By a sort of tacit understanding Thorndyke and I
parted in the vicinity of South Kensington
Station, to which he had made a bee line on leaving the
square. As he had made no suggestion that I should
go back with him, I inferred that he had planned a busy
evening examining and testing the odds and ends that
he had picked up in the empty house; while I had
suddenly conceived the idea that I might as well take
the opportunity of calling on Madeline, who might feel
neglected if I failed to put in an appearance within a
reasonable time after my return to town. Our
researches had taken up most of the afternoon and it
was getting on for the hour at which Madeline usually
left the school; and as the latter was less than
half-an-hour’s walk from the station, I could reach it in
good time without hurrying.
As I walked at an easy pace through the busily populated
streets, I turned over the events of the afternoon
with rather mixed feelings. In spite of my great
confidence in Thorndyke, I was sensible of a chill of
disappointment in respect alike of his words and his deeds.
In this rather farcical grubbing about in the dismantled
house there was a faint suggestion of charlatanism; of
the vulgar, melodramatic sleuth, nosing out a trail;
while, as to his hair-splitting objections to a piece of
straightforward evidence, they seemed to me to be of
the kind at which the usual hard-headed judge would
shake his hard head while grudgingly allowing them as
technically admissible.
But whither was Thorndyke drifting? Evidently he
had turned a dubious eye on Wallingford; and that
egregious ass seemed to be doing all that he could to
attract further notice. But to-day I had seemed to
detect a note of suspicion in regard to Madeline; and
even making allowance for the fact that he had not my
knowledge of her gentle, gracious personality, I could
not but feel a little resentful. Once more, Wallingford’s
remarks concerning a possible mare’s nest and a
public scandal recurred to me, and, not for the first
time, I was aware of faint misgivings as to my wisdom
in having set Thorndyke to stir up these troubled
waters. He had, indeed, given me fair warning, and
I was half-inclined to regret that I had not allowed
myself to be warned off. Of course, Thorndyke was
much too old a hand to launch a half-prepared prosecution
into the air. But still, I could not but ask myself
uneasily whither his overacute inferences were
leading him.
These reflections brought me to the gate of the
school, where I learned from the porter that Madeline
had not yet left and accordingly sent up my card. In
less than a minute she appeared, dressed in her out-of-door
clothes and wreathed in smiles, looking, I thought,
very charming.
“How nice of you, Rupert!” she exclaimed, “to come
and take me home. I was wondering how soon you
would come to see my little spinster lair. It is only a
few minutes’ walk from here. But I am sorry I didn’t
know you were coming, for I have arranged to make a
call—a business call—and I am due in about ten
minutes. Isn’t it a nuisance?”
“How long will you have to stay?”
“Oh, a quarter of an hour, at least. Perhaps a little
more.”
“Very well. I will wait outside for you and do
sentry-go.”
“No, you won’t. I shall let you into my flat—I
should have to pass it—and you can have a wash and
brush-up, and then you can prowl about and see how
you like my little mansion—I haven’t quite settled
down in it yet, but you must overlook that. By the
time you have inspected everything, I shall be back and
then we can consider whether we will have a late tea
or an early supper. This is the way.”
She led me into a quiet by-street, one side of which
was occupied by a range of tall, rather forbidding
buildings whose barrack-like aspect was to some
extent mitigated by signs of civilized humanity in the
tastefully curtained windows. Madeline’s residence
was on the second floor, and when she had let me in
by the diminutive outer door and switched on the light,
she turned back to the staircase with a wave of her
hand.
“I will be back as soon as I can,” she said.
“Meanwhile go in and make yourself at home.”
I stood at the door and watched her trip lightly down
the stairs until she disappeared round the angle, when
I shut the door and proceeded to follow her injunctions
to the letter by taking possession of the bathroom, in
which I was gratified to find a constant supply of hot
water. When I had refreshed myself by a wash, I went
forth and made a leisurely survey of the little flat.
It was all very characteristic of Madeline, the
professional exponent of Domestic Economy, in its orderly
arrangement and its evidences of considered
convenience. The tiny kitchen reminded one of a chemical
laboratory or a doctor’s dispensary with its labelled
jars of the cook’s materials set out in ordered rows on
their shelves, and the two little mortars, one of
Wedgewood ware and the other of glass. I grinned as my eye
lighted on this latter and I thought of the fragments
carefully collected by Thorndyke and solemnly
transported to the Temple for examination. Here, if he
could have seen it, was evidence that proved the
ownership of that other mortar and at the same time
demolished the significance of that discovery.
