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There was a time, and not so very long ago, when even the main streets of London, after midnight, were as silent as—not the grave; that is an unpleasant simile. Besides, who has any experience of conditions in the grave? But they were nearly as silent as the streets of a village. Then the nocturnal pedestrian could go his way encompassed and soothed by quiet, which was hardly disturbed by the rumble of a country wagon wending to market or the musical tinkle of the little bells on the collar of the hansom-cab horse sedately drawing some late reveller homeward.

Very different is the state of those streets nowadays. Long after the hour when the electric trams have ceased from troubling and the motor omnibuses are at rest, the heavy road transport from the country thunders through the streets; the air is rent by the howls of the electric hooter, and belated motor-cyclists fly past, stuttering explosively like perambulant Lewis guns with an inexhaustible charge.

“Let us get into the by-streets,” said Thorndyke, as a car sped past us uttering sounds suggestive of a dyspeptic dinosaur. “We don’t want our conversation seasoned with mechanical objurgations. In the back-streets it is still possible to hear oneself speak and forget the march of progress.”

We turned into a narrow by-way with the confidence of the born and bred Londoner in the impossibility of losing our direction, and began to thread the intricate web of streets in the neighbourhood of a canal.

“It is a remarkable thing,” Thorndyke resumed anon, “that every new application of science seems to be designed to render the environment of civilised man more and more disagreeable. If the process goes much farther, as it undoubtedly will, we shall presently find ourselves looking back wistfully at the Stone-age as the golden age of human comfort.”

At this point his moralising was cut short by a loud, sharp explosion. We both stopped and looked about from the parapet of the bridge that we were crossing.

“Quite like old times,” Thorndyke remarked. “Carries one back to 1915, when friend Fritz used to call on us. Ah! There is the place; the top story of that tall building across the canal.” He pointed as he spoke to a factory-like structure, from the upper windows of which a lurid light shone and rapidly grew brighter.

“It must be down the next turning,” said I, quickening my pace. But he restrained me, remarking: “There is no hurry. That was the sound of high explosive, and those flames suggest nitro compounds burning. Festina lente. There may be some other packets of high explosives.”

He had hardly finished speaking when a flash of dazzling violet light burst from the burning building. The windows flew out bodily, the roof opened in places, and almost at the same moment the clang of a violent explosion shook the ground under our feet, a puff of wind stirred our hair, and then came a clatter of falling glass and slates.

We made our way at a leisurely pace towards the scene of the explosion, through streets lighted up by the ruddy glare from the burning factory. But others were less cautious. In a few minutes the street was filled by one of those crowds which, in London, seem mysteriously to spring up in an instant where but a moment before not a person was to be seen. Before we had reached the building, a fire-engine had rumbled past us, and already a sprinkling of policemen had appeared as if, like the traditional frogs, they had dropped from the clouds.

In spite of the ferocity of its outbreak, the fire seemed to be no great matter, for even as we looked and before the fire-hose was fully run out, the flames began to die down. Evidently, they had been dealt with by means of extinguishers within the building, and the services of the engine would not be required after all. Noting this flat ending to what had seemed so promising a start, we were about to move off and resume our homeward journey when I observed a uniformed inspector who was known to us, and who, observing us at the same instant, made his way towards us through the crowd.

“You remind me, sir,” said he, when he had wished us good-evening, “of the stories of the vultures that make their appearance in the sky from nowhere when a camel drops dead in the desert. I don’t mean anything uncomplimentary,” he hastened to add. “I was only thinking of the wonderful instinct that has brought you to this very spot at this identical moment, as if you had smelt a case afar off.”

“Then your imagination has misled you,” said Thorndyke, “for I haven’t smelt a case, and I don’t smell one now. Fires are not in my province.”

“No, sir,” replied the inspector, “but bodies are, and the fireman tells me that there is a dead man up there—or at least the remains of one. I am going up to inspect. Do you care to come up with me?”

Thorndyke considered for a moment, but I knew what his answer would be, and I was not mistaken.

“As a matter of professional interest, I should,” he replied, “but I don’t want to be summoned as a witness at the inquest.”

“Of course you don’t, sir,” the inspector agreed, “and I will see that you are not summoned, unless an expert witness is wanted. I need not mention that you have been here; but I should be glad of your opinion for my own guidance in investigating the case.”

He led us through the crowd to the door of the building, where we were joined by a fireman—whose helmet I should have liked to borrow—by whom we were piloted up the stairs. Half-way up we met the night-watchman, carrying an exhausted extinguisher and a big electric lantern, and he joined our procession, giving us the news as we ascended.

