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The Vanishing Man by R. Austin Freeman

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A Detective Romance










The school of St. Margaret's Hospital was fortunate in its lecturer on
Medical Jurisprudence, or Forensic Medicine, as it is sometimes
described. At some schools the lecturer on this subject is appointed
apparently for the reason that he lacks the qualifications to lecture on
any other. But with us it was very different: John Thorndyke was not
only an enthusiast, a man of profound learning and great reputation, but
he was an exceptional teacher, lively and fascinating in style and of
endless resources. Every remarkable case that had ever been recorded he
appeared to have at his fingers' ends; every fact--chemical, physical,
biological, or even historical--that could in any way be twisted into a
medico-legal significance, was pressed into his service; and his own
varied and curious experiences seemed as inexhaustible as the widow's
cruse. One of his favourite devices for giving life and interest to a
rather dry subject was that of analysing and commenting upon
contemporary cases as reported in the papers (always, of course, with a
due regard to the legal and social proprieties); and it was in this way
that I first became introduced to the astonishing series of events that
was destined to exercise so great an influence on my own life.

The lecture which had just been concluded had dealt with the rather
unsatisfactory subject of survivorship. Most of the students had left
the theatre, and the remainder had gathered round the lecturer's table
to listen to the informal comments that Dr. Thorndyke was wont to
deliver on these occasions in an easy, conversational manner, leaning
against the edge of the table and apparently addressing his remarks to a
stick of blackboard chalk that he held in his fingers.

"The problem of survivorship," he was saying, in reply to a question put
by one of the students, "ordinarily occurs in cases where the bodies of
the parties are producible, or where, at any rate, the occurrence of
death and its approximate time are actually known. But an analogous
difficulty may arise in a case where the body of one of the parties is
not forthcoming, and the fact of death may have to be assumed on
collateral evidence.

"Here, of course, the vital question to be settled is, what is the
latest instant at which it is certain that this person was alive? And
the settlement of that question may turn on some circumstance of the
most trivial and insignificant kind. There is a case in this morning's
paper which illustrates this. A gentleman has disappeared rather
mysteriously. He was last seen by the servant of a relative at whose
house he had called. Now, if this gentleman should never reappear, dead
or alive, the question as to what was the latest moment at which he was
certainly alive will turn upon the further question: 'Was he or was he
not wearing a particular article of jewellery when he called at that
relative's house?'"

He paused with a reflective eye bent upon the stump of chalk that he
still held; then, noting the expectant interest with which we were
regarding him, he resumed:

"The circumstances in this case are very curious; in fact, they are
highly mysterious; and if any legal issues should arise in respect of
them, they are likely to yield some very remarkable complications. The
gentleman who has disappeared, Mr. John Bellingham, is a man well known
in archaeological circles. He recently returned from Egypt, bringing
with him a very fine collection of antiquities--some of which, by the
way, he has presented to the British Museum, where they are now on
view--and having made this presentation, he appears to have gone to
Paris on business. I may mention that the gift consisted of a very fine
mummy and a complete set of tomb-furniture. The latter, however, had not
arrived from Egypt at the time when the missing man left for Paris, but
the mummy was inspected on the fourteenth of October at Mr. Bellingham's
house by Dr. Norbury of the British Museum, in the presence of the donor
and his solicitor, and the latter was authorised to hand over the
complete collection to the British Museum authorities when the
tomb-furniture arrived; which he has since done.

"From Paris he seems to have returned on the twenty-third of November,
and to have gone direct from Charing Cross to the house of a relative, a
Mr. Hurst, who is a bachelor and lives at Eltham. He appeared at the
house at twenty minutes past five, and as Mr. Hurst had not yet come
down from town and was not expected until a quarter to six, he explained
who he was and said he would wait in the study and write some letters.
The housemaid accordingly showed him into the study, furnished him with
writing materials, and left him.

"At a quarter to six Mr. Hurst let himself in with his latchkey, and
before the housemaid had time to speak to him he had passed through into
the study and shut the door.

"At six o'clock, when the dinner bell was rung, Mr. Hurst entered the
dining-room alone, and, observing that the table was laid for two, asked
the reason.

"'I thought Mr. Bellingham was slaying to dinner, sir,' was The
housemaid's reply.

"'Mr. Bellingham!' exclaimed the astonished host. 'I didn't know he was
here. Why was I not told?'

"'I thought he was in the study with you, sir,' said the housemaid.

"On this a search was made for the visitor, with the result that he was
nowhere to be found. He had disappeared without leaving a trace, and
what made the incident more odd was that the housemaid was certain that
he had not gone out by the front door. For since neither she nor the
cook was acquainted with Mr. John Bellingham, she had remained the whole
time either in the kitchen, which commanded a view of the front gate, or
in the dining-room, which opened into the hall opposite the study door.
The study itself has a French window opening on a narrow grass plot,
across which is a side gate that opens into an alley; and it appears
that Mr. Bellingham must have made his exit by this rather eccentric
route. At any rate--and this is the important fact--he was not in the
house, and no one had seen him leave it.

"After a hasty meal Mr. Hurst returned to town and called at the office
of Mr. Bellingham's solicitor and confidential agent, a Mr. Jellicoe,
and mentioned the matter to him. Mr. Jellicoe knew nothing of his
client's return from Paris, and the two men at once took the train down
to Woodford, where the missing man's brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham,
lives. The servant who admitted them said that Mr. Godfrey was not at
home, but that his daughter was in the library, which is a detached
building situated in a shrubbery beyond the garden at the back of the
house. Here the two men found, not only Miss Bellingham, but also her
father, who had come in by the back gate.

"Mr. Godfrey and his daughter listened to Mr. Hurst's story with the
greatest surprise, and assured him that they had neither seen nor heard
anything of John Bellingham.

"Presently the party left the library to walk up to the house; but only
a few feet from the library door Mr. Jellicoe noticed an object lying in
the grass and pointed it out to Mr. Godfrey.

"The latter picked it up, and they all recognised it as a scarab which
Mr. John Bellingham had been accustomed to wear suspended from his
watch-chain. There was no mistaking it. It was a very fine scarab of the
eighteenth dynasty fashioned of lapis lazuli and engraved with the
cartouche of Amenhotep III. It had been suspended by a gold ring
fastened to a wire which passed through the suspension hole, and the
ring, though broken, was still in position.

"This discovery, of course, only added to the mystery, which was still
further increased when, on inquiry, a suit-case bearing the initials
J.B. was found to be lying unclaimed in the cloak-room at Charing Cross.
Reference to the counterfoil of the ticket-book showed that it had been
deposited about the time of arrival of the Continental express on the
twenty-third of November, so that its owner must have gone straight on
to Eltham.

"That is how the affair stands at present, and, should the missing man
never reappear or should his body never be found, the question, as you
see, which will be required to be settled is, 'What is the exact time
and place, when and where, he was last known to be alive?' As to the
place, the importance of the issues involved in that question are
obvious and we need not consider them. But the question of time has
another kind of significance. Cases have occurred, as I pointed out in
the lecture, in which proof of survivorship by less than a minute has
secured succession to property. Now, the missing man was last seen alive
at Mr. Hurst's house at twenty minutes past five on the twenty-third of
November. But he appears to have visited his brother's house at
Woodford, and, since nobody saw him at that house, it is at present
uncertain whether he went there before or after calling on Mr. Hurst. If
he went there first, then twenty minutes past five on the evening of the
twenty-third is the latest moment at which he is known to have been
alive; but if he went there after, there would have to be added to this
time the shortest possible time in which he could travel from the one
house to the other.

"But the question as to which house he visited first hinges on the
scarab. If he was wearing the scarab when he arrived at Mr. Hurst's
house, it would be certain that he went there first; but if it was not
then on his watch-chain, a probability would be established that he
went first to Woodford. Thus, you see, a question which may conceivably
become of the most vital moment in determining the succession of
property turns on the observation or non-observation by this housemaid
of an apparently trivial and insignificant fact."

"Has the servant made any statement on the subject, sir?" I ventured to

"Apparently not," replied Dr. Thorndyke; "at any rate, there is no
reference to any such statement in the newspaper report, though,
otherwise, the case is reported in great detail; indeed, the wealth of
detail, including plans of the two houses, is quite remarkable and well
worth noting as being in itself a fact of considerable interest."

"In what respect, sir, is it of interest?" one of the students asked.

"Ah!" replied Dr. Thorndyke, "I think I must leave you to consider that
question yourself. This is an untried case, and we mustn't make free
with the actions and motives of individuals."

"Does the paper give any description of the missing man, sir?" I asked.

"Yes; quite an exhaustive description. Indeed, it is exhaustive to the
verge of impropriety, considering that the man may possibly turn up
alive and well at any moment. It seems that he has an old Pott's
fracture of the left ankle, a linear, longitudinal scar on each
knee--origin not stated, but easily guessed at--and that he has tattooed
on his chest in vermilion a very finely and distinctly executed
representation of the symbolical Eye of Osiris--or Horus or Ra, as the
different authorities have it. There certainly ought to be no
difficulty in identifying the body. But we will hope that it won't come
to that.

"And now I must really be running away, and so must you; but I would
advise you all to get copies of the paper and file them when you have
read the remarkably full details. It is a most curious case, and it is
highly probable that we shall hear of it again. Good afternoon,

Dr. Thorndyke's advice appealed to all who heard it, for medical
jurisprudence was a live subject at St. Margaret's and all of us were
keenly interested in it. As a result, we sallied forth in a body to the
nearest newsvendor's, and, having each provided himself with a copy of
the _Daily Telegraph_, adjourned together to the Common Room to devour
the report and thereafter to discuss the bearings of the case,
unhampered by those considerations of delicacy that afflicted our more
squeamish and scrupulous teacher.