I ventured to inspect the bedroom, and a very trim,
pleasant little room it was; but the feature which
principally attracted my attention was an arrangement
for switching the electric light off and on from the
bed—an arrangement suspiciously correlated to a small set
of bookshelves also within easy reach of the bed.
What interested me in it was what Thorndyke would
have called its “unmechanical ingenuity”; for it
consisted of no more than a couple of lengths of stout
string, of each of which one end was tied to the
light-switch and the other end led by a pair of screw-eyes
to the head of the bed. No doubt the simple device
worked well enough in spite of the friction at each
screw-eye, but a man of less intelligence than
Madeline would probably have used levers or bell-cranks,
or at least pulleys to diminish the friction in changing
the direction of the pull.
There was a second bedroom, at present unoccupied
and only partially furnished and serving, apparently, as
a receptacle for such of Madeline’s possessions as
had not yet had a permanent place assigned to them.
Here were one or two chairs, some piles of books, a
number of pictures and several polished wood boxes
and cases of various sizes; evidently the residue of the
goods and chattels that Madeline had brought from
her home and stored somewhere while she was living at
Hilborough Square. I ran my eye along the range of
boxes, which were set out on the top of a chest of
drawers. One was an old-fashioned tea-caddy, another
an obvious folding desk of the same period, while a
third, which I opened, turned out to be a work-box of
mid-Victorian age. Beside it was a little flat rosewood
case which looked like a small case of mathematical
instruments. Observing that the key was in the lock, I
turned it and lifted the lid, not with any conscious
curiosity as to what was inside it, but in the mere
idleness of a man who has nothing in particular to do. But
the instant that the lid was up my attention awoke with
a bound and I stood with dropped jaw staring at the
interior in utter consternation.
There could be not an instant’s doubt as to what
this case was, for its green-baize-lined interior showed
a shaped recess of the exact form of a pocket pistol;
and, if that were not enough, there, in its own
compartment was a little copper powder-flask, and in another
compartment about a dozen globular bullets.
I snapped down the lid and turned the key and
walked guiltily out of the room. My interest in
Madeline’s flat was dead. I could think of nothing but this
amazing discovery. And the more I thought, the more
overpowering did it become. The pistol that fitted
that case was the exact counterpart of the pistol that I
had seen in Thorndyke’s laboratory; and the case,
itself, corresponded exactly to his description of the
case from which that pistol had probably been taken.
It was astounding; and it was profoundly disturbing.
For it admitted of no explanation that I could bring
myself to accept other than that of a coincidence. And
coincidences are unsatisfactory things; and you can’t
do with too many of them at once.
Yet, on reflection, this was the view that I adopted.
Indeed, there was no thinkable alternative. And really,
when I came to turn the matter over, it was not quite
so extraordinary as it had seemed at the first glance.
For what, after all, was this pistol with its case? It
was not a unique thing. It was not even a rare thing.
Thorndyke had spoken of these pistols and cases as
comparatively common things with which he expected
me to be familiar. Thousands of them must have been
made in their time, and since they were far from
perishable, thousands of them must still exist. The
singularity of the coincidence was not in the facts; it was
the product of my own state of mind.
Thus I sought—none too successfully—to rid myself
of the effects of the shock that I had received on raising
the lid of the case; and I was still moodily gazing out
of the sitting room window and arguing away my
perturbation when I heard the outer door shut and a
moment later Madeline looked into the room.
“I haven’t been so very long, have I?” she said,
cheerily. “Now I will slip off my cloak and hat and
we will consider what sort of meal we will have; or
perhaps you will consider the question while I am
gone.”
With this she flitted away; and my thoughts,
passing by the problem submitted, involuntarily reverted
to the little rosewood case in the spare room. But her
absence was of a brevity suggesting the performance of
the professional quick-change artist. In a minute or
two I heard her approach and open the door; and I
turned—to receive a real knock-out blow.
I was so astonished and dismayed that I suppose
I must have stood staring like a fool, for she asked in a
rather disconcerted tone:
“What is the matter, Rupert? Why are you
looking at my jumper like that? Don’t you like it?”
“Yes,” I stammered, “of course I do. Most
certainly. Very charming. Very—er—becoming. I like
it—er—exceedingly.”
“I don’t believe you do,” she said, doubtfully,
“you looked so surprised when I first came in. You
don’t think the colour too startling, do you? Women
wear brighter colours than they used to, you know, and
I do think this particular shade of green is rather nice.
