There was no doubt of Ragobah's guilt in any of our minds, so that action at our end of the line seemed entirely useless, and nothing was left us but to quietly await whatever developments Maitland should disclose. We were not kept long in suspense, for in less than a week his next letter arrived. I broke its seal in the presence of Gwen and my sister who, if possible, were even more excited than I myself. Is it to be wondered at? Here was the letter which was to tell us whether or not the murderer of John Darrow had been caught. We felt that if Ragobah had returned to India, according to his expressed intention, there could be no doubt upon this point. But had he so returned? I read as follows:

MY DEAR DOCTOR:

The Dalmatia arrived as expected on Thursday, and on her came Ragobah. I had him arrested as he stepped from the boat. When examined he did not seem in the least disconcerted at the charges I preferred against him. This did not surprise me, however, as I had expected that a man who could roll his naked body over the burning sands from Mabajan to the Ganges, and who could rise from the Vaisyan to the Brahman caste,—albeit he fell again,—would not be likely to betray his cause by exhibiting either fear or excitement. He acknowledged his acquaintance with Mr. Darrow and the ill-feeling existing between them. When charged with his murder at Dorchester on the night of the 22d of April he coolly asked if I were aware when and how he had left India. I had not neglected to look this matter up and told him he had left on the same steamer which had brought him back—the Dalmatia— which should have arrived at New York on the 21st of April, thus leaving him ample time to get to Boston before the night of the 22d. To this he replied with the utmost assurance. (I give you the exact gist of what he said. Since I was not able to immediately commit his language to writing, you will, of course, hardly expect me to remember those peculiar Oriental idioms which an Indian, however great his command of English, never drops. What I say here is, of course, true of all conversations I put before you except such as I practically reported.)—But to return to our muttons. As I was saying, he replied with the utmost assurance:

"The Sahib is right. I did sail upon the Dalmatia, due at New York on the 21st of April. This steamer, as you are perhaps aware, is propelled by twin screws. On the trip in question she broke one of her propellers in mid-Atlantic and in consequence, arrived in New York on the 24th of April, three days late, without the transference of any of her passengers to other boats. If you will take the trouble to at once verify this statement at the steamship office, you will be able to relieve me of the annoyance of further detention."

All this was said with a rare command of language and a cold, cynical politeness which cut like a knife. I at first thought it was merely a ruse to gain time, but the steamship officials substantiated every word uttered by Ragobah relative to their vessel. The Dalmatia had steamed into New York at eleven o'clock on the morning of the 24th day of April with a broken screw!

Imagine my amazement! The net of circumstantial evidence wound around Ragobah seemed to be such as to leave no possibility of escape, and yet, the very first effort made to draw it tighter about him had resulted in his walking, with the utmost ease, right through its meshes! There is no gainsaying such an alibi, and I am, therefore, forced to acknowledge that Rama Ragobah could not, by any possibility, have murdered John Darrow. That he may have planned the deed and that he may have intended to be present at its execution is quite possible, but we may at once dismiss the idea of his having personally committed the act. You will immediately appreciate that nearly all of the evidence which we secured against Ragobah was directed against him as the assassin, and is of little or no use to prove his complicity in an affair committed by another. In his hatred of Mr. Darrow we have, I believe, a sufficient motive for the act, but what evidence have we to support the theory that the murder was committed by anyone acting in his interests? I must confess my inability to detect, at present writing, the slightest evidence that Ragobah acted through an accomplice. So, here the matter rests.

I may state in closing that Ragobah has requested the "pleasure" (sic) of a private interview with me on Malabar Hill to-morrow night. As there is a bare possibility he may let fall something which may shed some light upon the accomplice hypothesis, I have agreed to meet him at the entrance to the little cave at nine o'clock. He has requested that I come alone and I shall do so, but, lest you fear for my safety, let me assure you that I know very well the unscrupulous nature of the man with whom I am to deal and that I shall take good care not to afford him any opportunity to catch me unawares. You will hear from me again after I meet Ragobah.

Remember me kindly to Miss Darrow. The failure of my enterprise will, I know, be a bitter disappointment to her, and you must temper this acknowledgment of it with such a hope of ultimate success as you may enjoy. Tell her I shall never cease my efforts to solve this mystery so long as I am able to find a clue, however slight, to follow. At present I am all at sea, and it looks as if I should have to go clear back and start all over again. Ragobah, as a point of departure, has not proved a success. With my kind regards to you all, I remain, cordially yours, GEORGE MAITLAND.

I read this through aloud, despite the fact that I knew some parts of it were intended only for my perusal. Gwen did not speak until some minutes after I had finished, and then only to express a fear that, despite his caution, harm might come to Maitland at his interview with Ragobah. She seemed to be far less disappointed at Maitland's failure to convict Ragobah than she was fearful for her friend's personal safety. She was restless and ill at ease for the next two or three days—in fact, until the arrival of Maitland's next letter. This came during my absence on a professional call, and when I returned home she met me with it at the door with an expression of relief upon her countenance so plain as not to be misconstrued. We went into the sitting-room, where my sister was awaiting the news, and I read as follows:

MY DEAR DOCTOR:

I kept my appointment last night with Rama Ragobah and, although nothing transpired at all likely to assist me in locating Mr. Darrow's assassin, yet the interview, though short, was interesting and worth narrating. Promptly at nine o'clock I was at my post by the little cave. I am still staying with Herr Blaschek and, as I had but a few rods to travel, I did not quit the house until within five minutes of the time appointed for our meeting. As I stepped out into the darkness I noticed a tall form glide behind a tree, about a rod away from the door. I could not be sure it was Ragobah, yet I had little doubt of it. I was a trifle taken aback at the moment, and instinctively placed my hand upon my revolver and grasped my cane more firmly. Should occasion require it, I counted upon this cane quite as much as upon my revolver, for, innocent and inoffensive as it looked, it was capable of most deadly execution. I had chosen it in preference to many other more pretentious weapons which had suggested themselves to me. It consisted of a small, flexible steel wire hardly bigger than the blade of a foil, surmounted by a good-sized lead ball, and the whole covered with a closely woven fabric. By grasping the cane by its lower end a tremendously heavy blow could be struck with the ball, and, if an attempt were made to shield the head by throwing up the arm, it was almost certain to fail of its object since the flexibility of the wire permitted it to bend about an obstruction until its loaded end was brought home. You will perhaps think that, since I did not make use of this weapon, I need not have troubled myself to describe it. Perhaps that is so, but, let me assure you, when I saw Ragobah, for it was he, glide behind that tree, and reflected how capable he was of every kind of treachery, I wouldn't have parted with that cane for its weight in gold. The Indian had pledged me to come alone and had promised to do likewise, but I felt any tree might conceal one of his minions, hired to assassinate me while he engaged my attention. All this, of course, did not in the least affect my decision. I had promised to go alone, and Miss Darrow's interests required that I should keep my covenant. I should have done so, even though I had known Ragobah meant to betray me. I may as well, however, tell you at once that my suspicions wronged the fellow. He had evidently taken his station behind a tree to satisfy himself, without exposure, that I meant to keep my promise and come alone.

When I reached the cave I found him awaiting me. How he was able to get there before me passes my comprehension, but there he was. He did not waste time, but addressed me at once, and, as my memory is excellent and our interview was short, I am able to give you an accurate report of what passed between us. I copy it here just as I entered it in my notebook, immediately upon my return to the house.

"You naturally wish to know," Ragobah began, "why I have sought this interview. That is easily explained. You have done me the honour, Sahib, for I feel it is such, to suspect me of the murder of John Darrow. You have come here from America to fasten the crime upon me, and, from the bottom of my heart, I regret your failure to do so. I would give everything I possess on earth, and would gladly suffer a life of torment, to be able truthfully to say: 'I, Rama Ragobah, killed John Darrow.' But despite all my efforts, I, wretch that I am, am innocent! For more than twenty years I have had but one purpose,—one thought,—and that was to track down and slay John Darrow. This desire consumed me. It led me all over India in vain search for him. For nineteen years I laboured incessantly, without discovering so much as a trace of him. When he fled Bombay his belongings went inland, so I was told. I believed the story and felt sure I should one day find him on Indian soil. Years passed and I did not find him. It was but a few months ago that I discovered his ruse and learned his whereabouts. I could scarcely contain myself for joy. My life-work was at last to be completed. Nothing now remained but to plan his destruction. This, however, was not so easy a thing to do, since, in order to make my revenge complete, I must disclose my identity before killing him. At length I decided upon a plan. I would come upon him at night, when asleep, gag him and bind him to his bed. Then he should learn the name of his doomsman, and the horrible nature of the death that awaited him."