It is one of the canons of correct conduct, scrupulously adhered to
(when convenient) by all well-bred persons, that an acquaintance should
be initiated by a proper introduction. To this salutary rule, which I
have disregarded to the extent of an entire chapter, I now hasten to
conform; and the more so inasmuch as nearly two years have passed since
my first informal appearance.

Permit me, then, to introduce Paul Berkeley, M.B., etc., recently--very
recently--qualified, faultlessly attired in the professional frock-coat
and tall hat, and, at the moment of introduction, navigating with
anxious care a perilous strait between a row of well-filled coal-sacks
and a colossal tray piled high with kidney potatoes.

The passage of this strait landed me on the terra firma of Fleur-de-Lys
Court, where I halted for a moment to consult my visiting list. There
was only one more patient for me to see this morning, and he lived at 49
Nevill's Court, wherever that might be. I turned for information to the
presiding deity of the coal shop.

"Can you direct me, Mrs. Jablett, to Nevill's Court?"

She could and she did, grasping me confidentially by the arm (the mark
remained on my sleeve for weeks) and pointing a shaking forefinger at
the dead wall ahead. "Nevill's Court," said Mrs. Jablett, "is a alley,
and you goes into it through a archway. It turns out of Fetter Lane on
the right 'and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings."

I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning round
was nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite and of
a desire to wash in hot water.

The practice which I was conducting was not my own. It belonged to poor
Dick Barnard, an old St. Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits and
indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for a trip
down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the currant trade;
and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyage of
geographical discovery.

I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow, arched opening,
bearing the superscription "Nevill's Court," arrested my steps, and here
I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait for the
wanderer in London byways. Expecting to find the grey squalor of the
ordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of the arch
past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of light and
colour--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved by
sunlit foliage. In the heart of London a tree is always a delightful
surprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers. The
narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their wooden
palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint and
sober rusticity; and even as I entered a bevy of work-girls, with
gaily-coloured blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened up
the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summer

In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved with
what looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found to be
old-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I was
meditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who had
thus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps, or an author, or
perchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seeking
inscribed on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell or knocker,
so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door open and entered.

But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a positive wonder,
a dream. Here, within earshot of the rumble of Fleet Street, I was in an
old-fashioned garden enclosed by high walls and, now that the gate was
shut, cut off from all sight and knowledge of the urban world that
seethed without. I stood and gazed in delighted astonishment. Sun-gilded
trees and flower-beds gay with blossom; lupins, snap-dragons,
nasturtiums, spiry foxgloves, and mighty hollyhocks formed the
foreground; over which a pair of sulphur-tinted butterflies flitted,
unmindful of a buxom and miraculously clean white cat which pursued
them, dancing across the borders and clapping her snowy paws fruitlessly
in mid-air. And the background was no less wonderful: a grand old house,
dark-eaved and venerable, that must have looked down on this garden when
ruffled dandies were borne in sedan chairs through the court, and gentle
Izaak Walton, stealing forth from his shop in Fleet Street, strolled up
Fetter Lane to "go a-angling" at Temple Mills.

So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that my hand was on the
bottom knob of a row of bell-pulls before I recollected myself; and it
was not until a most infernal jangling from within recalled me to my
business that I observed underneath it a small brass plate inscribed
"Miss Oman."

The door opened with some suddenness, and a short, middle-aged woman
surveyed me hungrily.

"Have I rung the wrong bell?" I asked--foolishly enough, I must admit.

"How can I tell?" she demanded. "I expect you have. It's the sort of
thing a man would do--ring the wrong bell and then say he's sorry."

"I didn't go as far as that," I retorted. "It seems to have had the
desired effect, and I've made your acquaintance into the bargain."

"Whom do you want to see?" she asked.

"Mr. Bellingham."

"Are you the doctor?"

"I am _a_ doctor."

"Follow me upstairs," said Miss Oman, "and don't tread on the paint."

I crossed the spacious hall, and, preceded by my conductress, ascended a
noble oak staircase, treading carefully on a ribbon of matting that ran
up the middle. On the first-floor landing Miss Oman opened a door and,
pointing to the room, said: "Go in there and wait; I'll tell her you're

"I said _Mr_. Bellingham--" I began; but the door slammed on me, and
Miss Oman's footsteps retreated rapidly down the stairs.

It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very awkward position. The
room into which I had been shown communicated with another, and though
the door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly aware of a
conversation that was taking place in the adjoining room. At first,
indeed, only a vague mutter, with a few disjointed phrases, came through
the door, but suddenly an angry voice rang out clear and painfully

"Yes, I did! And I say it again. Bribery! Collusion! That's what it
amounts to. You want to square me!"

"Nothing of the kind, Godfrey," was the reply in a lower tone; but at
this point I coughed emphatically and moved a chair, and the voices
subsided once more into an indistinct murmur.

To distract my attention from my unseen neighbours I glanced curiously
about the room and speculated upon the personalities of its occupants. A
very curious room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayed
splendour and old-world dignity: a room full of interest and character
and of contrasts and perplexing contradictions. For the most part it
spoke of unmistakable though decent poverty. It was nearly bare of
furniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest--a small
kitchen table and three Windsor chairs (two of them with arms); a
threadbare string carpet on the floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on the
table; these, with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed of grocer's
boxes, formed the entire suite. And yet, despite its poverty, the place
exhaled an air of homely if rather ascetic comfort, and the taste was
irreproachable. The quiet russet of the tablecloth struck a pleasant
harmony with the subdued bluish green of the worn carpet; the Windsor
chairs and the legs of the table had been carefully denuded of their
glaring varnish and stained a sober brown; and the austerity of the
whole was relieved by a ginger-jar filled with fresh-cut flowers and set
in the middle of the table.

But the contrasts of which I have spoken were most singular and
puzzling. There were the bookshelves, for instance, home-made and
stained at the cost of a few pence, but filled with recent and costly
works on archaeology and ancient art. There were the objects on the
mantelpiece: a facsimile in bronze--not bronzed plaster--of the
beautiful head of Hypnos and a pair of fine Ushabti figures. There were
the decorations of the walls, a number of etchings--signed proofs, every
one of them--of Oriental subjects, and a splendid facsimile reproduction
of an Egyptian papyrus. It was incongruous in the extreme, this mingling
of costly refinements with the barest and shabbiest necessaries of life,
of fastidious culture with manifest poverty. I could make nothing of it.
What manner of man, I wondered, was this new patient of mine? Was he a
miser, hiding himself and his wealth in this obscure court? An eccentric
savant? A philosopher? Or--more probably--a crank? But at this point my
meditations were interrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, once
more raised in anger.

"But I say that you _are_ making an accusation! You are implying that I
made away with him."

"Not at all," was the reply; "but I repeat that it is your business to
ascertain what has become of him. The responsibility rests upon you."

"Upon me!" rejoined the first voice. "And what about you? Your position
is a pretty fishy one if it comes to that."

"What!" roared the other. "Do you insinuate that I murdered my own

During this amazing colloquy I had stood gaping with sheer astonishment.
Suddenly I recollected myself, and, dropping into a chair, set my elbows
on my knees and slapped my hands over my ears; and thus I must have
remained for a full minute when I became aware of the closing of a door
behind me.

I sprang to my feet and turned in some embarrassment (for I must have
looked unspeakably ridiculous) to confront the sombre figure of a rather
tall and strikingly handsome girl, who, as she stood with her hand on
the knob of the door, saluted me with a formal bow. In an instantaneous
glance I noted how perfectly she matched her strange surroundings.
Black-robed, black-haired, with black-grey eyes and a grave, sad face of
ivory pallor, she stood, like one of old Terborch's portraits, a harmony
in tones so low as to be but a step removed from monochrome. Obviously a
lady in spite of the worn and rusty dress, and something in the poise of
the head and the set of the straight brows hinted at a spirit that
adversity had hardened rather than broken.

"I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting," she said; and as
she spoke a certain softening at the corners of the austere mouth
reminded me of the absurd position in which she had found me.

I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence whatever; that
I had, in fact, been rather glad of the rest; and I was beginning
somewhat vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the voice
from the adjoining room again broke forth with hideous distinctness.

"I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind! Why, confound you, it's
nothing less than a conspiracy that you're proposing!"

Miss Bellingham--as I assumed her to be--stepped quickly across the
floor, flushing angrily, as well she might; but, as she reached the
door, it flew open and a small, spruce, middle-aged man burst into the

"Your father is mad, Ruth!" he exclaimed; "absolutely stark mad! And I
refuse to hold any further communication with him."

"The present interview was not of his seeking," Miss Bellingham replied

"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it was my mistaken
generosity. But there--what is the use of talking? I've done my best for
you and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can find my way.
Good morning." With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, the speaker
strode out of the room, banging the door after him.

"I must apologise for this extraordinary reception," said Miss
Bellingham; "but I believe medical men are not easily astonished. I will
introduce you to your patient now." She opened the door and, as I
followed her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is another visitor
for you, dear. Doctor--"

"Berkeley," said I. "I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard."

The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped up
in bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand, which
I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.

"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Bellingham. "I hope Doctor Barnard is not

"Oh, no," I answered; "he has gone for a trip down the Mediterranean on
a currant ship. The chance occurred rather suddenly, and I bustled him
off before he had time to change his mind. Hence my rather unceremonious
appearance, which I hope you will forgive."

"Not at all," was the hearty response. "I'm delighted to hear that you
sent him off; he wanted a holiday, poor man. And I am delighted to make
your acquaintance, too."

"It is very good of you," I said; whereupon he bowed as gracefully as a
man may who is propped up in bed with a heap of pillows; and having thus
exchanged broadsides of civility, so to speak, we--or, at least,
I--proceeded to business.

"How long have you been laid up?" I asked cautiously, not wishing to
make too evident the fact that my principal had given me no information
respecting his case.

