turnbull, the well-known pawnbrokers of Oxford Street, and had pledged a pair of diamond ear-rings and a couple of valuable bracelets there for which he received three hundred and fifty pounds.

"Here again, if Buckley had volunteered this statement, all might have been well, but it was the pawnbrokers who gave information to the police. It turned out that the ear-rings and the two bracelets were the property of his sister, Lady Angela. Buckley declared that she had given them to him, and she, very nobly, did her best to corroborate this statement of his, but it had become impossible to believe a word he said. Lady Angela's valiant efforts on his behalf were thought to be unconvincing, and, as a matter of fact, the public has never known from that day to this whether Henry Buckley stole his sister's jewellery, or whether she gave it to him voluntarily.

§3

"Mind you, there can be no question but that the police acted very injudiciously when they actually preferred a charge of murder against Henry Buckley. There were two such damning flaws in the chain of evidence that had been collected against him that the man ought never to have been arrested. Even the magistrate was of that opinion. As you know, if there is the slightest doubt about such a serious charge, the magistrates will always commit a man for trial and let a jury of twelve men pronounce on the final issue rather than decide such grave matters on their own. But in this case there were really no proofs. There were deductions: the accused was a young blackguard, a moral coward and a liar. There was the blood-stained scarf, the hat and the white carnation, there was the testimony of the taxi-driver and the night watchman that Henry Buckley had been in the company of Captain Shillington that night, but there was no proof that he had murdered his friend and stolen the pearls.

"To begin with, if there had been a murder, where was it committed, and what became of Captain Shillington's body? Of course, the police still hope to find traces of it, but, as you know, they have not yet succeeded. Various theories are put forward that Henry Buckley was a member of a gang of ruffians with headquarters in some obscure corner of London close to the river, and that he enticed the Captain there and murdered him with the help of his criminal associates with whom he probably shared the proceeds of the crime. But over a year has gone by since Shillington disappeared and the police are no nearer finding the body of the missing man.

"The magistrate dismissed the case against Henry Buckley. There was not sufficient evidence to commit him for trial. What told most in his favour in the end was the question of time. He was able to prove that he was at his club in Hanover Square at half-past midnight on the fateful night. Now, according to James Rose's testimony, it was after midnight when he, Buckley, called at Mexfield House. Even supposing that Shillington had arrived in the taxi five minutes later, it was inconceivable that a man could entice another to an out-of-the-way part of London, murder him--even if he left others to dispose of the body--and walk back unconcernedly to Hanover Square, all in less than half an hour. Nor were the pearls or any large sum of money ever traced to Henry Buckley. He was just as deeply in debt after the disappearance of Captain Shillington as he had been before. Now he has gone on another tour round the world, and the Shillingtons--mother and daughter--have given up all hopes of ever seeing the gallant Captain, who was such a model son, again. A little while ago the illustrated papers published photos of the two ladies on board a P. and O. steamer bound for Australia, but the public had forgotten all about Lady Angela's pearls and the mysterious white carnation. No one was interested in the old lady with the white hair and stooping figure, who was carried on board in a chair, and who obstinately refused to be interviewed by newspaper men eager for copy. The case is relegated, as far as the public is concerned, to the category of undiscovered crimes."

"But," I argued, as the Old Man in the Corner became silent, absorbed in the untying of an intricate knot which he had made a little while ago, "surely the police have found out who the man was who accosted Captain Shillington in Somerset Street that night, the man with the light-coloured scarf, which was subsequently found in the river by the side of the missing man's hat, the man who called the Captain 'Denver,' and whom the latter called 'Henry,' and was so surprised to see. If it was not Henry Buckley, who was it?"

"Ah!" the exasperating creature retorted with a fatuous smile, "who was it? That's just the point--a point just as dark as that a man like Captain Shillington could be enticed at that hour of the night to an out-of-the-way part of London, and at a moment when he had his fiancée's jewellery worth twenty-five thousand pounds in his pocket. Don't you think that _that_ point is absolutely inconceivable?"

"Well," I said, "it does seem----"

"Of course it does," he broke in eagerly. "I ask you: Is it likely? At one moment we are told that Captain Shillington was a pattern of all the virtues and that his business acumen and abilities had earned for him not only a fortune but the admiration of all those who knew him; and the very next we are asked to suppose that he would meekly allow a young blackguard, whom he knew to be dishonest and unscrupulous, to drag him 'reluctantly' to some obscure haunt of a gang of criminals. Surely that should have jumped to the eyes of any sane person who had studied the case."