Ragobah paused here as if overcome by his disappointment, and I said, "And how did you intend to kill him?" He gave a throaty chuckle, as he replied: "It was all so very pretty! I had only to saturate the bedclothes with oil and set fire to them. I should have lighted them at his feet and watched the flames creep upward toward his head till safety compelled my retreat. It was for this purpose I went to New York. You already know the fatal delay I incurred. When I landed I made all haste to the home of Darrow Sahib, in Dorchester, only to learn that he had killed himself a few days before my arrival. The morsel for which I had striven and hungered for twenty long years was whipped from my hand, even as I raised it to my mouth. My enemy was dead, beyond the power of injury, and my hands were unstained by his blood.

"I then determined to kill his daughter. It was the night of my enemy's burial. The Sahibah was alone in the house and was intending to leave it that night. I knew she would see that everything was securely fastened before she went away, and so, when I opened one of the windows, I was sure she would come to close it. Crouching down outside I awaited her approach, intending to spring up and stab her while she was pulling the window down. Everything happened as I planned—what ails the Sahib? I did not kill her! No, at the last moment something—never mind what—stayed my arm! The death of an innocent girl did not promise me any lasting satisfaction and I gave up the idea, returned to New York, and re-embarked for Bombay as innocent in act as when I left it. My life had been a failure and I had no desire to prolong it. When you arrested me on the charge of murder, nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to have been able to plead guilty.

"You already know why I so hated Darrow. He robbed me of the only woman I ever loved. Maddened by jealousy, I told her I had thrown him into the well in the cave here. It was a lie, but she believed it, and fled from me, and in a few minutes had thrown herself into that bottomless hole. See, Sahib," he said, entering the cave and pointing down the dark shaft,—"that is the road she took in order that her bones might rest with his, and, after all, they are thousands of miles apart. It's not the triumph I planned, but it's all I have! And this is why I brought you here; that you may take back to my enemy's family the knowledge that in death I am triumphant. Tell them," he said, rising to his full height, "that while the carcass of the English cur rots in a foreign land, Rama Ragobah's bones lie mingled with those of his beautiful Lona!"—My blood was up, and I rushed fiercely at him. With the quickness of a cat he dodged me, spat in my face as I turned, and, with a horrible laugh, sprang headlong into the well. Down deeper and deeper sank the laugh—then it died away—then a faint plash—and all was silent. Rama Ragobah was gone! For fully ten minutes I stood dazed and irresolute and then returned mechanically to the house. I at first thought of informing the authorities of the whole affair, but, when I realised how hard it would be for me to prove my innocence were I charged with Ragobah's murder, I decided to keep the secret of the well.

I shudder when I think of Miss Darrow's narrow escape. Did you suspect who her assailant really was? I wonder you have written me nothing about it, but suppose you thought it would only needlessly alarm me. If you had known it was our friend Ragobah, you would doubtless have felt it imperative that I should know of it,—so I conclude from your silence that you did not discover his identity.

I need not, of course, tell you, my dear Doctor, that we have reached the end of our Indian clue, and that I deem it wise, all things considered, for me to get out of India just as soon as possible. If this letter is in any way delayed, you need not be surprised if I have the pleasure of relating its contents in person. Remember me to Miss Darrow and tell her how sorry I am that, thus far, I have been unable to be of any real service to her. As I shall see you so soon I need write nothing further. Kind regards to Miss Alice. Ever yours, GEORGE MAITLAND.

When I had finished reading this letter I looked up at Gwen, expecting to see that its news had depressed her. I must confess, however, that I could not detect any such effect. On the contrary, she seemed to be in much better spirits than when I began reading. "According to this letter, then," she said, addressing me somewhat excitedly, "we may—" but she let fall her eyes and did not complete her sentence. My sister bestowed upon her one of those glances described in the vernacular of woman as "knowing" and then said to me: "We may expect Mr. Maitland at any time, it seems." "Yes," I replied; "he will lose no time in getting here. He undoubtedly feels much chagrined at his failure and will now be more than ever determined to see the affair through to a successful conclusion. He is in the position of a hound that has lost its scent, and is eager to return to its point of departure for a fresh start. I fancy it will be no easy task to discover a new clue, and I shall watch Maitland's work in this direction with a great deal of curiosity." Gwen did not speak, but she listened to our conversation with a nearer approach to a healthy interest than I had known her to display on any other occasion since her father's death. I regarded this as a good omen. Her condition, since that sad occurrence, had worried me a good deal. She seemed to have lost her hold on life and to exist in a state of wearied listlessness. Nothing seemed to impress her and she would at times forget, in the midst of a sentence, what she had intended to say when she began it! Her elasticity was gone and every effort a visible burden to her. I knew the consciousness of her loss was as a dull, heavy weight bearing her down, and I knew, too, that she could not marshal her will to resist it,—that, in fact, she really didn't care, so tired was she of it all. Experience had taught me how the dull, heavy ache of a great loss will press upon the consciousness with the regular, persistent, relentless throb of a loaded wheel and eat out one's life with the slow certainty of a cancer. This I knew to have been Gwen's state since her father's death, and all my attempts to bring about a healthful reaction had hitherto been futile. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that even the transient interest she had evinced was hailed by me with delight as the beginning of that healthful reaction for which I had so long sought. When a human bark in the full tide of life is suddenly dashed upon the rocks of despair the wreckage is strewn far and wide, and it is with no little difficulty that enough can be rescued to serve in the rebuilding of even the smallest of craft. The thought, therefore, that Gwen's intellectual flotsam was beginning at length to swirl about a definite object in a way to facilitate the rescue of her faculties was to me a decidedly reassuring one, and I noted with pleasure that the state of excited expectancy which she had tried in vain to conceal did not wane, but waxed stronger as the days went by.



THE EPISODE OF THE PARALLEL READERS

CHAPTER I

The events of the present are all strung upon the thread of the past, and in telling over this chronological rosary, it not infrequently happens that strange, unlike beads follow each other between our questioning fingers.

It was nearly a week after his letter before Maitland arrived. He sent us no further word, but walked in one evening as we were talking about him. He came upon us so suddenly that we were all taken aback and, for a moment, I felt somewhat alarmed about Gwen. She had started up quickly when the servant had mentioned Maitland's name and pressed her hand convulsively upon her heart, while her face and neck became of a deep crimson colour. I was saying to myself that this was a common effect of sudden surprise, when I saw her clutch quickly at the back of her chair, as if to steady herself. A moment later she sank into her seat. Her face was now as pale as ashes, and I felt I had good reason to be alarmed. I think she was conscious of my scrutiny, for she turned her face from me and remained motionless. The movement told me she was trying to regain command of her faculties and I forbore to interfere in the struggle, though I watched her with some solicitude. My fears were at once dispelled, however, when Maitland entered, for Gwen was the first to welcome him. She extended her hand with much of her old impulsiveness, saying: "I have so much for which to thank you—" but Maitland interrupted her. "Indeed, I regret to say," he rejoined, "that I have been unable thus far to be of any real service to you. The Ragobah clue was a miserable failure, though we may do ourselves the justice to admit that we had no alternative but to follow it to the end. I confess I have never been more disappointed than in the outcome of this affair." "My dear fellow," I said, "we all have much to be thankful for in your safe return, let us not forget that." Maitland laughed: "That reminds me," he said, "of the man who passed the hat at a coloured camp-meeting. When asked how much he had collected, he replied: 'I didn't get no money, but I'se done got de hat back.' You've got your hat back, and that's about all. However, with Miss Darrow's permission, I shall go back to the starting point and begin all over again."

"You are making me your debtor," Gwen replied slowly, "beyond my power ever to repay you."

"It is in the hope that no payment may ever be demanded of you," he rejoined, "that I am busying myself in your affairs." The colour sprang to Gwen's cheeks, but she only replied by a grateful glance. I knew what was passing through her mind. She was thinking of her promise—of her father's last words, and of the terrible possibilities thereof from which Maitland was seeking to rescue her. She felt that she could safely owe him any debt of gratitude, however great, while he, on his part, took what I fancied, both then and afterward, were unnecessary pains to assure her that, in the event of his finding the assassin, she need have no fear of his making any claim whatsoever upon her. And so the whole affair was dropped for the time being and the rest of the evening devoted to listening to Maitland's account of his experiences while abroad.

The next morning I called upon our detective at his laboratory and asked him what he intended to do next. He replied that he had no plans as yet, but that he wished to review with me all the evidence at hand.

"You see," he said, "the thing that renders the solution of this mystery so difficult is the fact that all our clues, while they would be of the utmost service in the conviction of the assassin had we found him, are almost destitute of any value until he has been located. Add to this that we are now unable to find any motive for the crime and you can see how slight are our hopes of success. If ever we chance to find the man,—for I feel that such a consummation would result more from chance than from anything else,—I think we can convict him.

"Here, for example," he said, taking up a small slip of glass which he had cut from the eastern parlour window of the Darrow house, "is something I have never shown either you or Miss Darrow. It is utterly worthless, so far as assisting us to track the assassin is concerned, but, if ever we suspect the right man, the evidence on that glass would probably convict him, though there were ten thousand other suspects."