"A week to-day," he replied. "The _fons et origo mali_ was a hansom-cab
which upset me opposite the Law Courts--sent me sprawling in the middle
of the road. My own fault, of course--at least, the cabby said so, and I
suppose he knew. But that was no consolation to me."

"Were you much hurt?"

"No, not really; but the fall bruised my knee rather badly and gave me a
deuce of a shake up. I'm too old for that sort of thing, you know."

"Most people are," said I.

"True; but you can take a cropper more gracefully at twenty than at
fifty-five. However, the knee is getting on quite well--you shall see it
presently--and you observe that I am giving it complete rest. But that
isn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it. It's my confounded
nerves. I'm as irritable as the devil and as nervous as a cat, and I
can't get a decent night's rest."

I recalled the tremulous hand that he had offered me. He did not look
like a drinker, but still--

"Do you smoke much?" I inquired diplomatically.

He looked at me slyly and chuckled. "That's a very delicate way to
approach the subject, Doctor," he said. "No, I don't smoke much, and I
don't crook my little finger. I saw you look at my shaky hand just
now--oh, it's all right; I'm not offended. It's a doctor's business to
keep his eyelids lifting. But my hand is steady enough as a rule, when
I'm not upset, but the least excitement sets me shaking like a jelly.
And the fact is that I have just had a deucedly unpleasant interview--"

"I think," Miss Bellingham interrupted, "Doctor Berkeley and, in fact,
the neighbourhood at large, are aware of the fact."

Mr. Bellingham laughed rather shamefacedly. "I'm afraid I did lose my
temper," he said; "but I am an impulsive old fellow, Doctor, and when
I'm put out I'm apt to speak my mind--a little too bluntly, perhaps."

"And audibly," his daughter added. "Do you know that Doctor Berkeley was
reduced to the necessity of stopping his ears?" She glanced at me, as
she spoke, with something like a twinkle in her solemn grey eyes.

"Did I shout?" Mr. Bellingham asked, not very contritely, I thought,
though he added: "I'm very sorry, my dear; but it won't happen again. I
think we've seen the last of that good gentleman."

"I am sure I hope so," she rejoined, adding: "And now I will leave you
to your talk; I shall be in the next room if you should want me."

I opened the door for her, and when she had passed out with a stiff
little bow I seated myself by the bedside and resumed the consultation.
It was evidently a case of nervous breakdown, to which the cab accident
had, no doubt, contributed. As to the other antecedents, they were no
concern of mine, though Mr. Bellingham seemed to think otherwise, for he
resumed: "That cab business was the last straw, you know, and it
finished me off, but I have been going down the hill for a long time.
I've had a lot of trouble during the last two years. But I suppose I
oughtn't to pester you with the details of my personal affairs."

"Anything that bears on your present state of health is of interest to
me if you don't mind telling it," I said.

"Mind!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever meet an invalid who didn't enjoy
talking about his own health? It's the listener who minds, as a rule."

"Well, the present listener doesn't," I said.

"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "I'll treat myself to the luxury of telling
you all my troubles; I don't often get the chance of a confidential
grumble to a responsible man of my own class. And I really have some
excuse for railing at Fortune, as you will agree when I tell you that, a
couple of years ago, I went to bed one night a gentleman of independent
means and excellent prospects and woke up in the morning to find myself
practically a beggar. Not a cheerful experience that, you know, at my
time of life, eh?"

"No," I agreed, "nor at any other."

"And that was not all," he continued; "for, at the same moment, I lost
my only brother, my dearest, kindest friend. He disappeared--vanished
off the face of the earth; but perhaps you have heard of the affair. The
confounded papers were full of it at the time."

He paused abruptly, noticing, no doubt, a sudden change in my face. Of
course, I recollected the case now. Indeed, ever since I had entered the
house some chord of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now his last
words had struck out the full note.

"Yes," I said, "I remember the incident, though I don't suppose I should
but for the fact that our lecturer on medical jurisprudence drew my
attention to it."

"Indeed," said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as I fancied. "What did
he say about it?"

"He referred to it as a case that was calculated to give rise to some
very pretty legal complications."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Bellingham, "that man was a prophet! Legal
complications, indeed! But I'll be bound he never guessed at the sort of
infernal tangle that has actually gathered round the affair. By the way,
what was his name?"

"Thorndyke," I replied. "Doctor John Thorndyke."

"Thorndyke," Mr. Bellingham repeated in a musing, retrospective tone. "I
seem to remember that name. Yes, of course. I have heard a legal friend
of mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the case of a man
whom I knew slightly years ago--a certain Jeffrey Blackmore, who also
disappeared very mysteriously. I remember now that Doctor Thorndyke
unravelled that case with most remarkable ingenuity."

"I daresay he would be very much interested to hear about your case," I

"I daresay he would," was the reply; "but one can't take up a
professional man's time for nothing, and I couldn't afford to pay him.
And that reminds me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping about my
purely personal affairs."

"My morning round is finished," said I, "and, moreover, your personal
affairs are highly interesting. I suppose I mustn't ask what is the
nature of the legal entanglement?"

"Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day and go
home a raving lunatic. But I'll tell you this much: the trouble is about
my poor brother's will. In the first place, it can't be administered
because there is no sufficient evidence that my brother is dead; and in
the second place, if it could, all the property would go to people who
were never intended to benefit. The will itself is the most diabolically
exasperating document that was ever produced by the perverted ingenuity
of a wrong-headed man. That's all. Will you have a look at my knee?"

As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a rapid _crescendo_ and
ending almost in a shout) had left him purple-faced and trembling, I
thought it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly I proceeded to
inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and to overhaul my
patient generally; and having given him detailed instructions as to his
general conduct, I rose to take my leave.

"And remember," I said as I shook his hand, "no tobacco, no coffee, no
excitement of any kind. Lead a quiet, bovine life."

"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but supposing people come here and
excite me?"

"Disregard them," said I, "and read _Whitaker's Almanack_." And with
this parting advice I passed out into the other room.

Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile of blue-covered
note-books before her, two of which were open, displaying pages closely
written in a small, neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and looked
at me inquiringly.

"I heard you advising my father to read _Whitaker's Almanack_," she
said. "Was that as a curative measure?"

"Entirely," I replied. "I recommended it for its medicinal virtues, as
an antidote to mental excitement."

She smiled faintly. "It certainly is not a highly emotional book," she
said, and then asked: "Have you any other instructions to give?"

"Well, I might give the conventional advice--to maintain a cheerful
outlook and avoid worry; but I don't suppose you would find it very

"No," she answered bitterly; "it is a counsel of perfection. People in
our position are not a very cheerful class, I am afraid; but still they
don't seek out worries from sheer perverseness. The worries come
unsought. But, of course, you can't enter into that."

"I can't give any practical help, I fear, though I do sincerely hope
that your father's affairs will straighten themselves out soon."

She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied me down to the street
door, where, with a bow and a rather stiff handshake, she gave me my

Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on my ears as I came
out through the archway, and very squalid and unrestful the little
street looked when contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet of the
old garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and walls made
hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards in sham gilt frames, its aspect
was so revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction, and was
still busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy,
Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.



That the character of an individual tends to be reflected in his dress
is a fact familiar to the least observant. That the observation is
equally applicable to aggregates of men is less familiar, but equally
true. Do not the members of the fighting professions, even to this day,
deck themselves in feathers, in gaudy colours and gilded ornaments,
after the manner of the African war-chief or the "Redskin brave," and
thereby indicate the place of war in modern civilisation? Does not the
Church of Rome send her priests to the altar in habiliments that were
fashionable before the fall of the Roman Empire, in token of her
immovable conservatism? And, lastly, does not the Law, lumbering on in
the wake of progress, symbolise its subjection to precedent by head-gear
reminiscent of the days of good Queen Anne?

I should apologise for obtruding upon the reader these somewhat trite
reflections; which were set going by the quaint stock-in-trade of the
wig-maker's shop in the cloisters of the Inner Temple, whither I had
strayed on a sultry afternoon in quest of shade and quiet. I had halted
opposite the little shop window, and, with my eyes bent dreamily on the
row of wigs, was pursuing the above train of thought when I was startled
by a deep voice saying softly in my ear: "I'd have the full-bottomed one
if I were you."

I turned swiftly and rather fiercely, and looked into the face of my
old friend and fellow-student, Jervis, behind whom, regarding us with a
sedate smile, stood my former teacher, Dr. John Thorndyke. Both men
greeted me with a warmth that I felt to be very flattering, for
Thorndyke was quite a great personage, and even Jervis was several years
my academic senior.

"You are coming in to have a cup of tea with us, I hope," said
Thorndyke; and as I assented gladly, he took my arm and led me across
the court in the direction of the Treasury.

"But why that hungry gaze at those forensic vanities, Berkeley?" he
asked. "Are you thinking of following my example and Jervis's--deserting
the bedside for the Bar?"

"What! Has Jervis gone into the law?" I exclaimed.

"Bless you, yes!" replied Jervis. "I have become parasitical on
Thorndyke! 'The big fleas have little fleas,' you know. I am the
additional fraction trailing after the whole number in the rear of a
decimal point."

"Don't you believe him, Berkeley," interposed Thorndyke. "He is the
brains of the firm. I supply the respectability and moral worth. But you
haven't answered my question. What are you doing here on a summer
afternoon staring into a wigmaker's window?"

"I am Barnard's locum; he is in practice in Fetter Lane."

"I know," said Thorndyke; "we meet him occasionally, and very pale and
peaky he has been looking of late. Is he taking a holiday?"

"Yes. He has gone for a trip to the Isles of Greece in a currant ship."

"Then," said Jervis, "you are actually a local G.P. I thought you were
looking beastly respectable."

"And, judging from your leisured manner when we encountered you," added
Thorndyke, "the practice is not a strenuous one. I suppose it is
entirely local?"

