 CHAPTER 11 THE MCMURRY MISTERY 1. Of the many problems from which Malcolm Sage was engaged during the early days of the Malcolm Sage Bureau, that, concerning the death of Professor James McMurray, the eminent physiologist, was perhaps the most extraordinary. It was possessed of several remarkable features. For one thing, the murderer had disappeared, leaving no clue. For another, the body, when found, seemed to have undergone a strange change. Many of the professors, sixty-five years, appearing to have dropped from him in death as leaves from an autumn tree. It was one of those strange crimes for which there is no apparent explanation. Consequently, the strongest weapon the investigator has, that of motive, was absent. As far as could be gathered, the dead professor had done an enemy in the world. He was a semi-recluse, with nothing about him to attempt the burglar. Yet he had been brutally done to death in his own laboratory, and the murderer had made good his escape without leaving anything likely to prove helpful to the police. One day, as Gladys Norman, like panting time, toiled after her work in vain, striving to tap herself up to date with an accumulation of correspondence, the telephone bell rang for what seemed to her the emptying time that morning. She seized the receiver as a dog seizes a rat, listened, murmured a few words in reply, then banked it back upon its rest. Oh, dear! she sighed. I wish they had let him alone. The poor girl looks tired out. She turned to William Johnson, who had just entered. Why don't you hurry up and become a man innocent? she demanded, so that you can help the chief. William Johnson looked vague and shuffled his feet. His admiration of Malcolm Sager's secretary rendered himself conscious in her presence. Sir John Deane had suggested chambers to see the chief, he announced, obviously impressed by the social importance of the callers. Sure it's not a shy of Persia and Charlie Chaplin, she asked warily, as she rose from her table and, walking over to the door marked Private, passing to Malcolm Sager's room. Reappearing a moment later, she instructed William Johnson to show the visitors in at once. As the two men passed through Miss Norman's room, they formed a striking contrast. Sir John Deane shored thick-set, alert, with a stamp of the West End upon all he wore. Suggested for chambers, tall, gaunt, arid, dingy, with a furret like the bulging eaves of an Elizabethan house, and a lower portion of his face, a riot of short, grizzled gray hair that seemed to know neither coercion nor restraint. His neck appeared intent on thrusting itself as far as possible out of the shabby frockcoat that hung despairingly from his narrow shoulders. I wonder, murmured Gladys Norman, as she returned to her typing, how many geraniums he had to give for those clothes. Morning, Mr. Sage, cried Sir John Deane. Malcolm Sage rose. There was an unwanted cordiality in the way in which he extended his hand. This suggested chambers. Sir John Deane turned to his companion. You'll be able to place him, and he twirled the unleashed shrewd between his lips with bewildering rapidity. Suggest perbowed with an old-world curdleiness and grace that seemed strangely out of keeping with its lank and unpictures bearing. Malcolm Sage, however, held out his hand with the air of one wishing to convey that the friend of Sir John Deane married at special consideration. He motioned the two men to seats and resumed his own. Both declined the box of cigar-sy-prophet, Sir John Deane preferring the well-chewed shrewd between his lips, while Sir Jesper drew a pipe from the tail-pocket of his frockcoat, which with long, fleshless fingers, he proceeded to fill from his shemmy leather to beg-o-pouch. I've brought Sir Jesper along, such Sir John Deane. You've heard about the murder of his friend, Professor McMurray. He didn't want to come, but I told him you'd be tickled to death and that you'd get it all figured out for him in two wags of a chipmunks' tail. Malcolm Sage looked across at the eminent philanthropist whose whole attention seemed absorbed in the filling of his well-worn briar. Sir Jesper's wise charities and great humanitarianism were world-famous. It was Will Blink, the Labour demagogue, who had said that of all the honours conferred during the century, Sir Jesper Chambers, O.M., had alone been earned, the others had been either bought or wrangled. The McMurray murder was a sensation of the hour. The newspapers had stunted it, and the public, always eager for gruesome sensation, had welcomed it as if it had been a Mary Pickford film. Four days previously, Professor James McMurray of Gorling in Essex had been found dead in his laboratory, his head fearfully battered in by some blunt instrument. It was the professor's custom, when engaged upon important research work, to retire, sometimes for days at a time, to a