 Chapter 3 of John Faundyke's Cases by R. Austin Freeman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE ANTHROPOLOGIST AT LARGE Faundyke was not a newspaper reader. He viewed with extreme disfavour all scrappy and miscellaneous forms of literature, which, by presenting a disorderly series of unrelated items of information, tended, as he considered, to destroy the habit of consecutive mental effort. It is most important, he once remarked to me, habitually to pursue a definite train of thought and to pursue it to a finish, instead of flitting indolently from one uncompleted topic to another, as the newspaper reader is so apt to do. Still, there is no harm in a daily paper so long as you don't read it. Accordingly he patronised a morning paper, and his method of dealing with it was characteristic. The paper was laid on the table after breakfast, together with a blue pencil and a pair of office shears. A preliminary glance through the sheets enabled him to mark with the pencil those paragraphs that were to be read, and these were presently cut out and looked through, after which they were either thrown away or set aside to be pasted in an indexed book. The whole proceeding occupied, on an average, a quarter of an hour. On the morning of which I am now speaking, he was thus engaged. The pencil had done its work, and the snick of the shears announced the final stage. Presently he paused with a newly excised cutting between his fingers, and after glancing at it for a moment he handed it to me. Another art robbery he remarked, mysterious affairs, these, as to motive, I mean, you can't melt down a picture or an ivory carving, and you can't put them on the market as they stand. The very qualities that give them their value make them totally unnegotiable. Yes, I suppose, said I, the really inveterate collector, the pottery or stamp maniac for instance, will buy these contraband goods, even though he dare not show them. Probably, no doubt the coup d'etat sabendaye, the mere desire to possess, is the motive force, rather than any intelligent purpose. The discussion was, at this point, interrupted by a knock at the door, and a moment later my colleague admitted to, gentlemen, one of these I recognised as a Mr Marchmont, a solicitor, for whom we had occasionally acted, the other was a stranger, a typical Hebrew of the blonde type, good-looking, faultlessly dressed, carrying a band-box, and obviously in a state of the most extreme agitation. Good morning to you, gentlemen, said Mr Marchmont, shaking hands cordially. I have brought a client of mine to see you, and when I tell you that his name is Solomon Low, it will be unnecessary for me to say what our business is. Oddly enough, replied Thorndike, we were at the very moment when you knocked, discussing the bearings of his case. It is a horrible affair, burst in Mr Low, I am distracted, I am ruined, I am in despair. He banged the band-box down on the table, and flinging himself into a chair, buried his face in his hands. Come, come, remonstrated Marchmont, we must be brave, we must be composed. Tell Dr Thorndike your story, and let us hear what he thinks of it. He leaned back in his chair and looked at his client with that air of patient fortitude, but comes to us all so easily when we contemplate the misfortunes of other people. You must help us, sir, exclaimed Low, starting up again. You must, indeed, or I shall go mad, but I shall tell you what has happened, and then you must act at once. Spare no effort, and no expense, money is no object, at least, not in reason, he added, with native caution. He sat down once more, and in perfect English, though with a slight German accent, proceeded volubly. My brother Isaac is probably known to you by name. Thorndike nodded. He is a great collector, and to some extent a dealer, that is to say, he makes his hobby a profitable hobby. What does he collect? asked Thorndike. Everything, replied our visitor, flinging his hands apart with a comprehensive gesture. Everything that is precious and beautiful. Pictures, ivories, jewels, watches, objects of art, and ver, too. Everything. He is a Jew, and he has that passion for things that are rich and costly that has distinguished our race from the time of my namesake, Solomon, onwards. His house in Howard Street, Piccadilly, is at once a museum and an art gallery. The rooms are filled with cases of gems, of antique jewellery, of coins and historic relics, some of priceless value. And the walls are covered with paintings, every one of which is a masterpiece. There is a fine collection of ancient weapons and armour, both European and Oriental, rare books, manuscripts, paparite and valuable antiquities, from Egypt, Assyria, Cyprus, and elsewhere. You see, his taste is quite Catholic, and his knowledge of rare and curious things is probably greater than that of any other living man. He is never mistaken, no forgery deceives him, and hence the great prices that he obtains. For a work of art purchased from Isaac Low is a work certified as genuine, beyond all, cavill. He pours to mop his face with a silk handkerchief, and then, with the same plaintiff volubility, continued. My brother is unmarried, he lives for his collection, and he lives with it. The house is not a very large one, and the collection takes up most of it, but he keeps a suite of rooms for his own occupation, and has two servants, a man and wife, to look after him. The man, who is a retired police sergeant, acts as caretaker and watchman, the woman as housekeeper and cook, if required, but my brother lives largely at his club, and now I come to this present catastrophe. He ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath, and continued. Yesterday morning Isaac started for Florence by way of Paris, but his route was not certain, and he intended to break his journey at various points, as circumstances determined. Before leaving he put his collection in my charge, and it was arranged that I should occupy his rooms in his absence. Accordingly I sent my things round and took possession. Now, Dr. Thorndike, I am closely connected with the drama, and it is my custom to spend my evenings at my club, of which most of the members are actors. Consequently I am rather late in my habits, but last night I was earlier than usual, in leaving my club, for I started for my brother's house, before half past twelve. I felt, as you may suppose, the responsibility of the great charge I had undertaken, and you may therefore imagine my horror, my consternation, my despair, when on letting myself in with my latch-key I found a police inspector, a sergeant, and a constable in the hall. There had been a robbery, sir, in my absence, and the account that the inspector gave of the affair was briefly this. While taking the round of his district he had noticed an empty handsome proceeding in leisurely fashion along Howard Street. There was nothing remarkable in this, and when about ten minutes later he was returning, and met a handsome witch he believed to be the same, proceeding along the same street in the same direction, and at the same easy pace. The circumstances struck him as odd, and he made a note of the number of the cab in his pocket-book. It was seven, two, eight, six, three, and the time was eleven, thirty-five. At eleven forty-five a constable coming up Howard Street noticed a handsome standing opposite the door of my brother's house, and while he was looking at it a man came out of the house carrying something which he put in the cab. On this the constable quickened his pace, and when the man returned to the house and reappeared, carrying what looked like a portmanteau, and closing the door softly behind him, the policeman's suspicions were aroused, and he hurried forward, hailing the cab man to stop. The man put his burden into the cab and sprang in himself. The cab man lashed his horse which started off at a gallop, and the policeman broke into a run, blowing his whistle and flashing his lantern onto the cab. He followed it round the two turnings into Albemarle Street, and was just in time to see it turn into Piccadilly, where of course it was lost. However, he managed to note the number of the cab, which was seven-two-eight-six-three, and he describes the man as short and thick-set, and thinks he was not wearing any hat. As he was returning he met the inspector and the sergeant who had heard the whistle, and on his report the three officers hurried to the house, where they knocked and rang for some minutes without any result. Being now more than suspicious, they went to the back of the house through the mumes, where, with great difficulty, they managed to force a window, and effect an entrance into the house. Here their suspicions were soon changed to certainty, for on reaching the first floor they heard strange muffled groans, proceeding from one of the rooms, the door of which was locked, though the key had not been removed. They opened the door and found the caretaker and his wife, sitting on the floor, with their backs against the wall. Both were bound, hand and foot, and the head of each was enveloped in a green bias bag, and when the bags were taken off each was found to be lightly but effectively gagged. Each