"Yes," I replied. "The patients mostly live in the small streets and
courts within a half-mile radius of the surgery, and the abodes of some
of them are pretty squalid. Oh! and that reminds me of a very strange
coincidence. It will interest you, I think."

"Life is made up of strange coincidences," said Thorndyke. "Nobody but a
reviewer of novels is ever really surprised at a coincidence. But what
is yours?"

"It is connected with a case that you mentioned to us at the hospital
about two years ago, the case of a man who disappeared under rather
mysterious circumstances. Do you remember it? The man's name was

"The Egyptologist? Yes, I remember the case quite well. What about it?"

"The brother is a patient of mine. He is living in Nevill's Court with
his daughter, and they seem to be as poor as church mice."

"Really," said Thorndyke, "this is quite interesting. They must have
come down in the world rather suddenly. If I remember rightly, the
brother was living in a house of some pretensions standing in its own

"Yes, that is so. I see you recollect all about the case."

"My dear fellow," said Jervis, "Thorndyke never forgets a likely case.
He is a sort of medico-legal camel. He gulps down the raw facts from the
newspapers or elsewhere, and then, in his leisure moments, he calmly
regurgitates them and has a quiet chew at them. It is a quaint habit. A
case crops up in the papers or in one of the courts, and Thorndyke
swallows it whole. Then it lapses and everyone forgets it. A year or two
later it crops up in a new form, and, to your astonishment, you find
that Thorndyke has got it all cut and dried. He has been ruminating on
it periodically in the interval."

"You notice," said Thorndyke, "that my learned friend is pleased to
indulge in mixed metaphors. But his statement is substantially true,
though obscurely worded. You must tell us more about the Bellinghams
when we have fortified you with a cup of tea."

Our talk had brought us to Thorndyke's chambers, which were on the first
floor of No. 5A King's Bench Walk, and as we entered the fine, spacious,
panelled room we found a small, elderly man, neatly dressed in black,
setting out the tea-service on the table. I glanced at him with some
curiosity. He hardly looked like a servant, in spite of his neat, black
clothes; in fact, his appearance was rather puzzling, for while his
quiet dignity and his serious, intelligent face suggested some kind of
professional man, his neat, capable hands were those of a skilled

Thorndyke surveyed the tea-tray thoughtfully and then looked at his
retainer. "I see you have put three tea-cups, Polton," he said. "Now,
how did you know I was bringing someone in to tea?"

The little man smiled a quaint, crinkly smile of gratification as he

"I happened to look out of the laboratory window as you turned the
corner, sir."

"How disappointingly simple," said Jervis. "We were hoping for something
abstruse and telepathic."

"Simplicity is the soul of efficiency, sir," replied Polton as he
checked the tea-service to make sure that nothing was forgotten, and
with this remarkable aphorism he silently evaporated.

"To return to the Bellingham case," said Thorndyke, when he had poured
out the tea. "Have you picked up any facts relating to the parties--any
facts, I mean, of course, that it would be proper for you to mention?"

"I have learned one or two things that there is no harm in repeating.
For instance, I gather that Godfrey Bellingham--my patient--lost all his
property quite suddenly about the time of the disappearance."

"That is really odd," said Thorndyke. "The opposite condition would be
quite understandable, but one doesn't see exactly how this can have
happened, unless there was an allowance of some sort."

"No, that was what struck me. But there seem to be some queer features
in the case, and the legal position is evidently getting complicated.
There is a will, for example, which is giving trouble."

"They will hardly be able to administer the will without either proof or
presumption of death," Thorndyke remarked.

"Exactly. That's one of the difficulties. Another is that there seems to
be some fatal defect in the drafting of the will itself. I don't know
what it is, but I expect I shall hear sooner or later. By the way, I
mentioned the interest that you had taken in the case, and I think
Bellingham would have liked to consult you, but, of course, the poor
devil has no money."

"That is awkward for him if the other interested parties have. There
will probably be legal proceedings of some kind, and as the law takes no
account of poverty, he is likely to go to the wall. He ought to have
advice of some sort."

"I don't see how he is to get it," said I.

"Neither do I," Thorndyke admitted. "There are no hospitals for
impecunious litigants; it is assumed that only persons of means have a
right to go to law. Of course, if we knew the man and the circumstances
we might be able to help him; but, for all we know to the contrary, he
may be an arrant scoundrel."

I recalled the strange conversation that I had overheard, and wondered
what Thorndyke would have thought of it if it had been allowable for me
to repeat it. Obviously it was not, however, and I could only give my
own impressions.

"He doesn't strike me as that," I said; "but, of course, one never
knows. Personally, he impressed me rather favourably, which is more than
the other man did."

"What other man?" asked Thorndyke.

"There was another man in the case, wasn't there? I forget his name. I
saw him at the house and didn't much like the look of him. I suspect
he's putting some sort of pressure on Bellingham."

"Berkeley knows more about this than he is telling us," said Jervis.
"Let us look up the report and see who this stranger is." He took down
from a shelf a large volume of newspaper-cuttings and laid it on the

"You see," said he, as he ran his finger down the index, "Thorndyke
files all the cases that are likely to come to something, and I know he
had expectations respecting this one. I fancy he had some ghoulish hope
that the missing gentleman's head might turn up in somebody's dust-bin.
Here we are; the other man's name is Hurst. He is apparently a cousin,
and it was at his house that the missing man was last seen alive."

"So you think Mr. Hurst is moving in the matter?" said Thorndyke, when
he had glanced over the report.

"That is my impression," I replied, "though I really know nothing about

"Well," said Thorndyke, "if you should learn what is being done and
should have permission to speak of it, I shall be very interested to
hear how the case progresses; and if an unofficial opinion on any point
would be of service, I think there would be no harm in my giving it."

"It would certainly be of great value if the other parties are taking
professional advice," I said; and then, after a pause, I asked: "Have
you given this case much consideration?"

Thorndyke reflected. "No," he said, "I can't say that I have. I turned
it over rather carefully when the report first appeared, and I have
speculated on it occasionally since. It is my habit, as Jervis was
telling you, to utilise odd moments of leisure (such as a railway
journey, for instance) by constructing theories to account for the facts
of such obscure cases as have come to my notice. It is a useful habit, I
think, for, apart from the mental exercise and experience that one gains
from it, an appreciable proportion of these cases ultimately come into
my hands, and then the previous consideration of them is so much time

"Have you formed any theory to account for the facts in this case?" I

"Yes; I have several theories, one of which I especially favour, and I
am waiting with great interest such new facts as may indicate to me
which of these theories is probably the correct one."

"It's no use your trying to pump him, Berkeley," said Jervis. "He is
fitted with an information-valve that opens inwards. You can pour in as
much as you like, but you can't get any out."

Thorndyke chuckled. "My learned friend is, in the main, correct," he
said. "You see, I may be called upon any day to advise on this case, in
which event I should feel remarkably foolish if I had already expounded
my views in detail. But I should like to hear what you and Jervis make
of the case as reported in the newspapers."

"There now," exclaimed Jervis, "what did I tell you? He wants to suck
our brains."

"As far as my brain is concerned," I said, "the process of suction isn't
likely to yield much except a vacuum, so I will resign in favour of you.
You are a full-blown lawyer, whereas I am only a simple G.P."

Jervis filled his pipe with deliberate care and lighted it. Then,
blowing a slender stream of smoke into the air, he said:

"If you want to know what I make of the case from that report, I can
tell you in one word--nothing. Every road seems to end in a cul-de-sac."

"Oh, come!" said Thorndyke, "this is mere laziness. Berkeley wants to
witness a display of your forensic wisdom. A learned counsel may be in
a fog--he very often is--but he doesn't state the fact baldly; he wraps
it up in a decent verbal disguise. Tell us how you arrive at your
conclusion. Show us that you have really weighed the facts."

"Very well," said Jervis, "I will give you a masterly analysis of the
case--leading to nothing." He continued to puff at his pipe for a time
with slight embarrassment, as I thought--and I fully sympathised with
him. Finally he blew a little cloud and commenced:

"The position appears to be this: Here is a man who is seen to enter a
certain house, who is shown into a certain room and shut in. He is not
seen to come out, and yet, when the room is next entered, it is found to
be empty; and that man is never seen again, alive or dead. That is a
pretty tough beginning.

"Now, it is evident that one of three things must have happened. Either
he must have remained in that room, or at least in that house, alive; or
he must have died, naturally or otherwise, and his body have been
concealed; or he must have left the house unobserved. Let us take the
first case. This affair happened nearly two years ago. Now, he couldn't
have remained alive in the house for two years. He would have been
noticed. The servants, for instance, when cleaning out the rooms, would
have observed him."

Here Thorndyke interposed with an indulgent smile at his junior: "My
learned friend is treating the inquiry with unbecoming levity. We accept
the conclusion that the man did not remain in the house alive."

"Very well. Then did he remain in it dead? Apparently not. The report
says that as soon as the man was missed, Hurst and the servants
together searched the house thoroughly. But there had been no time or
opportunity to dispose of the body, whence the only possible conclusion
is that the body was not there. Moreover, if we admit the possibility of
his having been murdered--for that is what concealment of the body would
imply--there is the question: Who could have murdered him? Not the
servants, obviously, and as to Hurst--well, of course, we don't know
what his relations with the missing man have been--at least, I don't."

"Neither do I," said Thorndyke. "I know nothing beyond what is in the
newspaper report and what Berkeley has told us."