I took the glass from him and, examining it with the utmost care, I detected a smutch of yellowish paint upon it, nothing more. "For Heaven's sake, Maitland!" I said in astonishment, "of what possible use can that formless daub of paint be, or is there something else on the glass that has escaped me?" He laughed at my excitement as he replied:

"There is nothing there but the paint spot. Regarding that, however, you have come to a very natural though erroneous conclusion. It is not formless"; and he passed me a jeweller's eye-glass to assist me in a closer examination. He was right. The paint lay upon the glass in little irregular furrows which arranged themselves concentrically about a central oval groove somewhat imperfect in shape. "Well," continued. Maitland, as I returned him the magnifying glass, "what do you make of it?" "If you hadn't already attached so much importance to the thing," I said, "I should pronounce it a daub of paint transferred to the glass by somebody's thumb, but, as such a thing would be clearly useless, I am at a loss to know what it is."

"Well," he rejoined, "you've hit the nail on the head,—that's just what it is, but you are entirely wrong in your assumption that the thumb-mark can have no value as evidence. Do you not know that there are no two thumbs in the world which are capable of making indistinguishable marks?" I was not aware of this. "How do you know," I asked, "that this mark was made by the assassin? It seems to me there can hardly be a doubt that one of the painters, while priming the sill, accidentally pressed his thumb against the glass. His hands would naturally have been painty, and this impression would as naturally have resulted."

"What you say," replied Maitland, "is very good, so far as it goes. My reasons for believing this thumb-mark was made by the assassin are easily understood. First: there was another impression of a thumb in the moist paint of the sill directly under that upon the glass. Both marks were made by the same thumb and, in the lower one, the microscope revealed minute traces of gravel dust, not elsewhere discernible upon the sill. The thumb carried the dust there, and was the thumb of the hand pressed into the gravel,—the hand of which I have a cast. You see how this shows how the thumb came to have paint upon it when pressed upon the glass. Second: the two men engaged in priming the house, James Cogan and Charles Rice, were the only persons save the assassin known to have been upon that side of the house the day of the murder. "Here," he said, carefully removing two strips of glass from a box, "are the thumb-marks of Cogan and Rice made with the same paint. You see that neither of these men could, by any possibility, have made the mark upon the glass. So there you are. But we are missing the question before us. What line of procedure can you suggest, Doc? I'm all at sea."

"We must find someone," I said, "who could have had a motive. This someone ought to have a particularly good reason for concealing his footprints, and is evidently lame besides. I can't for the life of me see anything else we have to go by, unless it be the long nail of the little finger, and I don't see how that is going to help us find the assassin—unless we can find out why it was worn long. If we knew that it might assist us. As I have already suggested, a Chinaman might have a long nail on the little finger, but he would also have the other nails long, wouldn't he? Furthermore, he might use the boards to conceal the prints of his telltale foot-gear; but why should he not have put on shoes of the ordinary type? If he had time to prepare the boards,—the whole affair shows premeditation, —clearly he had time to change his boots. The Chinese are usually small, and this might easily account for the smallness of the hand as shown by your cast. These are the pros and cons of the only clue that suggests itself to me. By the way, Maitland, it's a shame we did not try, before it was too late, to track this fellow down with a dog."

"Ah," he replied, "there is another little thing I have not told you. After you had left the house with Miss Darrow on the night of the murder, and all the servants had retired, I locked the parlour securely and quietly slipped out to look about a bit. As you know, the moon was very bright and any object moderately near was plainly visible. I went around to the eastern side of the house where the prints of the hand and boards were found, and examined them with extreme care. What I particularly wished to learn was the direction taken by the assassin as he left the house and the point at which he had removed the boards from his feet. The imprints of the boards were clearly discernible so far as the loose gravel extended, but beyond that nothing could be discovered. I sat down and pondered over the matter. I had about concluded to drive two nails into the heels of my boots to enable me to distinguish my own footprints from any other trail I might intersect, and then, starting with the house as a centre, to describe an involute about it in the hope of being able to detect some one or more points where my course crossed that of the assassin, when I remembered that my friend Burwell, whose Uncle Tom's Cabin Combination recently stranded at Brockton was at home. As you are perhaps aware an Uncle Tom Company consists of a 'Legree,' one or two 'Markses,' one or two 'Topsies,' 'Uncle Tom,' a 'Little Eva,' who should not be over fifty years old,—or at least should not appear to be,—two bloodhounds, and anybody else that happens to be available. It really doesn't make the least difference how many or how few people are in the cast. I have heard that an Uncle Tom manager on a Western circuit, most of whose company deserted him because the 'ghost' never walked, succeeded in cutting and rewriting the piece so as to double 'George Harris' and 'Legree,' ' Marks' and 'Topsy,' 'Uncle Tom' and 'Little Eva.' As for the rest he had it so arranged that he could himself 'get off the door' in time to 'do,' with the aid of the dogs, all the other characters. You see the dogs held the stage while he changed, say, from 'Eliza' to Eva's father. 'George Harris' would look off left second entrance and say that 'Legree' was after him. Then he would discharge a revolver, rush off right first entrance, where he would pass his weapon to 'Eva' and 'Uncle Tom,' and this bisexual individual would discharge it in the wings at the imaginary pursuer, while 'Harris' would put on a wire beard, slouch hat, black melodramatic cape, and, rushing behind the flat, enter left as 'Legree.'

"The hardest thing to manage was the death of 'Little Eva' with 'Uncle Tom' by the bedside, but managerial genius overcame the difficulty after the style of Mantell's 'Corsican Brothers.' You see it is all easy enough when you know how. 'Little Eva' is discovered, sitting up in bed with the curtains drawn back. She says what she has to say to her father and the rest. Then her father has a line in which he informs 'Eva' that she is tired and had better try to sleep. She says she will try, just to please him, and he gently lowers her back upon the pillows and draws the curtains in front of the bed. But instead of utilising this seclusion for a refreshing sleep 'Eva' rolls out at the back side of the bed. 'Legree' snatches off 'Eva's' wig and 'Topsy' deftly removes the white nightdress concealing his—'Eva's'—'Uncle Tom' make-up, while the erstwhile little girl hastily blackens his face and hands, puts on a negro wig, and in less than a minute is changed in colour, race, and sex. He 'gets round' left and enters the sick room as 'Uncle Tom' with 'Topsy.' They are both told that 'Little Eva' is asleep, and 'Topsy' peeps cautiously between the curtains and remarks that the child's eyes are open and staring. The father looks in and, overcome by grief, informs the audience that his child is dead. 'Topsy,' tearful and grief-stricken, 'gets off' right and washes up to 'do' 'Little Eva' climbing the golden stair in the last tableau. Meanwhile 'Uncle Tom,' in a paroxysm of grief, throws himself upon the bed and holds the stage till he smells the red fire for the vision; then he staggers down stage, strikes an attitude; the others do likewise; picture of 'Little Eva,' curtain. Talk about doubling 'Marcellus,' 'Polonius,' 'Osric,' and the 'First Grave Digger'! Why, that's nothing to these 'Uncle Tom' productions. But hold on, where did I get side-tracked? Oh, yes, the dogs.

"Well, as I was saying, as soon as I thought of Burwell I made up my mind at once to borrow one of his hounds. It was late when I got to his house. When I knocked at the door both Pompey and Caesar began sub-bass solos of growls, and Burwell was awake in a minute. I told him I wanted a dog for private business and took Caesar off with me. He found the trail with no difficulty, and followed it in a bee-line down to the water, where he raised his big muzzle and howled in dismal impotency. The assassin had taken to the water. I took the dog up and down the shore to see if he had returned to land, but all I found of interest was a clump of alders from which a pole had been cut. I knew by the dog's actions that the assassin had been there, for Caesar immediately took a new trail back to the house. Try as I might I could learn nothing further, and I at once returned the dog. There is no doubt that the murderer made his escape in a boat and took with him the pole he had cut, the boards he had worn, and everything else, I dare say, connected with his crime. One thing seems clear, and that is that we are dealing with no ordinary criminal. I would wager a good deal that this fellow, if ever he is caught, will be found to be a man of brains. I don't place much confidence in the Chinese theory, Doc, but as I have nothing better to offer, let us go see Miss Darrow. If her father has ever had any dealings with Chinamen, we shall probably deem it wise to look the Orientals up a bit."

We immediately acted upon this suggestion, waiting upon Gwen at my house. She said she and her father had spent a year in San Francisco when she was about seven years of age. While there their household was looked after by two Chinese servants, named Wah Sing and Sam Lee. The latter had been discharged by her father because of his refusal to perform certain minor duties which, through oversight, had not been set down as part of his work when he was engaged. So far as she knew no altercation had taken place and there were no hard feelings on either side. Sam Lee had bade her good-bye and had seemed sorry to leave, notwithstanding which, however, he refused, with true Chinese pertinacity, to assume the new duties. She did not think it likely that either of these Chinamen had been instrumental in her father's death, yet she agreed with Maitland that it would be a point gained to be assured of this fact. Maitland accordingly determined to depart at once for San Francisco, and the next day he was off.