And it is rather unusual, too.”
“It is,” I agreed, recovering myself by an effort.
“Quite distinctive.” And then, noting that I had
unconsciously adopted Thorndyke’s own expression,
I added, hastily, “And I shouldn’t describe it as
startling, at all. It is in perfectly good taste.”
“I am glad you think that,” she said, “for you
certainly did look rather startled at first, and I had some
slight misgivings about it myself when I had finished
it. It looked more brilliant in colour as a garment
than it did in the form of mere skeins.”
“You made it yourself, then?”
“Yes. But I don’t think I would ever knit another.
It took me months to do, and I could have bought one
for very little more than the cost of the wool, though,
of course, I shouldn’t have been able to select the exact
tint that I wanted. But what about our meal? Shall
we call it tea or supper?”
She could have called it breakfast for all I cared,
so completely had this final shock extinguished my
interest in food. But I had to make some response to
her eager hospitality.
“Let us split the difference or strike an average,” I
replied. “We will call it a ‘swarry’—tea and unusual
trimmings.”
“Very well,” said she, “then you shall come to the
kitchen and help. I will show you the raw material of
the feast and you shall dictate the bill of fare.”
We accordingly adjourned to the kitchen where she
fell to work on the preparations with the unhurried
quickness that is characteristic of genuine efficiency,
babbling pleasantly and pausing now and then to ask
my advice (which was usually foolish and had to be
blandly rejected) and treating the whole business with
a sort of playful seriousness that was very delightful.
And all the time I looked on in a state of mental chaos
and bewilderment for which I can find no words. There
she was, my friend, Madeline, sweet, gentle, feminine—the
very type of gracious womanhood, and the more
sweet and gracious by reason of these homely surroundings.
For it is an appalling reflection, in these days
of lady professors and women legislators, that to
masculine eyes a woman never looks so dignified, so worshipful,
so entirely desirable, as when she is occupied in the
traditional activities that millenniums of human
experience have associated with her sex. To me, Madeline,
flitting about the immaculate little kitchen, neat-handed,
perfect in the knowledge of her homely craft;
smiling, dainty, fragile, with her gracefully flowing
hair and the little apron that she had slipped on as a
sort of ceremonial garment, was a veritable epitome
of feminine charm. And yet, but a few feet away was
a rosewood case that had once held a pistol; and even
now, in Thorndyke’s locked cabinet—but my mind
staggered under the effort of thought and refused the
attempt to combine and collate a set of images so
discordant.
“You are very quiet, Rupert,” she said, presently,
pausing to look at me. “What is it? I hope you
haven’t any special worries.”
“We all have our little worries, Madeline,” I
replied, vaguely.
“Yes, indeed,” said she, still regarding me thoughtfully;
and for the first time I noticed that she seemed
to have aged a little since I had last seen her and that
her face, in repose, showed traces of strain and anxiety.
“We all have our troubles and we all try to put them
on you. How did you think Barbara was looking?”
“Extraordinarily well. I was agreeably surprised.”
“Yes. She is wonderful. I am full of admiration
of the way she has put away everything connected with—with
that dreadful affair. I couldn’t have done it if
I had been in her place. I couldn’t have let things rest.
I should have wanted to know.”
“I have no doubt that she does. We all want to
know. But she can do no more than the rest of us.
Do you ever see Wallingford now?”
“Oh, dear, yes. He was inclined to be rather too
attentive at first, but Barbara gave him a hint that
spinsters who live alone don’t want too many visits
from their male friends, so now he usually comes with
her.”
“I must bear Barbara’s words of wisdom in mind,”
said I.
“Indeed you won’t!” she exclaimed. “Don’t be
ridiculous, Rupert. You know her hint doesn’t apply
to you. And I shouldn’t have troubled about the
proprieties in Tony’s case if I had really wanted him. But
I didn’t, though I am awfully sorry for him.”
“Yes, he seems to be in a bad way mentally, poor
devil. Of course you have heard about his delusions?”
“If they really are delusions, but I am not at all
sure that they are. Now help me to carry these things
into the sitting room and then I will do the omelette
and bring it in.”
I obediently took up the tray and followed her into
the sitting room, where I completed the arrangement
of the table while she returned to the kitchen to
perform the crowning culinary feat. In a minute or two
she came in with the product under a heated cover and
we took our seats at the table.
“You were speaking of Wallingford,” said I.
“Apparently you know more about him than I do. It
seemed to me that he was stark mad.”
