Front matter (continued 3)

She looked at the dresser drawers. They had round wooden painted handles. She turned the light of the bull's-eye on to each handle. Then she touched the handle of the top left-hand drawer.

"This is one he uses," she said.

"How can you tell that?" I said, gazing curiously on the handle, and failing to see any indication which could have guided Dorcas in her selection.

"Look at this handle carefully," she said, "and you will see a tiny atom of paper still adhering to it. The person who washed bottles has come from the sink with a wet hand and opened that drawer. A scrap of the label has adhered to his hand and come off on the drawer handle, as he grasped it to pull it open. And now I am sure that the person who washed the bottles and opened this drawer was Mr. Judkins Barraclough."

I stared at Dorcas in amazement. "How can the drawer handle tell you that?" I exclaimed.

"You remember that Barraclough's right arm was evidently too painful to use, and he was using his left the night we saw him get out of the cab. Well, the rusty chisel was thrown after use on the left-hand side of the sink, and here the drawer has been pulled open with the left hand."

"Surely a left hand doesn't mark itself on a drawer handle."

"No, but this drawer stuck and was difficult to open. The person trying it rested one hand—a wet and dirty one—on the dresser. See, here are five dirty finger-marks on the right-hand side of the drawer."

I looked where Dorcas had pointed, and indications were undoubtedly there. Dorcas had some difficulty in pulling the drawer open, and had to rest her own hand on the dresser. She tried with her left hand, and her right hand then fell exactly on the finger-marks.

When the drawer at last yielded we looked eagerly inside it. There were two packets of common candles and back in the corner of the drawer half a dozen small bottles similar to the one we had found empty in the sink.

Dorcas drew them out and examined them carefully. "All red labels, you see, with 'Poison' printed on them, 'Hydrate of Chloral' written above. They have all been purchased from different chemists—though one doesn't have to sign for chloral. Mr. Judkins Barraclough is using chloral for some purpose in this house, and after each bottle is used he removes the label."

"Why should he do that?"

"Well, he may not think it wise to leave empty labelled chloral bottles about. He is a cunning man, and is guarding against contingencies."

"But what can he be doing with chloral here—in an empty house?"

"We may find out before we leave it. At any rate, let us see if he uses any of the upper rooms."

"We haven't searched the coal cellar yet," I said, suddenly recollecting the Euston-square mystery, and the discovery of the corpse of the poor "Canterbury Belle."

"To get to the coal cellar you have to go out into the area in these houses," replied Dorcas. "He wouldn't do that."

"The wine cellar, then?"

Dorcas shook her head. "I looked at the door of that as we came by. It was ajar. If there was anything to conceal there it would be shut and locked."

"But the cases of brandy——"

"May be there—we'll go and see."

The wine cellar was small and filled with old rubbish evidently left behind by the last tenants.

But the brandy cases were there. One was opened and the lid off. There were only six bottles left. The straw envelopes of the other six lay on the floor.

"Where are the empty bottles?" I said. "We ought to look for them."

"Yes—that is what we will do next. I have an idea they are upstairs."

"Why?"

"As we came down the kitchen stairs I noticed a short straw lying on one of them. When the bottle was being taken out of the straw envelope in the cellar a loose straw or two caught on the clothes of the person handling it. As he went up the stairs the straw became disengaged by the action of walking and fell. We've searched the parlours carefully—now let us go upstairs to the first floor."

There were two doors on the first floor. We tried the front room one first and found it unlocked and the room quite empty.

"Now for the back room," said Dorcas.

We went out on to the landing and tried the back room door. It was locked.

"If there is anything more to be found it will be here," exclaimed Dorcas, her face, which had been pale until now, suddenly flushing with excitement.

"What can we do?—burst the door open?"

"Yes—I came prepared for emergencies."

Dorcas produced an instrument which is technically known as a "jemmy" from her bag and handed it to me.

I had once burst open a door, but I was not a skilled workman, so it was a good ten minutes before the door yielded, bursting open with a crash and tearing away with it a portion of the lock, which fell with a clatter to the ground.

As the door fell it seemed as though there was an echo of it downstairs.

"What's that?" exclaimed Dorcas. "It sounded like the front door shutting."

"Nonsense," I said, "it's the echo—the house is empty."

Dorcas had turned her lantern on the staircase, and was peering over the balustrade. All was silent as the grave.

"I must have been mistaken," she said. "Good heavens, there can't have been someone in the house all this time—someone who has slipped past us and escaped. If I thought that I——"

She paused and uttered a little cry. She had turned the lantern right round, and it lit up the room, the door of which we had just burst open.

As the light of the bull's-eye dimly illuminated the apartment an extraordinary sight met our eyes. The centre of the room was entirely occupied by what looked like a huge wire cage. Wire netting nearly six feet high was stretched from side to side of the room on ropes which were fastened in the walls by iron rings. Across the inside, at the top and bottom of what was practically a wired-off passage was wire netting of the same height securely fixed and lashed firmly in its place, and to prevent the occupant of the cage from climbing over the top it was roofed in with a double thickness of coarse sacking securely fastened to the wirework. The floor was covered with indiarubber mats nailed down to keep them in place.

"Good gracious!" I exclaimed. "Is it a menagerie, or a cage for some wild animal, or what?"

Suddenly Dorcas grasped my arm, and put her finger to her lips. In one corner of the cage, on a rug, covered over by a scarlet blanket, lay a woman.

"She must be dead!" I exclaimed, starting back with horror. "Only a corpse could sleep through the crash of that door."

"No," said Dorcas, creeping up close to the wire netting. "She is breathing—see, the blanket rises and falls."

"What can it mean? Is she some mad woman whom Barraclough is keeping here?"

Dorcas did not answer. She was gazing earnestly at the face of the sleeper. It was the face of a woman of about forty—a dark woman who must once have been strikingly handsome. Dorcas let the light fall upon it for a minute or two, but the sleeper made no movement. Her breathing was strangely heavy. Suddenly Dorcas touched my arm and pointed to an open bottle which stood near the rug.

"Brandy," she said. "That's where the six bottles have gone to."

"Is she in a drunken stupor, do you think?"

"Drunken, perhaps, is hardly the word," replied Dorcas; "you forget the empty chloral bottles."

"You think that the chloral is for her?"

"Yes; this woman is under the influence of it now. A man or a woman who takes chloral would sleep through an earthquake. A drunken man or woman would certainly have been startled by the noise we made just now. In some mysterious way she has been got into this house, and is being kept here a prisoner by Mr. Judkins Barraclough. He probably dissolves a dose of chloral and puts it into each bottle of brandy he brings to the poor creature."

"What can be the object of that?"

"The chloral is given, I take it, with the same object as this wire cage has been built around her (probably while she lay helpless and insensible under the influence of the drug)—to keep her from making a noise, shouting or beating against the walls, or going to the windows and attracting the attention of the neighbours. The man who has got this woman in his power comes here daily, but probably only after dark, and has to leave her alone at night and for many hours during the day. She is caged in to keep her from beating the walls, and she is dosed with chloral in order to keep her from moving about or making the slightest noise."

"And the object?"

"To let her kill herself with the brandy."

"Then why the chloral?—that sends her to sleep and prevents her from drinking as much as she would."

"If she were left with the brandy alone she would become violent and be able to shriek. She might in an access of delirium tear down her cage and get free. No—kept here without food and with a plentiful supply of brandy she will die slowly of alcoholic poisoning. But she must die quietly—hence the chloral."

"What an infamous villain!"

"Yes, and a desperate one. This is the woman who bit him that night. There must have been a violent struggle after he got her here. This woman is probably his first wife. There cannot be any other reason for Mr. Barraclough's mysterious proceedings."

"But now we have found her," I exclaimed, "what do you propose to do?"

"We must break through this netting, and try to rouse her first," replied Dorcas. "Her gaoler doesn't go near her—see here is where he evidently picks up the corner of the network to put in the bottles of drugged brandy. The nail has been pulled out and hammered in again several times."

Dorcas went to the shutters, which were closed, and wrenched off the iron bar. "Take this," she said, "and break the netting down sufficiently for us to get in. It will make less noise than forcing out the staples."

I took the bar, and several violent blows broke the lower portion of the cage loose from the fastenings in the floor. Then I pulled it up sufficiently high to allow Dorcas to crawl underneath.