We received no letters from him during his absence and were, accordingly, unable to tell when he expected to get back. Since his return from India Gwen had given evidence of a reviving interest in life, but now that he was again away, she relapsed into her old listless condition, from which we found it impossible to arouse her. Alice, who did her utmost to please her, was at her wit's end. She could never tell which of two alternatives Gwen preferred, since that young lady would invariably express herself satisfied with either and did not seem to realise why she should be expected to have any choice in the matter. Alice was quite at a loss to understand this state of affairs, until I told her that Gwen was in a condition of semi-torpor in which even the effort of choice seemed an unwarrantable outlay. She simply did not care what happened. She felt nothing, save a sense of fatigue, and even what she saw was viewed as from afar,—and seemed to her a drama in which she took no other part than that of an idle, tired, and listless spectator. Clearly she was losing her hold on life. I told Alice we must do our utmost to arouse her, to stimulate her will, to awaken her interest, and we tried many things in vain.

Maitland had been gone, I think, about three weeks when my sister and I hit upon a plan which we thought might have the desired effect upon Gwen. Before her father's death she had been one of the most active members of a Young People's Club which devoted every Wednesday evening to the study of Shakespeare. She had attended none of its meetings since her bereavement, but Alice and I soon persuaded her to accompany us on the following week and I succeeded, by a little quiet wire-pulling, in getting her appointed to take charge of the following meeting, which was to be devoted to the study of "Antony and Cleopatra." When informed of the task which had been imposed upon her Gwen was for declining the honour at once, and the most Alice and I were able to do was to get her to promise to think it over a day or so before she refused.

The next morning Maitland walked in upon us. He had found both of Mr. Darrow's former servants and satisfied himself that they were in San Francisco on the night of the murder. So that ended my Chinese clue. While Alice and Gwen were discussing the matter, I took occasion to draw Maitland aside, and told him of Gwen's appointment to take charge of the Cleopatra night, and how necessary it was to her health that she should be aroused from her torpor. It doesn't take long for Maitland to see a thing, and before I had whispered a dozen sentences he had completely grasped the situation. He crossed the room, drew a chair up beside Gwen, and sat down. "Miss Darrow," he began, "I am afraid you will have a poor opinion of me as a detective. This is the second time I have failed. I feel that I should remind you again of our compact, at least, that part of it which permits you to dispense with my services whenever you shall see fit to do so, and, at the same time, to relieve you from your obligation to let me order your actions. I tell you frankly it will be necessary for you to discharge me, if you would be rid of me, for, unless you do so, or I find the assassin, I shall never cease my search so long as I have the strength and means to conduct it. What do you say? Have I not proved my uselessness?" This was said in a tentative, half-jesting tone. Gwen answered it very seriously.

"You have done for me," she said, in the deep, vibrating tones of her rich contralto voice, "all that human intelligence could suggest. You have examined the evidence and conducted the whole affair with a thoroughness which I never could have obtained elsewhere. That your search has been unavailing is due, not to any fault of yours, but rather to the consummate skill of the assassin, who, I think, we may conclude, is no ordinary criminal. I do not know much of the abilities of Messrs. Osborne and Allen, but I understand that M. Godin has the reputation of being the cleverest detective in America. I cannot learn that he has made any progress whatsoever in the solution of this terrible mystery. I do not feel, therefore, that you have any right to reproach yourself. Such hope as I have that my father's murderer may ever be brought to justice rests in your efforts; else I should feel bound to relieve you of a task, which, though self-imposed, is, none the less, onerous and ill-paid. Do not consider me altogether selfish if I ask that you still continue the search, and that I—that I still be held to my covenant. I am aware that I can never fully repay the kindness I am asking of you, but—"

Maitland did not wait for her to finish. "Let us not speak of that," he said. "It is enough to know that you are still satisfied with my, thus far, unsuccessful efforts in your behalf. There is nothing affords me keener pleasure than to struggle with and solve an intricate problem, whether it be in algebra, geometry, or the mathematics of crime; and then—well, even if I succeed, I shall quit the work your debtor."

He had spoken this last impulsively, and when he had finished he remained silent, as if surprised and a bit nettled at his own failure to control himself. Gwen made no reply, not even raising her eyes; but I noticed that her fingers at once busied themselves with the entirely uncalled-for labour of readjusting the tidy upon the arm of her chair, and I thought that, if appearances were to be trusted, she was very happy and contented at the change she had made in the bit of lacework beneath her hands. With singular good sense, with which she was always surprising me, Alice now introduced the subject of the Young People's Club, and mentioned incidentally that Gwen was to have charge of the next meeting. Before Gwen had time to inform Maitland that she intended to decline this honour, he congratulated her upon it, and rendered her withdrawal difficult by saying: "I feel that I should thank you, Miss Darrow, for the faithful way in which you fulfil the spirit of your agreement to permit me to order your actions. I know, if you consulted your own desires, you would probably decline the honour conferred upon you, and that in accepting it, you are influenced by the knowledge that you are pursuing just the course I most wish you to follow. Verily, you make my office of tyrant over you a perfect sinecure. I had expected you to chafe a little under restraint, but, instead, I find you voluntarily yielding to my unexpressed desires."

Gwen made no reply, but we heard no more of her resignation. She applied herself at once to the preparation of her paper upon "Antony and Cleopatra." Maitland, who, like all vigorous, healthy, and informed intellects, was an ardent admirer of Shakespeare, found time to call on Gwen and to discuss the play with her. This seemed to please her very much, and I am sure his interest in the play was abnormal. He confessed to me that every morning, as he awoke, the first thing which flashed into his mind, even before he had full possession of his senses, was these words of Antony:

"I am dying, Egypt, dying."

He professed himself utterly unable to account for this, and asked me what I thought was the cause of it. He furthermore suddenly decided that he would ask Gwen to propose his name for membership at the next meeting of the Young People's Club. I hastily indorsed this resolution, for I had a vague sort of feeling that it would please Gwen.

The "Antony and Cleopatra" night at length arrived. We all attended the meeting and listened to a very able paper upon the play. One of the most marked traits of Gwen's character is that whatever she does she does thoroughly, and this was fully exemplified on the night in question. Maitland was very much impressed by some verse Gwen had written for the occasion, and a copy of which he succeeded in procuring from her. I think, from certain remarks he made, that it was the broad and somewhat unfeminine charity expressed in the verse which most astonished and attracted him, but of this, after what I have said, you will, when you have perused it, be as good a judge as I:

CLEOPATRA

In Egypt, where the lotus sips the waters Of ever-fruitful Nile, and the huge Sphinx In awful silence,—mystic converse with The stars,—doth see the pale moon hang her crescent on The pyramid's sharp peak,—e'en there, well in The straits of Time's perspective, Went out, by Caesarean gusts from Rome, The low-burned candle of the Ptolemies: Went out without a flicker in full glare Of noon-day glory. When her flame lacked oil Too proud was Egypt's queen to be The snuff of Roman spirits; so she said, "Good-night," and closed the book of life half read And little understood; perchance misread The greater part,—yet, who shall say? Are we An ermined bench to call her culprit failings up And make them plead for mercy? Or can we, Upon whom soon shall fall the awful shadow of The Judgment Seat, stand in her light and throw Ourselves that shadow? Rather let fall upon Her memory the softening gauze of Time, As mantle of a charity which else We might not serve. She was a woman, And as a woman loved! What though the fierce Simoom blew ever hot within the sail Of her desire? What if it shifted with Direction of her breath? Or if the rudder of Her will did lean as many ways as trampled straws, And own as little worth? She was a woman still, And queen. They do best understand themselves Who trust themselves the least; as they are wisest Who, for their safety, thank more the open sea Than pilot will. Oh, Egypt's self-born Isis! Ought we to fasten in thy memory the fangs Of unalloyed distrust? We know how little Better is History's page than leaf whereat the ink Is thrown. Nor yet should we forget how much The nearer thou than we didst come to The rough-hewn corner-stone of Time. We know Thy practised love enfolded Antony; And that around the heart of Hercules' Descendant, threading through and through, Like the red rivers of its life, in tangled mesh No circumstance could e'er unravel, thou Didst coil,—the dreamy, dazzling "Serpent of The Nile!" Thy sins stick jagged out From history's page, and bleeding tear Fair Judgment from thy merits. We perchance Do wrong thee, Isis; for that coward, History, Who binds in death his object's jaw and then Besmuts her name, hath crossed his focus in Another age, and paled his spreading figment from Our sight. Thou art so far back toward The primal autocrat whose wish, hyena-like, Was his religion, that, appearing as thou dost On an horizon new flushed in the first Uncertain ray of Altruism, thou seem'st More ghost than human. Yet thou lovest, loving ghost, And thy fierce parent flame thyself snuffed out Scarce later than the dark'ning of the fire Thou gav'st to be eternal vestal of Thine Antony's spirit. Thou didst love and die Of love; let, therefore, no light tongue, brazen In censure, say that nothing in thy life Became thee like the leaving it. The cloth From which humanity is cut is woven of The warp and woof of circumstance, and all Are much alike. We spring from out the mantle, Earth, And hide at last beneath it; in the interim Our acts are less of us than it. We are No judge, then, of thy sins, thou ending link Of Ptolemy's chain. Forsooth, we are too much O'erfilled with wondering how like to thee We all had been, inclipt and dressed in thine Own age and circumstance.