"Then we know nothing. He may have had a motive for murdering the man or
he may not. The point is that he doesn't seem to have had the
opportunity. Even if we suppose that he managed to conceal the body
temporarily, still there was the final disposal of it. He couldn't have
buried it in the garden with the servants about; neither could he have
burned it. The only conceivable method by which he could have got rid of
it would have been that of cutting it up into fragments and burying the
dismembered parts in some secluded spots or dropping them into ponds or
rivers. But no remains of the kind have been found, as some of them
probably would have been by now, so that there is nothing to support
this suggestion; indeed, the idea of murder, in this house at least,
seems to be excluded by the search that was made the instant the man was

"Then to take the third alternative: Did he leave the house unobserved?
Well, it is not impossible, but it would be a queer thing to do. He may
have been an impulsive or eccentric man. We can't say. We know nothing
about him. But two years have elapsed and he has never turned up, so
that if he left the house secretly he must have gone into hiding and be
hiding still. Of course, he may have been the sort of lunatic who would
behave in that manner or he may not. We have no information as to his
personal character.

"Then there is the complication of the scarab that was picked up in the
grounds of his brother's house at Woodford. That seems to show that he
visited that house at some time. But no one admits having seen him
there; and it is uncertain, therefore, whether he went first to his
brother's house or to Hurst's. If he was wearing the scarab when he
arrived at the Eltham house, he must have left that house unobserved and
gone to Woodford; but if he was not wearing it he probably went from
Woodford to Eltham and there finally disappeared. As to whether he was
or was not wearing the scarab when he was last seen alive by Hurst's
housemaid, there is at present no evidence.

"If he went to his brother's house after his visit to Hurst, the
disappearance is more understandable if we don't mind flinging
accusations of murder about rather casually; for the disposal of the
body would be much less difficult in that case. Apparently no one saw
him enter the house, and, if he did enter, it was by a back gate which
communicated with the library--a separate building some distance from
the house. In that case it would have been physically possible for the
Bellinghams to have made away with him. There was plenty of time to
dispose of the body unobserved--temporarily, at any rate. Nobody had
seen him come to the house, and nobody knew that he was there--if he
_was_ there; and apparently no search was made either at the time or
afterwards. In fact, if it could be shown that the missing man ever left
Hurst's house alive, or that he was wearing the scarab when he arrived
there, things would look rather fishy for the Bellinghams--for, of
course, the girl must have been in it if the father was. But there's the
crux: there is no proof that the man ever did leave Hurst's house alive.
And if he didn't--but there! as I said at first, whichever turning you
take, you find that it ends in a blind alley."

"A lame ending to a masterly exposition," was Thorndyke's comment.

"I know," said Jervis. "But what would you have? There are quite a
number of possible solutions, and one of them must be the true one. But
how are we to judge which it is? I maintain that until we know something
of the parties and the financial and other interests involved we have no

"There," said Thorndyke, "I disagree with you entirely. I maintain that
we have ample data. You say that we have no means of judging which of
the various possible solutions is the true one; but I think that if you
will read the report carefully and thoughtfully you will find that the
facts now known to us point clearly to one explanation, and one only. It
may not be the true explanation, and I don't suppose it is. But we are
now dealing with the matter speculatively, academically, and I contend
that our data yield a definite conclusion. What do you say, Berkeley?"

"I say that it is time for me to be off; the evening consultations begin
at half-past six."

"Well," said Thorndyke, "don't let us keep you from your duties, with
poor Barnard currant-picking in the Grecian Isles. But come in and see
us again. Drop in when you like, after your work is done. You won't be
in our way even if we are busy, which we very seldom are after eight

I thanked Dr. Thorndyke most heartily for making me free of his chambers
in this hospitable fashion and took my leave, setting forth homewards by
way of Middle Temple Lane and the Embankment; not a very direct route
for Fetter Lane, it must be confessed; but our talk had revived my
interest in the Bellingham household and put me in a reflective vein.

From the remarkable conversation that I had overheard it was evident
that the plot was thickening. Not that I supposed that these two
respectable gentlemen really suspected one another of having made away
with the missing man; but still, their unguarded words, spoken in anger,
made it clear that each had allowed the thought of sinister
possibilities to enter his mind--a dangerous condition that might easily
grow into actual suspicion. And then the circumstances really were
highly mysterious, as I realised with especial vividness now after
listening to my friend's analysis of the evidence.

From the problem itself my mind travelled, not for the first time during
the last few days, to the handsome girl who had seemed in my eyes the
high-priestess of this temple of mystery in the quaint little court.
What a strange figure she made against this strange background, with her
quiet, chilly, self-contained manner, her pale face, so sad and worn,
her black, straight brows and solemn grey eyes, so inscrutable,
mysterious, Sibylline. A striking, even impressive, personality this, I
reflected, with something in it sombre and enigmatic that attracted and
yet repelled.

And here I recalled Jervis's words: "The girl must have been in it if
the father was." It was a dreadful thought, even though only
speculatively uttered, and my heart rejected it; rejected it with an
indignation that rather surprised me. And this notwithstanding that the
sombre black-robed figure that my memory conjured up was one that
associated itself appropriately enough with the idea of mystery and



My meditations brought me by a circuitous route, and ten minutes late,
to the end of Fetter Lane, where, exchanging my rather abstracted air
for the alert manner of a busy practitioner, I strode forward briskly
and darted into the surgery with knitted brows, as though just released
from an anxious case. But there was only one patient waiting, and she
saluted me as I entered with a snort of defiance.

"Here you are, then?" said she.

"You are perfectly correct, Miss Oman," I replied; "in fact, you have
put the case in a nutshell. What can I have the pleasure of doing for

"Nothing," was the answer. "My medical adviser is a lady; but I've
brought a note from Mr. Bellingham. Here it is," and she thrust the
envelope into my hand.

I glanced through the note and learned that my patient had had a couple
of bad nights and a very harassing day. "Could I have something to give
me a night's rest?" it concluded.

I reflected a few moments. One is not very ready to prescribe sleeping
draughts for unknown patients, but still, insomnia is a very distressing
condition. In the end, I temporised with a moderate dose of bromide,
deciding to call and see if more energetic measures were necessary.

"He had better take a dose of this at once, Miss Oman," said I, as I
handed her the bottle, "and I will look in later and see how he is."

"I expect he will be glad to see you," she answered, "for he is all
alone to-night and very dumpy. Miss Bellingham is out. But I must remind
you that he's a poor man and pays his way. You must excuse my mentioning

"I am much obliged to you for the hint, Miss Oman," I rejoined. "It
isn't necessary for me to see him, but I should like just to look in and
have a chat."

"Yes, it will do him good. You have your points, though punctuality
doesn't seem to be one of them," and with this parting shot Miss Oman
bustled away.

Half-past eight found me ascending the great, dim staircase of the house
in Nevill's Court preceded by Miss Oman, by whom I was ushered into the
room. Mr. Bellingham, who had just finished some sort of meal, was
sitting hunched up in his chair gazing gloomily into the empty grate. He
brightened up as I entered, but was evidently in very low spirits.

"I didn't mean to drag you out after your day's work was finished," he
said, "though I am very glad to see you."

"You haven't dragged me out. I heard you were alone, so I just dropped
in for a few minutes' gossip."

"That is really kind of you," he said heartily. "But I'm afraid you'll
find me rather poor company. A man who is full of his own highly
disagreeable affairs is not a desirable companion."

"You mustn't let me disturb you if you'd rather be alone," said I, with
a sudden fear that I was intruding.

"Oh, you won't disturb me," he replied; adding, with a laugh: "It's
more likely to be the other way about. In fact, if I were not afraid of
boring you to death I would ask you to let me talk my difficulties over
with you."

"You won't bore me," I said. "It is generally interesting to share
another man's experiences without their inconveniences. 'The proper
study of mankind is--man,' you know, especially to a doctor."

Mr. Bellingham chuckled grimly. "You make me feel like a microbe," he
said. "However, if you would care to take a peep at me through your
microscope, I will crawl on to the stage for your inspection, though it
is not _my_ actions that furnish the materials for your psychological
studies. I am only a passive agent. It is my poor brother who is the
_Deus ex machina_, who, from his unknown grave, as I fear, pulls the
strings of this infernal puppet-show."

He paused, and for a space gazed thoughtfully into the grate as if he
had forgotten my presence. At length he looked up, and resumed:

"It is a curious story, Doctor--a very curious story. Part of it you
know--the middle part. I will tell it you from the beginning, and then
you will know as much as I do; for, as to the end, that is known to no
one. It is written, no doubt, in the book of destiny, but the page has
yet to be turned.

"The mischief began with my father's death. He was a country clergyman
of very moderate means, a widower with two children, my brother John and
me. He managed to send us both to Oxford, after which John went into the
Foreign Office and I was to have gone into the Church. But I suddenly
discovered that my views on religion had undergone a change that made
this impossible, and just about this time my father came into a quite
considerable property. Now, as it was his expressed intention to leave
the estate equally divided between my brother and me, there was no need
for me to take up any profession for a livelihood. Archaeology was
already the passion of my life, and I determined to devote myself
henceforth to my favourite study, in which, by the way, I was following
a family tendency; for my father was an enthusiastic student of ancient
Oriental history, and John was, as you know, an ardent Egyptologist.

"Then my father died quite suddenly, and left no will. He had intended
to have one drawn up, but had put it off until it was too late. And
since nearly all the property was in the form of real estate, my brother
inherited practically the whole of it. However, in deference to the
known wishes of my father, he made me an allowance of five hundred a
year, which was about a quarter of the annual income, I urged him to
assign me a lump sum, but he refused to do this. Instead, he instructed
his solicitor to pay me the allowance in quarterly instalments during
the rest of his life; and it was understood that, on his death, the
entire estate should devolve on me, or if I died first, on my daughter
Ruth. Then, as you know, he disappeared suddenly, and as the
circumstances suggested that he was dead, and there was no evidence that
he was alive, his solicitor--a Mr. Jellicoe--found himself unable to
continue the payment of the allowance. On the other hand, as there was
no positive evidence that my brother was dead, it was impossible to
administer the will."

"You say that the circumstances suggested that your brother was dead.
What circumstances were they?"