laboratory he had built in his own grounds. Meals were passed through a small wicked, specially constructed for that purpose in a laboratory wall, and the professor's servants had the most explicit restrictions on no account to disturb him. A fortnight previously, Professor McMurray had retired to his laboratory to carry out an important series of experiments. He informed his butler that Sir Jesper Chambers, his life-long friend, would visit him on the third day, and that dinner for two was to be supplied in a usual way through the wicked. On the evening in question, Sir Jesper Chambers had arrived and stayed until a little past nine. He then left the laboratory and proceeded to the house, where he told the butler that his master was quite well, and that in all probability his researchers would occupy him another week. Eight days later, when the butler took the professor's luncheon down to the laboratory, he noticed that the breakfast tray had not been removed from the shelf just inside the wicked. Convinced that the professor had been so absorbed in his researches that he had forgotten the meal, the butler placed the luncheon tray beside that containing the breakfast, taking it better to leave the earlier meal as a reminder to the professor of his forgetfulness. At dinner time the butler was greatly surprised to find that both breakfast and luncheon had remained as he had left them. Still, remembering how definite and insistent the professor had been that he was not to be disturbed, the butler had, after consulting with the housekeeper, decided to do nothing for the moment, and contented himself with ringing several times the electric bell that was the signal of another meal. An hour later he went once more to the wicked, only to discover that nothing had been touched. Hurrying back to the house with all speed, he had conferred with Mrs. Graham, the housekeeper, and on her insistence he had telephoned to the police. Sergeant Crudden of the Essex County Constabulary immediately bicycled over to the hollows, Professor McMurray's residence, and after hearing the butler's story he had decided to force the door. There are no windows, a laboratory, being lightest from above, in order to secure entire privacy. To the officer's surprise, the door yielded readily, having apparently been previously forced. Entering the laboratory he was horrified to discover the body of the professor lying in the center of the floor. His head literally smashed by a terrible blow that had obviously been delivered from behind. Acting on the instructions of the police sergeant, the butler had telephoned the news to the police station at Strinton, with the result that shortly afterwards Inspector Brewitt arrived with a doctor. The police had made no statement, but there were some extraordinary rumours current in the neighborhood. One was to the effect that it was not Professor McMurray's body that had been discovered, but that of a much younger man who bore a striking resemblance to him. You have seen the accounts of my friend's terrible end, inquired Sir Jasper, as he took the box of matches Malcolm Sage handed him and proceeded to light his pipe. Malcolm Sage nodded. His gaze was fixed upon Sir Jasper's gray-wursted socks, which concertinered up his legs above a pair of strangely fashioned black shoes. He was about to enter upon a series of experiments with a serum he had discovered, his object being to lengthen human life. Sir Jasper spoke in a gentle, well modulated voice, in which was a deep note of sadness. He and Professor McMurray had been lifelong friends, their intimacy appearing to become strengthened by the passage of years. You were the last to see him alive, I understand. Malcolm Sage picked up his fountain pen and began an elaborate, stipple design of a serpent upon the blotting pad. Eight days before he was found, I dined with him, such Sir Jasper, his voice a little unsteady. What happened? Malcolm Sage inquired, without looking up. I arrived at seven o'clock, continued Sir Jasper. From then, until half past, we talked upon things of general interest, after which we dined. Later he told me he was about to enter upon a final series of experiments, the result of which would, in all probability, either be fatal to himself or mean the lengthening of human life. He paused, gazing straight in front of him, ejecting smoke from his lips, in staccato puffs. Then he continued. He said that he'd recently made a will, which was lying with his solicitor, and he gave me certain additional instructions as to the disposal of his property. Did he seem quite normal? inquired Malcolm Sage, adding a pair of formidable fangs to his reptile. He was calm and confident. At parting he told me I should be the first to know the result. Have you any reason to believe that Professor McMurray had enemies? Malcolm Sage inquired. None was the reply uttered in