The exercises of the evening concluded with the reading of the familiar poem, beginning:

"I am dying, Egypt, dying; Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast."

It was about noon the next day when Maitland called upon me. "See here, Doc," he began at once, "do you believe in coincidences?" I informed him that his question was not altogether easy to understand. "Wait a moment," he said, "while I explain. For at least two years prior to my recent return from California the name 'Cleopatra' has not entered my mind. You were the first to mention it to me, and from you I learned that Miss Darrow was to have charge of the 'Antony and Cleopatra' night. That is all natural enough. But why should I, on every morning since you first mentioned the subject to me, awake with Antony's words upon my lips? Why should every book or paper I pick up contain some reference to Cleopatra? Why, man, if I were superstitious, it would seem positively spookish. I am getting to believe that I shall be confronted either by Cleopatra's name, or some allusion to her, every time I pick up a book. It's getting to be decidedly interesting."

"I have had," I replied, "similar, though less remarkable, experiences. It is quite a common occurrence to learn of a thing, say, this morning for the first time in one's life, and then to find, in the course of the day's reading, three or four independent references to the same thing. Suppose we step into the library, and pick out a few books haphazard, just to see if we chance upon any reference to Cleopatra."

To this Maitland agreed, and, entering the library, I pushed the Morning Herald across the table to him, saying: "One thing's as good as another; try that." He started a little, but did not touch the paper. "You will have to find something harder than that," he said, pointing to the outspread paper.

I followed the direction of his finger, and read:

"Boston Theatre. Special engagement of Miss Fanny Davenport. For one week. Beginning Monday, the 12th of December, Sardou's 'Cleopatra.'"

I was indeed surprised, but I said nothing. The next thing I handed him was a copy of Godey's Magazine, several years old. He opened it carelessly, and in a moment read the following line: "I am dying, sweetheart, dying." "Doesn't that sound familiar? It reminds me at once of the poetic alarm clock that wakens me every morning,—'I am dying, Egypt, dying.' There is no doubt that Higginson's poem suggested this one. Here is the whole of the thing as it is printed here," he said, and read the following:

LOVE'S TWILIGHT

I am dreaming, loved one, dreaming Of the sweet and beauteous past When the world was as its seeming, Ere the fatal shaft was cast.

I am sobbing, sad-eyed, sobbing, At the darkly sullen west, Of the smile of ignorance robbing The pale face against the breast.

I am smiling, tear-stained, smiling, As the sun glints on the crest Of the troubled wave, beguiling Shipwrecked Hope to its long rest.

I am parting, broken, parting, From a soul that I hold dear, And the music of whose beauty Fades a dead strain on my ear.

I am dying, sweetheart, dying, Drips life's gold through palsied hands,— See; the dead'ning Sun is sighing His last note in red'ning bands.

So I'm sighing, sinking, sighing, Flows life's river to the sea. Death my throbbing heart is tying With the strings that ache for thee.

"Yes," I said, when he had finished. "I shall have to admit that immediately suggests Higginson's poem and Cleopatra's name. But here, try this," and I threw an old copy of the Atlantic Monthly upon the table. Maitland opened it and laughed. "This may be mere chance, Doc," he said, "but it is remarkable, none the less. See here!" He held the magazine toward me, and I read: "Cleopatra's Needle. The Historic Significance of Central Park's New Monument. Some of the Difficulties that Attended its Transportation and Erection. By James Theodore Wright, Ph. D." I was dumfounded. Things were indeed getting interesting.

"Magazines and newspapers," I said, "seem to be altogether too much in your line. We'll try a book this time. Here," and I pulled the first one that came to hand, "is a copy of Tennyson's Poems I fancy it will trouble you to find your reference in that." Maitland took it in silence, and, opening it at random, began to read. The result surprised him even more than it did me. He had chanced upon these verses from "A Dream of Fair Women":

"'We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. O my life In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit, The flattery and the strife.

"'And the wild kiss when fresh from war's alarms, My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, Contented there to die!

"'And there he died! And when I heard my name Sigh'd forth with life, I would not brook my fear Of the other! With a worm I balked his fame. What else was left? look here!'

"With that she tore her robe apart and half The polished argent of her breast to sight Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the aspic's bite."

"There is no doubt about that," I said, as he laid the book upon the table. "I want to try this thing once more. Here is Pascal; if you can find any reference to the 'Serpent of the Nile' in that, you needn't go any farther, I shall be satisfied," and I passed the book to him. He turned the pages over in silence for half a minute, or so, and then said: "I guess this counts as a failure,—no, though, by Jove! Look here!" His face was of almost deathly pallor, and his finger trembled upon the passage it indicated as he held the book toward me. I glanced with some anxiety from his face to the book, and read, as nearly as I now can remember: "If Cleopatra's nose had been shorter, the entire face of the world would have been changed."

It was some minutes before Maitland fully regained his composure, and during that time neither of us spoke. "Well, Doc," he said at length, and his manner was decidedly grave, even for him:

"What do you make of it?" I didn't know what to make of it, and I admitted my ignorance with a frankness at which, considering my profession, I have often since had occasion to marvel. I told him that I could scarcely account for it on the ground of mere coincidence, and I called his attention to that part of "The Mystery of Marie Roget," where Poe figures out the mathematical likelihood of a certain combination of peculiarities of clothing being found to obtain in the case of two young women who were unknown to each other. If the finding of a single reference to Cleopatra had been a thing of so infrequent occurrence as to at once challenge Maitland's attention, what was to be said when, all of a sudden, her name, or some reference to her, seemed to stare at him from every page he read?

"'There is something in this more than natural, If philosophy could find it out,'"

murmured Maitland, more to himself than to me. "Come, what do you say?" and he turned abruptly to me with one of those searching looks so peculiar to him in moments of excitement. "I see," I replied, "that you are determined I shall give my opinion now and here, without a moment's reflection. Very well; you have just quoted 'Hamlet'; I will do likewise:

"'There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy!'

"You seem in some strange way to be dominated by the shade of Cleopatra. Now, if I believed in metempsychosis, I should think you were Mark Antony brought down to date. There, with that present sober air of yours, you'd pass anywhere for such an anachronism. But to be serious, and to give you advice which is positively bilious with gravity, I should say, investigate this thing fully; make a study of this ancient charmer. By the way, why not begin by going to see Davenport in Sardou's 'Cleopatra'? You have never seen her in it, have you?"

In this way, I succeeded in getting him out of his depressed state. We got into an argument concerning the merits of Miss Davenport's work. I know of nothing Maitland would sooner do than argue, and, if attacked on a subject upon which he feels strongly, he is, for the time being, totally oblivious of everything else. For this reason I trapped him into this argument. I abominate what is now known as "realism" just as much as he does, but you don't have much of an argument without some apparent difference of opinion, so, for the nonce, I became a realist of whom Zola himself would have been proud. "Why, man," I said, "realism is truth. You certainly can't have any quarrel with that." I knew this would have the effect of a red rag flaunted in the face of a bull.

"Truth! Bah!" he exclaimed excitedly. "I have no patience with such aesthetic hod-carriers! Truth, indeed! Is there no other truth in art but that coarse verisimilitude, that vulgar trickery, which appeals to the eyes and the ears of the rabble? Are there not psychological truths of immensely greater importance? What sane man imagines for a moment that the pleasure he derives from seeing that greatest of all tragedians, Edwin Booth, in one of Shakespeare's matchless tragedies, is dependent upon his believing that this or that character is actually killed? Why, even the day of the cranberry-juice dagger is long since passed. When Miss Davenport shrieks in 'Fedora,' the shriek is literal—'real,' you would call it—and you find yourself instinctively saying, 'Don't!—-don't!' and wishing you were out of the house. When Mr. Booth, as 'Shylock' shrieks at 'Tubal's' news, the cry is not real, is not literal, but is suggestive, and you see at once the fiendish glee of which it is the expression. The difference between the two is the difference between vocal cords and grey matter."

"But surely," I rejoined, "one doesn't want untruth; one wants—" but he did not let me finish.