"I don't suppose," I retorted, "that Captain Shillington allowed Buckley to drag him very far. Most people believed at the time that he was attacked directly he rounded the corner of Somerset Street. There are one or two entrances to mews just about there----"

"Yes," the funny creature rejoined excitedly, "but not one nearer than fifty yards from Mexfield House. And do you think that the immaculate Australian would have walked ten at night with young Buckley and with those pearls in his pocket? Why should he? He was outside his own door. Wouldn't he have taken Henry into the house with him if he wished to speak to him? No! No! The whole theory is inconceivable...."

"But Captain Shillington disappeared," I argued, "and so did the pearls, and his hat was found floating in the river, torn and blood-stained. You cannot deny that."

"I certainly cannot deny," he replied, "that a blood-stained hat will float on the water if it is thrown--say, from a convenient bridge."

"But the scarf?" I retorted.

"A scarf will obey the same laws of Nature as a hat."

"But surely you are not going to tell me----?"

"What?"

"That the whole thing was a confidence trick, after all?"

"I am certain that it was. A clever one, I'll admit, and even I was puzzled at the time. I couldn't think who 'Henry' could possibly be. It wasn't young Buckley, that was obvious. The alibi was conclusive as to that: the miscreants who had planned to throw dust in the eyes of the police by trying to fasten a hideous crime on that unfortunate young Buckley set their stage rather too elaborately when they devised the trick about the scarf. By identifying the murderer with the wearer of the scarf, they saved Buckley from the gallows; without it, there might have remained some doubt in the mind of some of the jury. But, of course, it raised a tremendous puzzle. Who was the 'Henry' of Somerset Street? And was it not a curious coincidence that he should be wearing an overcoat similar to the one habitually worn by Henry Buckley and a white carnation, which many friends would at once associate with that unfortunate young man? From the examination of the puzzle to its solution was but a step. I came at once to the conclusion that here was no coincidence, but a deliberate attempt to impersonate Henry Buckley, the man most likely in the eyes of the public to waylay, rob, and even murder a man whom he knew to be in possession of valuable jewellery. Such a deliberate attempt, therefore, argued that Captain Shillington himself must have been in it. 'Good Lord, Henry, what in the world are you doing here?' was obviously intended for any passer-by to hear in the same way that the white carnation was intended for any chance passer-by to pick up. Having established the _mise en scène_, the two scoundrels walked off, having previously provided themselves with a blood-stained hat, which presently Miss Shillington would identify as the property of her brother."

"Miss Shillington?" I broke in eagerly, "then you think that the whole Australian family was in the conspiracy? And what about the man Rose?"

"The whole family," he rejoined, "only consisted of two. Man and wife most likely."

"But the man Rose?" I insisted.

"An excellent part, alternately played with remarkable skill by the Captain and his female accomplice."

"Do reconstruct the whole thing for me," I pleaded. "I own that I am bewildered."

And from my bag I extracted a brand-new piece of string which I handed to him with an engaging smile. Nothing could have pleased the fatuous creature more. With long, claw-like fingers twiddling the string, he began leisurely:

"Nothing could be more simple. Captain Shillington takes leave of his fiancée, having her pearls in his pocket. It is then about half-past eleven. Henry Buckley has gone to his club, Shillington having appointed to see him at Mexfield House soon after midnight. There is, therefore, plenty of time. Shillington hurries home, changes his personality into that of James Rose, as he often has done before, and subsequently interviews Henry Buckley on the door-step. You can see that, can't you?"

"Easily," I replied.

"Then as soon as he has got rid of Buckley, our friend the Captain quits the personality of a snuffy, middle-aged man-servant, and becomes himself once more. He goes back to the neighbourhood of Mayfair, hails a taxi and drives to Mexfield House. But in the meanwhile the female confederate--we'll call her Miss Shillington for convenience' sake--in male attire and evening dress, wearing a light overcoat, a light-coloured scarf and a white carnation in her button-hole, lounges under a doorway in Somerset Street, waiting to play her part. Now do you see how simple it all is?"

"Perfectly," I admitted. "As you said before, they had provided themselves with a blood-stained hat, which presently they threw into the river, together with the scarf; and what happened after that?"