told the same story. The caretaker, fancying he heard a noise, armed himself with a truncheon, and came downstairs to the first floor, where he found the door of one of the rooms open and a light burning inside. He stepped on tiptoe to the open door, and was peering in when he was seized from behind, half suffocated by a pad held over his mouth, pinioned, gagged, and blindfolded with the bag. His assailant, whom he never saw, was amazingly strong and skillful, and handed him with perfect ease, although he, the caretaker, is a powerful man, and a good boxer and wrestler. The same thing happened to the wife, who had come down to look for her husband. She walked into the same trap, and was gagged, pinioned, and blindfolded, without ever having seen the robber. So the only description that we have of this villain is that furnished by the constable. And the caretaker had no chance of using his truncheon, said Thorndike. Well, he got in one back-handed blow over his right shoulder, which he thinks caught the burglar in the face, but the fellow caught him by the elbow, and gave his arm such a twist that he dropped the truncheon on the floor. Is the robbery a very extensive one? Ah! exclaimed Mr. Low, that is just what we cannot say. But I fear it is. It seems that my brother had quite recently drawn out of his bank four thousand pounds in notes and gold. These little transactions are often carried out in cash, rather than by check. Here I caught a twinkle in Thorndike's eye, and the caretaker says that a few days ago Isaac brought home several parcels which were put away temporarily in a strong cupboard. He seemed to be very pleased with his new acquisitions, and gave the caretaker to understand that they were of extraordinary rarity and value. Now this cupboard has been cleared out, not a vestige is left in it, but the wrappings of the parcels. So, although nothing else has been touched, it is pretty clear that goods to the value of four thousand pounds have been taken. But when we consider what an excellent buyer my brother is, it becomes highly probable that the actual value of those things is two or three times that amount, or even more. It is dreadful, dreadful business, and Isaac will hold me responsible for it all. Is there no further clue, asked Thorndike, what about the cab, for instance? Oh, the cab groaned low. That clue failed. The police must have mistaken the number. They telephoned immediately to all the police stations, and a watch was set with the result that number 72863 was stopped as it was going home for the night. But it then turned out that the cab had not been off the rank since eleven o'clock, and the driver had been in the shelter all the time with several other men. But there is a clue. I have it here. Mr. Low's face brightened for once as he reached out for the band box. The houses in Howard Street, he explained, as he untied the fastening, have small balconies to the first floor windows at the back. Now the thief entered by one of these windows, having climbed up a rainwater pipe to the balcony. It was a gusty night as you will remember, and this morning, as I was leaving the house, the butler next door called to me and gave me this. He had found it lying in the balcony of his house. He opened the band box with a flourish, and brought forth a rather shabby, billycock hat. I understand, said he, that by examining a hat it is possible to deduce from it not only the bodily characteristics of the wearer, but also his mental and moral qualities, his state of health, his pecuniary position, his past history, and even his domestic relations, and the peculiarities of his place of abode. Am I right in this supposition? The ghost of a smile flitted across Thorndyke's face as he laid the hat upon the remains of the newspaper. We must not expect too much, he observed. Hats, as you know, have a way of changing owners. Your own hat, for instance, a very spruce, hard felt, is a new one, I think. Got it last week, said Mr. Low. Exactly. It is an expensive hat by Lincoln and Bennett, and I see you have judiciously written your name in indelible marking, Inc., on the lining. Now a new hat suggests a discarded predecessor. What did you do with your old hats? My man has them, but they don't fit him. I suppose he sells them, or gives them away. Very well, now, a good hat like yours has a long life, and remains serviceable long after it has become shabby, and the probability is that many of your hats pass from owner to owner, from you to the shabby gentile, from them to the shabby un-gentile. And it is a fair assumption that there are, at this moment, an appreciable number of tramps and casuals wearing hats by Lincoln and Bennett, marked in indelible, Inc., with the name S. Low, and anyone who should examine those hats, as you suggest, might draw some very misleading deductions as to the personal habits of S. Low. Mr. Marchmont chuckled audibly, and then, remembering the gravity of the occasion, suddenly became potentiously solemn. So you think that the hat is of no use, after all, said Mr. Low, in a tone of deep disappointment. I won't say that, replied Thorndike. We may learn something from it. Leave it with me at any rate, but you must let the police know that I have it. They will want to see it, of course. And you will try to get those things, won't you? pleaded Low. I will think over the case, but you understand, or Mr. Marchmont does, that this is hardly in my province. I am a medical jurist, and this is not a medical legal case. Just what I told him, said Marchmont, but you will do me a great kindness if you will look into the matter. Make it a medical legal case, he added persuasively. Thorndike repeated his promise, and the two men took their departure. For some time after they had left, my colleague remained silent, regarding the hat with a quizzical smile. It is like a game of forfeits, he remarked at length, and we have to find the owner of this very pretty thing. He lifted it with a pair of forceps into a better light, and began to look at it more closely. Perhaps, said he, we have done Mr. Low in injustice, after all. This is certainly a very remarkable hat. It is as round as a basin, I exclaimed, why the fellow's head must have been turned in a lathe. Thorndike laughed. The point, said he, is this. This is a hard hat, and so must have fitted fairly, or it could not have been worn. And it was a cheap hat, and so was not made to measure. But a man with a head that shape has got to come to a clear understanding with his hat. No ordinary hat would go on at all. Now, you see what he has done, no doubt on the advice of some friendly hatter. He has bought a hat of suitable size, and he has made it hot, probably steamed it. Then he has jammed it, while still hot and soft, onto his head, and allowed it to cool and set before removing it. That is evident from the distortion of the brim. The important corollary is that this hat fits his head exactly, is in fact a perfect mould of it, and this fact, together with the cheap quality of the hat, furnishes the further corollary that it has probably only had a single owner. And now let us turn it over and look at the outside. You notice at once the absence of old dust, allowing for the circumstance that it had been out all night, it is decidedly clean. Its owner has been in the habit of brushing it, and is therefore presumably a decent, orderly man. But if you look at it in a good light, you see a kind of bloom on the felt, and through this lens you can make out particles of a fine white powder, which has worked into the surface. He handed me his lens, through which I could distinctly see the particles to which he referred. Then he continued, under the curl of the brim, and in the folds of the hat band where the brush has not been able to reach it, the powder has collected quite thickly, and we can see that it is a very fine powder and very white. Like flour, what do you make of that? I should say that it is connected with some industry. He may be engaged in some factory or works, or at any rate, may live near a factory and have to pass it frequently. Yes, and I think we can distinguish between the two possibilities, for if he only passes the factory, the dust will be on the outside of the hat only, the inside will be protected by his head. But if he is engaged in the works, the dust will be inside too, as the hat will hang on a peg in the dust laden atmosphere, and his head will also be powdered, and so convey the dust to the inside. He turned the hat over once more, and as I brought the powerful lens to bear upon the dark lining, I could clearly distinguish a number of white particles in the interstices of the fabric. The powder is on the inside too, I said. He took the lens from me, and having verified my statement preceded with the examination. You notice, he said, that the leather head lining is stained with grease, and this staining is more pronounced at the sides and back. His hair, therefore, is naturally greasy, or he greases it artificially, for if the staining were caused by perspiration, it would be most marked opposite the forehead. He peered anxiously into the interior of the hat, and eventually turned down the head lining, and