a tone of deep conviction accompanied by the liberate wagging of the head. He was confident of the success of his experiments. Absolutely. And you? I had no means of knowing, was the reply. You were his greatest friend and his only confident, suggested Malcolm Sage, adding the sixth pair of legs to his creation. Yes, and you were to be the first to be told of the result of the experiments. Those were his last words to me. There was a suggestion of emotion in Sugaspus otherwise even voice. Can you remember his actual words? Yes, I remember them, he replied sadly. As we shook hands he said, Well Chambers, you will be the first to know the result. Again there was silence, broken at length by Malcolm Sage, who stroked the back of his head with his left hand. His eyes had returned to Sugaspus' socks. Do you think the Professor had been successful in his experiments? He inquired. I cannot say. Again Sugaspus shook his head slowly and deliberately. Did you see the body? I did. Is there any truth in the rumours that he looked much younger? There was suddenly a marked change, a startling change, was the reply. But death plays all tricks with ears, suggested Malcolm Sage, who is now feeling the lobe of his left ear, as if to assure himself of its presence. True, said Sugaspus, nodding his head, as if pondering the matter deeply. True. There was an article in last months of the present century by Sir Kalpa Jevons, entitled The Dangers of Longevity. Did you read it? inquired Malcolm Sage. I did. I read it too, broke in Sir John Dean, who had hitherto remained an interested listener, as he sat twirling round between his lips the still-unlit shrewd. A pretty dangerous business, it seems to me, is monkeying about with people's glance. It called attention to the danger of any interference with nature's carefully adjusted balances between life and death, continued Malcolm Sage, who had returned to the serpent which now supported a pair of horns, and was insistent that the lengthening of human life could result only in harm to the community. Do you happen to know if Professor McMurray had seen this? He had, Sugaspus lent forward to knock the ashes from his pipe into the copper tray on Malcolm Sage's table. We talked of it during dinner that evening. His contention was that signs could not be constricted by utilitarianism and that nature would adjust her balances to the new conditions. But, grumbled Sir John Dean, it wouldn't be until there had been about the tallest kind of financial panic this little globe of misery has ever seen. The article maintained that there would be an intervening period of chaos, remarked Malcolm Sage meditatively, as he opened the drawer and took from it a copy of the present century. I was particularly struck with this passage, he remarked. It is impossible to exaggerate the extreme delicacy of the machinery of modern civilisation, he read. Industrialism, the food supply, existence itself, are dependent on the death rate. Reduce this materially, and it will inevitably lead to an upheaval of a very grave nature. For instance, it would mean an addition of something like a million to the population of the United Kingdom each year, over and above those provided for by the normal excess of birth over death, and it would be years before nature could readjust her balances. Malcolm Sage looked across such a jasper, who for some seconds remained silent, apparently deep in thought. I think, he said presently, with the air of a man carefully weighing his words, that McMurray was inclined to underestimate the extreme delicacy of the machinery of modern civilisation. I recall his saying that the arguments in that article would apply only in the very unlikely event of someone meeting with unqualified success. That is to say, by the discovery of a serum that would achieve what the Spaniards hoped of the fountain of eternal youth, an instantaneous transformation from age to youth. A sort of Faust stunt, murmured Sir John Dean. Sir Jasper nodded his head gravely. For some minutes the three men sat silent, Sir Jasper gazing straight in front of him. Sir John Dean, trawling his serout between his lips, his eyes fixed upon the bald dome-like head of Malcolm Sage, whose eyes were still intent upon his haunt reptile, which he had adorned with wings. He appeared to be thinking deeply. It's up to you, Mr. Sage, to get on the murderous trail, said Sir John Dean, at length, with the air of a man who has no doubt as to the result. You wish me to take up the case, Sir John, inquired in Malcolm Sage, looking up suddenly. Sure, said Sir John Dean, as he rose. I'll take it as a particular favour, if you will. Now I must vermoose. I've got a date in the city. He jerked himself to his feet, and extended a hand to Malcolm Sage. Then, turning to Sir Jasper, who had also risen, he added, You leave it to Mr. Sage, Sir Jasper. Before long