"They walked home quietly and went to bed."

"What? Both of them? ... But the mother?"

"I don't believe in the mother," he retorted blandly. "Do you?"

"I thought----"

"She takes to her bed--she never sees a doctor--she and her daughter never see any one--they have no friends--no servants save the man Rose; put two and two together, my dear," the funny old man concluded as he slipped the piece of string in his pocket. "Captain Shillington was the only one in that house who ever went outside the doors. The mother never did--no one ever saw her--the daughter had a perpetual cold in the head--the man Rose had no one to speak for him, no one to relate his past history, except Miss Shillington. Where is he now? What has become of him? There's nobody to enquire after him, so the police don't trouble. The two Shillingtons--supposed to be mother and daughter--went back to Australia last year, but not the man Rose. Then where is he? But I say that the two passengers on board that P. and O. boat were not mother and daughter, but male and female confederates in as fine a bit of rascality as I've ever seen. And the man Rose never existed. He was just a disguise assumed from time to time by Captain Shillington. It is not difficult, you know, to assume a personality of that sort. The police inspectors who questioned him had never seen Captain Shillington, and dirt and shabby clothes are very perfect disguises. Now the pair of them are knocking about the world somewhere, they will dispose of the pearls to Continental dealers not over scrupulous where a good bargain can be struck. If you will just think of Captain Shillington impersonating James Rose and a decrepit old woman alternately, and of Miss Shillington impersonating Henry Buckley on that one occasion, you will see how conclusive are my deductions. I have a snapshot here of the two Australian 'ladies,' taken on board the boat. This muffled-up bundle of bonnet and shawl is supposed to be Mrs. Shillington; it might as well be M. Poincaré or the Kaiser, don't you think? And here is a snapshot of James Rose giving evidence in the magistrate's court. Unfortunately, I have no photo of Captain Shillington, or I could have shown you just how to trace the personality of the handsome young man about town under that of this snuffy, dirty, ill-kempt, unwashed, and badly clothed, stooping figure of an out-at-elbows servant."

He threw a bundle of newspaper cuttings down on the table. I gazed at them still puzzled, but nevertheless convinced that he was right. When I looked up again, I only saw a corner of his shabby checked ulster disappearing through the swing doors.

X

THE MYSTERY OF THE MONTMARTRE HAT

§1

"It was during a foggy, rainy night in November a couple of years ago," the Old Man in the Corner said to me that day, "that the inhabitants of Wicklow Lane, Southwark, were startled by a terrible row proceeding from one of the houses down the street. There was a lot of shouting and banging, then a couple of pistol-shots, after that nothing more. It was then just after midnight. The dwellers in Wicklow Lane are all of them poor, they are all of them worried with the cares of large families, small accommodation, and irregular work, all of which we must take it make for indifference to other people's worries, and above all, to other people's quarrels. Rows were not an unknown occurrence in Wicklow Lane, not always perhaps at dead of night and not necessarily accompanied by pistol-shots, but nevertheless sufficiently frequent not to arouse more than passing interest. Half-a-dozen tousled heads--no more--were thrust out of the windows to ascertain what this particular row was about; but as everything was quiet again, as no police was in sight to whom one might give directions, and as the mixture of rain and fog was particularly unpleasant, the tousled heads after a few minutes disappeared again, and once more peace reigned in Wicklow Lane.

"Of course the next morning the event of the night was mentioned and mildly discussed, both by the men whilst going to their work and by the ladies whilst scrubbing their doorsteps. Every one agreed that the pistol-shots were fired soon after midnight, but no one seemed to be very clear in which particular house the row had occurred. Two or three of the people who lived in No. 11 and No. 15 respectively would have it that it occurred 'next door,' but as the house next door to them both could only be the one between them, namely No. 13, and as No. 13 had been empty for months, this testimony was at first strongly discounted.