immediately they broke out upon his face a gleam of satisfaction. Ha! he exclaimed. This is a stroke of luck. I was afraid our neat and orderly friend had defeated us with his brush. Pass me the small dissecting forceps, Jervis. I handed him the instrument, and he proceeded to pick out daintily from the space behind the head lining, some half a dozen short pieces of hair which he laid with infinite tenderness on a sheet of white paper. There are several more on the other side, I said, pointing them out to him. Yes, but we must leave some for the police, he answered, with a smile. They must have the same chance as ourselves, you know. But surely, I said, as I bent down over the paper, these are pieces of horse hair. I think not, he replied, but the microscope will show. At any rate, this is the kind of hair I should expect to find with a head of that shape. Well, it is extraordinarily coarse, said I, and two of the hairs are nearly white. Yes, black hair is beginning to turn grey, and now, as our preliminary survey has given such encouraging results, we will proceed to more exact methods, and we must waste no time, for we shall have the police here presently to rob us of our treasure. He folded up carefully the paper containing the hairs, and taking the hat in both hands, as though it were some sacred vessel, ascended with me to the laboratory on the next floor. Now, Poulton, he said to his laboratory assistant, we have here a specimen for examination, and time is precious. First of all, we want your patent dust extractor. The little man bustled to a cupboard, and brought forth a singular appliance of his own manufacture, somewhat like a miniature vacuum cleaner. It had been made from a bicycle foot pump, by reversing the piston valve, and was fitted with a glass nozzle, and a small detachable glass receiver for collecting the dust, at the end of a flexible metal tube. We will sample the dust from the outside first, said Thorndike, laying the hat upon the workbench. Are you ready, Poulton? The assistant slipped his foot into the stirrup of the pump, and worked the handle vigorously, while Thorndike drew the glass nozzle slowly along the hat-brim, under the curled edge, and as the nozzle passed along, the white coating vanished as if by magic, leaving the felt absolutely clean and black, and simultaneously the glass receiver became clouded over with a white deposit. We will leave the other side for the police, said Thorndike, and as Poulton ceased pumping he detached the receiver, and laid it on a sheet of paper on which he wrote in pencil, outside, and covered it with a small bell-glass. A fresh receiver having been fitted on, the nozzle was now drawn over the silk lining of the hat, and then through the space behind the leather headlining on one side, and now the dust that collected in the receiver was much of the usual gray color and fluffy texture, and included two more hairs. And now, said Thorndike, when the second receiver had been detached and set aside, we want a mould of the inside of the hat, and we must make it by the quickest method. There is no time to make a paper mould. It is a most astonishing head, he added, reaching down from a nail, a pair of large calipers, which he applied to the inside of the hat, six inches and nine tenths long, by six and six tenths broad, which gives us, he made a rapid calculation on a scrap of paper, the extraordinarily high cephalic index of 95.6. Poulton now took possession of the hat, and having stuck a band of wet tissue paper around the inside, mixed a small bowl of plaster of Paris, and very dexterously, ran a stream of the thick liquid onto the tissue paper, where it quickly solidified. A second and third application resulted in a broad ring of solid plaster, an inch thick, forming a perfect mould of the inside of the hat, and in a few minutes, the slight contraction of the plaster, in setting, rendered the mould sufficiently loose to allow of its being slipped out onto a board to dry. We were none too soon, for even as Poulton was removing the mould, the electric bell, which I had switched on to the laboratory, announced a visitor, and when I went down I found a police sergeant waiting with a note from Superintendent Miller, requesting an immediate transfer of the hat. The next thing to be done, said Thorndike, when the sergeant had departed with the band box, is to measure the thickness of the hairs, and make a transverse section of one, and examine the dust. The section we will leave to Poulton, as time is an object. Poulton, you had better embed the hair in thick gum and freeze it hard on the microtome, and be very careful to cut the section at right angles to the length of the hair. Meanwhile, we will get to work with the microscope. The hairs proved on measurement to have a surprisingly large diameter of one one-thirty-fifth of an inch, fully double that of ordinary hairs, although they were unquestionably human. As to the white dust, it presented a problem that even Thorndike was unable to solve. The application of reagent showed it to be carbonate of lime, but its source for a time remained a mystery. The larger particles, said Thorndike, with his eye applied to the microscope, appear to be transparent, crystalline, and distinctly laminated in structure. It is not chalk, it is not whiting, it is not any kind of cement. What can it be? Could it be any kind of shell, I suggested. For instance, of course, he exclaimed, starting up. You have hit it, Jervis, as you always do. It must be mother of pearl. Poulton, give me a pearl-shirt button out of your oddman's box. The button was duly produced by the thrifty Poulton, dropped into an agate mortar, and speedily reduced to powder, a tiny pinch of which Thorndike placed under the microscope. This powder, said he, is naturally much coarser than our specimen, but the identity of character is unmistakable. Jervis, you are a treasure. Just look at it. I glanced down the microscope, and then pulled out my watch. Yes, I said, there is no doubt about it, I think, but I must be off. Ansty urged me to be in court by eleven thirty at the latest. With infinite reluctance I collected my notes and papers and departed, leaving Thorndike diligently copying addresses out of the post office directory. My business at the court detained me the whole of the day, and it was near upon dinnertime when I reached our chambers. Thorndike had not yet come in, but he arrived half an hour later, tired and hungry and not very communicative. What have I done? he repeated in answer to my inquiries. I have walked miles of dirty pavement, and I have visited every pearl-shell cutters in London with one exception, and I have not found what I was looking for. The one mother of pearl factory that remains, however, is the most likely, and I propose to look in there tomorrow morning. Meanwhile we have completed our data with Poulton's assistance. Here is a tracing of our friend's skull taken from the mould. You see it is an extreme type of brachycephalic skull, and markedly unsymmetrical. Here is a transverse section of his hair, which is quite circular, unlike yours or mine, which would be oval. We have the mother of pearl dust from the outside of the hat, and from the inside similar dust mixed with various fibres, and a few granules of rice starch. Those are our data. Supposing the hat should not be that of the burglar after all I suggested. That would be annoying, but I think it is his, and I think I can guess at the nature of the art treasures that were stolen. And you don't intend to enlighten me? My dear fellow, he replied, you have all the data. Enlighten yourself by the exercise of your own brilliant faculties. Don't give way to mental indolence. I endeavoured from the facts in my possession to construct the personality of the mysterious burglar, and failed utterly, nor was I more successful in my endeavour to guess at the nature of the stolen property, and it was not until the following morning, when we had set out on our quest, and were approaching Limehouse, that Thorndike would revert to the subject. We are now, he said, going to the factory of Badcomb and Martin, shell importers and cutters in the West India Dock Road. If I don't find my man there, I shall hand the facts over to the police, and waste no more time over the case. What is your man like? I asked. I am looking for an elderly Japanese wearing a new hat or more probably a cap, and having a bruise on his right cheek or temple. I am also looking for a cab yard. But here we are at the works, and as it is now close on the dinner hour, we will wait and see the hands come out before making any inquiries. We walked slowly past the tall, blank-faced building, and were just turning to repass it when a steam whistle sounded. A wicket opened in the main gate, and a stream of workmen, each powdered with white, like a miller, emerged into the street. We halted to watch the men as they came out, one by one, through the wicket, and turned to the right or left towards their homes, or some adjacent coffee shop, but none of them answered to the description that my friend had given. The out-coming stream grew thinner, and at length ceased, the wicket was shut with a