you won't see him for dust. He's about the lifeest wire at this side of the St. Lawrence. And with this enigmatic insurance he walked to the door, whilst Malcolm Sage shook hands with Sir Jasper. Two. Johnny, said Miss Norman, as William Johnson entered her room in response to a peremptory call on the private telephone. Inspector Carthen is to honour us with a call during the next few minutes. Give him a chair and a copy of The Sunday at Home, and watch the clues if they peep out of his pockets. Now buzz off. William Johnson returned to his table in the outer office, and a lurid detective story from which Miss Norman's summons had torn him. He was always gratified when an officer from Scotland Yard called. It seemed to bring him a step nearer to the great crook world of his dreams. William Johnson possessed imagination, but it was the imagination of the films. A quarter of an hour later he held open the door of Malcolm Sage's private room to admit Inspector Carthen, a tall man, with small features and a large fart, above which the fair hair had been sadly thinned by the persistent wearing of a helmet in the early days of his career. I got your message, Mr. Sage. He began as he flopped into a chair on the opposite side of Malcolm Sage's table. This book, Murray, cases a teaser, shall be glad to talk it over with you. I am acting on behalf of Sir Jasper Chambers, said Malcolm Sage. It's very kind of you to come round so promptly, Carthen. He added, pushing a box of cigars towards the Inspector. Not at all, Mr. Sage, said Inspector Carthen, as he selected a cigar. Always glad to do what we can, although we are supposed to be a bit old-fashioned, and he laughed at the laugh of a man who can afford to be tolerant. I've seen all there is in the papers, said Malcolm Sage. Are there any additional particulars? There's one thing we haven't told the papers, and it wasn't emphasised at the inquest. The Inspector leaned forward impressively. Malcolm Sage remained immobile, his eyes on his fingernails. The Doctor, continued the Inspector, says that the Professor had been dead for about forty-eight hours, whereas we know he'd eaten a dinner about twenty-six hours before he was found. Malcolm Sage looked up slowly. In his eyes there was an alert look that told of keen interest. You challenged him, he queried. Rather was the response, but he got quite ratty, said he'd take his professional reputation and all that sort of thing. Malcolm Sage meditatively inclined his head several times in succession. His hand felt mechanically for his fountain pen. And there was another thing that struck me as odd, continued Inspector Carthen, intently examining the end of his cigar. The Professor had evidently been destroying a lot of old correspondence. The paper-basket was full of torn-up letters and envelopes, and the grate was struck a block with charred paper. That also we kept to ourselves. That all? I think so, was the reply. There's not the vestige of a clue that I can find. I see, said Malcolm Sage, looking at a press-cutting lying before him, that it says there was a remarkable change in the Professor's appearance. He seemed to have become rejuvenated. The Doctor said that sometimes death smired to the velvet hand. He was rather a poetic sort of chap, the Inspector added, by way of explanation. He saw nothing extraordinary in the circumstance? No, was the response. He seemed to think it was the only one who had ever seen a dead man before. I wouldn't mind betting I've seen as many stiffs as he has, although perhaps he's caused more. Then, as Malcolm Sage made no comment, the Inspector proceeded. What I want to know is what was the Professor doing while the door was being broken open? There were no signs of a struggle, inquired Malcolm Sage, drawing a cottage upon his thumbnail. None. He seems to have been attacked unexpectedly from behind. Was there anything missing? We're not absolutely sure. The Professor's gold watch can't be found, but the Butler is not certain that he had it on him. For some time there was silence. Malcolm Sage appeared to be pondering over the additional facts he had just heard. What do you want me to do, Mr. Sage? inquired the Inspector at length. I was wondering whether you would run down with me this afternoon to gorelling. I'd be delighted with the hearty response. Some are other. I feel it's not an ordinary murder. There's something behind it all. What makes you think that? Malcolm Sage looked up sharply. Frankly, I can't say him as a sage. He confessed little shame facely. Just a feeling I have. The laboratory has been locked up? Yes, and I've sealed the door. Nothing has been touched. Malcolm Sage nodded his head approvingly, and for fully five minutes continued to gaze down at his hands, spread out on the table before him. Thank you, Carfin. Be here at half-past two. The funerals today, by the way, said