“It’s all safe up above,” said he, “excepting the roof; and that isn’t so very much damaged. The big windows saved it. They blew out and let off the force of the explosion. The floor isn’t damaged at all. It’s girder and concrete. But poor Mr. Manford caught it properly. He was fairly blown to bits.”

“Do you know how it happened?” the inspector asked.

“I don’t,” was the reply. “When I came on duty Mr. Manford was up there in his private laboratory. Soon afterwards a friend of his—a foreign gentleman of the name of Bilsky—came to see him. I took him up, and then Mr. Manford said he had some business to do, and after that he had got a longish job to do and would be working late. So he said I might turn in and he would let me know when he had finished. And he did let me know with a vengeance, poor chap! I lay down in my clothes, and I hadn’t been asleep above a couple of hours when some noise woke me up. Then there came a most almighty bang. I rushed for an extinguisher and ran upstairs, and there I found the big laboratory all ablaze, the windows blown out and the ceiling down. But it wasn’t so bad as it looked. There wasn’t very much stuff up there; only the experimental stuff, and that burned out almost at once. I got the rest of the fire out in a few minutes.”

“What stuff is it that you are speaking of?” the inspector asked.

“Celluloid, mostly, I think,” replied the watchman. “They make films and other celluloid goods in the works. But Mr. Manford used to do experiments in the material up in his laboratory. This time he was working with alloys, melting them on the gas furnace. Dangerous thing to do with all that inflammable stuff about. I don’t know what there was up there, exactly. Some of it was celluloid, I could see by the way it burned, but the Lord knows what it was that exploded. Some of the raw stuff, perhaps.”

At this point we reached the top floor, where a door blown off its hinges and a litter of charred wood fragments filled the landing. Passing through the yawning doorway, we entered the laboratory and looked on a hideous scene of devastation. The windows were mere holes, the ceiling a gaping space fringed with black and ragged lathing, through which the damaged roof was visible by the light of the watchman’s powerful lantern. The floor was covered with the fallen plaster and fragments of blackened woodwork, but its own boards were only slightly burnt in places, owing, no doubt, to their being fastened directly to the concrete which formed the actual floor.

“You spoke of some human remains,” said the inspector.

“Ah!” said the watchman, “you may well say ‘remains.’ Just come here.” He led the way over the rubbish to a corner of the laboratory, where he halted and threw the light of his lantern down on a brownish, dusty, globular object that lay on the floor half buried in plaster. “That’s all that’s left of poor Mr. Manford; that and a few other odd pieces. I saw a hand over the other side.”

Thorndyke picked up the head and placed it on the blackened remnant of a bench, where, with the aid of the watchman’s lantern and the inspection lamp which I produced from our research-case, he examined it curiously. It was extremely, but unequally, scorched. One ear was completely shrivelled, and most of the face was charred to the bone. But the other ear was almost intact; and though most of the hair was burned away to the scalp, a tuft above the less-damaged ear was only singed, so that it was possible to see that the hair had been black, with here and there a stray white hair.

Thorndyke made no comments, but I noticed that he examined the gruesome object minutely, taking nothing for granted. The inspector noticed this, too; and when the examination was finished, looked at him inquiringly.

“Anything abnormal, sir?” he asked.

“No,” replied Thorndyke; “nothing that is not accounted for by fire and the explosion. I see he had no natural teeth, so he must have worn a complete set of false teeth. That should help in the formal identification, if the plates are not completely destroyed.”

“There isn’t much need for identification,” said the watchman, “seeing that there was nobody in the building but him and me. His friend went away about half-past twelve. I heard Mr. Manford let him out.”

“The doctor means at the inquest,” the inspector explained. “Somebody has got to recognise the body if possible.”

He took the watchman’s lantern, and throwing its light on the floor, began to search among the rubbish. Very soon he disinterred from under a heap of plaster the headless trunk. Both legs were attached, though the right was charred below the knee and the foot blown off, and one complete arm. The other arm—the right—was intact only to the elbow. Here, again, the burning was very unequal. In some parts the clothing had been burnt off or blown away completely; in others, enough was left to enable the watchman to recognise it with certainty. One leg was much more burnt than the other; and whereas the complete arm was only scorched, the dismembered one was charred almost to the bone. When the trunk had been carried to the bench and laid there beside the head, the lights were turned on it for Thorndyke to make his inspection.