“He is queer enough, I must admit—don’t let your
omelette get cold—but I think you and Barbara are
mistaken about his delusions. I suspect that
somebody is really keeping him under observation; and if
that is so, one can easily understand why his nerves
are so upset.”
“Yes, indeed. But when you say you suspect that
we are mistaken, what does that mean? Is it just a
pious opinion or have you something to go upon?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t offer a mere pious opinion to a
learned counsel,” she replied, with a smile. “I have
something to go upon, and I will tell you about it,
though I expect you will think I am stark mad, too.
The fact is that I have been under observation, too.”
“Nonsense, Madeline,” I exclaimed. “The thing is
absurd. You have let Wallingford infect you.”
“There!” she retorted. “What did I say? You think
I am qualifying for an asylum now. But I am not.
Absurd as the thing seems—and I quite agree with you
on that point—it is an actual fact. I haven’t the
slightest doubt about it.”
“Well,” I said, “I am open to conviction. But let
us have your actual facts. How long do you think it
has been going on?”
“That I can’t say; and I don’t think it is going on
now at all. At any rate, I have seen no signs of any
watcher for more than a week, and I keep a pretty
sharp lookout. The way I first became aware of it
was this: I happened one day at lunch time to be
looking out of this window through the chink in the
curtains when I saw a man pass along slowly on the
other side of the street and glance up, as it seemed, at
this window. I didn’t notice him particularly, but still
I did look at him when he glanced up, and of course,
his face was then directly towards me. Now it
happened that, a few minutes afterwards, I looked out
again; and then I saw what looked like the same man
pass along again, at the same slow pace and in the
same direction. And again he looked up at the
window, though he couldn’t have seen me because I was
hidden by the curtain. But this time I looked at him
very closely and made careful mental notes of his
clothing, his hat and his features, because, you see, I
remembered what Tony had said and I hadn’t forgotten
the way I was treated at the inquest or the way in
which that detective man had turned out my cupboard
when he came to search the house. So I looked this
man over very carefully indeed so that I should
recognize him without any doubt if I should see him again.
“Well, before I went out after lunch I had a good
look out of the window, but I couldn’t see anything of
him; nor did I see him on my way to the school,
though I stopped once or twice and looked back. When
I got to the school I stopped at the gate and looked
along the street both ways, but still there was no sign
of him. Then I ran up to a class-room window from
which I could see up and down the street; and
presently I saw him coming along slowly on the school side
and I was able to check him off point by point, and
though he didn’t look up this time, I could see his
face and check that off, too. There was no doubt
whatever that it was the same man.
“When I came out of school that afternoon I looked
round but could not see him, so I walked away quickly
in the direction that I usually take when going home,
but suddenly turned a corner and slipped into a shop.
I stayed there a few minutes buying some things, then
I came out, and, seeing no one, slipped round the corner
and took my usual way home but kept carefully
behind a man and a woman who were going the same way.
I hadn’t gone very far before I saw my man standing
before a shop window but evidently looking up and
down the street. I was quite close to him before he
saw me and of course I did not appear to notice him;
but I hurried home without looking round and ran
straight up to this window to watch for him. And sure
enough, in about a couple of minutes I saw him come
down the street and walk slowly past.”
“And did you see him again after that?”
“Yes, I saw him twice more that same day. I went
out for a walk in the evening on purpose to give him a
lead. And I saw him from time to time every day
for about ten days. Then I missed him, and I haven’t
seen a sign of him for more than a week. I suppose
he found me too monotonous and gave me up.”
“It is very extraordinary,” I said, convinced against
my will by her very circumstantial description. “What
possible object could any one have in keeping a watch
on you?”
“That is what I have wondered,” said she. “But I
suppose the police have to do something for their pay.”
“But this doesn’t quite look like a police proceeding.
There is something rather feeble and amateurish
about the affair. With all due respect to your powers
of observation, Madeline, I don’t think a Scotland
Yard man would have let himself be spotted quite so
easily.”
“But who else could it be?” she objected; and then,
after a pause, she added with a mischievous smile,
“unless it should be your friend, Dr. Thorndyke. That
would really be a quaint situation—if I should, after
all, be indebted to you, Rupert, for these polite
attentions.”
I brushed the suggestion aside hastily but with no
conviction. And once more I recalled Wallingford’s
observations on mare’s nests. Obviously this clumsy
booby was not a professional detective. And if not,
what could he be but some hired agent of Thorndyke’s.