the Inspector as he rose, and with a genial good morning he left the room. For the next hour Malcolm Sage was engaged in reading the newspaper account of the McMurray mystery, which had already caused to be paced up in the current press-cutting book. He guarded little more from them, however, than he already knew. That afternoon, accompanied by Inspector Carfin, Malcolm Sage modded down to the hollows, which lies at the easternmost end of the village of Gorling. The Inspector stopped the car just as it entered the drive. The two men alighted, and, turning sharply to the right, walked across the lawn towards an ugly red brick building, screened from the house by a belt of trees. Malcolm Sage had expressed a wish to see the laboratory first. It was a strange-looking structure, some fifty feet long, by about twenty feet wide, with a door on the further side. In the red brick wall nearer the house, there was nothing to break the monotony, except a small wicket through which the Professor's meals were passed. Malcolm Sage twice walked deliberately round the building. In the meantime the Inspector had removed the seal from the pet-lock, and opened the door. Did you photograph the position of the body? inquired Malcolm Sage as they entered. I hand the photographer handy, said the Inspector apologetically, as he closed the door behind him, but I managed to get a man to photograph the wound. Put yourself in the position of the body, said Malcolm Sage. The Inspector walked to the centre of the room, near a highly polished table, dropped onto the floor, and, after a moment's pause, turned and lay on his left side, with right arm outstretched. From just inside the door Malcolm Sage looked about him. At the left extremity a second door gave access to another apartment, which the Professor used as a bedroom. A little to the right of the door, on the opposite side, stood the fireplace. This was full of ashes. Apparently the chart remains of a quantity of paper that had been burned. On the hearth were several partially-chart envelopes, and the paper-basket contained a number of torn-up letters. That will do, Carfinn, said Malcolm Sage, as he walked over to the fireplace, and, dropping on one knee, carefully examined the ashes, touching them here and there with the poker. He picked up something that glisteth, and held it out to the Inspector, who scrambled to his feet, and stood looking down with keen professional interest. Piece of a test tube, remarked Malcolm Sage, as he placed a small piece of glass upon the table. Most it aren't, gasped the Inspector. I missed that, though I saw a lot of bits of glass. I thought it was an electric bulb. Somebody had ground it to powder with his heel. All except this piece. Looks as if there might have been more than one, he added, more to himself and to the Inspector. These are not letters, he continued, without looking up. Not letters? The paper is all of the same quality. By the way, has anyone disturbed it? He indicated the grade. No one was to reply. Malcolm Sage rose to his feet. For some minutes he stood looking down at the fireplace, stroking the back of his head, deep in thought. Presently he picked up the poker, a massive steel affair, and proceeded to examine the far end with great minuteness. It was done with the other end, said the Inspector. He must have wiped it afterwards. There was no sign of blood or hair. Malcolm Sage ignored the remark, and continued to regard the business end to poker. Walking over to the door, he examined the fastenings. Having taken a general survey, he next proceeded to a detailed scrutiny of everything the place contained. From the fireplace he picked up what looked like a cinder, and placed it in a small box which he put in his pocket. The polished surface of the table he subjected to a careful examination, borrowing the Inspector's magnifying glass for the purpose. On hands and knees he crawled round the table, still using the magnifying glass upon a linoleum, with which the floor was covered. From time to time he would pick up some apparently minute object and transfer it to another small box. At length he rose to his feet as if satisfied. And the Professor did not smoke, he queried. No, but the murderer did, was the rather brisk reply. Inspector Coffin was finding the role of audience, trying alike to his nerves and to his temper. Obviously, was Malcolm Sage's dry retort. He also left his pipe behind and had to return for it. It was rather a foul pipe, too, he added. Left his pipe behind, cried the Inspector, his irritation dropping from him like a garment. How on earth! In his surprise he left the sentence unfinished. Here Malcolm Sage indicated a dark stain on the highly polished table, and here he pointed to a few flecks of ash, some four or five inches distant. Our indications that a pipe has remained for some considerable time, long enough