"Presently, however, a helmeted and blue-coated representative of the law came striding leisurely down the lane. Within a minute or two he was surrounded by a number of excited ladies, all eager to give him their own version of the affair. You can see him, can't you?" the Old Man in the Corner went on with a grin, "stalking up the street, his thumbs thrust into his belt, his face wearing that marvellous look of impassivity peculiar to the force, and followed by this retinue of gesticulating ladies, dressed in what they happened to have picked up in neighboring 'ole clo'' shops, and by a sprinkling of callow youths and unkempt, unshaven men. You can see him solemnly plying the knocker on the dilapidated front door of No. 13, while for the space of a minute or two the gesticulating ladies, the youths, and the men were silent and motionless. But not a sound came in response to the Bobby's vigorous knocking. The house was silent as the grave; just above the front door a weather-worn board, swaying and creaking in the wind, mutely gave it out that the lease of these desirable premises was to be sold, and that the key could be had on application to Messrs. J D. Whiskin and Sons, of Newnham Road, S.E. The ladies, with cheeks blanched under the grime, looked aghast at one another; the youths tittered nervously, the men swore. No one appeared altogether displeased. Here was a real excitement at last to vary the monotony of life, something that would keep gossip alive at the White Lion for many a day to come. The majestic representative of the law then blew his whistle. This broke the spell of silence and voluble tongues started wagging again. Soon the second representative of the law appeared, as ponderous, as impassive as his mate. He was quickly put in possession of all the known and unknown facts connected with the mysterious occurrence. Leaving his mate in charge, he stalked off to get assistance.

"Well, you remember no doubt what happened after that. A police inspector called straightway on Messrs. Whiskin and Sons, and elicited from them the information that effectively No. 13 Wicklow Lane was for sale, had been for some time, and that on the previous morning--it was, of course, Thursday--a well-dressed gentleman had called to make enquiries about the house. Young Mr. Whiskin gave him the key and asked him to be sure and return it before 1 p.m. as the office closed early on Thursdays. Well, the gentleman hadn't come back yet with the key, but Mr. Whiskin was not troubling much about that, there being nothing in the house--nor for a matter of that in the street--likely to tempt a thief. Young Mr. Whiskin thought that he would be able to identify the gentleman if he saw him again. He had rather a red face and a thick nose, which suggested that he was accustomed to good living, rough ginger-coloured hair, and a straggly ginger beard and walrus moustache, all of which gave him rather a peculiar appearance. He wore a neat brown lounge-suit, a light overcoat, and grey Homburg hat, and he was carrying a large parcel under his arm. Mr. Whiskin added that he had never seen the man before or since.

"As soon as these facts became known there was more voluntary information forthcoming. It appears that one or two of the residents in Wicklow Lane remembered seeing a man in light overcoat and soft grey hat, and carrying a parcel under his arm, enter No. 13 with a latchkey. No one had taken 'pertikler notice,' however, chiefly because the occurrence was not an unusual one. Often people would go in to look at the empty house and come out again after inspection. Unfortunately, too, because of this there was distinct confusion of evidence, some witnesses declaring that the man carried a large parcel, and that he went away again, but not until the evening; others would have it that he had a very small parcel, and that he wore a bowler hat; others that the man with the bowler hat was another person altogether, and did not call till the evening, whilst this, again, was contradicted by another witness who said that the man who called in the evening had very conspicuous ginger-coloured hair and beard, but that he certainly wore a bowler hat. And through this mass of conflicting evidence there was always the fact that the fog was very thick that night and that no one therefore was able to swear very positively to anything.

"This, then, being all the information that could be gathered for the moment from the outside, the police next decided to force an entry into the empty house. Its unlucky number justified, as you know, its sinister reputation, because the first sight that greeted the inspector when he entered the front room on the ground floor was the body of a man lying in a pool of blood. At first glance he looked like a foreigner--youngish, and with jet-black hair and moustache. By the side of him there was a damp towel, also stained with blood. Closer examination revealed the fact that he was not dead, but he seemed in a dead faint, and the inspector sent one of the men off at once to telephone for the divisional surgeon.

"The wounded man was dressed in a dark suit. He had on a gold watch of foreign make, twenty pounds in notes, and some loose silver in his pockets, and a letter addressed to 'Allen Lloyd, Esq.' at an hotel at Boulogne. The letter was a private one, relating unimportant family events; it was signed by a Christian name only, and bore a London postmark, but no address. The police inspector took charge of the letters and the money, and as the divisional surgeon had now arrived and was busy with the wounded man, he proceeded to examine the premises.