"This must be the woman whose clothes are downstairs in the cupboard," I said. "Fancy a woman reduced to such poverty as that—the wife of a millionaire. Why, she must have been a homeless outcast."

Dorcas had gone to the sleeping woman's side. Gently she turned down the top of the scarlet blanket. Then she started back in astonishment. The woman was fully dressed in clothes of the best quality.

Dorcas lifted the almost lifeless arm from the sleeper's side and pointed to her fingers. On one was a worn wedding-ring, and above it a diamond ring. A gold bangle set with jewels was round her wrist.

"What does it mean?" said Dorcas, knitting her brows. "The rags concealed in the cupboard downstairs never belonged to this woman."

At that moment a church clock struck five.

"Quick!" cried Dorcas, thrusting Mr. Barraclough's keys through the broken wirework into my hand. "You must go. The cab will be waiting in Mabledon Place. Go to Berkeley Square at once and put the keys in the letter-box. I wouldn't have that man suspect anything for all the money in the world!"

"And you?"

"I shall stay here. Come back as soon as you can. Ring the bell gently and I will let you in. Ah! wait a moment!"

She tore a leaf from her note-book, and scribbled something in lead pencil, then folded it, and gave it to me. It was addressed to a doctor in Endsleigh Gardens.

"It's close by; call there on your way. Ring the doctor up and give him this. He is an old friend of mine and will come at once. Then go to Berkeley Square as fast as the horse can take you, and put the keys in the letter-box."

There was nothing for it but to obey. When I closed the door of No. — softly behind me it was broad daylight, and the birds were singing gaily in the trees.

As I reached the pavement I involuntarily turned back to take a parting glance at the closely shuttered house in which I had left Dorcas Dene alone with the caged woman.

As I did so I suddenly became aware of something which rooted me to the spot, and paralysed me beyond the power of uttering a cry.

Crouching in the shadow of the next doorway was a dark man with white hair, a closely-cropped white moustache, and gold spectacles.

IX. THE CLOTHES IN THE CUPBOARD

I stood for a moment paralysed. Could it be possible that standing there watching me as I emerged from the house in Burton Crescent was the mysterious Indian whom Dorcas Dene believed to be no other than Judkins Barraclough himself? Judkins Barraclough in a false wig and a moustache and a pair of gold spectacles.

Then suddenly I recollected the sound we had heard as of the shutting of the front door. Someone had been in the house at the time. Someone had slipped past when we were in the front room, and as the door of the room in which the drugged woman lay yielded with a crash, that person had crept out into the street.

And that person was the man with the white hair and moustache, whose dark eyes were gleaming at me through his gold spectacles now.

What was I to do? To seize the Indian and call for the police? I hesitated to do that without Dorcas's authority. I went up the step of No. —, and rang the bell gently.

In a moment I heard Dorcas's voice saying, "Who's there?"

"Openly quickly!" I exclaimed. "It is I."

The door opened and I dashed into the hall and gasped out that the Indian was there—outside—what should I do?

Dorcas frowned. "There was someone in the house, then!" she exclaimed. "Oh, if I had only known it! But go to the doctor at once, and then get back with those keys."

"And the Indian?"

"Will probably get at Judkins Barraclough at the earliest opportunity and warn him."

"You don't think the Indian is Barraclough disguised, now, then?"

"No—that's impossible. I've been off the track a little, but I'm on it right enough now. Get away now, every minute is of value."

Dorcas shut the door and I went down the steps again.

I looked about for the Indian. While I was talking to Dorcas he had slipped out of the doorway and disappeared. I found the cab waiting, drove to the doctor in Endsleigh Gardens, left the note, and then told the cabman to drive me with all speed to the top of Berkeley Square.

It was half-past five when I slipped the keys quietly into Mr. Barraclough's letter box. It was six o'clock when the cab stopped again in Mabledon Place.

There were one or two people passing through the Crescent—people on the way to work. Outside some of the houses sleepy-looking girls were shaking the mats and beginning the household duties of the day.

A policeman passed me and bade me good morning. I returned his salutation and walked past No. — to the end of the Crescent. When I looked round he had sauntered away, and I returned and rang the bell.

Dorcas greeted me with a smile.

"Come along," she said, "come and have some coffee, for you must be faint."

"But the woman?"

"The doctor is with her and is bringing her round. I hope presently she will be able to give us a little information."

Dorcas led the way and I followed her. To my astonishment, instead of going downstairs, where I presumed the coffee would be waiting for us, she went upstairs to the second floor.

Dorcas opened a door and I found myself in a little back room that had evidently been inhabited. On a small Oriental table was a French coffee-making machine, and underneath it a spirit lamp. In the corner lay a couple of Oriental rugs, and on a small table by the side of it a box of cigarettes.

"I've taken the liberty of using Mr. Aleem Mohammed's private apartments," said Dorcas. "He evidently furnished them for himself before he made his preparations for a lady visitor below."

"Then he was here all the time?"

"I don't think he was here that night when we nearly knocked the neighbourhood up. But he probably came in later, and he was certainly here last night when we were examining the house. It was only when we began to make a noise that he became aware of our presence. When he heard the locked door of the room on the first floor go, he let himself out, and kept watch from the outside."

"Why?"

"Probably to see what we were going to do."

"But Judkins Barraclough we know has the key of the house. How did the Indian get in?"

"That's simple," replied Dorcas. "They had a latchkey each."

I flung myself down on the rugs and drank the coffee which Dorcas had made.

The coffee revived my drooping energies, and set my brain working again. If the Indian was living in the house and had escaped, what was there to prove that not he but Barraclough was the person who was helping the unhappy creature downstairs to her death?

I asked Dorcas.

"There is no doubt in my mind that Barraclough is the principal, and the Indian only an accomplice," she replied. "But we're not going to let the Indian escape."

"We have done so."

"No. Scotland Yard has him in hand."

"Scotland Yard?"

"Yes; directly the doctor came, which was almost immediately after he received my note, I went out and sent a message. Hark! there's a knock at the door."

Dorcas ran downstairs bidding me follow her. She opened the front door, and a handsome foreign-looking dark man, of about eight-and-thirty, stepped into the hall, and politely raised his hat.

"Ah, Mr. Stromberg, I am glad," exclaimed Dorcas, shaking hands heartily with the new arrival. "I was wondering who would be on duty. Allow me to introduce my friend Mr. Saxon. Mr. Saxon, this is Inspector Stromberg, of the Criminal Investigation Department."

The inspector bowed and smiled.

"I am always delighted to work with the famous Dorcas Dene," he said to me. "My only regret is that she is not one of us." Then turning to Dorcas, he said, "And now what is the mystery we are to have the pleasure of unravelling together this time?"

"The mystery is, I hope, already unravelled," replied Dorcas demurely, "but I must not go any farther with it. It is now a matter for the police."

"And the particulars?"

Clearly and concisely Dorcas gave the famous detective officer the details of the great Barraclough mystery.

When she had finished the Inspector rose and grasped Dorcas warmly by the hand.

"My dear Mrs. Dene," he said, "you have done wonders. Of course, I must take charge of the case now as it is practically an attempt to murder, but I shall do nothing without your approval. The woman is in charge of the doctor still, I presume?"

"Yes. He will call me as soon as she is able to converse coherently."

"And Mr. Judkins Barraclough—what is your idea of the time to make the arrest?"

"To-night."

"To-night?—but why give him so much law as that?"

"I am very much interested in some ragged feminine garments concealed in a cupboard here. I want to find out what object Barraclough can have in keeping them there." She added something in a whisper that I was evidently not intended to hear. The great man looked grave.

"It is a desperate thing to do," he said.

"I am afraid that unless we find the Indian and get him to turn Queen's Evidence, the mere fact of Barraclough having a latchkey will not bring the attempted murder home to him. I like to clear up my cases thoroughly, and I confess that these pauper rags completely baffle me. By the bye, you acted on my information with regard to the Indian?"

"Yes," said the Inspector. "What was your idea in asking me to have enquiries made at the post-offices you named?"

"They are the only ones within reasonable distance which are opened before eight in the morning. My idea was that the man would go to a telegraph office and send a warning wire to Barraclough. You sent a messenger to the receiving offices near Berkeley Square?"

"Yes; no telegram will be delivered to Barraclough without our knowledge of its contents."

"That's all right," said Dorcas, "and of course, by some unaccountable accident, that telegram won't reach Mr. Barraclough."

Inspector Stromberg shrugged his shoulders.