for the nicotine to drain through the stem. It was a very foul pipe, Coffin. But mightn't that have trickled out in a few minutes, or while the man was here, objected Inspector Coffin. With a wet smoker the saliva might have drained back, said Malcolm Sage, his eyes upon the stain. But this is nicotine from higher up the stem, which would take time to flow out. As to leaving it on a table, what invetrid smoker would allow a pipe to lie on a table for any length of time unless he left it behind him? The man smoked like a chimney. Look at the tobacco ash in the fireplace. The Inspector stared at Malcolm Sage, shagrin in his look. Now that photograph, Coffin, said Malcolm Sage. Taking a lettercase from his breast pocket, Inspector Coffin drew out a photograph folded in half. This he handed to Malcolm Sage, who, after a keen glance of the grim and gruesome picture, put it in his pocket. I thought so, he murmured. Thought what, Mr. Sage? inquired the Inspector eagerly. Left-handed. When keenly interested, Malcolm Sage was more than usually economical in words. Clean through the left side of the occipital bone, Malcolm Sage continued. No right-handed man could have delivered such a blow. That confirms the poker. The Inspector stared. The sockets of the bolts and that of the lock have been loosened from the inside with the poker. Explained Malcolm Sage in a matter-of-fact tone. The marks upon the poker suggest a left-handed man. The wound in the head proves it. Then the forced door was a-blind, gasped the Inspector. The murderer was let in by the Professor himself, who was subsequently attacked from behind as he stood with his back to the fireplace. You are sure the grate has not been touched? He suddenly raised his eyes in keen interrogation. Inspector Coffin shook his head. He had not yet recovered from his surprise. Someone has stirred the ashes about, so as to break up the charred leaves into small pieces to make identification impossible. This man has a brain, he added. The Inspector gave vent to a prolonged whistle. I knew there was something funny about the whole business, he said, as if in self-defense. Malcolm Sage had seated himself at the table, his long, thin fingers outspread before him. Suddenly he gave utterance to an exclamation of annoyance. The Inspector bent eagerly forward. The pipe, he murmured. I was wrong. He put it down because he was absorbed in something, probably the papers he burned. Then you think the murderer burnt the papers? inquired the Inspector in surprise. Who else? asked Malcolm Sage, rising. Now we'll see the butler. Whilst the Inspector was locking and resealing the door, Malcolm Sage walked round the building several times in widening circles, examining the ground carefully, but there had been no rain for several weeks, and nothing upon its surface suggested a footprint. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of Malcolm Sage Detective by Herbert George Jenkins This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Anna Simon. Chapter 12 The Marmalade Clue 1. As Malcolm Sage and Inspector Carfan crossed the lawn from the laboratory, Sir Jasper Chambers was seen coming down the drive towards them. There, Sir Jasper, cried the Inspector. When they reached the point where the lawn joined the drive, they paused, waiting for Sir Jasper to approach. He walked with long, loose strides, his head thrust forward, his mind evidently absorbed, and far away from where he was. His coat flapped behind him, and at each step his trousers jerked upwards, displaying several inches of gray worsted sock. Good afternoon, Sir Jasper, said Inspector Carfan, stepping forward and lifting his head. Sir Jasper stopped dead, with the air of one who has suddenly been brought to a realization of his whereabouts. For a moment he stared blankly, then apparently recognition came to his aid. Good afternoon, Inspector, he responded, lifting his black-felled head with a graceful motion that seemed strangely out of keeping with his grotesque appearance. In the salutation he managed to include Malcolm Sage, who acknowledged it with his customary jerky nod. We've just been looking at the laboratory, said the Inspector. Ah, Sir Jasper nodded his head several times, the laboratory. Will you oblige me with your pouch, Carfan, said Malcolm Sage, drawing his pipe from his pocket? I've lost mine. Inspector Carfan thrust his hand into his left-hand pocket, then began to go hurtly through his other pockets, with the air of a man who has lost something. I headed a quarter of an hour ago, he said. I must have dropped it in the— Allow me, sir, said Sir Jasper, extending to Malcolm Sage's own pouch, which he had extracted from his tail-pocket, whilst the Inspector was still engaged in his search. Malcolm Sage took it, and with a nod proceeded to fill his pipe. Looks like craven mixture, he remarked, without looking