"Always that cry of truth!" he retorted. "Do you not see how absurd it is, as used by your exponents of realism? With a bit of charcoal some Raphael draws a face with five lines, and some photographer snaps a camera at the same face. Which would any sane man choose as the best work of art? The five-line face, of course. Why? Is the work of the camera unreal? Is it not more accurate in drawing, more subtle in gradation than the less mechanical picture? To be sure. What, then, makes the superiority of the few lines of our Raphael? That which makes the superiority of all noble art—its truth,, not on a low, but on a high, plane: its power of interpreting. See!" he said, fairly aglow with excitement. "What does your realist do, even assuming that he has reached that never-to—be-attained perfection which is the lifelong Mecca of his desires? He gives you, by his absolutely realistic goes with you, and interprets its grandeur to you. Stand before his canvas and enjoy it as you would Nature herself if there. Surely, you say, nothing more could be desired, and you clap your hands, and shout, 'Bravo!' But wait a bit; the other side is yet to be heard from. What does the true artist do for you by his picture of Yosemite Valley? He not only gives you a free conveyance to it, but he goes with you, and interprets its grandeur to you. He translates into the language of your consciousness beauties which, without him, you would entirely miss. It is this very capability of seeing more in Nature than is ever perceived by the common throng that constitutes the especial genius of the artist, and a work that is not aglow with its creator's personality—personality, mind you, not coarse realism—can never rank as a masterpiece. But, come, this won't do. Why did you want to get me astride my hobby?"

I thought it advisable to answer this question by asking another, so I said: "But how about Davenport? Will you go?"

"Yes," he replied. "Anything with a Cleopatra to it interests me. I'll go now and see about the tickets," and he left me.

I have related Maitland's aesthetic views as expressed to me upon this occasion, not because they have any particular bearing upon the mystery I am narrating, but because they cast a strong side-light upon the young man's character, and also for the reason that I believe his personality to be sufficiently strong and unique to be of general interest.

We went that same night to see Sardou's "Cleopatra." I asked Maitland how he liked the piece, and the only reply he vouchsafed was: "I have recently read Shakespeare's treatment of the same theme."



CHAPTER II

If events spread themselves out fanwise from the past into the future, then must the occurrences of the present exhibit convergence toward some historical burning-point,—some focal centre whereat the potential was warmed into the kinetic.

It was nearly a week after the events last narrated before I saw Maitland again, and then only by chance. We happened to meet in the Parker House, and, as he had some business pertaining to a case he was on, to transact at the Court House, I walked up Beacon Street with him. There is a book or stationery store, on Somerset Street, just before you turn down toward Pemberton Square. As we were passing this store, Maitland espied a large photographic reproduction of some picture.

"Let us cross over and see what it is," he said. We did so. It was a photograph of L. Alma-Tadema's painting of Antony and Cleopatra. Maitland started a little as he read the title, and then said lightly: "Do you suppose, Doc, that woman's mummy is in existence? I should like to find it. I've an idea she left some hieroglyphic message for me on her mummy-case, and doesn't propose to let me rest easy until I find and translate it. Now, if I believed in transmigration of souls—do you see any mark of Antony about me? Say, though, just imagine the spirit of Marcus Antonius in a rubber apron, making an analysis of oleomargarine! But here we are; good-bye," and he left me without awaiting any reply. He seemed to me to be in decidedly better spirits than formerly, and I was at the time at a loss to account for it. The cause of his levity, however, was soon explained, for that night, as Gwen, my sister, and I were sitting cosily in the study according to our usual custom, Maitland walked in, unannounced. He had come now to be a regular visitor, and I invented not a few subterfuges to get him to call even oftener than he otherwise would, for I perceived that his coming gave pleasure to Gwen. She exhibited less depression when in his presence than at any other time. I had learned that hers was one of those deep natures in which grief crystallises slowly, but with an unconquerable persistence. Instead of her forgetting her bereavement, or the sense thereof waxing weaker by time, she seemed to be drifting toward that ever-present consciousness of loss in which the soul feels itself gradually, but surely, sinking under an insupportable burden—a burden so long borne, so well known, that the mind no longer thinks of it. The heart beats stolidly under its load, and seems to forget the time when it was not so oppressed. No one knows better than we physicians the danger of this autocracy of grief, and I watched Gwen with a solicitude at times almost bordering on despair. But, as I said before, she always seemed to show more interest in affairs when Maitland was present, and, on the night in question, his abrupt and unexpected entrance surprised her into the betrayal of more pleasure than she would have wished us to note, and, indeed, so quickly did she conceal her confusion that I was the only one who noticed it. Maitland was too busy with the news he brought.

"Well, Miss Darrow," he began at once, "at last your detective has got a clue—not much of a one—but still a clue. I can pick the man for whom we are looking from among a million of his fellows—if I am ever fortunate enough to get the chance."

Somebody has already called attention to the fact that women are more or less curious, and there are well-authenticated cases on record where this inquisitiveness has even extended to things which did not immediately concern themselves; so I have little doubt I shall be believed when I say the women folk were in a fever of expectancy, and besought Maitland with an earnestness quite unnecessary—(it would have required a great deal to have prevented his telling it)—to begin at the beginning, and relate the whole thing. He readily acceded to this request, and began by telling them the experiences which I have just narrated. It was, he said, during the last act of Sardou's "Cleopatra" that the idea had suddenly come to him to change the plan of search from the analytical to the synthetical.

"You see," he continued, "I had from the first been trying to find the assassin without knowing the exact way in which the crime was committed. I now determined to ascertain how, under the same circumstances, I could commit such a crime, and leave behind no other evidences of the deed than those which are in our possession. I began to read detective stories, with all the avidity of a Western Union Telegraph messenger, and, of course, read those by Conan Doyle. The assertion of 'Sherlock Holmes' that there is no novelty in crime; that crimes, like history, repeat themselves; and that criminals read and copy each other's methods, deeply impressed me, and I at once said to myself: 'If our assassin was not original, whom did he copy?'

"It was while reading 'The Sign of the Four,' which I had procured at the Public Library, that I made the first discovery. The crime therein narrated had been committed in such a singular manner that it at once attracted my attention. The victim had apparently been murdered without anyone having either entered or left the room. In this respect it was like the problem we are trying to solve. Might not this book, I said to myself, have suggested to your father's assassin the course he pursued. I concluded to go to the library and ask for a list of the names of persons who had taken out this book for a few months prior to your father's death. I was fully aware that the chance of my learning anything in this way was very slight, In the first place; I reasoned that it was not especially likely your father's murderer had read 'The Sign of the Four,' and, in the second place, even if he had, what assurance had I that he had read this particular copy of it? Notwithstanding this, however, I felt impelled to give my synthetical theory a fair experimental trial. I was informed by the Library attendants that the book had been much read, and given the list of some twenty names of persons who had borrowed the book during the time I had specified. With these twenty-odd names before me, I sat down to think what my next step should be. I went carefully over this chain of reasoning link by link. 'I wish to find a certain murderer, and have adopted this method in the hope that it may help me. If I derive any assistance at all from it, it will be because my man has read this particular copy of this work; therefore, I may as well assume at the start that among these twenty-odd names is that of the man I want. Is there any possibility of this crime having been committed by a woman?' was my next question, and my answer was, 'Yes, a possibility, but it is so decidedly improbable that I may count it out for the time being.' Accordingly, I set aside all the female names, which cut my list down to eighteen. Several of the applicants had only signed the initials of their given names, and the attendant, copying them from the slips, had done likewise; so I was obliged to go to the registration clerk to determine this question of sex, and, while there, I also ascertained the age of each applicant—that is, of all but two. The registrar could give me no information regarding J. Z. Weltz, or B. W. Rizzi. When I told him that one of the clerks had copied the names for me from application slips, he informed me that if I would go back to her I would undoubtedly find she had taken the two last-mentioned names from the green slips used in applying for books for hall use, as neither J. Z. Weltz nor B. W. Rizzi was a card-holder.

"I decided to let these two names rest a while, and to give my attention to the others. After careful deliberation I felt reasonably sure your father's assassin could not fail to be a man of mature judgment and extraordinary cunning, probably a man past middle life—at all events, I could safely say he was over twenty-one years of age. Proceeding upon this assumption my list was reduced to ten names. But how should I further continue this process of exclusion? This was the question which now confronted me. I could think of but one way, apart from personally making the gentlemen's acquaintance, which I did not then wish to do, and that was to ascertain what other books they had borrowed immediately before and after they had read 'The Sign of the Four.' This was the course I determined to pursue.

"If you ask me why I so persistently followed an investigation, a successful outcome of which anyone must recognise would be little short of miraculous, I can only say that I felt impelled to do so. Perhaps the impulse was due to my habit of testing patiently and thoroughly each new theory which impresses me as having any degree of probability, and perhaps it was due to something else—Cleopatra, perhaps, eh, Doctor?—I don't know. I determined, however, to thoroughly satisfy myself regarding these ten men. I made a careful list, with the assistance of an attendant, of ten books taken by each man, five taken just prior to 'The Sign of the Four,' and the other five just following it. I made no deductions until the list was completed, although I began to see certain things of interest as we worked upon it. At length the whole hundred titles were spread before me, and I sat down to see what I could make of them. I purposely reserved consideration of the books borrowed by Weltz and Rizzi until the last, because I had been able to learn nothing of them, and considered, therefore, that they were the most difficult persons in the list about whom to satisfy myself. I found the other eight exhibited no system in their reading. One had read —I think I can remember the books in the order in which they were borrowed—'Thelma,' 'Under Two Flags,' 'David Copperfield,' 'The Story of an African Farm,' 'A Study in Scarlet,' 'The Sign of the Four,' 'The Prisoner of Zenda,' 'The Dolly Dialogues,' 'The Yellow Aster,' 'The Superfluous Woman,' and 'Ideala.' This is a fair sample of the other seven. Not so, however, with Messrs. Weltz and Rizzi. The reading of these men at once impressed me as having a purpose behind it.