"The Post Office is a sacred institution in this country," he said. "The police do not tamper with letters and telegrams."

"No," said Dorcas, sweetly, "but sometimes accidents happen—a careless clerk, for instance, puts a wrong address on the envelope and that causes somebody else to open the telegram after the boy has gone."

The Inspector gazed at Dorcas admiringly.

A door on the first floor opened, and a voice called "Mrs. Dene."

Presently she came down again.

"The woman is better and able to talk. But the doctor says that for many reasons it would be as well to get her to a hospital at once."

"Very well," said the Inspector. "Perhaps your friend will go and get a four-wheel cab?"

I took the hint and went out. There were plenty of cabs near St. Pancras, and I was back with one in about five minutes.

Wrapped in a blanket and a rug, which we brought down from the Indian's room, the doctor, myself, and Stromberg carried the woman, rescued from a lingering death, out of the house, and got her into the cab without attracting the attention of anyone but a small boy who was delivering newspapers. The doctor drove away with his patient, and we returned to the house, Dorcas taking the Inspector upstairs to see the cage and the Indian's apartment.

At a quarter to eight a man arrived to see Stromberg and made a communication to him.

"That's all right," exclaimed the Inspector, and calling Dorcas, he told her that the Indian had just sent a telegram to Barraclough.

"It won't be delivered till ten minutes past eight. I'll go up to the receiving office and arrange for that mistake in the address. I shall be there by eight o'clock, which is the time they open. Stop here till I come back."

In an hour Stromberg returned radiant. He had the telegram:

"Don't go house. See me at once old place. Important. M."

"That's all right," said Dorcas. "Now I want to send another telegram to Barraclough." Dorcas tore a leaf from her pocket-book and wrote: "All over. Come Crescent, ten to-night."

"I understand," said the Inspector. "I'll send it at once. In the meantime the men who are trying to track the Indian, will, I hope, succeed. They will bring him straight to the Yard to me. You had better be there this afternoon at three. There's only one thing that may upset your plan. Suppose Barraclough comes here this afternoon, lets himself in, and finds the woman gone."

"I've thought of that," said Dorcas. "But is he likely to in the daylight? It is easy to make him alter his determination if he does. Put a special policeman on with instructions to keep his eye on the door, and directly he sees anyone going towards it let him stroll up. Barraclough won't risk letting himself in with a latchkey under the eyes of a policeman. He'll go away again and come after dark and then we shall be ready for him."

"You're right," said the Inspector. "I'll have the policeman put on. But there's one thing more—we know what we want Barraclough to do, but how about the broken-open door—that will rouse his suspicions at once?"

"Send some workmen you can trust to put it right again. He's not likely to examine it very closely."

"I'll send the workmen at once. You'll have to stay and let them in. A couple of hours will see them through. But who is going to stay here to let us in?"

"You'll want help to-night," replied Dorcas. "Send a plain clothes officer with the men—he can stay on in charge of the house."

"Yes, that will do—and now—Au revoir."

"What is this mysterious plan of yours?" I said to Dorcas, when the Inspector had gone.

"Oh, I only wanted to see what Barraclough wanted with those old clothes. Now, I'm going to lie down for an hour in the Indian's room—I'm tired. You had better go home."

"Aren't you going to let me see the end of it?" I asked eagerly.

"Certainly, if you wish it. I shall be back here at seven o'clock—come then."

* * * * * * *

At seven o'clock that evening, I rang cautiously at No. —, Burton Crescent. The Inspector opened the door to me.

"Mrs. Dene's upstairs," he said, "front room, first floor."

I went upstairs, found the door open and started back in astonishment. Dorcas was there, sitting on one of the small tables which had been brought down from the Indian's room, and in the corner sitting cross-legged and smoking a cigarette was Mr. Aleem Mohammed. Near him was a man, who was, I concluded the plain clothes officer from the Yard.

Dorcas beckoned me out on to the landing.

"You see, we've got Aleem," she said.

"Yes, how did you manage it?"

"The Yard promptly ran him down and brought him to Stromberg. The man, seeing his game is up, has given us every information. Stromberg has promised that if he helps us to-night he may get off lightly."

"What has he told you?"

"All we wanted to know. He is a man whom Barraclough employed in South America, and brought over here with him when he came. Barraclough made wealth rapidly in South America, and in fact accumulated a vast fortune equal to two or three millions of money, but he made the foundation of that fortune by unscrupulous means. Once in possession of money his natural ability enabled him to conduct his operations with skill, and his later successes were legitimate enough. But Aleem knew him in his shady days, so he tells us, and he didn't mean to be left in South America.

"About a fortnight ago Barraclough went to him—he had a little flat in Great Russell Street—and offered him £5,000 if he would consent to get a house and take charge of a woman who was drinking herself to death. The rest you know. Aleem swears that he only got the house and the things Barraclough ordered him to, and that he has never interfered in any way with the woman."

"But who got her here?"

"Barraclough himself—but that we have learned from the woman herself. Stromberg interviewed her at the hospital. Her name is Judkins. Twenty years ago she married John Judkins, a clever but improvident clerk in the employ of a firm of financiers in the City. Judkins got into debt and difficulties and one day disappeared, and she never saw him again until lately.

"She managed as well as she could for herself, and being a handsome woman did fairly well. One evening some weeks ago she was at the Empire when she heard a gentleman behind her call out 'Hullo, Judkins!' She turned and saw two gentlemen in evening dress greet each other. The name Judkins caused her eagerly to scrutinise the features of the elder of them. She recognised him in a moment as her husband——"

I interrupted Dorcas with a remark which rose to my lips:

"Why did the gentleman call Mr. Barraclough 'Judkins'?"

"Most of his friends clip his double barrel name to that, I expect. But let me go on. After the two gentlemen separated, Mrs. Judkins followed her husband until he was in a quiet part of the promenade and then touched him on the shoulder and said 'Jack!'

"Judkins started and turned as pale as his bronzed face would let him. Then he took her arm and they went out into Leicester Square together. He explained that he had intended to write to his wife after he decamped, but he had got into fresh trouble and had to clear out of the country. He had come back some years ago intending to find his wife, but he was in with a bad set and for his share in a fraud he had been sentenced to ten years' imprisonment. He had been out for a year, but he was still getting his living by his wits.

"He had promised her he would do what he could for her, and gave her £50 in bank-notes. He met her by appointment some time after that, and made her a present of some jewellery and quite won her confidence, only he was always careful to warn her that he was still what the fraternity call 'crook,' and the police were keeping an eye on him.

"One day he said he should have to lie quiet for a bit, and he told her to come to him where he was staying at No. —, Burton Crescent. She was to come at midnight. He would, he hoped, have some money and jewellery to give her which he wanted her to take care of while he was away.

"The woman fell into the trap. At midnight her husband let her in. The house was in darkness. He took her by the hand and led her upstairs.

"Suddenly the idea came to her that all was not right—she grew nervous and tried to drag her hand away. The man seized her forcibly and thrust his arm across her mouth to stop her screaming. She struggled and bit fiercely into his flesh. He uttered a cry of rage, and thrust his pocket-handkerchief into her mouth. Then he held something to her nose, which she supposed must have been chloroform, for she remembers no more. When she came to herself she felt weak and unable to move, and was lying in a kind of cage in one of the rooms. She saw brandy by her side and she drank. The brandy was all she had, and she drank to drive away her terror. She confesses that she had been a hard drinker, and that on several occasions when Judkins met her she had been drinking heavily. It was probably this discovery which gave him the idea of letting her drink herself to death quietly, using the chloral as a means to an end."

"And now?" I said as Dorcas finished her narrative.

"And now she is getting round——Well?"

The last word was addressed to Inspector Stromberg, who had come upstairs.

"Everything is ready," he said. "I've two men posted out of sight in front, and there's no chance of an escape at the back."

We went into the room all three together.

"Now," said the Inspector to the Indian, "you quite understand what you are to do?"

"Yes, I understand," replied Mr. Mohammed with a sickly grin.

"And remember you can't save him. If you warn him and he tries to bolt, my men are outside—so you'll let him come in and do exactly as he tells you."

"Yes."

"Now, once more you are sure you have no idea to whom those old clothes in the cupboard belong, nor why Barraclough brought them here!"

"No; he must have brought them and put them there when I did not see."