"Principally the suddenness and completeness of the disappearance. His
luggage, as you may remember, was found lying unclaimed at the railway
station; and there was another circumstance even more suggestive. My
brother drew a pension from the Foreign Office, for which he had to
apply in person, or, if abroad, produce proof that he was alive on the
date when the payment became due. Now, he was exceedingly regular in
this respect; in fact, he had never been known to fail, either to appear
in person or to transmit the necessary documents to his agent, Mr.
Jellicoe. But from the moment when he vanished so mysteriously to the
present day, nothing whatever has been heard of him."

"It's a very awkward position for you," I said, "but I should think
there will not be much difficulty in obtaining the permission of the
Court to presume death and to proceed to prove the will."

Mr. Bellingham made a wry face. "I expect you are right," he said, "but,
unfortunately, that doesn't help me much. You see, Mr. Jellicoe, having
waited a reasonable time for my brother to reappear, took a very unusual
but, I think, in the special circumstances, a very proper step: he
summoned me and the other interested party to his office and
communicated to us the provisions of the will. And very extraordinary
provisions they turned out to be. I was thunderstruck when I heard them.
And the exasperating thing is that I feel sure my poor brother imagined
that he had made everything perfectly safe and simple."

"They generally do," I said, rather vaguely.

"I suppose they do," said Mr. Bellingham; "but poor John has made the
most infernal hash of his will, and I am certain that he has utterly
defeated his own intentions. You see, we are an old London family. The
house in Queen Square where my brother nominally lived, but actually
kept his collection, has been occupied by us for generations, and most
of the Bellinghams are buried in St. George's burial-ground close by,
though some members of the family are buried in other churchyards in the
neighbourhood. Now, my brother--who, by the way, was a bachelor--had a
strong feeling for the family traditions, and he stipulated, not
unnaturally, in his will that he should be buried in St. George's
burial-ground among his ancestors, or, at least, in one of the places of
burial appertaining to his native parish. But instead of simply
expressing the wish and directing his executors to carry it out, he made
it a condition affecting the operation of the will."

"Affecting it in what respect?" I asked.

"In a very vital respect," answered Mr. Bellingham. "The bulk of the
property he bequeathed to me, or if I predeceased him, to my daughter
Ruth. But the bequest was subject to the condition that I have
mentioned--that he should be buried in a certain place--and if that
condition was not fulfilled, the bulk of the property was to go to my
cousin, George Hurst."

"But in that case," said I, "as you can't produce the body, neither of
you can get the property."

"I am not so sure of that," he replied. "If my brother is dead, it is
pretty certain that he is not buried in St. George's or any of the other
places mentioned, and the fact can easily be proved by production of the
registers. So that a permission to presume death would result in the
handing over to Hurst of almost the entire estate."

"Who is the executor?" I asked.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "there is another muddle. There are two executors;
Jellicoe is one, and the other is the principal beneficiary--Hurst or
myself, as the case may be. But, you see, neither of us can become an
executor until the Court has decided which of us is the principal

"But who is to apply to the Court? I thought that was the business of
the executors."

"Exactly. That is Hurst's difficulty. We were discussing it when you
called the other day, and a very animated discussion it was," he added,
with a grim smile. "You see, Jellicoe naturally refuses to move in the
matter alone. He says he must have the support of the other executor.
But Hurst is not at present the other executor; neither am I. But the
two of us together are the co-executor, since the duty devolves upon one
or other of us, in any case."

"It's a complicated position," I said.

"It is; and the complication has elicited a very curious proposal from
Hurst. He points out--quite correctly, I am afraid--that as the
conditions as to burial have not been complied with, the property must
come to him, and he proposes a very neat little arrangement, which is
this: That I shall support him and Jellicoe in their application for
permission to presume death and administer the will, and that he shall
pay me four hundred a year for life; the arrangement to hold good _in
all eventualities_."

"What does he mean by that?"

"He means," said Bellingham, fixing me with a ferocious scowl, "that if
the body should turn up at any future time, so that the conditions as to
burial should be able to be carried out, he should still retain the
property and pay me the four hundred a year."

"The deuce!" said I. "He seems to know how to drive a bargain."

"His position is that he stands to lose four hundred a year for the term
of my life if the body is never found, and he ought to stand to win if
it is."

"And I gather that you have refused his offer?"

"Yes; very emphatically, and my daughter agrees with me; but I am not
sure that I have done the right thing. A man should think twice, I
suppose, before he burns his boats."

"Have you spoken to Mr. Jellicoe about the matter?"

"Yes, I have been to see him to-day. He is a cautious man, and he
doesn't advise me one way or the other. But I think he disapproves of my
refusal; in fact, he remarked that a bird in the hand is worth two in
the bush, especially when the whereabouts of the bush is unknown."

"Do you think he will apply to the Court without your sanction?"

"He doesn't want to; but I suppose, if Hurst puts pressure on him, he
will have to. Besides, Hurst, as an interested party, could apply on his
own account, and after my refusal he probably will; at least, that is
Jellicoe's opinion."

"The whole thing is a most astonishing muddle," I said, "especially when
one remembers that your brother had a lawyer to advise him. Didn't Mr.
Jellicoe point out to him how absurd the provisions were?"

"Yes, he did. He tells me that he implored my brother to let him draw
up a will embodying the matter in a reasonable form. But John wouldn't
listen to him. Poor old fellow! he could be very pig-headed when he

"And is Hurst's proposal still open?"

"No, thanks to my peppery temper. I refused it very definitely, and sent
him off with a flea in his ear. I hope I have not made a false step; I
was quite taken by surprise when Hurst made the proposal and got rather
angry. You remember, my brother was last seen alive at Hurst's
house--but there, I oughtn't to talk like that, and I oughtn't to pester
you with my confounded affairs when you have come in for a friendly
chat, though I gave you fair warning, you remember."

"Oh, but you have been highly entertaining. You don't realise what an
interest I take in your case."

Mr. Bellingham laughed somewhat grimly. "My case!" he repeated. "You
speak as if I were some rare and curious sort of criminal lunatic.
However, I'm glad you find me amusing. It's more than I find myself."

"I didn't say amusing; I said interesting. I view you with deep respect
as the central figure of a stirring drama. And I am not the only person
who regards you in that light. Do you remember my speaking to you of
Doctor Thorndyke?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"Well, oddly enough, I met him this afternoon and we had a long talk at
his chambers. I took the liberty of mentioning that I had made your
acquaintance. Did I do wrong?"

"No. Certainly not. Why shouldn't you tell him? Did he remember my
infernal case, as you call it?"

"Perfectly, in all its details. He is quite an enthusiast, you know, and
uncommonly keen to hear how the case develops."

"So am I, for that matter," said Mr. Bellingham.

"I wonder," said I, "if you would mind my telling him what you have told
me to-night. It would interest him enormously."

Mr. Bellingham reflected awhile with his eyes fixed on the empty grate.
Presently he looked up, and said slowly:

"I don't know why I should. It's no secret; and if it were, I hold no
monopoly in it. No; tell him, if you think he'd care to hear about it."

"You needn't be afraid of his talking," I said. "He is as close as an
oyster; and the facts may mean more to him than to us. He may be able to
give a useful hint or two."

"Oh, I'm not going to pick his brains," Mr. Bellingham said quickly and
with some wrath. "I'm not the sort of man who goes round cadging for
free professional advice. Understand that clearly, Doctor."

"I do," I answered hastily. "That wasn't what I meant at all. Is that
Miss Bellingham coming in? I heard the front door shut."

"Yes, that will be my girl, I expect; but don't run away. You're not
afraid of her, are you?" he added as I hurriedly picked up my hat.

"I'm not sure that I'm not," I answered. "She is a rather majestic young

Mr. Bellingham chuckled and smothered a yawn, and at that moment his
daughter entered the room; and, in spite of her shabby black dress and
a shabbier handbag that she carried, I thought her appearance and manner
fully justified my description.

"You come in, Miss Bellingham," I said as she shook my hand with cool
civility, "to find your father yawning and me taking my departure. So I
have my uses, you see. My conversation is the infallible cure for

Miss Bellingham smiled. "I believe I am driving you away," she said.

"Not at all," I replied hastily. "My mission was accomplished, that was

"Sit down for a few minutes, Doctor," urged Mr. Bellingham, "and let
Ruth sample the remedy. She will be affronted if you run away as soon as
she comes in."

"Well, you mustn't let me keep you up," I said.

"Oh, I'll let you know when I fall asleep," he replied, with a chuckle;
and with this understanding I sat down again--not at all unwillingly.

At this moment Miss Oman entered with a small tray and a smile of which
I should not have supposed her to be capable.

"You'll take your toast and cocoa while they're hot, dear, won't you?"
she said coaxingly.

"Yes, I will, Phyllis, thank you," Miss Bellingham answered. "I am only
just going to take off my hat," and she left the room, followed by the
astonishingly transfigured spinster.

She returned almost immediately as Mr. Bellingham was in the midst of a
profound yawn, and sat down to her frugal meal, when her father
mystified me considerably by remarking:

"You're late to-night, chick. Have the Shepherd Kings been giving

"No," she replied; "but I thought I might as well get them done. So I
dropped in at the Ormond Street library on my way home and finished

"Then they are ready for stuffing now?"

"Yes." As she answered she caught my astonished eye (for a stuffed
Shepherd King is undoubtedly a somewhat surprising phenomenon) and
laughed softly.

"We mustn't talk in riddles like this," she said, "before Doctor
Berkeley, or he will turn us both into pillars of salt. My father is
referring to my work," she explained to me.

"Are you a taxidermist, then?" I asked.

She hastily set down the cup that she was raising to her lips and broke
into a ripple of quiet laughter.

"I am afraid my father has misled you with his irreverent expressions.
He will have to atone by explaining."

"You see, Doctor," said Mr. Bellingham, "Ruth is a literary searcher--"

"Oh, don't call me a 'searcher'!" Miss Bellingham protested. "It
suggests the female searcher at a police-station. Say investigator."