"I will read you a list of the books taken by Weltz and Rizzi, just to see what you will make out of it:

WELTZ RIZZI

I."Lecons de Toxicologic," 1."Traite de Toxicologic," par M. Orifia. par C. P. Galtier.

2."The Poisons of Asps and 2."The Poisons of Asps and Other Stories," by Florence Other Stories," by Florence Marryat. Marryat.

3."A Practical Essay on 3."A Practical Essay on Cancer," by C. T. Johnson. Cancer," by C. T. Johnson.

4."The Sharper Detected 4."The Sharper Detected and Exposed," by R. Houdin. and Exposed," by R. Houdin.

5."The Sign of the Four," 5."The Sign of the Four," by A. Conan Doyle. by A. Conan Doyle.

6."Cancer, a New Method of 6."Legal Chemistry: A Treatment," by W. H. Guide to the Detection of Broadbent. Poisons, Examinations of Stains, etc., as Applied to Chemical Jurisprudence." From the French of A. Naquet by J. P. Battershall, Nat.Sc.D.

7."Reports of Trials for 7."Traite Pratique des Murder by Poisoning," Maladies Cancerences," by G. L. Browne and C. par H. Lebert. G. Stewart.

8."A Practical Treatise on 8."A Practical Treatise on Poisons," by O. H. Costill. Poisons," by O. H. Costill.

9."Poisons, Their Effects 9."A Treatise on Poisons in and Detection," by Alexander Relation to Medical Wynter Blyth. Jurisprudence, Physiology, and the Practice of Physic," by R. Christison,M.D., F.R.S.E.

10."Poisons, Their Effects 10."Poisons, Their Effects and Detection," by Alexander and Detection," by Alexander Wynter Blyth. Wynter Blyth.

"There, do you wonder that the perusal of that list excited me? Come, now, before I go any further, tell me what you make of it, Doc," and he passed it to me.

"There seems to me to be a singular unanimity of purpose existing between these two men," I said; "not only as regards the subject-matter of their reading, but in no less than six cases they have both perused the same volume. This never happened by chance. Clearly, they are acquaintances, and are working together toward some common end. I should think it very likely, judging from their interest in cancers and toxicology, that they were medical students. Numbers four and five don't exactly seem to strengthen my medical hypothesis, but they are only two out of the ten. That's about all I can make out of it;" and I returned the list to him.

"Your views in the matter," replied Maitland, "are precisely those which first occurred to me, and I am not sure but I should still hold them, had I been obliged to decide solely from the evidence I have submitted to you. It was clear to my mind from the first that some common purpose actuated both Weltz and Rizzi. With a view to ascertaining where they lived as a preparatory step toward learning more of them, I consulted a Boston directory, only to learn that it contained no such names. I was about to examine some of the directories of neighbouring towns when it occurred to me that the easiest way to find their places of residence would be to consult the green slips upon which they had procured their books, and I accordingly asked the attendant to kindly let me look at them. While she was collecting the slips I re-examined the list of books taken by Weltz and Rizzi, especially those which had been taken by both men. One thing at once struck my attention, and that was that most of these latter were large books which would take a long time to peruse and would require to be borrowed several times for hall use, were they to be examined with any care. I put this fact down for future reference and gave my attention to the green slips, the whole twenty of which the attendant now placed before me. The residence of Weltz was given as No. 15 Staniford Place, Boston, while that of Rizzi was No. 5 Oak Street, Boston. I was about to walk over to Oak Street to see if Rizzi were still there when, in returning the slips to the attendant, I noticed a peculiarity in Weltz's 'z' which I had thought I had seen in Rizzi's signature. I immediately compared the slips. There was the same oddly shaped 'z' in both. It was made like this"—and he handed us a slip of paper with this z* upon it.

"You see," he continued, "it is so unusual a way of making the letter that it at once attracted my attention, notwithstanding the fact that Rizzi wrote with his left hand. Closer examination revealed other peculiarities, as in the r*'s, common to both hands. Well, to make a long story short, I satisfied myself that the same person wrote the whole twenty slips and was, moreover, ambidextrous. This I considered as a very promising discovery, so much so, indeed, that I gave up an engagement I had for the evening and decided to camp right there until the Library closed. Happily the books I had been consulting were still on the table. I picked out those borrowed under the names of Weltz and Rizzi, and began a most careful examination of them. I had been working about two hours when I discovered something that fairly took my breath away. I was not sure that I was right, but I knew that, if my microscope bore me out, I would be able to stake my life that the murderer of John Darrow had read that book. I was aware, however, that even then I should not be able to name the man who had put his mark upon the book, but I could take oath that the record was made by the same hand that committed the murder.



transcriber's note: the symbols designated z* and r* are shown as script which is not reproducible here.

"I was too excited to do more till this had been settled, so I besought the official in charge to let me take all the books home with me, if only for a day, explaining to him the vital importance of my request. He readily consented and I hastened home with the whole lot. You may imagine with what interest I put the page I wished to examine under my microscope and laid beside it the piece of glass which, you will perhaps remember, I cut from a window of the room in which the murder was committed. I believe I have never yet explained to Miss Darrow why I preserved that bit of glass. There were two reasons for it. The house had been primed that day and there were two smutches of paint upon the glass and two almost identical smutches upon the sill. One was a sinuous line, as if the glass had been struck with a short bit of rope,—or possibly rubber tubing since no rope-like texture was visible,—which had previously been soiled with the paint from the sill. The other mark was that of a human thumb. I had seen at the World's Fair an exhibit of these thumbmarks collected by a Frenchman who has made an exhaustive study of the subject, and had learned there for the first time that no two thumbs in the world can make the same mark. I knew, therefore, that this slip of glass would at any time tell me whether or not a suspected man were guilty. I had not failed to get the thumb-marks of the men who painted the house on that day, as well as those of every other person known to be about the place. The marks upon the glass could not, by any possibility, have been made by any of them. The deduction was inevitable. They were made by the man who stood by the window when the murder was committed.

"You will be surprised when I tell you it was some moments before I could summon up courage to look through my microscope upon the page beneath it. You see, I had been seized by an unaccountable conviction that I had at last found a real clue to the murderer, and I dreaded lest the first glance should show this to have been an idle delusion. At length I looked. The thumb that had pressed the paper was the thumb that had pressed the glass! There was not a doubt of it. My suspicions were confirmed. Everything now regarding this book was of immense importance. The page upon which the mark was found—well, I think you would open your eyes if I were to read it to you. I will defer this pleasure, however, till I see if my suspicions are correct. The thumb-mark is upon page 469 of 'Poisons, Their Effects and Detection,' by Alexander Wynter Blyth.

"No sooner had I made sure of my discovery than I set out for No. 5 Oak Street, the address given by Rizzi. There was no such person there, nor had there been anyone of that name in the house during the three years of the present tenant's occupancy. I went to 15 Staniford Place with the same result. A young woman about twenty-five years of age came to the door. She informed me that she had been born in the house and had always lived there. She had never known anyone by the name of Weltz. This was just what I had expected. The man for whom we are searching is shrewd almost beyond belief, and if we succeed in finding him it will not, we may be assured, be the result of any bungling on his part.

"I have now told you all I have learned, or rather all that is sufficiently definite to communicate—it is not much, yet it is a clue and may serve to give our hope a new lease of life. What do you think of it, Miss Darrow?"

"I think what you have learned," Gwen replied, "will be of the utmost importance. You have now something definite to guide you. I am most fortunate in having the services of such a detective, —indeed, I am at a loss to know how to thank you for all you have done,—for all you are doing, I—"

"My dear Miss Darrow," Maitland interrupted, "I need no thanks. Be assured I am selfish in all I do. It is a pleasure to me, therefore I do it. You see I deserve no credit. If I am able to free you from the danger of sacrificing yourself, I shall be more than repaid."

Gwen made no reply, but I, sitting as I did close beside her, saw the moisture gather between her drooping lids. Maitland took his leave almost immediately, having, he said, a long evening's work before him; while Gwen, Alice, and I discussed the news he had brought us, until far into the night. I did not see him the next day, which was Tuesday, and I believe not on Wednesday. It was Thursday afternoon, if I do not mistake, that he sent me a note asking me to call on him at his office. I went at once, thinking it might be something very important. I found him alone and waiting for me.