* * * * * * *

At ten o'clock there was the sound of a key turning in the lock downstairs. The house was in darkness. In the centre of the first-floor back room the cage, restored to its former condition, stood as before; only one side had been torn away by Aleem in order that he might ascertain if the woman was really dead. Covered over with a scarlet blanket lay something that looked like a human form. A cloth was flung over the face.

Dorcas and I were sitting with the front room door open when we heard the key. Stromberg and the plain-clothes officer were nowhere to be seen.

The Indian had taken down the sacking that formed the roof of the cage, and flung it into the corner. Through the thin partition that separated the back and front rooms two gimlet-holes had been bored. Dorcas knelt down and fixed her eyes to these. We could hear every word that was spoken.

Barraclough called out softly, "Aleem, Aleem, are you there?"

"I am here," answered Aleem. "Come up—all is over."

Barraclough came quickly up the stairs. Aleem opened the door of the back room.

"She died this morning early. Now, what are we to do? Bury her here?"

"No; it would look like murder if the body was ever found, and one never knows. She'll be much safer buried in a cemetery."

"In a cemetery?"

"Yes—after an inquest. We had better let the law establish our innocence in case of accidents. It's always safer to do the bold thing, Aleem—I've always found it so. Take this key, go downstairs, unlock the cupboard in the parlour, and bring me up a bundle of old clothes you'll find there—and bring a light."

I almost thought I heard Dorcas give a sigh of relief. She had forgotten that she had burst the cupboard open. Had Barraclough gone himself he would have noticed it.

Aleem went downstairs, and Dorcas rose quietly, went out softly, and stopped him as he came up. "Leave the door ajar," she said under her breath. Aleem evidently obeyed, for she remained outside.

I took her vacant place at the peepholes.

"Now," said Barraclough, as the Indian handed him the bundle and put the candle on the floor, "you're quicker-fingered than I am—go in and strip the body."

The Indian hesitated. "Why should I do this?"

"Why? Because you're going to have five thousand pounds. I'm not going to pay you and do the dirty work myself. Off with every rag—the jewels you can keep for yourself."

Still the Indian hesitated. "But why should we strip the body?" he said.

"Why?—to put those rags on it."

"And then?"

"Well, then all we've got to do is wait till there isn't a soul about and then pop the body outside on the doorstep."

"But the police—they will make inquiries."

"The police will do nothing of the sort. A wretched, ragged outcast will be found on a doorstep dead. She will be taken to the mortuary and a post-mortem made. The cause of death will be found to be starvation and drink, and the body will be buried. The law doesn't trouble itself about paupers found dead on a doorstep."

"Ah!" exclaimed Aleem, "that is what you wanted with those rags then?"

"Yes. Now, then, let me see what sort of a lady's maid you make."

At that moment the corpse moved slightly under the scarlet blanket.

Barraclough sprang back. "You fool—she's not dead!" he cried.

"No," exclaimed Inspector Stromberg, leaping up and flinging the blanket from him. "We're all very much alive."

At the same moment the sacking in the corner lifted up, and the plain-clothes officer slipped from under it, and Dorcas, pushing the door open, ran into the room.

"Mr. Barraclough," said the Inspector. "I arrest you on a charge of attempting to murder your wife, Marian Judkins."

The millionaire grasped the situation in a moment.

"You infernal traitor!" he hissed at the mild Mohammed. "I'll—I'll——"

In a moment the two officers had him by the arms.

"Come along," said the Inspector. "We'll get a four-wheeler to the door. I presume you haven't got your brougham waiting outside?"

As the men went downstairs with their prisoner, Dorcas nodded pleasantly to the Inspector.

"Thank you so much," she said, "for helping me to find out what those clothes in the cupboard were for." Then she turned to me and said, "You've had twenty-four hours' excitement straight off—you must be tired. Go home and go to bed."

"And you?"

"I'm going to Berkeley Square to tell the lady this scoundrel married that she is a free woman, and to offer her my sincere congratulations."

X. THE HAVERSTOCK HILL MURDER

The blinds had been down at the house in Oak Tree Road and the house shut for nearly six weeks. I had received a note from Dorcas saying that she was engaged on a case which would take her away for some little time, and that as Paul had not been very well lately she had arranged that he and her mother should accompany her. She would advise me as soon as they returned. I called once at Oak Tree Road and found it was in charge of the two servants and Toddlekins, the bulldog. The housemaid informed me that Mrs. Dene had not written, so that she did not know where she was or when she would be back, but that letters which arrived for her were forwarded by her instructions to Mr. Jackson, of Penton Street, King's Cross.

Mr. Jackson, I remembered, was the ex-police-sergeant who was generally employed by Dorcas when she wanted a house watched or certain inquiries made among tradespeople. I felt that it would be unfair to go to Jackson. Had Dorcas wanted me to know where she was she would have told me in her letter.

The departure had been a hurried one. I had gone to the North in connection with a business matter of my own on a Thursday evening, leaving Dorcas at Oak Tree Road, and when I returned on Monday afternoon I found Dorcas's letter at my chambers. It was written on the Saturday, and evidently on the eve of departure.

But something that Dorcas did not tell me I learned quite accidentally from my old friend Inspector Swanage, of Scotland Yard, whom I met one cold February afternoon at Kempton Park Steeplechases.

Inspector Swanage has a greater acquaintance with the fraternity known as "the boys" than any other officer. He has attended race meetings for years, and the "boys" always greet him respectfully, though they wish him further. Many a prettily-planned coup of theirs has he nipped in the bud, and many an unsuspecting greenhorn has he saved from pillage by a timely whisper that the well-dressed young gentlemen who are putting their fivers on so merrily and coming out of the enclosure with their pockets stuffed full of bank-notes are men who get their living by clever swindling, and are far more dangerous than the ordinary vulgar pickpocket.

On one occasion not many years ago I found a well-known publisher at a race meeting in earnest conversation with a beautifully-dressed, grey-haired sportsman. The publisher informed me that his new acquaintance was the owner of a horse which was certain to win the next race, and that it would start at ten to one. Only in order not to shorten the price nobody was to know the name of the horse, as the stable had three in the race. He had obligingly taken a fiver off the publisher to put on with his own money.

I told the publisher that he was the victim of a "tale-pitcher," and that he would never see his fiver again. At that moment Inspector Swanage came on the scene, and the owner of race horses disappeared as if by magic. Swanage recognised the man instantly, and having heard my publisher's story said, "If I have the man taken will you prosecute?" The publisher shook his head. He didn't want to send his authors mad with delight at the idea that somebody had eventually succeeded in getting a fiver the best of him. So Inspector Swanage strolled away. Half an hour later he came to us in the enclosure and said, "Your friend's horse doesn't run, so he's given me that fiver back again for you." And with a broad grin he handed my friend a bank-note.

It was Inspector Swanage's skill and kindness on this occasion that made me always eager to have a chat with him when I saw him at a race meeting, for his conversation was always interesting.

The February afternoon had been a cold one, and soon after the commencement of racing there were signs of fog. Now a foggy afternoon is dear to the hearts of the "boys." It conceals their operations, and helps to cover their retreat. As the fog came up the Inspector began to look anxious, and I went up to him.

"You don't like the look of things?" I said.

"No, if this gets worse the band will begin to play—there are some very warm members of it here this afternoon. It was a day just like this last year that they held up a bookmaker going to the station, and eased him of over £500. Hullo?"

As he uttered the exclamation the Inspector pulled out his race card and seemed to be anxiously studying it.

But under his voice he said to me, "Do you see that tall man in a fur coat talking to a bookmaker? See, he's just handed him a bank-note."

"Where?—I don't see him."

"Yonder. Do you see that old gipsy-looking woman with race cards? She has just thrust her hand through the railings and offered one to the man."

"Yes, yes—I see him now."

"That's Flash George. I've missed him lately, and I heard he was broke, but he's in funds again evidently by his get-up."

"One of the boys?"

"Has been—but he's been on another lay lately. He was mixed up in that big jewel case—£10,000 worth of diamonds stolen from a demi-mondaine. He got rid of some of the jewels for the thieves, but we could never bring it home to him. But he was watched for a long time afterwards and his game stopped. The last we heard of him he was hard up and borrowing from some of his pals. He's gone now. I'll just go and ask the bookie what he's betting to."

The Inspector stepped across to the bookmaker and presently returned.

"He is in luck again," he said. "He's put a hundred ready on the favourite for this race. By the bye, how's your friend Mrs. Dene getting on with her case?"