bang, and once more Thorndike's quest appeared to have failed. Is that all of them, I wonder, he said, with a shade of disappointment in his tone, but even as he spoke the wicket opened again, and a leg protruded. The leg was followed by a back, and a curious globular head, covered with iron-grey hair, and surmounted by a cloth cap, the whole appertaining to a short, very thick-set man who remained thus, evidently talking to someone inside. Suddenly he turned his head to look across the street, and immediately I recognized by the pallid yellow complexion and narrow eye slits the physiognomy of a typical Japanese. The man remained talking for nearly another minute, then drawing out his other leg, he turned towards us, and now I perceived that the right side of his face, over the prominent cheekbone, was discoloured as though by a severe bruise. Ha! said Thorndike, turning round sharply as the man approached. Either this is our man, or it is an incredible coincidence. He walked away at a moderate pace, allowing the Japanese to overtake us slowly, and when the man had at length passed us, he increased his speed somewhat, so as to maintain the distance. Our friends stepped along briskly, and presently turned up a side street, wither we followed at a respectful distance. Thorndike holding open his pocketbook, and appearing to engage me in an earnest discussion, but keeping a sharp eye on his quarry. There he goes, said my colleague, as the man suddenly disappeared, the house with the green window sashes, that will be number thirteen. It was, and having verified the fact, we passed on, and took the next turning that would lead us back to the main road. Some twenty minutes later, as we were strolling past the door of a coffee-shop, a man came out, and began to fill his pipe, with an air of leisurely satisfaction. His hat and clothes were powdered with white, like those of the workmen, whom we had seen come out of the factory. Thorndike accosted him. Is that a flower mill up the road there? No, sir, Pearl Shell, I work there myself. Pearl Shell, eh? said Thorndike. I suppose that will be an industry that will tend to attract the aliens. Do you find it so? No, sir, not at all. The work's too odd. We've only got one foreigner in the place, and he ain't an alien. He's a chap. A JAP! exclaimed Thorndike. Really? Now, I wonder if that would chance to be our old friend Côté. You remember Côté, he added, turning to me. No, sir, this man's name is Futashima. There was another JAP in the works, a chap named Itu, a Palafutashima's, but he's left. Ah, I don't know either of them. By the way, isn't there to be a cab-yard just about here? There's a yard up Ranking Street where they keep vans and one or two cabs. That chap Itu works there now. Taken to Orseflesh drives a van sometimes. Quist dart for a JAP. Very, Thorndike thanked the man for his information, and we sauntered on towards Ranking Street. The yard was at this time nearly deserted, being occupied only by an ancient and crazy four-wheeler and a very shabby handsome. Curious old houses, these that back onto the yard, said Thorndike, strolling into the enclosure, that timber gable now, pointing to a house from a window of which a man was watching us suspiciously, is quite an interesting survival. What's your business, mister? demanded the man in a gruff tone. We are just having a look at these quaint old houses, replied Thorndike, edging towards the back of the handsome, and opening his pocket-book as though to make a sketch. Well, you can see him from outside, said the man. So we can, said Thorndike, swavly, but not so well, you know. At this moment the pocket-book slipped from his hand and fell, scattering a number of loose papers about the ground, under the handsome, and our friend at the window laughed joyously. No hurry, murmured Thorndike, as I stooped to help him to gather up the papers, which he did in the most surprisingly slow and clumsy manner. It is fortunate that the ground is dry, he stood up with the rescued papers in his hand, and, having scribbled down a brief note, slipped the book in his pocket. Now you'd better mizzle, observed the man at the window. Thank you, replied Thorndike, I think we had, and with a pleasant nod at the custodian, he proceeded to adopt the hospitable suggestion. Mr. Marchmont has been here, sir, with Inspector Badger and another gentleman, said Poulton, as we entered our chambers. They said they would call again about five. Then, replied Thorndike, as it is now a quarter to five, there is just time for us to have a wash, while you get the tea ready. The particles that float in the atmosphere of Limehouse are not all Mother of Pearl. Our visitors arrived punctually, the third gentleman being, as we had supposed, Mr. Solomon Lowe. Inspector Badger I had not seen before, and he now impressed me as showing a tendency to invert the significance of his own name by endeavouring to draw Thorndike in, which, however, he was not brilliantly successful. I hope you are not going to disappoint Mr. Lowe, sir, he commenced facetiously. You have had a good look at that hat. We saw your marks on it, and he expects that you will be able to point us out the man, name and address all complete. He grinned patronisingly at our unfortunate client, who was looking even more haggard and worn than he had been on the previous morning. Have you made any discovery, Mr. Lowe asked with pathetic eagerness. We examine the hat very carefully, and I think we have established a few facts of some interest. Did your examination of the hat furnish any information as to the nature of the stolen property, sir, inquired the humorous inspector? Thorndike turned to the officer with a face as expressionless as a wooden mask. We thought it possible, said he, that it might consist of works of Japanese art, such as Netsukis, paintings, and such like. Mr. Lowe uttered an exclamation of delighted astonishment, and the facetiousness faded rather suddenly, from the inspector's countenance. I don't know how you can have found out, said he. We have only known it half an hour ourselves, and the wire came direct from Florence to Scotland Yard. Perhaps you can describe the thief to us, said Mr. Lowe, in the same eager tone. I dare say the inspector can do that, replied Thorndike. Yes, I think so, replied the officer. He is a short, strong man with a dark complexion, and hair turning grey. He has a very round head, and he is probably a workman engaged at some whiting or cement works. That is all we know. If you can tell us any more, sir, we shall be very glad to hear it. I can only offer a few suggestions, said Thorndike, but perhaps you may find them useful. For instance, at Thirteen Birket Street Limehouse, there is living a Japanese gentleman named Futashima, who works at Badcombe and Martins, mother of Pearl Factory. I think that if you were to call on him, and let him try on the hat that you have, it would probably fit him. The inspector scribbled ravenously in his notebook, and Mr. Marchmont, an old admirer of Thorndikes, leaned back in his chair, chuckling softly and rubbing his hands. Then continued my colleague, there is in rank in street Limehouse a cab yard, where another Japanese gentleman named Itu is employed. You might find out where Itu was the night before last, and if you should chance to see a handsome cab there, number 22481, have a good look at it. In the frame of the number plate, you will find six small holes. Those holes may have held brads, and the brads may have held a false number card. At any rate, you might ascertain where that cab was, at eleven thirty, the night before last. That is all I have to suggest. Mr. Lowe leaped from his chair. Let us go, now, at once. There is no time to be lost. A thousand thanks to you, doctor. A thousand million thanks. Come! He seized the inspector by the arm, and forcibly dragged him towards the door, and a few moments later we heard the footsteps of our visitors clattering down the stairs. It was not worthwhile to enter into explanations with them, said Thorndike, as the footsteps died away, nor perhaps with you. On the contrary, I replied, I am waiting to be fully enlightened. Well, then, my inferences in this case were perfectly simple ones, drawn from well-known anthropological facts. The human race, as you know, is roughly divided into three groups— the black, the white, and the yellow races. But apart from the variable quality of colour, these races have certain fixed characteristics, associated especially with the shape of the skull of the eye sockets and the hair. Thus in the black races the skull is long and narrow, the eye sockets are long and narrow, and the hair is flat and ribbon-like and usually coiled up like a watch spring. In the white races the skull is oval. The eye sockets are oval and the hair is slightly flattened or oval in section and tends to be wavy. While in the yellow or mongol races the skull is short and round, the eye sockets are short and round, and the hair is straight and circular in section. So that we have in the black races long skull, long orbits, flat hair. In the white races oval skull, oval orbits, oval hair. And in the yellow races round skull, round orbits, round