"I wanted," he began as soon as I was seated, "to talk this matter over with you. You see the great difficulty which besets me in this case is that nearly all our evidence, while it is of a nature to enable us to convict our man once we have him, is yet of almost no assistance to us in finding him. What do we know of him up to date; or at least of what do we feel reasonably assured? Let us see. John Darrow was poisoned in some mysterious way by a man who was stationed just outside the partly opened window. The weapon, or whatever was used as such, was taken away by the murderer. Nothing in the nature of a projectile could have been employed, since the wound was upon a part of the victim's throat known to have been turned away from the window and to have been completely shielded upon that side by the high and massive back of the chair in which the victim sat.

"He was fully eight feet from the casement, so that the assassin could not have reached in and struck him. There were no footprints by the window, as the assassin had strapped small boards upon his feet. It is most likely, therefore, that he has some peculiarity about his feet which he thought best to conceal. He is about five feet five inches tall, weighs about one hundred and thirty-five pounds, and steps three or four inches longer when the right foot is thrown forward than he does when the left foot leads. We have a cast of the assassin's hand showing unmistakable evidence of the habit of biting the nails, with the exception of that of the little finger, which nail, by the way, is abnormally long, and could only have been spared for some special reason. The murderer is most likely a foreigner. His handwriting would indicate this even if we did not know, from the books he read, how conversant he is with at least one foreign tongue. Again, he has some decided interest in the subject of cancers and, perhaps, some interest in legerdemain, if we may judge from his perusal of Robert Houdin's book.

"There are one or two other things I have learned, but this, so far as any present effect is concerned, is about all we know, and it doesn't seem to make the conduct of our search a very easy matter. We have clearly to deal with a man who is possessed not merely of low criminal cunning, but, I have reason to believe, with one who has education and culture, and, if anything can be judged from handwriting, rare strength of character as well. If we could only find some motive! No one but a maniac would do such a deed without a motive, yet we can't find one. A maniac! By Jove! I hadn't thought of that. What do you think of the idea? 'Though this be madness, yet there is method in't,' eh?"

I told him that the maniac theory did not appeal to me very strongly. "Madness, to be sure, is often exceedingly cunning," I said, "but it is hardly capable of such sustained masterfulness as our criminal has evinced."

"Look here, Doc," Maitland said, breaking out suddenly, "I've an idea. Might not this fellow's interest in cancers be due to his having one himself? Suppose you make a canvass of the specialists on cancer in Boston and vicinity, and see if any of them remember being consulted by a patient answering the description with which I will provide you. In addition to this I will insert an ad in the papers calling attention to a new method for the cure of cancer, and asking all interested to call at your office for further particulars. The plan does not promise much, still it may bring him. What do you say?"

I expressed my willingness to do all in my power to aid him, and he left me. The next morning's papers contained the advertisement and I had several calls in answer to it. These would have caused me much inconvenience had I not explained the whole ruse in confidence to a medical friend who made a specialty of the treatment of cancers, and persuaded him to come to my office during the hours specified in the advertisement. When a patient would call I would satisfy myself that it was neither the person we were searching for, nor anyone sent by him to make inquiries, and then turn him over to my colleague, Dr. Rhodes. It would never have occurred to me to interest myself in any patient who did not answer the description given me by Maitland, had he not especially cautioned me in this regard.

"We have," he said, "to deal with a man possessed of ability of no common order. We have already seen that he never runs a risk, however slight, which he can avoid. It is more than likely, therefore, if our advertisement meets his eye and interests him, he will inquire into it through some second party. Again, we are by no means certain that his interest in cancers is a purely personal one. Perhaps it is a wife, a sister, or some other relative who is afflicted. In this case we could hardly expect him to come himself. Let me caution you, therefore, to closely scrutinise all applicants and question them until you are satisfied they are in nowise connected with the man for whom we are searching."

I followed this advice most carefully and had no difficulty in convincing myself that none of my callers had any relation whatsoever with the murderer of John Darrow. This order of things was continued for several days with the same result. In the meantime Maitland was working upon a new clue he had discovered. He would tell me all about it, he said, when he had followed it to the end. This was on Tuesday. On Friday he came to the house and informed us that he had met a man who had known a M. Henri Cazot, a Frenchman whose description seemed to tally perfectly with nearly all we knew of Mr. Darrow's murderer.

"It came about in this way," Maitland began in response to Gwen's request that he should tell us all about it: "I determined to thoroughly search every book on the 'Weltz-Rizzi' list, to see if I might not get some additional clue. In the work by Robert Houdin entitled 'The Sharper Detected and Exposed' I found the statement that gamblers often neutralised a cut in a pack of cards by a rapid and dexterous sleight. This, the book went on to say, was accomplished in the following manner: When the cards are cut and left in two packets upon the table, the sharper picks up with his right hand the parcel of cards which was originally at the bottom of the pack. This is brought above the other packet, as in an honest cut, but, just before releasing the cards, the lower parcel is deftly tilted up by inserting the right little finger under it, and the upper packet quickly slid beneath it, leaving the cards in precisely the position they occupied before cutting; For this purpose, the book continued, the nail of the right little finger is worn very long, so as to facilitate its being thrust beneath a packet of cards. Here, I said to myself, is a possible explanation of one of the peculiarities of my plaster cast. The long nail on the left little finger may have served its function at the gaming table. If so, however, it would seem to indicate that our man is left-handed, while, as we have already seen, the writing upon the library slips would indicate that he is ambidextrous. We need not, therefore, I reasoned, be surprised if we find that both little fingers have long nails. I at once acted upon these thoughts and began a search of the gambling resorts of this city. In order not to excite suspicion I played a little in each place, watching my opportunity to engage the proprietor in conversation. In every case I followed the same formula. Did he remember the gentleman who used to come there? Foreigner,—spoke French, a little under medium height; had a sort of halt in his walk; bit his finger nails, etc., etc. I met with no encouragement in the down-town places, though the proprietor of one of the Hayward Place 'dives' had an idea such a man had been there, but only once or twice and he was not sure he could place him. I then went up to the South End and on Decatur Street found a man who promptly responded to my inquiries: 'Gad! that's Henri Cazot fast enough, in all but the height and gait. Dick there, he'll tell you all about him. He owes him a little debt of honour of about a hundred plunks. He gave him his note for it, and Dick carries it around with him, not because he thinks he'll ever get it, but he likes the writing. M. Henri Cazot! eh, Dick?' and he burst into a coarse laugh. I turned to Dick for further information. He had already produced a much-crumpled paper and was smoothing it out upon the table.

"'There's the article,' he said, bringing his hand down emphatically upon it. 'The cuss was hard up. Luck had gone agin him and he had lost every cent he had. Jem Macey was a-dealin' and Cazot didn't seem to grasp that fact, but kept bettin' heavy. You see, young feller, ye ain't over likely to win at cards when yer playin' agin the dealer. Cazot didn't know this and I wouldn't tell him, for he was rather fly with the cards himself when he wan't watched too close. Well, he struck me for a loan; said his little girl was hungry and he hadn't a cent to buy bread. Gad, but he looked wild though! I always thought he was more'n half loony. Well, as I had helped to fleece him I lent him a hundred and took this here note. That's the last I ever see of M. Henri Cazot,' and he handed the paper to me. I glanced at the signature. It was the same hand that had written 'Weltz' and 'Rizzi' upon the library slips. There was that unmistakable z and the peculiar r which had just attracted my attention! It required considerable effort on my part to so restrain my feelings as not to appear especially interested in what I had learned. I think, however, I succeeded, as they freely answered my questions regarding Cazot and the daughter of whom he had spoken. They knew nothing further, they said, than what they had told me.

"'It was a year ago come next month that I lent him the money,' my informant continued. He pocketed it, hurried out, and that is the last I have ever seen or heard of him. Shouldn't wonder if he'd blown his brains out long ago. He used to have a mighty desperate look at times. He was one of them Monte Carlo fellers, I reckon.'

"That's all I have been able to learn thus far. It isn't very much, but it shows we are on the right track. By the way, Doc, I'm going to change that ad to-morrow, offering treatment by letter. Perhaps our man is too shy to apply in person. At all events we'll give the other method a trial."



CHAPTER III

When we least expect it the Ideal meets us in the street of the Commonplace and locks arms with us. Nevermore shall we choose our paths uninfluenced. A new leaven has entered our personality to dominate and direct it.

The new advertisement duly appeared and on the next day, which was Wednesday—I remember it because it was my hospital day—I received several written answers, and among them, one in which I felt confident I recognised the peculiar z*'s and r*'s of Weltz and Rizzi.

I took it at once to Maitland. He glanced at it a moment and then impulsively grasped my hand. "By Jove, Doc!" he exclaimed, "if this crafty fox doesn't scent the hound, we shall soon run him to earth. You see he has given no address and signs a new name. We are to write to Carl Cazenove, General Delivery, Boston. Good! we will do so at once, and I will then arrange with the postal authorities to notify me when they deliver the letter. Of course this will necessitate a continuous watch, perhaps for several days, of the general delivery window. It is hardly likely our crafty friend will himself call for the letter, so it will be imperative that someone be constantly on hand to shadow whomsoever he may send as a substitute. May I depend on your assistance in this matter?"