I confessed my ignorance as to what Dorcas was doing at the present moment—all I knew was that she was away.

"Oh, I thought you'd have known all about it," said the Inspector. "She's on the Hannaford case."

"What, the murder?"

"Yes."

"But surely that was settled by the police? The husband was arrested immediately after the inquest."

"Yes, and the case against him was very strong, but we know that Dorcas Dene has been engaged by Mr. Hannaford's family, who have made up their minds that the police, firmly believing him guilty, won't look anywhere else for the murderer—of course they are convinced of his innocence. But you must excuse me—the fog looks like thickening, and may stop racing—I must go and put my men to work."

"One moment before you go—why did you suddenly ask me how Mrs. Dene was getting on? Was it anything to do with Flash George that put it in your head?"

The Inspector looked at me curiously.

"Yes," he said, "though I didn't expect you'd see the connection. It was a mere coincidence. On the night that Mrs. Hannaford was murdered Flash George, who had been lost sight of for some time by our people, was reported to have been seen by the Inspector who was going his rounds in the neighbourhood. He was seen about half-past two o'clock in the morning looking rather dilapidated and seedy. When the report of the murder came in the Inspector at once remembered that he had seen Flash George in Haverstock Hill. But there was nothing in it—as the house hadn't been broken into and there was nothing stolen. You understand now why seeing Flash George carried my train of thought on to the Hannaford murder and Dorcas Dene. Good-bye."

The Inspector hurried away and a few minutes afterwards the favourite came in alone for the second race on the card. The stewards immediately afterwards announced that racing would be abandoned on the account of the fog increasing, and I made my way to the railway station and went home by the members' train.

Directly I reached home I turned eagerly to my newspaper file and read up the Hannaford murder. I knew the leading features, but every detail of it had now a special interest to me, seeing that Dorcas Dene had taken the case up.

These were the facts as reported in the Press:

Early in the morning of January 5 a maid-servant rushed out of the house, standing in its own grounds on Haverstock Hill, calling "Murder!" Several people who were passing instantly came to her and inquired what was the matter, but all she could gasp was, "Fetch a policeman." When the policeman arrived he followed the terrified girl into the house and was conducted to the drawing-room, where he found a lady lying in her night-dress in the centre of the room covered with blood, but still alive. He sent one of the servants for a doctor, and another to the police-station to inform the superintendent. The doctor came immediately and declared that the woman was dying. He did everything that could be done for her, and presently she partially regained consciousness. The superintendent had by this time arrived, and in the presence of the doctor asked her who had injured her.

She seemed anxious to say something, but the effort was too much for her, and presently she relapsed into unconsciousness. She died two hours later, without speaking.

The woman's injuries had been inflicted with some heavy instrument. On making a search of the room the poker was found lying between the fireplace and the body. The poker was found to have blood upon it, and some hair from the unfortunate lady's head.

The servants stated that their master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs. Hannaford, had retired to rest at their usual time, shortly before midnight. The housemaid had seen them go up together. She had been working at a dress which she wanted for next Sunday, and sat up late, using her sewing-machine in the kitchen. It was one o'clock in the morning when she passed her master and mistress's door, and she judged by what she heard that they were quarrelling. Mr. Hannaford was not in the house when the murder was discovered. The house was searched thoroughly in every direction, the first idea of the police being that he had committed suicide. The telegraph was then set to work, and at ten o'clock a man answering to Mr. Hannaford's description was arrested at Paddington Station, where he was taking a ticket for Uxbridge.

Taken to the police-station and informed that he would be charged with murdering his wife, he appeared to be horrified, and for some time was a prey to the most violent emotion. When he had recovered himself and was made aware of the serious position in which he stood, he volunteered a statement. He was warned, but he insisted on making it. He declared that he and his wife had quarrelled violently after they had retired to rest. Their quarrel was about a purely domestic matter, but he was in an irritable, nervous condition, owing to his health, and at last he had worked himself up into such a state, that he had risen, dressed himself, and gone out into the street. That would be about two in the morning. He had wandered about in a state of nervous excitement until daybreak. At seven he had gone into a coffee-house and had breakfast, and had then gone into the park and sat on a seat and fallen asleep. When he woke up it was nine o'clock. He had taken a cab to Paddington, and had intended to go to Uxbridge to see his mother, who resided there. Quarrels between himself and his wife had been frequent of late, and he was ill and wanted to get away, and he thought perhaps if he went to his mother for a day or two he might get calmer and feel better. He had been very much worried lately over business matters. He was a stockjobber, and the market in the securities in which he had been speculating was against him.

At the conclusion of the statement, which was made in a nervous, excited manner, he broke down so completely that it was deemed desirable to send for the doctor and keep him under close observation.

Police investigation of the premises failed to find any further clue. Everything pointed to the supposition that the result of the quarrel had been an attack by the husband—possibly in a sudden fit of homicidal mania—on the unfortunate woman. The police suggestion was that the lady, terrified by her husband's behaviour, had risen in the night and run down the stairs to the drawing-room, and that he had followed her there, picked up the poker, and furiously attacked her. When she fell, apparently lifeless, he had run back to his bedroom, dressed himself, and made his escape quietly from the house. There was nothing missing so far as could be ascertained—nothing to suggest in any way that any third party, a burglar from outside or some person inside, had had anything to do with the matter.

The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder, and the husband was charged before a magistrate and committed for trial. But in the interval his reason gave way, and, the doctors certifying that he was undoubtedly insane, he was sent to Broadmoor.

Nobody had the slightest doubt of his guilt, and it was his mother who, broken-hearted, and absolutely refusing to believe in her son's guilt, had come to Dorcas Dene and requested her to take up the case privately and investigate it. The poor old lady declared that she was perfectly certain that her son could not have been guilty of such a deed, but the police were satisfied, and would make no further investigation.

This I learnt afterwards when I went to see Inspector Swanage. All I knew when I had finished reading up the case in the newspapers was that the husband of Mrs. Hannaford was in Broadmoor, practically condemned for the murder of his wife, and that Dorcas Dene had left home to try and prove his innocence.

This history of the Hannafords as given in the public Press was as follows: Mrs. Hannaford was a widow when Mr. Hannaford, a man of six-and-thirty, married her. Her first husband was a Mr. Charles Drayson, a financier, who had been among the victims of the fire at the Paris Opéra Comique. His wife was with him in a loge that fatal night. When the fire broke out they both tried to escape together. They became separated in the crush. She was only slightly injured, and succeeded in getting out; he was less fortunate. His gold watch, a presentation one, with an inscription, was found among a mass of charred, unrecognisable remains when the ruins were searched.

Three years after this tragedy the widow married Mr. Hannaford. The death of her first husband did not leave her well off. It was found that he was heavily in debt, and had he lived a serious charge of fraud would undoubtedly have been preferred against him. As it was, his partner, a Mr. Thomas Holmes, was arrested and sentenced to five years' penal servitude in connection with a joint fraudulent transaction.

The estate of Mr. Drayson went to satisfy the creditors, but Mrs. Drayson, the widow, retained the house at Haverstock Hill, which he had purchased and settled on her, with all the furniture and contents, some years previously. She wished to continue living in the house when she married again, and Mr. Hannaford consented, and they made it their home. Hannaford himself, though not a wealthy man, was a fairly successful stockjobber, and until the crisis, which had brought on great anxiety and helped to break down his health, had had no financial worries. But the marriage, so it was alleged, had not been a very happy one and quarrels had been frequent. Old Mrs. Hannaford was against it from the first, and to her her son always turned in his later matrimonial troubles. Now that his life had probably been spared by this mental breakdown, and he had been sent to Broadmoor, she had but one object in life—to set her son free, some day restored to reason, and with his innocence proved to the world.

* * * * * * *

It was about a fortnight after my interview with Inspector Swanage, and my study of the details of the Haverstock Hill murder, that one morning I opened a telegram and to my intense delight found that it was from Dorcas Dene. It was from London, and informed me that in the evening they would be very pleased to see me at Oak Tree Road.

In the evening I presented myself about eight o'clock. Paul was alone in the drawing-room when I entered, but his face and his voice when he greeted me showed me plainly that he had benefited greatly by the change.

"Where have you been, to look so well?" I asked. "The South of Europe, I suppose—Nice or Monte Carlo?"