hair. Now in this case we had to deal with a very short round skull but you cannot argue from races to individuals. There are many short-skulled Englishmen, but when I found associated with that skull hairs which were circular in section it became practically certain that the individual was a mongol of some kind. The mother of pearl dust and the granules of rice starch from the inside of the hat favoured this view for the pearl shell industry is specially connected with China and Japan, while starch granules from the hat of an Englishman would probably be wheat starch. Then as to the hair it was as I mentioned to you circular in section and of very large diameter. Now I have examined many thousands of hairs and the thickest that I have ever seen came from the heads of Japanese, but the hairs from this hat were as thick as any of them. But the hypothesis that the burglar was a Japanese received confirmation in various ways. Thus he was short though strong and active and the Japanese are the shortest of the mongol races and very strong and active. Then his remarkable skill in handling the powerful caretaker, a retired police sergeant, suggested the Japanese art of jujitsu, while the nature of the robbery was consistent with the value set by the Japanese on works of art. Finally the fact that only a particular collection was taken suggested a special and probably national character in the things stolen while their portability. You will remember that goods of the value of from eight to twelve thousand pounds were taken away in two hand packages. Was much more consistent with Japanese and Chinese works of which the latter tend rather to be bulky and ponderous. Still it was nothing but a bare hypothesis until we had seen Futoshima, and indeed is no more now. I may, after all, be entirely mistaken. He was not, however, and at this moment there reposes in my drawing-room an ancient Netsuki, which came as a thank-offering from Mr Isaac Low on the recovery of the booty from a back room in No. 13 Burkett Street Limehouse. The treasure, of course, was given in the first place to Thorndike, but transferred by him to my wife on the pretense that but thought my suggestion of shelledust the robber would never have been traced, which is, on the face of it, preposterous. Unfortunately, he said, reluctantly stepping into an empty smoking compartment as the guard executed a flourish with his green flag. I'm afraid we have missed our friend. He closed the door, and as the train began to move thrust his head out of the window. Now, I wonder if that will be he, he continued. If so, he has caught the train by the skin of his teeth, and is now in one of the rear compartments. The subject of Thorndike's speculations was Mr Edward Stockford of the firm of Stockford and Myers of Portugal Street, Solicitors, and his connection with us at present arose out of a telegram that had reached our chambers on the preceding evening. It was reply paid, and ran thus. Can you come here to-morrow to direct defence, important case, all costs undertaken by us, Stockford and Myers? Thorndike's reply had been in the affirmative, and early on this present morning a further telegram, evidently posted overnight, had been delivered. Shall leave for Woldhurst by 8.25 from Charing Cross, we'll call for you if possible, Edward Stockford. He had not called, however, and since he was unknown personally to us both we could not judge whether or not he had been among the passengers on the platform. It is most unfortunate, Thorndike repeated, for it deprives us of that preliminary consideration of the case, which is so invaluable. He filled his pipe thoughtfully, and having made a fruitless inspection of the platform at London Bridge, took up the paper that he had bought at the bookstore, and began to turn over the leaves, running his eye quickly down the columns, unmindful of the journalistic baits in paragraph or article. It is a great disadvantage, he observed, while still glancing through the paper, to come plump into an inquiry without preparation, to be confronted with the details, before one has a chance of considering the case in general terms, the instance. He paused, leaving the sentence unfinished, and as I looked up inquiringly, I saw that he had turned over another page, and was now reading attentively. This looks like our case-gervis, he said presently, handing me the paper, and indicating a paragraph at the top of the page. It was quite brief, and was headed, Terrible Murder in Kent, the account being as follows. A shocking crime was discovered yesterday morning at the little town of Waldhurst, which lies on the branch line from Holbury Junction. The discovery was made by a porter, who was inspecting the carriages of the train, which had just come in. On opening the door of a first-class compartment, he was horrified to find the body of a fashionably dressed woman stretched upon the floor. Medical aid was immediately summoned, and on the arrival of the divisional surgeon, Dr. Morton, it was ascertained that the woman had not been dead more than a few minutes. The state of the corpse leaves no doubt that a murder of the most brutal kind has been perpetrated, because of death, being a penetrating wound of the head inflicted with some pointed implement, which must have been used with terrible violence, since it has perforated the skull and entered the brain. That robbery was not the motive of the crime, is made clear by the fact that an expensively fitted dressing bag was found on the rack, and that the dead woman's jewellery, including several valuable diamond rings, was untouched. It is rumoured that an arrest has been made by the local police. A gruesome affair I remarked as I handed back the paper, but the report does not give us much information. It does not, Thorndike agreed, and yet it gives us something to consider. Here is a perforating wound of the skull inflicted with some pointed implement, that is, assuming that it is not a bullet wound. Now, what kind of implement would be capable of inflicting such an injury? How would such an implement be used in the confined space of a railway carriage, and what sort of person would be in possession of such an implement? These are preliminary questions that are worth considering, and I commend them to you, together with the further problems of the possible motive, excluding robbery, and any circumstances other than murder, which might account for the injury. The choice of suitable implements is not very great, I observed. It is very limited, and most of them, such as a plasterer's pick or a geological hammer, are associated with certain definite occupations. You have a notebook? I had, and accepting the hint, I produced it, and pursued my further reflections in silence, while my companion, with his notebook also on his knee, gazed steadily out of the window. And thus he remained, wrapped in thought, jotting down an entry now and again in his book, until the train slowed down at Holbury Junction, where we had to change onto a branch line. As we stepped out, I noticed a well-dressed man hurrying up the platform from the rear, and eagerly scanning the faces of the few passengers who had alighted. Soon he aspired us, and approaching quickly, asked, as he looked from one of us to the other. Dr. Thorndike? Yes, replied my colleague, adding, and you, I presume, are Mr. Edward Stomford. The solicitor bowed. This is a dreadful affair, he said, in an agitated manner. I see you have the paper, a most shocking affair. I am immensely relieved to find you here. Nearly missed the train, and I feared I should miss you. There appears to have been an arrest, Thorndike began. Yes, my brother, terrible business, let us walk up the platform. Our train won't start for a quarter of an hour yet. We deposited our joint Gladstone and Thorndike's traveling case in an empty first-class compartment, and then, with the solicitor between us, strolled up to the unfrequented end of the platform. My brother's position, said Mr. Stomford, fills me with dismay. But let me give you the facts in order, and you shall judge for yourself. This poor creature who has been murdered so brutally was a Miss Edith Grant. She was formerly an artist's model, and as such, was a good deal employed by my brother, who was a painter, Harold Stomford, you know, A-R-A. Now, I know his work very well, and charming work it is. I think so too. Well, in those days he was quite a youngster, about twenty, and he became very intimate with Miss Grant. In quite an innocent way, though not very discreet, but she was a nice respectable girl, as most English models are, and no one thought any harm. However, a good many letters passed between them, and some little presents, amongst which was a beaded chain carrying a locket, and in this he was full enough to put his portrait and the inscription, Edith, from Harold. Later on Miss Grant, who had a rather good voice, went on the stage in the comic opera line, and, in consequence, her habits and associates changed somewhat, and as Harold had meanwhile become engaged, he was naturally anxious to get his letters back, and especially to exchange the locket for some less compromising gift. The letters she