It was one more perplexity, and added to those with
which my mind was already charged, it reduced me to
moody silence which must have made me the very
reverse of an exhilarating companion. Indeed, when
Madeline had rallied me once or twice on my gloomy
preoccupation, I felt that the position was becoming
untenable. I wanted to be alone and think things out;
but as it would have been hardly decent to break up
our little party and take my departure, I determined,
if possible, to escape from this oppressive tête-à-tête.
Fortunately, I remembered that a famous pianist was
giving a course of recitals at a hall within easy walking
distance and ventured to suggest that we might go and
hear him.
“I would rather stay here and gossip with you,” she
replied, “but as you don’t seem to be in a gossiping
humour, perhaps the music might be rather nice. Yes,
let us go. I don’t often hear any good music
nowadays.”
Accordingly we went, and on the way to the hall
Madeline gave me a few further details of her
experiences with her follower; and I was not a little
impressed by her wariness and the ingenuity with which
she had lured that guileless sleuth into exposed and
well-lighted situations.
“By the way,” said I, “what was the fellow like?
Give me a few particulars of his appearance in case I
should happen to run across him.”
“Good Heavens, Rupert!” she exclaimed, laughing
mischievously, “you don’t suppose he will take to
haunting you, do you? That would really be the last
straw, especially if he should happen to be employed
by Dr. Thorndyke.”
“It would,” I admitted with a faint grin, “though
Thorndyke is extremely thorough and he plumes himself
on keeping an open mind. At any rate, let us have
a few details.”
“There was nothing particularly startling about him.
He was a medium-sized man, rather fair, with a
longish, sharp, turned-up nose and a sandy moustache,
rather bigger than men usually have nowadays. He
was dressed in a blue serge suit, without an overcoat
and he wore a brown soft felt hat, a turn-down collar
and a dark green necktie with white spots. He had no
gloves but he carried a walking-stick—a thickish
yellow cane with a crooked handle.”
“Not very distinctive,” I remarked, disparagingly.
“Don’t you think so?” said she. “I thought he was
rather easy to recognize with that brown hat and the
blue suit and the big moustache and pointed nose. Of
course, if he had worn a scarlet hat and emerald-green
trousers and carried a brass fire-shovel instead of a
walking-stick he would have been still easier to
recognize; but you mustn’t expect too much, even from a
detective.”
I looked with dim surprise into her smiling face and
was more bewildered than ever. If she were haunted
by any gnawing anxieties, she had a wonderful way
of throwing them off. Nothing could be less suggestive
of a guilty conscience than this quiet gaiety and placid
humour. However, there was no opportunity for
moralizing, for her little retort had brought us to the door
of the hall; and we had barely time to find desirable
seats before the principal musician took his place at
the instrument.
It was a delightful entertainment; and if the music
did not “sooth my savage breast” into complete
forgetfulness, it occupied my attention sufficiently to hinder
consecutive thought on any other subject. Indeed, it
was not until I had said “good night” to Madeline
outside her flat and turned my face towards the neighbouring
station that I was able to attempt a connected
review of the recent startling discoveries.
What could they possibly mean? The pistol alone
could have been argued away as a curious coincidence,
and the same might have been possible even in the case
of the wool. But the two together! The long arm of
coincidence was not long enough for that. The wisp
of wool that we had found in the empty house was
certainly—admittedly—Madeline’s. But that wisp
matched identically the ball of wool from the pistol;
and here was a missing pistol which was certainly the
exact counterpart of that which had contained the wool
plug. The facts could not be disputed. Was it possible
to escape from the inferences which they yielded?
The infernal machine, feeble as it was, gave
evidence of a diabolical intention—an intention that my
mind utterly refused to associate with Madeline. And
yet, even in the moment of rejection, my memory
suddenly recalled the arrangement connected with the
electric light switch in Madeline’s bedroom. Its
mechanism was practically identical with that of the infernal
machine, and the materials used—string and screw-eyes—were
actually the same. It seemed impossible to
escape from this proof piled on proof.
But if the machine itself declared an abominable
intention, what of that which lay behind the machine?
The sending of that abomination was not an isolated
or independent act. It was related to some antecedent
act, as Thorndyke had implied. Whoever sent it, had
a guilty conscience.
But guilty of what?
As I asked myself this question, and the horrid,
inevitable answer framed itself in my mind, I turned
automatically from Middle Temple Lane and passed
into the deep shadow of the arch that gives entrance
to Elm Court.