"No," said Paul smiling, "we haven't been nearly so far as that. But I mustn't tell tales out of school. You must ask Dorcas."

At that moment Dorcas came in and gave me a cordial greeting.

"Well," I said, after the first conversational preliminaries, "who committed the Haverstock Hill murder?"

"Oh, so you know that I have taken that up, do you? I imagined it would get about through the Yard people. You see, Paul dear, how wise I was to give out that I had gone away."

"Give out!" I exclaimed. "Haven't you been away then?"

"No, Paul and mother have been staying at Hastings, and I have been down whenever I have been able to spare a day, but as a matter of fact I have been in London the greater part of the time."

"But I don't see the use of your pretending you were going away."

"I did it on purpose. I knew the fact that old Mrs. Hannaford had engaged me would get about in certain circles, and I wanted certain people to think that I had gone away to investigate some clue which I thought I had discovered. In order to baulk all possible inquirers I didn't even let the servants forward my letters. They went to Jackson, who sent them on to me."

"Then you were really investigating in London?"

"Now shall I tell you where you heard that I was on this case?"

"Yes."

"You heard it at Kempton Park Steeplechases, and your informant was Inspector Swanage."

"You have seen him and he has told you."

"No; I saw you there talking to him."

"You saw me? You were at Kempton Park? I never saw you."

"Yes, you did, for I caught you looking full at me. I was trying to sell some race cards just before the second race, and was holding them between the railings of the enclosure."

"What! You were that old gipsy woman? I'm certain Swanage didn't know you."

"I didn't want him to, or anybody else."

"It was an astonishing disguise. But come, aren't you going to tell me anything about the Hannaford case? I've been reading it up, but I fail entirely to see the slightest suspicion against anyone but the husband. Everything points to his having committed the crime in a moment of madness. The fact that he has since gone completely out of his mind seems to me to show that conclusively."

"It is a good job he did go out of his mind—but for that I am afraid he would have suffered for the crime, and the poor broken-hearted old mother for whom I working would soon have followed him to the grave."

"Then you don't share the general belief in his guilt?"

"I did at first, but I don't now."

"You have discovered the guilty party?"

"No—not yet—but I hope to."

"Tell me exactly all that has happened—there may still be a chance for your 'assistant.'"

"Yes, it is quite possible that now I may be able to avail myself of your services. You say you have studied the details of this case—let us just run through them together, and see what you think of my plan of campaign so far as it has gone. When old Mrs. Hannaford came to me, her son had already been declared insane and unable to plead, and had gone to Broadmoor. That was nearly a month after the commission of the crime, so that much valuable time had been lost. At first I declined to take the matter up—the police had so thoroughly investigated the affair. The case seemed so absolutely conclusive that I told her that it would be useless for her to incur the heavy expense of a private investigation. But she pleaded so earnestly—her faith in her son was so great—and she seemed such a sweet, dear old lady, that at last she conquered my scruples, and I consented to study the case, and see if there was the slightest alternative theory to go on. I had almost abandoned hope, for there was nothing in the published reports to encourage it, when I determined to go to the fountain-head, and see the Superintendent who had had the case in hand.

"He received me courteously, and told me everything. He was certain that the husband committed the murder. There was an entire absence of motive for anyone else in the house to have done it, and the husband's flight from the house in the middle of the night was absolutely damning. I inquired if they had found anyone who had seen the husband in the street—anyone who could fix the time at which he had left the house. He replied that no such witness had been found. Then I asked if the policeman on duty that night had made any report of any suspicious characters being seen about. He said No, the only person he had noticed at all was a man well known to the police—a man named Flash George. I asked what time Flash George had been seen and whereabouts, and I ascertained that it was at half-past two in the morning, and about a hundred yards below the scene of the crime, that when the policeman spoke to him he said he was coming from Hampstead, and was going to Covent Garden Market. He walked away in the direction of the Chalk Farm Road. I enquired what Flash George's record was, and I ascertained that he was the associate of thieves and swindlers, and he was suspected of having disposed of some jewels, the proceeds of a robbery which had made a nine days' sensation. But the police had failed to bring the charge home to him, and the jewels had never been traced. He was also a gambler, a frequenter of racecourses and certain night-clubs of evil repute, and had not been seen about for some time previous to that evening."

"And didn't the police make any further investigations in that direction?"

"No. Why should they? There was nothing missing from the house—not the slightest sign of an attempted burglary. All their efforts were directed to proving the guilt of the unfortunate woman's husband."

"And you?"

"I had a different task—mine was to prove the husband's innocence. I determined to find out something more of Flash George. I shut the house up, gave out that I had gone away, and took, amongst other things, to selling cards and pencils on racecourses. The day that Flash George made his reappearance on the turf after a long absence was the day he backed the winner of the second race at Kempton Park for a hundred pounds."

"But surely that proves that if he had been connected with any crime it must have been one in which money was obtained. No one has attempted to associate the murder of Mrs. Hannaford with robbery."

"No. But one thing is certain—that on the night of the crime Flash George was in the neighbourhood. Two days previously he had borrowed a few pounds of a pal because he was 'stoney broke.' When he reappears as a racing man he has on a fur coat, is evidently in first-class circumstances, and he bets in hundred-pound notes. He is a considerably richer man after the murder of Mrs. Hannaford than he was before, and he was seen within a hundred yards of the house at half-past two o'clock on the night that the crime was committed."

"That might have been a mere accident. His sudden wealth may be the result of a lucky gamble, or a swindle of which you know nothing. I can't see that it can possibly have any bearing on the Hannaford crime, because nothing was taken from the house."

"Quite true. But here is a remarkable fact. When he went up to the betting man he went to one who was betting close to the rails, and I pushed my cards in between and asked him to buy one. Flash George is a 'suspected character,' and quite capable on a foggy day of trying to swindle a bookmaker. The bookmaker took the precaution to open that note, it being for a hundred pounds, and examined it carefully. That enabled me to see the number. I had sharpened pencils to sell, and with one of them I hastily took down the number of that note—— 2 x | 35421."

"That was clever. And you have traced it?"

"Yes."

"And has that furnished you with any clue?"

"It has placed me in possession of a most remarkable fact. The hundred-pound note which was in Flash George's possession on Kempton Park racecourse was one of a number which were paid over the counter of the Union Bank of London for a five-thousand-pound cheque over seven years ago. And that cheque was drawn by the murdered woman's husband."

"Mr. Hannaford!"

"No; her first husband—Mr. Charles Drayson."

XI. THE BROWN BEAR LAMP

When Dorcas Dene told me that the £100 note Flash George had handed to the bookmaker at Kempton Park was one which had some years previously been paid to Mr. Charles Drayson, the first husband of the murdered woman, Mrs. Hannaford, I had to sit still and think for a moment.

It was curious certainly, but after all much more remarkable coincidences than that occur daily. I could not see what practical value there was in Dorcas's extraordinary discovery, because Mr. Charles Drayson was dead, and it was hardly likely that his wife would have kept a £100 note of his for several years. And if she had, she had not been murdered for that, because there were no signs of the house having been broken into. The more I thought the business over the more confused I became in my attempt to establish a clue from it, and so after a minute's silence I frankly confessed to Dorcas that I didn't see where her discovery led to.

"I don't say that it leads very far by itself," said Dorcas. "But you must look at all the circumstances. During the night of January 5 a lady is murdered in her own drawing-room. Round about the time that the attack is supposed to have been made upon her a well-known bad character is seen close to the house. That person, who just previously has been ascertained to have been so hard up that he had been borrowing of his associates, reappears on the turf a few weeks later expensively dressed and in possession of money. He bets with a £100 note, and that £100 note I have traced to the previous possession of the murdered woman's first husband, who lost his life in the Opéra Comique disaster in Paris, while on a short visit to that capital."

"Yes, it certainly is curious, but——"

"Wait a minute—I haven't finished yet. Of the bank-notes—several of them for £100—which were paid some years ago to Mr. Charles Drayson, not one had come back to the bank before the murder."

"Indeed!"

"Since the murder several of them have come in. Now, is it not a remarkable circumstance that during all those years £5,000 worth of bank-notes should have remained out!"

"It is remarkable, but after all bank-notes circulate—they may pass through hundreds of hands before returning to the bank."

"Some may, undoubtedly, but it is highly improbable that all would under ordinary circumstances—especially notes for £100. These are sums which are not passed from pocket to pocket. As a rule they go to the bank of one of the early receivers of them, and from that bank into the Bank of England."