eventually sent him, but refused absolutely to part with the locket. Now, for the last month, Harold has been staying at Halbury, making sketching excursions into the surrounding country, and yesterday morning he took the train to Schinglehurst, the third station from here, and the one before Woldhurst. On the platform here he met Miss Grant, who had come down from London and was going on to Worthing. They entered the branch train together, having a first-class compartment to themselves. It seemed she was wearing his locket at the time, and he made another appeal to her to make an exchange, which she refused as before. The discussion appears to have become rather heated and angry on both sides, for the guard and a porter at Munson both noticed that they seemed to be quarrelling, but the upshot of the affair was that the lady snapped the chain and tossed it together with the locket to my brother, and they parted quite amably at Schinglehurst, where Harold got out. He was then carrying his full sketching kit, including a large Holland umbrella, the lower joint of which is an ash staff fitted with a powerful steel spike for driving into the ground. It was about half past ten when he got out at Schinglehurst. By eleven he had reached his pitch and got to work, and he painted steadily for three hours, then he packed up his traps and was just starting on his way back to the station when he was met by the police and arrested, and now observed the accumulation of circumstantial evidence against him. He was the last person seen in company with the murdered woman, for no one seems to have seen her after they left Munson. He appeared to be quarrelling with her when she was last seen alive. He had a reason for possibly wishing for her death. He was provided with an implement, a spiked staff, capable of inflicting the injury which caused her death, and when he was searched there was found in his possession the locket and broken chain, apparently removed from her person with violence. Against all this is, of course, his known character. He is the gentlest and most amiable of men, and his subsequent conduct, imbecile to the last degree if he had been guilty, but as a lawyer I can't help seeing that appearances are almost hopelessly against him. We won't say hopelessly replied Thorndike as we took our places in the carriage, though I expect the police are pretty cocksure. When does the inquest open? Today, at four, I have obtained an order from the coroner for you to examine the body and be present at the post-mortem. Do you happen to know the exact position of the wound? Yes, it is a little above and behind the left ear, a horrible round hole with a jagged cut or tear running from it to the side of the forehead. And how was the body lying? Right along the floor with the feet close to the offside door. Was the wound on the head the only one? No, there was a long cut or bruise on the right cheek, a contused wound the police surgeon called it, which he believes to have been inflicted with a heavy and rather blunt weapon. I have not heard of any other wounds or bruises. Did anyone enter the train yesterday at Schinglehurst? Thorndike asked. No one entered the train after it left Halbury. Thorndike considered these statements in silence, and presently fell into a brown study, from which he roused only as the train moved out of Schinglehurst Station. It would be about here that the murder was committed, said Mr. Stockford, at least between here and Waltherst. Thorndike nodded rather abstractly, being engaged at the moment in observing with great attention the objects that were visible from the windows. I notice, he remarked presently, a number of chips scattered about between the rails, and some of the chair wedges look new. Have there been any plate layers at work lately? Yes, answers, Stockford. They are on the line now, I believe. At least I saw a gang working near Waltherst yesterday, and they are said to have set a rick on fire. I saw it smoking when I came down. Indeed, and this middle line of rails is, I suppose, a sort of siding? Yes, they shunt the goods trains and empty trucks onto it. There are the remains of the rick, still smoldering, you see? Thorndike gazed absently at the blackened heap, until an empty cattle-truck on the middle track hit it from view. This was succeeded by a line of goods wagons, and these, by a passenger coach, one compartment of which, a first class, was closed up and sealed. The train now began to slow down rather suddenly, and a couple of minutes later, we brought up at Waltherst station. It was evident that rumours of Thorndike's advent had preceded us, for the entire staff, two porters, an inspector, and the station master, were waiting expectantly on the platform, and the latter came forward, regardless of his dignity, to help us with our luggage. Do you think I could see the carriage, Thorndike asked the solicitor? Not the inside, sir, said the station master, on being appealed to. The police have sealed it up, you would have to ask the inspector. Well, I can have a look at the outside, I suppose, said Thorndike, and to this the station master readily agreed, and offered to accompany us. What other first class passengers were there, Thorndike asked. None, sir, there was only one first class coach, and the deceased was the only person in it. It has given us all a dreadful turn, this affair has, he continued, as we set off up the line. I was on the platform when the train came in. We were watching a rick that was burning up the line, and a rare blaze it made, too, and I was just saying that we should have to move the cattle-track that was on the mid-track. Because, you see, sir, the smoke and sparks were blowing across, and I thought it would frighten the poor beasts. And Mr. Felton, he don't like his beasts handle roughly, he says it spoils the meat. No doubt he is right, said Thorndike, but now tell me, do you think it is possible for any person to board or leave the train on the offside unobserved? Could a man, for instance, enter a compartment on the offside at one station, and drop off as the train was slowing down at the next, without being seen? I doubt it, replied the station master. Still, I wouldn't say it is impossible. Thank you. Oh, and there's another question. You have a gang of men at work on the line, I see. Now, do these men belong to the District? No, sir, they are strangers, every one, and pretty rough diamonds, some of them are. But I shouldn't say there was any real harm in them. If you were suspecting any of them of being mixed up in this, I am not, interrupted Thorndike rather shortly. I suspect nobody, but I wish to get all the facts of the case at the outset. Naturally, sir, replied the Abash official, and we pursued our way in silence. Do you remember, by the way, said Thorndike, as we approached the empty coach, whether the offside door of the compartment was closed and locked when the body was discovered? It was closed, sir, but not locked. Why, sir, did you think, nothing, nothing, the sealed compartment is the one, of course? Without waiting for a reply, he commenced his survey of the coach, while I gently restrained our two companions from shadowing him, as they were disposed to do. The offside footboard occupied his attention specially, and when he had scrutinized minutely the part opposite the fatal compartment, he walked slowly from end to end, with his eyes but a few inches from its surface, as though he was searching for something. Near what had been the rear end he stopped, and drew from his pocket a piece of paper, then with a moistened fingertip, he picked up from the footboard some evidently minute object, which he carefully transferred to the paper, folding the latter and placing it in his pocket book. He next mounted the footboard, and having peered in through the window of the sealed compartment, produced from his pocket a small insuflator, or powder blower, with which he blew a stream of impalpable smoke-like powder onto the edges of the middle window, bestowing the closest attention on the irregular dusty patches in which it settled, and even measuring one on the jam of the window with a pocket rule. At length he stepped down, and having carefully looked over the nearside footboard, announced that he had finished for the present. As we were returning down the line we passed a working man, who seemed to be viewing the chairs and sleepers with more than casual interest. That, I suppose, is one of the plate-layers Thorndike suggested to the station master. Yes, the foreman of the gang was the reply. I'll just step back and have a word with him if you will walk on slowly, and my colleague turned back briskly and overtook the man, with whom he remained in conversation for some minutes. I think I see the police inspector on the platform remarked Thorndike as we approach the station. Yes, there he is, said our guide, come down to see what you are after, sir, I expect, which was doubtless the case, although the officer professed to be there by the nearest chance. You would like to see the weapons, sir, I suppose, he remarked, when he had introduced himself. The umbrella-spike Thorndike corrected. Yes, if I may, we are going to the