“It almost seems,” said the police officer, as the hand was being examined, “as if one could guess how he was standing when the explosion occurred. I think I can make out finger-marks—pretty dirty ones, too—on the back of the hand, as if he had been standing with his hands clasped together behind him while he watched something that he was experimenting with.” The inspector glanced for confirmation at Thorndyke, who nodded approvingly.

“Yes,” he said, “I think you are right. They are very indistinct, but the marks are grouped like fingers. The small mark near the wrist suggests a little finger and the separate one near the knuckle looks like a fore-finger, while the remaining two marks are close together.” He turned the hand over and continued: “And there, in the palm, just between the roots of the third and fourth fingers, seems to be the trace of a thumb. But they are all very faint. You have a quick eye, inspector.”

The gratified officer, thus encouraged, resumed his explorations among the debris in company with the watchman—the fireman had retired after a professional look round—leaving Thorndyke to continue his examination of the mutilated corpse, at which I looked on unsympathetically. For we had had a long day and I was tired and longing to get home. At length I drew out my watch, and with a portentous yawn, entered a mild protest.

“It is nearly two o’clock,” said I. “Don’t you think we had better be getting on? This really isn’t any concern of ours, and there doesn’t seem to be anything in it, from our point of view.”

“Only that we are keeping our intellectual joints supple,” Thorndyke replied with a smile. “But it is getting late. Perhaps we had better adjourn the inquiry.”

At this moment, however, the inspector discovered the missing forearm—completely charred—with the fingerless remains of the hand, and almost immediately afterwards the watchman picked up a dental plate of some white metal, which seemed to be practically uninjured. But our brief inspection of these objects elicited nothing of interest, and having glanced at them, we took our departure, avoiding on the stairs an eager reporter, all agog for “copy.”

A few days later we received a visit, by appointment, from a Mr. Herdman, a solicitor who was unknown to us and who was accompanied by the widow of Mr. James Manford, the victim of the explosion. In the interval the inquest had been opened but had been adjourned for further examination of the premises and the remains. No mention had been made of our visit to the building, and so far as I knew nothing had been said to anybody on the subject.

Mr. Herdman came to the point with business-like directness.

“I have called,” he said, “to secure your services, if possible, in regard to the matter of which I spoke in my letter. You have probably seen an account of the disaster in the papers?”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “I read the report of the inquest.”

“Then you know the principal facts. The inquest, as you know, was adjourned for three weeks. When it is resumed, I should like to retain you to attend on behalf of Mrs. Manford.”

“To watch the case on her behalf?” Thorndyke suggested.

“Well, not exactly,” replied Herdman. “I should ask you to inspect the premises and the remains of poor Mr. Manford, so that, at the adjourned inquest, you could give evidence to the effect that the explosion and the death of Mr. Manford were entirely due to accident.”

“Does anyone say that they were not?” Thorndyke asked.

“No, certainly not,” Mr. Herdman replied hastily. “Not at all. But I happened, quite by chance, to see the manager of the ‘Pilot’ Insurance Society, on another matter, and I mentioned the case of Mr. Manford. He then let drop a remark which made me slightly uneasy. He observed that there was a suicide clause in the policy, and that the possibility of suicide would have to be ruled out before the claim could be settled. Which suggested a possible intention to contest the claim.”

“But,” said Thorndyke, “I need not point out to you that if he sets up the theory of suicide, it is for him to prove it, not for you to disprove it. Has anything transpired that would lend colour to such a suggestion?”

“Nothing material,” was the reply. “But we should feel more happy if you could be present and give positive evidence that the death was accidental.”

“That,” said Thorndyke, “would be hardly possible. But my feeling is that the suicide question is negligible. There is nothing to suggest it, so far as I know. Is there anything known to you?”

The solicitor glanced at his client and replied somewhat evasively:

“We are anxious to secure ourselves. Mrs. Manford is left very badly off, unless there is some personal property that we don’t know about. If the insurance is not paid, she will be absolutely ruined. There isn’t enough to pay the debts. And I think the suicide question might be raised—even successfully—on several points. Manford had been rather queer lately: jumpy and rather worried. Then, he was under notice to terminate his engagement at the works. His finances were in a confused state; goodness knows why, for he had a liberal salary. And then there was some domestic trouble. Mrs. Manford had actually consulted me about getting a separation. Some other woman, you know.”

“I should like to forget that,” said Mrs. Manford; “and it wasn’t that which worried him. Quite the contrary. Since it began he had been quite changed. So smart in his dress and so particular in his appearance. He even took to dyeing his hair. I remember that he opened a fresh bottle of dye the very morning before his death and took no end of trouble putting it on. It wasn’t that entanglement that made him jumpy. It was his money affairs. He had too many irons in the fire.”