"Very well, investigator or investigatrix, if you like. She hunts up
references and bibliographies at the Museum for people who are writing
books. She looks up everything that has been written on a given subject,
and then, when she has crammed herself to bursting-point with facts, she
goes to her client and disgorges and crams him or her, and he or she
finally disgorges into the Press."

"What a disgusting way to put it!" said his daughter. "However, that is
what it amounts to. I am a literary jackal, a collector of provender for
the literary lions. Is that quite clear?"

"Perfectly. But I don't think that, even now, I quite understand about
the stuffed Shepherd Kings."

"Oh, it was not the Shepherd Kings who were to be stuffed. It was the
author! That was mere obscurity of speech on the part of my father. The
position is this: A venerable archdeacon wrote an article on the
patriarch Joseph--"

"And didn't know anything about him," interrupted Mr. Bellingham, "and
got tripped up by a specialist who did, and then got shirty--"

"Nothing of the kind," said Miss Bellingham. "He knew as much as
venerable archdeacons ought to know; but the expert knew more. So the
archdeacon commissioned me to collect the literature on the state of
Egypt at the end of the seventeenth dynasty, which I have done; and
to-morrow I shall go and stuff him, as my father expresses it, and

"And then," Mr. Bellingham interrupted, "the archdeacon will rush forth
and pelt that expert with Shepherd Kings and Seqenen-Ra and the whole
tag-rag and bobtail of the seventeenth dynasty. Oh, there'll be wigs on
the green, I can tell you."

"Yes, I expect there will be quite a lively little skirmish," said Miss
Bellingham. And thus dismissing the subject, she made an energetic
attack on the toast while her father refreshed himself with a colossal

I watched her with furtive admiration and deep and growing interest. In
spite of her pallor, her weary eyes, and her drawn and almost haggard
face, she was an exceedingly handsome girl; and there was in her aspect
a suggestion of purpose, of strength and character that marked her off
from the rank and file of womanhood. I noted this as I stole an
occasional glance at her or turned to answer some remark addressed to
me; and I noted, too, that her speech, despite a general undertone of
depression, was yet not without a certain caustic, ironical humour. She
was certainly a rather enigmatical young person, but very decidedly

When she had finished her repast she put aside the tray and, opening the
shabby handbag, asked:

"Do you take any interest in Egyptian history? We are as mad as hatters
on the subject. It seems to be a family complaint."

"I don't know much about it," I answered. "Medical studies are rather
engrossing and don't leave much time for general reading."

"Naturally," she said. "You can't specialise in everything. But if you
would care to see how the business of a literary jackal is conducted, I
will show you my notes."

I accepted the offer eagerly (not, I fear, from pure enthusiasm for the
subject), and she brought forth from the bag four blue-covered, quarto
note-books, each dealing with one of the four dynasties from the
fourteenth to the seventeenth. As I glanced through the neat and orderly
extracts with which they were filled we discussed the intricacies of the
peculiarly difficult and confused period that they covered, gradually
lowering our voices as Mr. Bellingham's eyes closed and his head fell
against the back of his chair. We had just reached the critical reign of
Apepa II when a resounding snore broke in upon the studious quiet of
the room and sent us both into a fit of silent laughter.

"Your conversation has done its work," she whispered as I stealthily
picked up my hat, and together we stole on tiptoe to the door, which she
opened without a sound. Once outside, she suddenly dropped her bantering
manner and said quite earnestly:

"How kind it was of you to come and see him to-night! You have done him
a world of good, and I am most grateful. Good night!"

She shook hands with me really cordially, and I took my way down the
creaking stairs in a whirl of happiness that I was quite at a loss to
account for.



Barnard's practice, like most others, was subject to those fluctuations
that fill the struggling practitioner alternately with hope and despair.
The work came in paroxysms with intervals of almost complete stagnation.
One of these intermissions occurred on the day after my visit to
Nevill's Court, with the result that by half-past eleven I found myself
wondering what I should do with the remainder of the day. The better to
consider this weighty problem, I strolled down to the Embankment, and,
leaning on the parapet, contemplated the view across the river; the grey
stone bridge with its perspective of arches, the picturesque pile of the
shot-towers, and beyond, the shadowy shapes of the Abbey and St.

It was a pleasant scene, restful and quiet, with a touch of life and a
hint of sober romance, when a barge swept down through the middle arch
of the bridge with a lugsail hoisted to a jury mast and a white-aproned
woman at the tiller. Dreamily I watched the craft creep by upon the
moving tide, noted the low freeboard, almost awash, the careful
helmswoman, and the dog on the forecastle yapping at the distant
shore--and thought of Ruth Bellingham.

What was there about this strange girl that had made so deep an
impression on me? That was the question that I propounded to myself, and
not for the first time. Of the fact itself there was no doubt. But what
was the explanation? Was it her unusual surroundings? Her occupation and
rather recondite learning? Her striking personality and exceptional good
looks? Or her connection with the dramatic mystery of her lost uncle?

I concluded that it was all of these. Everything connected with her was
unusual and arresting; but over and above these circumstances there was
a certain sympathy and personal affinity of which I was strongly
conscious and of which I dimly hoped that she, perhaps, was a little
conscious, too. At any rate, I was deeply interested in her; of that
there was no doubt whatever. Short as our acquaintance had been, she
held a place in my thoughts that had never been held by any other woman.

From Ruth Bellingham my reflections passed by a natural transition to
the curious story that her father had told me. It was a queer affair,
that ill-drawn will, with the baffled lawyer protesting in the
background. It almost seemed as if there must be something behind it
all, especially when I remembered Mr. Hurst's very singular proposal.
But it was out of _my_ depth; it was a case for a lawyer, and to a
lawyer it should go. This very night, I resolved, I would go to
Thorndyke and give him the whole story as it had been told to me.

And then there happened one of those coincidences at which we all wonder
when they occur, but which are so frequent as to have become enshrined
in a proverb. For, even as I formed the resolution, I observed two men
approaching from the direction of Blackfriars, and recognised in them my
quondam teacher and his junior.

"I was just thinking about you," I said as they came up.

"Very flattering," replied Jervis; "but I thought you had to talk of the

"Perhaps," suggested Thorndyke, "he was talking to himself. But why were
you thinking of us, and what was the nature of your thoughts?"

"My thoughts had reference to the Bellingham case. I spent the whole of
last evening at Nevill's Court."

"Ha! And are there any fresh developments?"

"Yes, by Jove! there are. Bellingham gave me a full and detailed
description of the will; and a pretty document it seems to be."

"Did he give you permission to repeat the details to me?"

"Yes. I asked specifically if I might and he had no objection whatever."

"Good. We are lunching at Soho to-day as Polton has his hands full. Come
with us and share our table and tell us your story as we go. Will that
suit you?"

It suited me admirably in the present state of the practice, and I
accepted the invitation with undissembled glee.

"Very well," said Thorndyke; "then let us walk slowly and finish with
matters confidential before we plunge into the madding crowd."

We set forth at a leisurely pace along the broad pavement and I
commenced my narration. As well as I could remember, I related the
circumstances that had led up to the present disposition of the property
and then proceeded to the actual provisions of the will; to all of which
my two friends listened with rapt interest, Thorndyke occasionally
stopping me to jot down a memorandum in his pocket-book.

"Why, the fellow must have been a stark lunatic!" Jervis exclaimed, when
I had finished. "He seems to have laid himself out with the most
devilish ingenuity to defeat his own ends."

"That is not an uncommon peculiarity with testators," Thorndyke
remarked. "A direct and perfectly intelligible will is rather the
exception. But we can hardly judge until we have seen the actual
document. I suppose Bellingham hasn't a copy?"

"I don't know," said I; "but I will ask him."

"If he has one, I should like to look through it," said Thorndyke. "The
provisions are very peculiar, and, as Jervis says, admirably calculated
to defeat the testator's wishes if they have been correctly reported.
And, apart from that, they have a remarkable bearing on the
circumstances of the disappearance. I daresay you noticed that."

"I noticed that it is very much to Hurst's advantage that the body has
not been found."

"Yes, of course. But there are some other points that are very
significant. However, it would be premature to discuss the terms of the
will until we have seen the actual document or a certified copy."

"If there is a copy extant," I said, "I will try to get hold of it.
Bellingham is terribly afraid of being suspected of a desire to get
professional advice gratis."

"That," said Thorndyke, "is natural enough, and not discreditable. But
you must overcome his scruples somehow. I expect you will be able to.
You are a plausible young gentleman, as I remember of old, and you seem
to have established yourself as quite the friend of the family."

"They are rather interesting people," I explained; "very cultivated and
with a strong leaning towards archaeology. It seems to be in the blood."

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "a family tendency, probably due to contact and
common surroundings rather than heredity. So you like Godfrey

"Yes. He is a trifle peppery and impulsive, but quite an agreeable,
genial old buffer."

"And the daughter," said Jervis, "what is she like?"

"Oh, she is a learned lady; works up bibliographies and references at
the Museum."

"Ah!" Jervis exclaimed, with deep disfavour, "I know the breed. Inky
fingers; no chest to speak of; all side and spectacles."

I rose artlessly at the gross and palpable bait.

"You're quite wrong," I exclaimed indignantly, contrasting Jervis's
hideous presentment with the comely original. "She is an exceedingly
good-looking girl, and her manners all that a lady's should be. A little
stiff, perhaps, but then I am only an acquaintance--almost a stranger."

"But," Jervis persisted, "what is she like, in appearance I mean. Short?
fat? sandy? Give us intelligible details."

I made a rapid mental inventory, assisted by my recent cogitations.