mortuary now. Then you'll pass the station on the way, so if you care to look in, I will walk up with you. This proposition being agreed to, we all proceeded to the police station, including the station master, who was on the very tiptoe of curiosity. There you are, sir, said the inspector, unlocking his office and ushering us in. Don't say we haven't given every facility to the defence. There are all the effects of the accused, including the very weapon the deed was done with. Come, come, protested Thorndike, we mustn't be premature. He took the stout ash-star from the officer, and having examined the formidable spike through a lens, drew from his pocket a steel caliper gauge, with which he carefully measured the diameter of the spike and the staff to which it was fixed. And now, he said, when he had made a note of the measurements in his book, we will look at the colour box and the sketch. Ha! a very orderly man, your brother, Mr. Stockford, tubes all over their places, palette knives wiped clean, palette cleaned off and rubbed bright, brushes wiped. They ought to be washed before they stiffen. All this is very significant. He unstrapped the sketch from the blank canvas to which it was pinned, and standing it on a chair in a good light, stepped back to look at it. And you tell me that that is only three hours' work, he exclaimed, looking at the lawyer. It is really a marvellous achievement. My brother is a very rapid worker, replied Stockford, dejectedly. Yes, but this is not only amazingly rapid, it is in his very happiest vein, full of spirit and feeling, but we mustn't stay to look at it longer. He replaced the canvas on its pins, and having glanced at the locket and some other articles that lay in a drawer, thanked the inspector for his courtesy and withdrew. That sketch and the colour box appear very suggestive to me, he remarked, as we walked up the street. To me also, said Stockford gloomily, for they are under lock and key, like their owner, poor old fellow. He sighed heavily, and we walked on in silence. The mortuary-keeper had evidently heard of our arrival, for he was waiting at the door with the key in his hand, and, on being shown the coroner's order, unlocked the door, and we entered together. But after a momentary glance at the ghostly shrouded figure lying upon the slate table, Stockford turned pale and retreated, saying that he would wait for us outside with the mortuary-keeper. As soon as the door was closed and locked on the inside, Thorndyke glanced curiously round the bare white-washed building. A stream of sunlight poured in through the skylight, and fell upon the silent form that lay so still under its covering-sheet, and one stray beam glanced into a corner by the door, where, on a row of pegs and a deal-table, the dead woman's clothing was displayed. There is something unspeakably sad in these poor relics-jervis, said Thorndyke, as we stood before them. To me they are more tragic, more full of pathetic suggestion than the corpse itself. See the smart, jointy hat, and the costly skirts hanging there, so desolate and forlorn, the dainty lingerie on the table neatly folded, by the mortuary man's wife, I hope, the little French shoes and openwork silk stockings. How pathetically eloquent they are of harmless womanly vanity, and the gay, careless life snapped short in the twinkling of an eye. But we must not give way to sentiment. There is another life threatened, and it is in our keeping. He lifted the hat from its peg and turned it over in his hand. It was, I think, what is called a picture hat, a huge, flat, shapeless mass of gauze and ribbon and feather, spangled over freely with dark blue sequins. In one part of the brim was a ragged hole, and from this the glittering sequins dropped off in little showers when the hat was removed. This will have been worn tilted over on the left side, said Thorndike, judging by the general shape and the position of the hole. Yes, I agreed, like that of the Duchess of Devonshire in Gainsborough's portrait. Exactly. He shook a few of the sequins into the palm of his hand, and replacing the hat on its peg dropped the little discs into an envelope on which he wrote from the hat and slipped it into his pocket. Then, stepping over to the table, he drew back the sheet reverently and even tenderly from the dead woman's face and looked down at it with grave pity. It was a comely face, white as marble, serene and peaceful in expression, with half-closed eyes and framed, with a mass of brassy yellow hair, but its beauty was marred by a long linear wound, half cut, half bruised, running down the right cheek from the eye to the chin. A handsome girl, Thorndike commented, a dark-haired blonde, what a sin to have disfigured herself so with that horrible peroxide. He smoothed the hair back from her forehead and added. She seems to have applied the stuff last about ten days ago. There is about a quarter of an inch of dark hair at the roots. What did you make of that wound on the cheek? It looks as if she had struck some sharp angle in falling, though as the seats are padded in first-class carriages, I don't see what she could have struck. No, and now let us look at the other wound. Will you note down the description? He handed me his notebook, and I wrote down as he dictated. A clean, punched, circular hole in skull, an inch behind an above margin of left ear, diameter, an inch and seven-sixteenths, starred fracture of parietal bone, membranes perforated, and brain entered deeply, ragged scalp wound extending forward to margin of left orbit, fragments of gauze and sequins in edges of wound. That will do for the present. Dr. Morton will give us further details if we want them. He pocketed his callipers and wool, drew from the bruised scalp one or two loose hairs, which he placed in the envelope with the sequins, and having looked over the body for other wounds or bruises, of which there were none, replaced the sheet and prepared to depart. As we walked away from the mortuary, Thaundike was silent and deeply thoughtful, and I gathered that he was piecing together the facts that he had acquired. At length, Mr. Stockford, who had several times looked at him curiously, said, The posed Morton will take place at three, and it is now only half past eleven. What would you like to do next? Thaundike, who in spite of his mental preoccupation, had been looking about him in his usual keen, attentive way, halted suddenly. Your reference to the posed Morton, said he, reminds me that I forgot to put the ox gall into my case. Ox gall? I exclaimed, endeavouring vainly to connect this substance with the technique of the pathologist. What were you going to do with? But here I broke off, remembering my friend's dislike of any discussion of his methods before strangers. I suppose, he continued, there would hardly be an artist's colourment in a place of this size. I should think not, said Stockford, but couldn't you got the stuff from a butcher? There's a shop just across the road. So there is a green Thaundike who had already observed the shop. The gall ought, of course, to be prepared, but we can filter it ourselves. That is, if the butcher has any, we will try him at any rate. He crossed the road towards the shop, over which the name Felton appeared, in gilt lettering, and addressing himself to the proprietor who stood at the door, introduced himself and explained his wants. Ox gall? said the butcher. No, sir, I haven't any just now, but I am having a beast killed this afternoon, and I can let you have some then. In fact, he added, after a pause, as the matter is of importance, I can have one killed at once, if you wish it. That is very kind of you, said Thaundike, and it would greatly oblige me. Is the beast perfectly healthy? They're in splendid condition, sir. I picked them out of the herd myself. But you shall see them, I, and choose the one that you'd like killed. You are really very good, said Thaundike warmly. I will just run into the chemist next door and get a suitable bottle, and then I will avail myself of your exceedingly kind offer. He hurried into the chemist shop, from which he presently emerged, carrying a white paper parcel. And we then followed the butcher down a narrow lane by the side of his shop. It led to an enclosure containing a small pen, in which we can find three handsome steers, whose glossy black coats contrasted in a very striking manner with their long, grayish-white, nearly straight horns. These are certainly very fine beasts, Mr. Felton, said Thaundike, as we drew up beside the pen, and in excellent condition, too. He leaned over the pen and examined the beast critically, especially as to their eyes and horns. Then, approaching the nearest one, he raised his stick and bestowed a smart tap on the underside of the right horn, following it by a similar tap on the left one, a proceeding that the beast viewed with stolid surprise. The state of the horns explained Thaundike as he moved on to the next steer, enables one to judge, to some extent, of the beast's health. Lord bless you, sir, laughed Mr. Felton. They haven't got no feeling in their horns, else what good did their horns be to them? Apparently he was right, for the second steer was