Thorndyke listened with patient attention to these rather irrelevant details and inquired: “What sort of irons?”

“I will tell you,” said Herdman. “About three months ago he had need for two thousand pounds; for what purpose, I can’t say, but Mrs. Manford thinks it was to invest in certain valuables that he used to purchase from time to time from a Russian dealer named Bilsky. At any rate, he got this sum on short loan from a Mr. Clines, but meanwhile arranged for a longer loan with a Mr. Elliott on a note of hand and an agreement to insure his life for the amount.

“As a matter of fact, the policy was made out in Elliott’s name, he having proved an insurable interest. So if the insurance is paid, Elliott is settled with. Otherwise the debt falls on the estate, which would be disastrous; and to make it worse, the day before his death, he drew out five hundred pounds—nearly the whole balance—as he was expecting to see Mr. Bilsky, who liked to be paid in bank-notes. He did see him, in fact, at the laboratory, but they couldn’t have done any business, as no jewels were found.”

“And the bank-notes?”

“Burned with the body, presumably. He must have had them with him.”

“You mentioned,” said Thorndyke, “that he occasionally bought jewels from this Russian. What became of them?”

“Ah!” replied Herdman, “there is a gleam of hope there. He had a safe deposit somewhere. We haven’t located it yet, but we shall. There may be quite a nice little nest-egg in it. But meanwhile there is the debt to Elliott. He wrote to Manford about it a day or two ago. You have the letter, I think,” he added, addressing Mrs. Manford, who thereupon produced two envelopes from her handbag and laid them on the table.

“This is Mr. Elliott’s letter,” she said. “Merely a friendly reminder, you see, telling him that he is just off to the Continent and that he has given his wife a power of attorney to act in his absence.”

Thorndyke glanced through the letter and made a few notes of its contents. Then he looked inquiringly at the other envelope.

“That,” said Mrs. Manford, “is a photograph of my husband. I thought it might help you if you were going to examine the body.”

As Thorndyke drew the portrait out and regarded it thoughtfully, I recalled the shapeless, blackened fragments of its subject; and when he passed it to me I inspected it with a certain grim interest, and mentally compared it with those grisly remains. It was a commonplace face, rather unsymmetrical—the nose was deflected markedly to the left, and the left eye had a pronounced divergent squint. The bald head, with an abundant black fringe and an irregular scar on the right side of the forehead, sought compensation in a full beard and moustache, both apparently jet-black. It was not an attractive countenance, and it was not improved by a rather odd-shaped ear—long, lobeless, and pointed above, like the ear of a satyr.

“I realise your position,” said Thorndyke, “but I don’t quite see what you want of me. If,” he continued, addressing the solicitor, “you had thought of my giving ex parte evidence, dismiss the idea. I am not a witness-advocate. All I can undertake to do is to investigate the case and try to discover what really happened. But in that case, whatever I may discover I shall disclose to the coroner. Would that suit you?”

The lawyer looked doubtful and rather glum, but Mrs. Manford interposed, firmly:

“Why not? We are not proposing any deception, but I am certain that he did not commit suicide. Yes, I agree unreservedly to what you propose.”

With this understanding—which the lawyer was disposed to boggle at—our visitors took their leave. As soon as they were gone, I gave utterance to the surprise with which I had listened to Thorndyke’s proposal.

“I am astonished at your undertaking this case. Of course, you have given them fair warning, but still, it will be unpleasant if you have to give evidence unfavourable to your client.”

“Very,” he agreed. “But what makes you think I may have to?”

“Well, you seem to reject the probability of suicide, but have you forgotten the evidence at the inquest?”

“Perhaps I have,” he replied blandly. “Let us go over it again.”

I fetched the report from the office, and spreading it out on the table began to read it aloud. Passing over the evidence of the inspector and the fireman, I came to that of the night-watchman.

“Shortly after I came on duty at ten o’clock, a foreign gentleman named Bilsky called to see Mr. Manford. I knew him by sight, because he had called once or twice before at about the same time. I took him up to the laboratory, where Mr. Manford was doing something with a big crucible on the gas furnace. He told me that he had some business to transact with Mr. Bilsky and when he had finished he would let him out. Then he was going to do some experiments in making alloys, and as they would probably take up most of the night he said I might as well turn in. He said he would call me when he was ready to go. So I told him to be careful with the furnace and not set the place on fire and burn me in my bed, and then I went downstairs. I had a look round to see that everything was in order, and then I took off my boots and laid down. About half-past twelve I heard Mr. Manford and Bilsky come down. I recognised Mr. Bilsky by a peculiar cough that he had and by the sound of his stick and his limping tread—he had something the matter with his right foot and walked quite lame.”