"You mean that is an extraordinary fact that for many years not one of the notes paid to Mr. Charles Drayson by the Union Bank came back to the Bank of England."

"Yes, that is an extraordinary fact, but there is a fact which is more extraordinary still, and that is that soon after the murder of Mrs. Hannaford that state of things ceases. It looks as though the murderer had placed the notes in circulation again."

"It does, certainly. Have you traced back any of the other notes that have come in?"

"Yes; but they have been cleverly worked. They have nearly all been circulated in the betting ring; those that have not have come in from money-changers in Paris and Rotterdam. My own belief is that before long the whole of those notes will come back to the bank."

"Then, my dear Dorcas, it seems to me that your course is plain, and you ought to go to the police and get them to get the bank to circulate a list of the notes."

Dorcas shook her head. "No, thank you," she said. "I'm going to carry this case through on my own account. The police are convinced that the murderer is Mr. Hannaford, who is at present in Broadmoor, and the bank has absolutely no reason to interfere. No question has been raised of the notes having been stolen. They were paid to the man who died over seven years ago, not to the woman who was murdered last January."

"But you have traced one note to Flash George, who is a bad lot, and he was near the house on the night of the tragedy. You suspect Flash George and——"

"I do not suspect Flash George of the actual murder," she said, "and I don't see how he is to be arrested for being in possession of a bank-note which forms no part of the police case, and which he might easily say he had received in the betting ring."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Follow up the clue I have. I have been shadowing Flash George all the time I have been away. I know where he lives—I know who are his companions."

"And do you think the murderer is among them?"

"No. They are all a little astonished at his sudden good fortune. I have heard them 'chip' him, as they call it, on the subject. I have carried my investigations up to a certain point and there they stop short. I am going a step further to-morrow evening, and it is in that step that I want assistance."

"And you have come to me?" I said eagerly.

"Yes."

"What do you want me to do?"

"To-morrow morning I am going to make a thorough examination of the room in which the murder was committed. To-morrow evening I have to meet a gentleman of whom I know nothing but his career and his name. I want you to accompany me."

"Certainly; but if I am your assistant in the evening I shall expect to be your assistant in the morning—I should very much like to see the scene of the crime."

"I have no objection. The house on Haverstock Hill is at present shut up and in charge of a caretaker, but the solicitors who are managing the late Mrs. Hannaford's estate have given me permission to go over it and examine it."

The next day at eleven o'clock I met Dorcas outside Mrs. Hannaford's house, and the caretaker, who had received his instructions, admitted us. He was the gardener, and an old servant, and had been present during the police investigation.

The bedroom in which Mr. Hannaford and his wife slept on the fatal night was on the floor above. Dorcas told me to go upstairs, shut the door, lie down on the bed, and listen. Directly a noise in the room attracted my attention, I was to jump up, open the door and call out.

I obeyed her instructions and listened intently, but lying on the bed I heard nothing for a long time. It must have been quite a quarter of an hour when suddenly I heard a sound as of a door opening with a cracking sound. I leapt up, ran to the balusters, and called over, "I heard that!"

"All right, then, come down," said Dorcas, who was standing in the hall with the caretaker.

She explained to me that she had been moving about the drawing-room with the man, and they had both made as much noise with their feet as they could. They had even opened and shut the drawing-room door, but nothing had attracted my attention. Then Dorcas had sent the man to open the front door. It had opened with the cracking sound that I had heard.

"Now," said Dorcas to the caretaker, "you were here when the police were coming and going—did the front door always make a sound like that?"

"Yes, madam. The door had swollen or warped, or something, and it was always difficult to open. Mrs. Hannaford spoke about it once and was going to have it eased."

"That's it, then," said Dorcas to me. "The probability is that it was the noise made by the opening of that front door which first attracted the attention of the murdered woman."

"That was Hannaford going out—if his story is correct."

"No; Hannaford went out in a rage. He would pull the door open violently, and probably bang it too. That she would understand. It was when the door opened again with a sharp crack that she listened, thinking it was her husband come back."

"But she was murdered in the drawing-room?"

"Yes. My theory, therefore, is that after the opening of the front door she expected her husband to come upstairs. He didn't do so, and she concluded that he had gone into one of the rooms downstairs to spend the night, and she got up and came down to find him and ask him to get over his temper and come back to bed. She went into the drawing-room to see if he was there, and was struck down from behind before she had time to utter a cry. The servants heard nothing, remember."

"They said so at the inquest—yes."

"Now come into the drawing-room. This is where the caretaker tells me the body was found—here in the centre of the room—the poker with which the fatal blow had been struck was lying between the body and the fireplace. The absence of a cry and the position of the body show that when Mrs. Hannaford opened the door she saw no one (I am of course presuming that the murderer was not her husband) and she came in further. But there must have been someone in the room or she couldn't have been murdered in it."

"That is indisputable; but he might not have been in the room at the time—the person might have been hiding in the hall and followed her in."

"To suppose that we must presume that the murderer came into the room, took the poker from the fireplace, and went out again in order to come in again. That poker was secured, I am convinced, when the intruder heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He picked up the poker then concealed himself here."

"Then why, my dear Dorcas, shouldn't he have remained concealed until Mrs. Hannaford had gone out of the room again?"

"I think she was turning to go when he rushed out and struck her down. He probably thought that she had heard the noise of the door, and might go and alarm the servants."

"But just now you said she came in believing that her husband had returned and was in one of the rooms."

"The intruder could hardly be in possession of her thoughts."

"In the meantime he could have got out at the front door."

"Yes; but if his object was robbery he would have to go without the plunder. He struck the woman down in order to have time to get what he wanted."

"Then you think he left her here senseless while he searched the house?"

"Nobody got anything by searching the house, ma'am," broke in the caretaker. "The police satisfied themselves that nothing had been disturbed. Every door was locked, the plate was all complete, not a bit of jewellery or anything was missing. The servants were all examined about that, and the detectives went over every room and every cupboard to prove it wasn't no burglar broke in or anything of that sort. Besides, the windows were all fastened."

"What he says is quite true," said Dorcas to me, "but something alarmed Mrs. Hannaford in the night and brought her to the drawing-room in her nightdress. If it was as I suspect, the opening of the front door, that is how the guilty person got in."

The caretaker shook his head. "It was the poor master as did it, ma'am, right enough. He was out of his mind."

Dorcas shrugged her shoulders. "If he had done it, it would have been a furious attack, there would have been oaths and cries, and the poor lady would have received a rain of blows. The medical evidence shows that death resulted from one heavy blow on the back of the skull. But let us see where the murderer could have concealed himself ready armed with the poker here in the drawing-room."

In front of the drawing-room window were heavy curtains, and I at once suggested that curtains were the usual place of concealment on the stage and might be in real life.

As soon as I had asked the question Dorcas turned to the caretaker. "You are certain that every article of furniture is in its place exactly as it was that night?"

"Yes; the police prepared a plan of the room for the trial, and since then by the solicitors' orders we have not touched a thing."

"That settles the curtains then," continued Dorcas. "Look at the windows for yourself. In front of one, close by the curtains, is an ornamental table covered with china and glass and bric-à-brac; and in front of the other a large settee. No man could have come from behind those curtains without shifting that furniture out of his way. That would have immediately attracted Mrs. Hannaford's attention and given her time to scream and rush out of the room. No, we must find some other place for the assassin. Ah!—I wonder if——"

Dorcas's eyes were fixed on a large brown bear which stood nearly against the wall near the fireplace. The bear, a very fine, big specimen, was supported in its upright position by an ornamental iron pole, at the top of which was fixed an oil lamp covered with a yellow silk shade.

"That's a fine bear lamp," exclaimed Dorcas.

"Yes," said the caretaker, "it's been here ever since I've been in the family's service. It was bought by the poor mistress's first husband, Mr. Drayson, and he thought a lot of it. But," he added, looking at it curiously, "I always thought it stood closer to the wall than that. It used to—right against it."

"Ah," exclaimed Dorcas, "that's interesting. Pull the curtains right back and give me all the light you can."

As the man obeyed her directions she went down on her hands and knees and examined the carpet carefully.

"You are right," she said. "This has been moved a little forward, and not so very long ago—the carpet for a square of some inches is a different colour to the rest. The brown bear stands on a square mahogany stand, and the exact square now shows in the colour of the carpet that has been hidden by it. Only here is a discoloured portion and the bear does not now stand on it."