as indifferent to a sounding rap on either horn as the first. Nevertheless, when Thaundike approached the third steer, I unconsciously drew nearer to watch, and I noticed that, as the stick struck the horn, the beast drew back in evident alarm, and that when the blow was repeated, it became manifestly uneasy. It don't seem to like that, said the butcher, seems as if, hello, that's queer. Thaundike had just brought his stick up against the left horn, and immediately the beast had winced and started back, shaking his head and moaning. There was not, however, room for him to back out of reach, and Thaundike, by leaning into the pen, was able to inspect the sensitive horn, which he did with the closest attention, while the butcher looked on with obvious perturbation. You don't think there's anything wrong with this beast, sir? I hope, said he. I can't say without a further examination, replied Thaundike. It may be the horn only that is affected. If you will have it sawn off close to the head, and sent up to me at the hotel, I will look at it and tell you, and by way of preventing any mistakes, I will mark it and cover it up to protect it from injury in the slaughterhouse. He opened his parcel, and produced from it a wide-mouthed bottle labelled ox-gall, a sheet of gutter-percha tissue, a roller-bandage, and a stick of sealing-wax. Handing the bottle to Mr Felton, he encased the distal half of the horn in a covering, by means of the tissue and the bandage, which he fixed securely with the sealing-wax. I'll saw the horn off and bring it up to the hotel myself, with the ox-gall, said Mr Felton. You shall have them in half an hour. He was as good as his word, for in half an hour Thaundike was seated at a small table by the window of our private sitting-room in the Black Bull Hotel. The table was covered with newspaper, and on it lay the long grey horn and Thaundike's travelling case, now open and displaying a small microscope and its accessories. The butcher was seated solidly in an armchair waiting, with a half-suspicious eye on Thaundike for the report, and I was endeavouring by cheerful talk to keep Mr Stockford from sinking into utter despondency, though I too kept a furtive watch on my colleagues, rather mysterious proceedings. I saw him unwind the bandage and apply the horn to his ear, bending it slightly to and fro. I watched him as he scanned the surface closely through a lens, and observed him as he scraped some substance from the pointed end onto a glass slide, and having applied a drop of some reagent, began to tease out the scraping with a pair of mounted needles. Presently he placed the slide under the microscope, and having observed it attentively for a minute or two, turned round sharply. Come and look at this, Jervis, said he. I wanted no second bidding, being on tent-hooks of curiosity, but came over and applied my eye to the instrument. Well, what is it? he asked. A multipolar nerve corpuscle, very shriveled, but unmistakable. And this he moved the slide to a fresh spot. Two pyramidal nerve corpuscles and some portions of fibres. And what do you say the tissue is? Cortical brain substance, I should say, without a doubt. I entirely agree with you, and that being so, he added, turning to Mr. Stockford, we may say that the case for the defence is practically complete. What in heaven's name do you mean, exclaimed Stockford, starting up? I mean that we can now prove when and where and how Miss Grant met her death. Come and sit down here, and I will explain. No, you needn't go away, Mr. Felton, we shall have to subpoena you. Perhaps, he continued, we have better go over the facts and see what they suggest. And first we note the position of the body, lying with the feet close to the offside door, showing that when she fell the deceased was sitting, or more probably standing, close to that door. Next, there is this. He drew from his pocket a folded paper, which he opened, displaying a tiny blue disc. It is one of the sequins with which her hat was trimmed, and I have in this envelope several more which I took from the hat itself. The single sequin I picked up on the rear end of the offside football, and its presence there makes it nearly certain that at some time Miss Grant had put her head out of the window on that side. The next item of evidence I obtained by dusting the margins of the offside window with a light powder, which made visible a greasy impression three and a quarter inches long on the sharp corner of the right hand jam, right hand from the inside, I mean. And now as to the evidence furnished by the body. The wound in the skull is behind and above the left ear, is roughly circular, and measures one inch and seven sixteenths at most, and a ragged scalp wound runs from it toward the left eye. On the right cheek is a linear contused wound three and a quarter inches long. There are no other injuries. Our next facts are furnished by this. He took up the horn and tapped it with his finger, while the solicitor and Mr Felton stared at him in speechless wonder. You notice it is a left horn and you remember that it was highly sensitive. If you put your ear to it while I strain it, you will hear the grating of a fracture in the bony core. Now look at the pointed end, and you will see several deep scratches running lengthwise. And where those scratches end, the diameter of the horn is, as you see by this caliper gauge, one inch and seven sixteenths. Covering the scratches is a dry blood stain, and at the extreme tip is a small mass of dried substance, which Dr Jervis and I have examined with the microscope, and are satisfied, is brain tissue. Good God exclaimed Stockford eagerly. Do you mean to say, let us finish with the facts, Mr Stockford thawndike interrupted. Now, if you look closely at that blood stain, you will see a short piece of hair stuck to the horn, and through this lens you can make out the root bulb. It is a golden hair, you notice, but near the root it is black, and our caliper gauge shows us that the black portion is fourteen sixty-fourths of an inch long. Now, in this envelope are some hairs that I removed from the dead woman's head. They also are golden hairs, black at the roots, and when I measure the black portion, I find it to be fourteen sixty-fourths of an inch long. Then finally there is this. He turned the horn over and pointed to a small patch of dried blood. Embedded in it was a blue sequin. Mr Stockford and the butcher both gazed at the horn in silent amazement. Then the former drew a deep breath and looked up at thawndike. No doubt, said he, you can explain this mystery, but for my part I am utterly bewildered, though you are filling me with hope. And yet the matter is quite simple, returned thawndike, even with these few facts before us, which are only a selection from the body of evidence in our possession, but I will state my theory and you shall judge. He rapidly sketched a rough plan on a sheet of paper and continued. These were the conditions when the train was approaching Waltherst. Here was the passenger coach, here was the burning rick, and here was a cattle-truck. This steer was in that truck. Now, my hypothesis is that at that time Miss Grant was standing with her head out of the offside window, watching the burning rick. Her wide hat worn on the left side hid from her view the cattle-truck, which she was approaching, and then this is what happened. He sketched another plan to a larger scale. One of the steers, this one, had thrust its long horn out through the bars. The point of that horn struck the deceased's head, driving her face violently against the corner of the window, and then, in disengaging, plowed its way through the scalp and suffered a fracture of its core from the violence of the wrench. This hypothesis is inherently probable. It fits all the facts, and those facts admit of no other explanation. The solicitor sat for a moment as though dazed, then he rose impulsively and seized Thorndike's hands. I don't know what to say to you, he exclaimed huskily, except that you have saved my brother's life, and for that may God reward you. The butcher rose from his chair with a slow grin. It seems to me, said he, as if that ox-gall was what you might call a blind, eh, sir? And Thorndike smiled, an inscrutable smile. When we returned to town on the following day we were a party of four, which included Mr. Harold Stockford, the verdict of Death by Misadventure, promptly returned by the coroner's jury, had been shortly followed by his release from custody, and he now sat with his brother and me listening with rapt attention to Thorndike's analysis of the case. So you see, the latter concluded, I had six possible theories of the cause of death, worked out before I reached Holbury, and it only remained to select the one that fitted the facts, and when I had seen the cattle-truck, had picked up that sequin, had heard the description of the steers, and had seen the hat and the wounds, there was nothing left to do but the filling in of details. And you never doubted my innocence, asked Harold Stockford, Thorndike smiled at his quantum client. Not after I had seen your colour box and your sketch, said he, to say nothing of the spike. End of Chapter 4