“You say that the deceased came down with him,” said the coroner. “Are you quite sure of that?”

“Well, I suppose Mr. Manford came down with him, but I can’t say I actually heard him.”

“You did not hear him go up again?”

“No, I didn’t. But I was rather sleepy and I wasn’t listening very particular. Well, then I went to sleep and slept till about half-past one, when some noise woke me. I was just getting up to see what it was when I heard a tremendous bang, right overhead. I ran down and turned the gas off at the main and then I got a fire extinguisher and ran up to the laboratory. The place seemed to be all in a blaze, but it wasn’t much of a fire after all, for by the time the fire engines arrived I had got it practically out.”

The witness then described the state of the laboratory and the finding of the body, but as this was already known to us, I passed on to the evidence of the next witness, the superintendent of the fire brigade, who had made a preliminary inspection of the premises. It was a cautious statement and subject to the results of a further examination; but clearly the officer was not satisfied as to the cause of the outbreak. There seemed to have been two separate explosions, one near a cupboard and another—apparently the second—in the cupboard itself; and there seemed to be a burned track connecting the two spots. This might have been accidental or it might have been arranged. Witness did not think that the explosive was celluloid. It seemed to be a high explosive of some kind. But further investigations were being made.

The superintendent was followed by Mrs. Manford, whose evidence was substantially similar to what she and Mr. Herdman had told us, and by the police surgeon, whose description of the remains conveyed nothing new to us. Finally, the inquest was adjourned for three weeks to allow of further examination of the premises and the remains.

“Now,” I said, as I folded up the report, “I don’t see how you are able to exclude suicide. If the explosion was arranged to occur when Manford was in the laboratory, what object, other than suicide, can be imagined?”

Thorndyke looked at me with an expression that I knew only too well.

“Is it impossible,” he asked, “to imagine that the object might have been homicide?”

“But,” I objected, “there was no one there but Manford—after Bilsky left.”

“Exactly,” he agreed, dryly; “after Bilsky left. But up to that time there were two persons there.”

I must confess that I was startled, but as I rapidly reviewed the circumstances I perceived the cogency of Thorndyke’s suggestion. Bilsky had been present when Manford dismissed the night-watchman. He knew that there would be no interruption. The inflammable and explosive materials were there, ready to his hand. Then Bilsky had gone down to the door alone instead of being conducted down and let out; a very striking circumstance, this. Again, no jewels had been found, though the meeting had been ostensibly for the purpose of a deal; and the bank-notes had vanished utterly. This was very remarkable. In view of the large sum, it was nearly certain that the notes would be in a close bundle, and we all know how difficult it is to burn tightly-folded paper. Yet they had vanished without leaving a trace. Finally, there was Bilsky himself. Who was he? Apparently a dealer in stolen property—a hawker of the products of robbery and murder committed during the revolution.

“Yes,” I admitted, “the theory of homicide is certainly tenable. But unless some new facts can be produced, it must remain a matter of speculation.”

“I think, Jervis,” he rejoined, “you must be overlooking the facts that are known to us. We were there. We saw the place within a few minutes of the explosion and we examined the body. What we saw established a clear presumption of homicide, and what we have heard this morning confirms it. I may say that I communicated my suspicions the very next day to the coroner and to Superintendent Miller.”

“Then you must have seen more than I did,” I began. But he shook his head and cut short my protestations.

“You saw what I saw, Jervis, but you did not interpret its meaning. However, it is not too late. Try to recall the details of our adventure and what our visitors have told us. I don’t think you will then entertain the idea of suicide.”

I was about to put one or two leading questions, but at this moment footsteps became audible ascending our stairs. The knock which followed informed me that our visitor was Superintendent Miller, and I rose to admit him.

“Just looked in to report progress,” he announced as he subsided into an arm-chair. “Not much to report, but what there is supports your view of the case. Bilsky has made a clean bolt. Never went home to his hotel. Evidently meant to skedaddle, as he has left nothing of any value behind. But it was a stupid move, for it would have raised suspicion in any case. The notes were a consecutive batch. All the numbers are known, but, of course, none of them have turned up yet. We have made inquiries about Bilsky, and gather that he is a shady character; practically a fence who deals in the jewellery stolen from those unfortunate Russian aristocrats. But we shall have him all right. His description has been circulated at all the seaports, and he is an easy man to spot with his lame foot and his stick and a finger missing from his right hand.”