"The houses in Wicklow Lane all have small yards at the back. These yards end in a brick wall, the other side of which there is a railway cutting. It was obvious that No. 13 had been untenanted for some time. The dust of ages lay over window and door-frames, over broken mantelpieces and dilapidated stoves. There was not a stick of anything anywhere; even the rubbish in the basement--such as is found in every empty house, residue left over by the last tenant--had been picked over until there was nothing left but dust and a few empty bottles.

"The front room in which the wounded man lay revealed very little. Two bullets were found lodged in one of the walls; one, quite close to the ceiling, suggesting that it had been fired in the air, and the other at a height of seven feet from the ground. The dust on the floor had certainly been disturbed, but by how many pairs of feet it was impossible to say. On the other hand, the back room on the same floor had quite a grim tale to tell. It gave on the small backyard with the wall as a background, beyond which was the railway cutting. The window in this room was open. In one corner there was an ordinary sink which showed that water had been running from the tap quite recently; there was a small piece of soap in the sink which had also recently been used. On the mantelpiece a small oak-framed mirror was propped up against the wall and beside it on the shelf there was the remnant of a burnt-out candle and a box of matches, half empty. And thrown down on the floor, in a corner of the room, were a black Inverness cape and soft black hat with a very wide brim, such as are usually affected by French students.

"It was, of course, difficult to reconstruct the assault just at present, the wounded man being still in a state of stupor and unable to give any account of himself, but the revolver was found lying at the bottom of the yard close to the end wall.

"In the meanwhile the divisional surgeon had concluded his examination. He pronounced the wound to have been caused by one of the bullets that had lodged in the wall of the front room. It had been fired at very close range, as the flesh was singed all round the wound. The bullet had gone right through the left deltoid, front to back, and slightly upwards, just grazed the top of the shoulder, and then lodged in the wall. The surgeon was inclined to think that the wound was self-inflicted, but this theory was thought to be untenable, because if a man was such an obviously poor shot he would surely have chosen some other way of putting an end to himself, unless, indeed, he was a lunatic, which might account for any incongruity in the known facts, even to the noise--the shouting and the banging--that all the neighbours agreed had preceded the revolver shots.

"But there certainly was one fact which discounted the attempted suicide theory, and that was the undoubted presence of another man upon the scene--the man with the ginger hair and the thick nose who had called for the key at Messrs. Whiskin and Sons, and whom several witnesses had actually seen entering the empty house, the man with the parcel. Now no one saw him come out again by the front door. He must have been in the house when the foreigner with the jet-black hair came and joined him, and he must have slipped out later on in the dark, under cover of the fog and rain, either by the front door when nobody happened to be passing by, or over the wall and then by the railway cutting. Now what had brought these two men together in an empty house, in one of the worst slums in London? One man was wounded; where was the other? Had the revolver been dropped by one of them in his flight or flung out of the window by a lunatic? Was it attempted suicide by a madman, or murder consequent on a quarrel, or blackmail? None of these questions was ever answered, nor was the man with the ginger-coloured hair ever found. There was absolutely no clue by which he might be traced; the earth just swallowed him up as if he had been a spook.

"Nor was the identity of the wounded man ever satisfactorily established. Who he was, where he came from, who were his associates and what were his antecedents, he never revealed. He was detained in hospital for a time, as he certainly was suffering from loss of memory. But presently they had to let him go. He had money and he was otherwise perfectly sane, but to every question put to him he only answered, 'I don't know! I can't remember!' He spoke English without the slightest trace of foreign accent; all that was foreign about him was his jet-black hair and beard. Nor was the history of the revolver ever traced to its source. Where was it bought? To whom was it sold, and by whom? Nobody ever knew."

"But where did the man go after he left the hospital?" I now asked, seeing that the funny creature looked like curling himself up in his corner and going to sleep. "Surely he was kept under observation when they let him out!"

"Of course he was," he replied glibly, "and for some time after that."

"Then where did he go," I reiterated, impatiently, "when he was discharged from hospital?"

"He asked the way to the nearest public library and went straight there; he looked down the columns of the _Morning Post_, scribbled a few addresses on a scrap of paper, then he took a taxi and drove to one of the private hotels in Mexborough Gate, where he engaged a room, paying a fortnight's board and lodging in advance. Here he lived for some considerable time. He was always plentifully supplied with money, he bought himself clothes and linen, but where he got the money from was never discovered. For a time he was watched both by the police and by amateur detectives eager for copy, but nothing was ever discovered that would clear up the mystery. From time to time letters came for him at the hotel in Mexborough Gate. They were addressed to 'Allen Lloyd, Esq.' which may or may not have been a taken-up name. Presumably these letters contained remittances in cash. They were never traced to their source. Anyway he always paid his weekly bills at the hotel; but he never spoke to any one in the place, nor, as far as could be ascertained, did he ever meet any one or enter any house except the one he lodged in.