The evidence of the bear having been moved forward from a position it had long occupied was indisputable. Dorcas got up and went to the door of the drawing-room.

"Go and stand behind that bear," she said. "Stand as compact as you can, as though you were endeavouring to conceal yourself."

I obeyed, and Dorcas, standing in the drawing-room doorway, declared that I was completely hidden.

"Now," she said, coming to the centre of the room and turning her back to me, "reach down from where you are and see if you can pick up the shovel from the fireplace without making a noise."

I reached out carefully and had the shovel in my hand without making a sound.

"I have it," I said.

"That's right. The poker would have been on the same side as the shovel, and much easier to pick up quietly. Now, while my back is turned, grasp the shovel by the handle, leap out at me, and raise the shovel as if to hit me—but don't get excited and do it, because I don't want to realise the scene too completely."

I obeyed. My footsteps were scarcely heard on the heavy-pile drawing-room carpet. When Dorcas turned round the shovel was above her head ready to strike.

"Thank you for letting me off," she said, with a smile. Then her face becoming serious again, she exclaimed: "The murderer of Mrs. Hannaford concealed himself behind that brown bear lamp, and attacked her in exactly the way I have indicated. But why had he moved the bear two or three inches forward?"

"To conceal himself behind it."

"Nonsense! His concealment was a sudden act. That bear is heavy—the glass chimney of the lamp would have rattled if it had been done violently and hurriedly while Mrs. Hannaford was coming downstairs—that would have attracted her attention and she would have called out, 'Who's there?' at the doorway, and not have come in looking about for her husband."

Dorcas looked the animal over carefully, prodded it with her fingers, and then went behind it.

After a minute or two's close examination, she uttered a little cry and called me to her side.

She had found in the back of the bear a small straight slit. This was quite invisible. She had only discovered it by an accidentally violent thrust of her fingers into the animal's fur. Into this slit she thrust her hand, and the aperture yielded sufficiently for her to thrust her arm in. The interior of the bear was hollow, but Dorcas's hand as it went down struck against a wooden bottom. Then she withdrew her arm and the aperture closed up. It had evidently been specially prepared as a place of concealment, and only the most careful examination would have revealed it.

"Now," exclaimed Dorcas, triumphantly, "I think we are on a straight road! This, I believe, is where those missing bank-notes lay concealed for years. They were probably placed there by Mr. Drayson with the idea that some day his frauds might be discovered or he might be made a bankrupt. This was his little nest-egg, and his death in Paris before his fraud was discovered prevented his making use of them. Mrs. Hannaford evidently knew nothing of the hidden treasure, or she would speedily have removed it. But someone knew, and that someone put his knowledge to practical use the night that Mrs. Hannaford was murdered. The man who got in at the front door that night, got in to relieve the bear of its valuable stuffing; he moved the bear to get at the aperture, and was behind it when Mrs. Hannaford came in. The rest is easy to understand."

"But how did he get in at the front door?"

"That's what I have to find out. I am sure now that Flash George was in it. He was seen outside, and some of the notes that were concealed in the brown bear lamp have been traced to him. Who was Flash George's accomplice we may discover to-night. I think I have an idea, and if that is correct we shall have the solution of the whole mystery before dawn to-morrow morning."

"Why do you think you will learn so much to-night?"

"Because Flash George met a man two nights ago outside the Criterion. I was selling wax matches, and followed them up, pestering them. I heard George say to his companion, whom I had never seen with him before, 'Tell him Hungerford Bridge, midnight, Wednesday. Tell him to bring the lot and I'll cash up for them!'"

"And you think the 'him'——?"

"Is the man who rifled the brown bear and killed Mrs. Hannaford."

* * * * * * *

At eleven o'clock that evening I met Dorcas Dene in Villiers Street. I knew what she would be like, otherwise her disguise would have completely baffled me. She was dressed as an Italian street musician, and was with a man who looked like an Italian organ-grinder.

Dorcas took my breath away by her first words.

"Allow me to introduce you," she said, "to Mr. Thomas Holmes. This is the gentleman who was Charles Drayson's partner, and was sentenced to five years' penal servitude over the partnership frauds."

"Yes," replied the organ-grinder in excellent English. "I suppose I deserved it for being a fool, but the villain was Drayson—he had all my money, and involved me in a fraud at the finish."

"I have told Mr. Holmes the story of our discovery," said Dorcas. "I have been in communication with him ever since I discovered the notes were in circulation. He knew Drayson's affairs, and he has given me some valuable information. He is with us to-night because he knew Mr. Drayson's former associates, and he may be able to identify the man who knew the secret of the house at Haverstock Hill."

"You think that is the man Flash George is to meet?"

"I do. What else can 'Tell him to bring the lot and I'll cash up' mean but the rest of the bank-notes?"

Shortly before twelve we got on to Hungerford Bridge—the narrow footway that runs across the Thames by the side of the railway.

I was to walk ahead and keep clear of the Italians until I heard a signal.

We crossed the bridge after that once or twice, I coming from one end and the Italians from the other, and passing each other about the centre.

At five minutes to midnight I saw Flash George come slowly along from the Middlesex side. The Italians were not far behind. A minute later an old man with a grey beard, and wearing an old Inverness cape, passed me, coming from the Surrey side. When he met Flash George the two stopped and leant over the parapet, apparently interested in the river. Suddenly I heard Dorcas's signal. She began to sing the Italian song, "Santa Lucia."

I had my instructions. I jostled up against the two men and begged their pardon.

Flash George turned fiercely round. At the same moment I seized the old man and shouted for help. The Italians came hastily up. Several foot passengers rushed to the scene and inquired what was the matter.

"He was going to commit suicide," I cried. "He was just going to jump into the water."

The old man was struggling in my grasp. The crowd were keeping back Flash George. They believed the old man was struggling to get free to throw himself into the water.

The Italian rushed up to me.

"Ah, poor old man!" he said. "Don't let him get away!"

He gave a violent tug to the grey beard. It came off in his hands. Then with an oath he seized the supposed would-be suicide by the throat.

"You infernal villain!" he said.

"Who is he?" asked Dorcas.

"Who is he!" exclaimed Thomas Holmes, "why, the villain who brought me to ruin—my precious partner—Charles Drayson!"

As the words escaped from the supposed Italian's lips, Charles Drayson gave a cry of terror, and leaping on to the parapet, plunged into the river.

Flash George turned to run, but was stopped by a policeman who had just come up.

Dorcas whispered something in the man's ear, and the officer, thrusting his hand in the rascal's pocket, drew out a bundle of bank-notes.

A few minutes later the would-be suicide was brought ashore. He was still alive, but had injured himself terribly in his fall, and was taken to the hospital.

Before he died he was induced to confess that he had taken advantage of the Paris fire to disappear. He had flung his watch down in order that it might be found as evidence of his death. He had, previously to visiting the Opéra Comique, received a letter at his hotel which told him pretty plainly the game was up, and he knew that at any moment a warrant might be issued against him. After reading his name amongst the victims, he lived as best he could abroad, but after some years, being in desperate straits, he determined to do a bold thing, return to London and endeavour to get into his house and obtain possession of the money which was lying unsuspected in the interior of the brown bear lamp. He had concealed it, well knowing that at any time the crash might come, and everything belonging to him be seized. The hiding-place he had selected was one which neither his creditors nor his relatives would suspect.

On the night he entered the house, Flash George, whose acquaintance he had made in London, kept watch for him while he let himself in with his latch-key, which he had carefully preserved. Mr. Hannaford's leaving the house was one of those pieces of good fortune which occasionally favour the wicked.

With his dying breath Charles Drayson declared that he had no intention of killing his wife. He feared that, having heard a noise, she had come to see what it was, and might alarm the house in her terror, and as she turned to go out of the drawing-room he struck her, intending only to render her senseless until he had secured the booty.

* * * * * * *

Mr. Hannaford, completely recovered and in his right mind, was in due time released from Broadmoor. The letter from his mother to Dorcas Dene, thanking her for clearing her son's character and proving his innocence of the terrible crime for which he had been practically condemned, brought tears to my eyes as Dorcas read it aloud to Paul and myself. It was touching and beautiful to a degree.

As she folded it up and put it away, I saw that Dorcas herself was deeply moved.

"These are the rewards of my profession," she said. "They compensate for everything."

THE END