Thorndyke nodded, and seemed to reflect for a moment. Then he asked:

“Have you made any other inquiries?”

“No; there is nothing more to find out until we get hold of our man, and when we do, we shall look to you to secure the conviction. I suppose you are quite certain as to your facts?”

Thorndyke shook his head with a smile.

“I am never certain until after the event. We can only act on probabilities.”

“I understand,” said the superintendent, casting a sly look at me; “but your probabilities are good enough for me.”

With this, he picked up his hat and departed, leaving us to return to the occupations that our visitors had interrupted.

I heard no more of the Manford case for about a week, and assumed that Thorndyke’s interest in it had ceased. But I was mistaken, as I discovered when he remarked casually one evening:

“No news of Bilsky, so far; and time is running on. I am proposing to make a tentative move in a new direction.” I looked at him inquiringly, and he continued: “It appears, ‘from information received,’ that Elliott had some dealings with him, so I propose to call at his house to-morrow and see if we can glean any news of the lost sheep.”

“But Elliott is abroad,” I objected.

“True; but his wife isn’t; and she evidently knows all about his affairs. I have invited Miller to come with me in case he would like to put any questions; and you may as well come, too, if you are free.”

It did not sound like a very thrilling adventure, but one never knew with Thorndyke. I decided to go with him, and at that the matter dropped, though I speculated a little curiously on the source of the information. So, apparently, had the superintendent, for when he arrived on the following morning he proceeded to throw out a few cautious feelers, but got nothing for his pains beyond vague generalities.

“It is a purely tentative proceeding,” said Thorndyke, “and you mustn’t be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”

“I shall be, all the same,” replied Miller, with a sly glance at my senior, and with this we set forth on our quest.

The Elliotts’ house was, as I knew, in some part of Wimbledon, and thither we made our way by train. From the station we started along a wide, straight main street from which numbers of smaller streets branched off. At the corner of one of these I noticed a man standing, apparently watching our approach; and something in his appearance seemed to me familiar. Suddenly he took off his hat, looked curiously into its interior, and put it on again. Then he turned about and walked quickly down the side street. I looked at his retreating figure as we crossed the street, wondering who he could be. And then it flashed upon me that the resemblance was to a certain ex-sergeant Barber whom Thorndyke occasionally employed for observation duties. Just as I reached this conclusion, Thorndyke halted and looked about him doubtfully.

“I am afraid we have come too far,” said he. “I fancy we ought to have gone down that last turning.”

We accordingly faced about and walked back to the corner, where Thorndyke read out the name, Mendoza Avenue.

“Yes,” he said, “this is the way,” and we thereupon turned down the Avenue, following it to the bottom, where it ended in a cross-road, the name of which, Berners Park, I recognised as that which I had seen on Elliott’s letter.

“Sixty-four is the number,” said Thorndyke, “so as this corner house is forty-six and the next is forty-eight, it will be a little way along on this side, just about where you can see that smoke—which, by the way, seems to be coming out of a window.”

“Yes, by Jove!” I exclaimed. “The staircase window, apparently. Not our house, I hope!”

But it was. We read the number and the name, “Green Bushes,” on the gate as we came up to it, and we hurried up the short path to the door. There was no knocker, but when Miller fixed his thumb on the bell-push, we heard a loud ringing within. But there was no response; and meanwhile the smoke poured more and more densely out of the open window above.

“Rum!” exclaimed Miller, sticking to the bell-push like a limpet. “House seems to be empty.”

“I don’t think it is,” Thorndyke replied calmly.

The superintendent looked at him with quick suspicion, and then glanced at the ground-floor window.

“That window is unfastened,” said he, “and here comes a constable.”

Sure enough, a policeman was approaching quickly, looking up at the houses. Suddenly he perceived the smoke and quickened his pace, arriving just as Thorndyke had pulled down the upper window-sash and was preparing to climb over into the room. The constable hailed him sternly, but a brief explanation from Miller reduced the officer to a state of respectful subservience, and we all followed Thorndyke through the open window, from which smoke now began to filter.

“Send the constable upstairs to give the alarm,” Thorndyke instructed Miller in a low tone. The order was given without question, and the next moment the officer was bounding up the stairs, roaring like a whole fire brigade. Meanwhile, the superintendent browsed along the hall through the dense smoke, sniffing inquisitively, and at length approached the street door. Suddenly, from the heart of the reek, his voice issued in tones of amazement.