"Then one fine day he left the hotel, never to return. He went out one afternoon and nothing has been seen or heard of him from that day to this. The mysterious Mr. Allen Lloyd has disappeared in the whirlpool of London, leaving no trace of his identity. He had paid his bill at the hotel that very day. He left no debts and just a very few personal belongings behind. To all intents and purposes the matter was relegated in the public mind to the category of unsolved and unsolvable mysteries."

§2

The Old Man in the Corner had paused. From the capacious pocket of his tweed ulster he now extracted a thick piece of string; his claw-like fingers set to work. The problem which police and public had never been able to solve had, I had no doubt, presented few difficulties to his agile brain.

"Tell me," I suggested.

He went on working away for a little while at an intricate knot, then he said, "If you want to know more, you will have to listen to what will seem to you an irrelevant story."

I professed my willingness to listen to anything he might choose to tell me.

"Very well, then," he said. "Let me take your mind back to that same winter two years ago. Do you remember the extraordinary theft of a valuable collection of gems, the property of Sir James Narford?"

"I do."

"Do you know who Sir James Narford was?"

"I would prefer you to tell me," I replied.

"Sir James Narford," the funny creature went on glibly, "was a young gentleman who had been employed during the war in one of the Government departments; he was the only son of his father who was an impoverished Irish baronet. Soon after the Armistice, Sir James went to South America to visit some relations. He must have made a very favourable impression on one of these--an eccentric old cousin who died a very few months later and left to his English relative a marvellous collection of pearls and other gems. Some of these were of priceless value, and as is the way with anything that is out of the common, all sorts of stories grew around the romantic legacy. The great worth and marvellous beauty of the jewels were told and retold, with many embellishments no doubt, in the English papers. It was asserted that the Brazilian Government had valued them for probate at a million pounds sterling; that there were diamonds--some still uncut--that would make the Koh-i-noor or the Orloff look like small bits of glass, and so on. I daresay you can remember some of the legends that gathered around Sir James Narford's gems. By the time the lucky owner of the fabulous treasure, who had gone out again to Brazil in order to fetch away his jewels, had returned to England, he was the object of universal interest and he and his gems were photographed and paragraphed all over the place.

"But as I told you, the recipient of this princely legacy had always been a poor man. We may take it that the payment of legacy duty on forty thousand pounds' worth of gems had impoverished him still further. Busybodies, of course, tried to persuade him to sell the gems; he had numberless letters from diamond and pearl merchants, asking for permission to see them with a view to purchase, but, naturally enough, he didn't want to do anything in a hurry; he deposited his treasure at the bank and then thought things over. He didn't want to sell, for he was inordinately proud of his new possession and of the notoriety which it had conferred upon him. It was even rumoured that he had received more than one hint from fair lips that if he proposed marriage, the owner of such beautiful jewels would be certain of acceptance.

"I don't know who first suggested the idea to Sir James Narford that he should exhibit the gems for the benefit of disabled soldiers and sailors. It was a splendid idea; 2s. 6d. was to be charged for admission, and after deducting expenses of rent and attendants, the profits were to go to that very laudable charity. Suitable premises were secured in Sackville Street. These consisted of a shop with a large plate-glass front and a small room at the back; the entrance was through a front door and passage, which were common to the rest of the house, and there were two doors in the passage, one of which gave into the shop, and the other into the back room. Sir James spent a little money in getting up the place in modern style, and he had some cases made for the display of the gems. The door which gave from the passage into the shop was condemned, and a heavy piece of furniture placed against it. The back room was only to be used as an office and ante-room with communicating doors leading into the shop.

"In the daytime the gems were displayed in glass cases ranged right and left of the shop; at night they were locked up in a safe which stood in the middle of the shop, facing the plate-glass window and with a blazing electric light kept on all night, just above the safe. This is a very usual device with jewellers in a smaller way of business. The policeman on night duty can see at once if there is anything wrong.