"She is about five feet seven, slim but rather plump, very erect in
carriage and graceful in movements; black hair, loosely parted in the
middle and falling very prettily away from the forehead; pale, clear
complexion, dark grey eyes, straight eyebrows, straight, well-shaped
nose, short mouth, rather full; round chin--what the deuce are you
grinning at, Jervis?" For my friend had suddenly unmasked his batteries
and now threatened, like the Cheshire Cat, to dissolve into a mere
abstraction of amusement.

"If there is a copy of that will, Thorndyke," he said, "we shall get it.
I think you agree with me, reverend senior?"

"I have already said," was the reply, "that I put my trust in Berkeley.
And now let us dismiss professional topics. This is our hostelry."

He pushed open an unpretentious glazed door and we followed him into the
restaurant, whereof the atmosphere was pervaded by an appetising
meatiness mingled with less agreeable suggestions of the destructive
distillation of fat.

It was some two hours later when I wished my friends adieu under the
golden-leaved plane trees of King's Bench Walk.

"I won't ask you to come in now," said Thorndyke, "as we have some
consultations this afternoon. But come in and see us soon; don't wait
for that copy of the will."

"No," said Jervis. "Drop in in the evening when your work is done;
unless, of course, there is more attractive society elsewhere--Oh, you
needn't turn that colour, my dear child; we have all been young once;
there is even a tradition that Thorndyke was young some time back in the
pre-dynastic period."

"Don't take any notice of him, Berkeley," said Thorndyke. "The egg-shell
is sticking to his head still. He'll know better when he is my age."

"Methuselah!" exclaimed Jervis; "I hope I shan't have to wait as long
as that!"

Thorndyke smiled benevolently at his irrepressible junior, and, shaking
my hand cordially, turned into the entry.

From the Temple I wended northward to the adjacent College of Surgeons,
where I spent a couple of profitable hours examining the "pickles," and
refreshing my memory on the subjects of pathology and anatomy;
marvelling afresh (as every practical anatomist must marvel) at the
incredibly perfect technique of the dissections, and inwardly paying a
respectful tribute to the founder of the collection. At length, the
warning of the clock, combined with an increasing craving for tea, drove
me forth and bore me towards the scene of my, not very strenuous,
labours. My mind was still occupied with the contents of the cases and
the great glass jars, so that I found myself at the corner of Fetter
Lane without a very clear idea of how I had got there. But at that point
I was aroused from my reflections rather abruptly by a raucous voice in
my ear.

"'Orrible discovery at Sidcup!"

I turned wrathfully--for a London street-boy's yell, let off at
point-blank range, is, in effect, like the smack of an open hand--but
the inscription on the staring yellow poster that was held up for my
inspection changed my anger into curiosity.

"Horrible discovery in a watercress-bed!"

Now, let, prigs deny it if they will, but there is something very
attractive in a "horrible discovery." It hints at tragedy, at mystery,
at romance. It promises to bring into our grey and commonplace life that
element of the dramatic which is the salt that our existence is
savoured withal. "In a watercress-bed," too! The rusticity of the
background seemed to emphasise the horror of the discovery, whatever it
might be.

I bought a copy of the paper, and, tucking it under my arm, hurried on
to the surgery, promising myself a mental feast of watercress; but as I
opened the door I found myself confronted by a corpulent woman of
piebald and pimply aspect who saluted me with a deep groan. It was the
lady from the coal shop in Fleur-de-Lys Court.

"Good evening, Mrs. Jablett," I said briskly; "not come about yourself,
I hope."

"Yes, I have," she answered, rising and following me gloomily into the
consulting-room; and then, when I had seated her in the patient's chair
and myself at the writing-table, she continued: "It's my inside, you
know, Doctor."

The statement lacked anatomical precision and merely excluded the domain
of the skin specialist. I accordingly waited for enlightenment and
speculated on the watercress-beds, while Mrs. Jablett regarded me
expectantly with a dim and watery eye.

"Ah!" I said, at length; "it's your--your inside, is it, Mrs. Jablett?"

"Yus. _And_ my 'ead," she added, with a voluminous sigh that filled the
apartment with odorous reminiscences of "unsweetened."

"Your head aches, does it?"

"Somethink chronic!" said Mrs. Jablett. "Feels as if it was a-opening
and a-shutting, a-opening and a-shutting, and when I sit down I feel as
if I should _bust_."

This picturesque description of her sensations--not wholly inconsistent
with her figure--gave the clue to Mrs. Jablett's sufferings. Resisting a
frivolous impulse to reassure her as to the elasticity of the human
integument, I considered her case in exhaustive detail, coasting
delicately round the subject of "unsweetened," and finally sent her
away, revived in spirits and grasping a bottle of Mist. Sodae cum
Bismutho from Barnard's big stock-jar. Then I went back to investigate
the Horrible Discovery; but before I could open the paper, another
patient arrived (_Impetigo contagiosa_, this time, affecting the "wide
and arched-front sublime" of a juvenile Fetter Laner), and then yet
another, and so on through the evening until, at last, I forgot the
watercress-beds altogether. It was only when I had purified myself from
the evening consultations with hot water and a nail-brush and was about
to sit down to a frugal supper, that I remembered the newspaper and
fetched it from the drawer of the consulting-room table, where it had
been hastily thrust out of sight. I folded it into a convenient form,
and, standing it upright against the water-jug, read the report at my
ease as I supped.

There was plenty of it. Evidently the reporter had regarded it as a
"scoop," and the editor had backed him up with ample space and
hair-raising head-lines.


"A startling discovery was made yesterday afternoon in the course of
clearing out a watercress-bed near the erstwhile rural village of Sidcup
in Kent; a discovery that will occasion many a disagreeable qualm to
those persons who have been in the habit of regaling themselves with
this refreshing esculent. But before proceeding to a description of the
circumstances of the actual discovery or of the objects found--which,
however, it may be stated at once, are nothing more or less than the
fragments of a dismembered human body--it will be interesting to trace
the remarkable chain of coincidences by virtue of which the discovery
was made.

"The beds in question have been laid out in a small artificial lake fed
by a tiny streamlet which forms one of the numerous tributaries of the
River Cray. Its depth is greater than is usual in watercress-beds,
otherwise the gruesome relics could never have been concealed beneath
its surface, and the flow of water through it, though continuous, is
slow. The tributary streamlet meanders through a succession of pasture
meadows, in one of which the beds themselves are situated, and here
throughout most of the year the fleecy victims of the human carnivore
carry on the industry of converting grass into mutton. Now it happened
some years ago that the sheep frequenting these pastures became affected
with the disease known as 'liver-rot'; and here we must make a short
digression into the domain of pathology.

"'Liver-rot' is a disease of quite romantic antecedents. Its cause is a
small, flat worm--the liver-fluke--which infests the liver and
bile-ducts of the affected sheep.

"Now how does the worm get into the sheep's liver? That is where the
romance comes in. Let us see.

"The cycle of transformations begins with the deposit of the eggs of the
fluke in some shallow stream or ditch running through pasture lands. Now
each egg has a sort of lid, which presently opens and lets out a
minute, hairy creature who swims away in search of a particular kind of
water-snail--the kind called by naturalists _Limnaea truncatula_. If he
finds a snail, he bores his way into its flesh and soon begins to grow
and wax fat. Then he brings forth a family--of tiny worms quite unlike
himself, little creatures called _rediae_, which soon give birth to
families of young _rediae_. So they may go on for several generations,
but at last there comes a generation of _rediae_ which, instead of
giving birth to fresh _rediae_, produce families of totally different
offspring; big-headed, long-tailed creatures like miniature tadpoles,
called by the learned _cercariae_. The _cercariae_ soon wriggle their
way out of the body of the snail, and then complications arise: for it
is the habit of this particular snail to leave the water occasionally
and take a stroll in the fields. Thus the _cercariae_, escaping from the
snail, find themselves on the grass, whereupon they promptly drop their
tails and stick themselves to the grass-blades. Then comes the
unsuspecting sheep to take his frugal meal, and, cropping the grass,
swallows it, _cercariae_ and all. But the latter, when they find
themselves in the sheep's stomach, make their way straight to the
bile-ducts, up which they travel to the liver. Here, in a few weeks,
they grow up into full-blown flukes and begin the important business of
producing eggs.

"Such is the pathological romance of 'liver-rot'; and now what is its
connection with this mysterious discovery? It is this. After the
outbreak of 'liver-rot,' above referred to, the ground landlord, a Mr.
John Bellingham, instructed his solicitor to insert a clause in the
lease of the beds directing that the latter should be periodically
cleared and examined by an expert to make sure that they were free from
the noxious water-snails. The last lease expired about two years ago,
and since then the beds have been out of cultivation; but, for the
safety of the adjacent pastures, it was considered necessary to make the
customary periodical inspection, and it was in the course of cleaning
the beds for this purpose that the present discovery was made.

"The operation began two days ago. A gang of three men proceeded
systematically to grub up the plants and collect the multitudes of
water-snails that they might be examined by the expert to see if any of
the obnoxious species were present. They had cleared nearly half the
beds when, yesterday afternoon, one of the men working in the deepest
part came upon some bones, the appearance of which excited his
suspicion. Thereupon he called his mates, and they carefully picked away
the plants piecemeal, a process that soon laid bare an unmistakable
human hand lying on the mud amongst the roots. Fortunately they had the
wisdom not to disturb the remains, but at once sent off a message to the
police. Very soon, an inspector and a sergeant, accompanied by the
divisional surgeon, arrived on the scene, and were able to view the
remains lying as they had been found. And now another very strange fact
came to light; for it was seen that the hand--a left one--lying on the
mud was minus its third finger. This is regarded by the police as a very
important fact as bearing on the question of identification, seeing that
the number of persons having the third finger of the left hand missing
must be quite small. After a thorough examination on the spot, the bones
were carefully collected and conveyed to the mortuary, where they now
lie awaiting further inquiries.

"The divisional surgeon, Dr. Brandon, in an interview with our
representative, made the following statements:

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