“Well, I’m hanged! It’s a plumber’s smoke-rocket. Some fool has stuck it through into the letter-cage!”

In the silence which followed this announcement I heard an angry voice from above demand:

“What is all this infernal row about? And what are you doing here?”

“Can’t you see that the house is on fire?” was the constable’s stern rejoinder. “You’d better come down and help to put it out.”

The command was followed by the sound of descending footsteps, on which Thorndyke ran quickly up the stairs, followed by the superintendent and me. We met the descending party on the landing, opposite a window, and here we all stopped, gazing at one another with mutual curiosity. The man who accompanied the constable looked distinctly alarmed—as well he might—and somewhat hostile.

“Who put that smoke-rocket in the hall?” Miller demanded fiercely. “And why didn’t you come down when you heard us ringing the bell?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the man replied sulkily, “or what business this is of yours. Who are you? And what are you doing in my house?”

“In your house?” repeated Thorndyke. “Then you will be Mr. Elliott?”

The man turned a startled glance on him and replied angrily:

“Never you mind who I am. Get out of this house.”

“But I do mind who you are,” Thorndyke rejoined mildly. “I came here to see Mr. Elliott. Are you Mr. Elliott?”

“No, I’m not. Mr. Elliott is abroad. If you like to send a letter here for him, I will forward it when I get his address.”

While this conversation had been going on, I had been examining the stranger, not without curiosity. For his appearance was somewhat unusual. In the first place, he wore an unmistakable wig, and his shaven face bore an abundance of cuts and scratches, suggesting a recently and unskilfully mown beard. His spectacles did not disguise a pronounced divergent squint of the left eye; but what specially caught my attention was the ear—a large ear, lobeless and pointed at the tip like the ear of a satyr. As I looked at this, and at the scraped face, the squint and the wig, a strange suspicion flashed into my mind; and then, as I noted that the nose was markedly deflected to the left, I turned to glance at Thorndyke.

“Would you mind telling us your name?” the latter asked blandly.

“My name is—is—Johnson; Frederick Johnson.”

“Ah,” said Thorndyke. “I thought it was Manford—James Manford, and I think so still. I suggest that you have a scar on the right side of your forehead, just under the wig. May we see?”

As Thorndyke spoke the name, the man turned a horrible livid grey and started back as if to retreat up the stairs. But the constable blocked the way; and as the man was struggling to push past, Miller adroitly snatched off the wig; and there, on the forehead, was the tell-tale scar.

For an appreciable time we all stood stock-still like the figures of a tableau. Then Thorndyke turned to the superintendent.

“I charge this man, James Manford, with the murder of Stephan Bilsky.”

Again there was a brief interval of intolerable silence. In the midst of it, we heard the street door open and shut, and a woman’s voice called up the stairs: “Whatever is all this smoke? Are you up there, Jim?”

I pass over the harrowing details of the double arrest. I am not a policeman, and to me such scenes are intensely repugnant. But we must needs stay until two taxis and four constables had conveyed the prisoners away from the still reeking house to the caravanserai of the law. Then, at last, we went forth with relief into the fresh air and bent our steps towards the station.

“I take it,” Miller said reflectively, “that you never suspected Bilsky?”

“I did at first. But when Mrs. Manford and the solicitor told their tale I realised that he was the victim and that Manford must be the murderer.”

“Let us have the argument,” said I. “It is obvious that I have been a blockhead, but I don’t mind our old friend here knowing it.”

“Not a blockhead, Jervis,” he corrected. “You were half asleep that night and wholly uninterested. If you had been attending to the matter, you would have observed several curious and anomalous appearances. For instance, you would have noticed that the body was, in parts, completely charred and brittle. Now we saw the outbreak of the fire and we found it extinguished when we reached the building. Its duration was a matter of minutes; quite insufficient to reduce a body to that state. For, as you know, a human body is an extremely incombustible thing. The appearance suggested the destruction of a body which had been already burnt; and this suggestion was emphasised by the curiously unequal distribution of the charring. The right hand was burnt to a cinder and blown to pieces. The left hand was only scorched. The right foot was utterly destroyed, but the left foot was nearly intact. The face was burned away completely, and yet there were parts of the head where the hair was only singed.

“Naturally, with these facts in mind, I scrutinised those remains narrowly. And presently something much more definite and sinister came to light. On the left hand, there was a faint impression of another hand—very indistinct and blurred, but still unmistakably a hand.”

“I remember,” said I, “the inspector pointed it out as evidence that the deceased had been standing with his hands clasped before or behind him; and I must admit that it seemed a reasonable inference.”

“So it did—because you were both assuming that the man had been alone and that it must therefore have been the impression of his own hand. For that reason, neither of you looked at it critically. If you had, you would have seen at once that it was the impression of a left hand.”

“You are quite right,” I confessed ruefully. “As the man was stated to have been alone, the hand impression did not interest me. And it was a mere group of smudges, after all. You are sure that it was a left hand?”

“Quite,” he replied. “Blurred as the smudges were, one could make out the relative lengths of the fingers. And there was the thumb mark at the distal end of the palm, but pointing to the outer side of the hand. Try how you may, you can’t get a right hand into that position.

“Well, then, here was a crucial fact. The mark of a left hand on a left hand proved the presence of a second person, and at once raised a strong presumption of homicide, especially when considered in conjunction with the unaccountable state of the body. During the evening, a visitor had come and gone, and on him—Bilsky—the suspicion naturally fell. But Mrs. Manford unwittingly threw an entirely new light on the case. You remember she told us that her husband had opened a new bottle of hair dye on the very morning before the explosion and had applied it with unusual care. Then his hair was dyed. But the hair of the corpse was not dyed. Therefore the corpse was not the corpse of Manford. Further, the presumption of murder applied now to Manford, and the body almost certainly was that of Bilsky.”

“How did you deduce that the hair of the corpse was not dyed?” I asked.

“I didn’t deduce it at all. I observed it. You remember a little patch of hair above the right ear, very much singed but still recognisable as hair? Well, in that patch I made out distinctly two or three white hairs. Naturally, when Mrs. Manford spoke of the dye, I recalled those white hairs, for though you may find silver hairs among the gold, you don’t find them among the dyed. So the corpse could not be Manford’s and was presumably that of Bilsky.

“But the instant that this presumption was made, a quantity of fresh evidence arose to support it. The destruction of the body was now understandable. Its purpose was to prevent identification. The parts destroyed were the parts that had to be destroyed for that purpose: the face was totally unrecognisable, and the right hand and right foot were burnt and shattered to fragments. But these were Bilsky’s personal marks. His right hand was mutilated and his right foot deformed. And the fact that the false teeth found were undoubtedly Manford’s was conclusive evidence of the intended deception.

“Then there were those very queer financial transactions, of which my interpretation was this: Manford borrowed two thousand pounds from Clines. With this he opened an account in the name of Elliott. As Elliott, he lent himself two thousand pounds—with which he repaid Clines—subject to an insurance of his life for that amount, taken out in Elliott’s name.”

“Then he would have gained nothing,” I objected.

“On the contrary, he would have stood to gain two thousand pounds on proof of his own death. That, I assumed, was his scheme: to murder Bilsky, to arrange for Bilsky’s corpse to personate his own, and then, when the insurance was paid, to abscond—in the company of some woman—with this sum, with the valuables that he had taken from Bilsky, and the five hundred pounds that he had withdrawn from the bank.

“But this was only theory. It had to be tested; and as we had Elliott’s address, I did the only thing that was possible. I employed our friend, ex-sergeant Barber, to watch the house. He took lodgings in a house nearly opposite and kept up continuous observation, which soon convinced him that there was someone on the premises besides Mrs. Elliott. Then, late one night, he saw a man come out and walk away quickly. He followed the man for some distance, until the stranger turned back and began to retrace his steps. Then Barber accosted him, asking for a direction, and carefully inspecting him. The man’s appearance tallied exactly with the description that I had given—I had assumed that he would probably shave off his beard—and with the photograph; so Barber, having seen him home, reported to me. And that is the whole story.”

“Not quite the whole,” said Miller, with a sly grin. “There is that smoke-rocket. If it hadn’t been for the practical joker who slipped that through the letter-slit, we could never have got into that house. I call it a most remarkable coincidence.”

“So do I,” Thorndyke agreed, without moving a muscle; “but there is a special providence that watches over medical jurists.”

We were silent for a few moments. Then I remarked:

“This will come as a terrible shock to Mrs. Manford.”

“I am afraid it will,” Thorndyke agreed. “But it will be better for her than if Manford had absconded with this woman, taking practically every penny that he possessed with him. She stood to lose a worthless husband in either event. At least we have saved her from poverty. And, knowing the facts, we were morally and legally bound to further the execution of justice.”

“A very proper sentiment,” said the superintendent, “though I am not quite clear as to the legal aspects of that smoke-rocket.”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

[The end of Gleanings from the Wreckage by Richard Austin Freeman]