up from the pipe which he was cramming from Sir Jasper's pouch. Malcolm Sage was an epicure in tobacco. No, it's ormond mixture, was the reply. I always smoke it. It is singularly mellow, he added, singularly mellow. He continued to look straight in front of him, whilst the Inspector appeared anxious to get on to the house. Having completed his task, Malcolm Sage folded the tobacco pouch and handed it back to Sir Jasper. Thank you, he said, and proceeded to light his pipe. Apparently, seeing nothing to detain him further, Sir Jasper lifted his head, bowed, and passed on. Regular old cure, isn't he? remarked the Inspector, as they watched the ungainly figure disappear round the bend of the drive. A great man, Carfan, Malcolm Sage, a very great man, and he turned and walked towards the house. The front door of the hollows was opened by the butler, a gentle-faced old man, in appearance rather like a mid-Victorian lawyer, at the sight of the Inspector, a troubled look came into his eyes. I want to have a few words with you, said Malcolm Sage quietly. The old man led the way to the library. Throwing open the door for them to pass in, he followed and closed it behind him. Malcolm Sage seated himself at the table, and Inspector Carfan also dropped into a chair. The butler stood, his hands half closed before him, the palm of one resting upon the knuckles of the other. His whole attitude was half nervous, half fearful, and wholly deprecating. I'm afraid this has been a great shock to you, said Malcolm Sage. Inspector Carfan glanced across at him. There was an unaccustomed note of gentleness in his tone. It has indeed, sir, said the butler, and two tears gathered upon his lower lids, hung panulas for a second, then raised one another down either side of his nose. It was the first sympathetic word the old man had heard since the police had arrived, insatiable for facts. Sit down, said Malcolm Sage, without looking up. I shall not keep you many minutes. His tone was that one might adopt to a child. The old man obeyed, seating himself upon the edge of the chair, one hand still placed upon the other. You mustn't think, because the police ask a lot of questions, that they mean to be unkind, said Malcolm Sage. I believe they think I did it, the old man quavered, and... and I'd have done anything. His voice broke, the tears coursing down his colourless cheeks. I want you to try to help me find out who did kill your master, continued Malcolm Sage, in the same tone, and you can do that by answering my questions. There was no restless movement of the fingers now, the hard keen look had left his eyes, and his whole attention seemed to be concentrated upon soothing the old man before him. With an obvious effort, the butler strove to control himself. Did the professor ever have visitors at his laboratory? Only, Sir Jasper, sir, he was... Just answer my questions, said Malcolm Sage gently. He told you, I think, never on any account to disturb him. Yes, sir. Did you ever do so? Only once, sir. That was... When Mrs. Graham, that's the housekeeper, sir, set fire to the curtains of her room, I was afraid for the house, sir, and I ran down and knocked at the laboratory door. Did the professor open it? No, sir. Perhaps he did not hear you. Yes, he did, sir. I knocked and kicked for a long time, then I ran back to the house, and found the fire had been put out. Did Professor McMurray ever refer to the matter? He was very angry when I next saw him, sir, three days later. What did he say? That neither fire nor murder was an excuse for interrupting him, and if I did it again, I would have to... Quite so, interrupted Malcolm Sage, desires of saving the old servitor the humiliation of explaining that it had been threatened with this missile. So you are confident in your own mind that no amount of knocking at the door would have caused your master to open it? Quite certain, sir, the butler said with deep conviction. If he had heard me murdering Mrs. Graham, he wouldn't have come out, he added gravely. He used to say that man is for the moment, but research is for all time. He was a very wonderful man, sir, he added earnestly, so that to get into the laboratory someone must have had a duplicate key. No, sir, the professor always bolted the door on the inside. Then he must have opened it himself. He wouldn't, sir, I'm sure he wouldn't. But how did Sir Jasper get in? He was expected, sir, and when he went to the laboratory, the master always ordered extra food. He was very absent-minded, sir, but he always remembered that. He was very considerate, sir, too. He never forgot my birthday. And he broke down completely, his frail body shaken by sobs. Rising, Malcolm Sage placed his hand upon the old man's shoulder. As if conscious of the unspoken message of sympathy inspired by the touch, the butler clasped the hand in both his own. Inspector Carlson looked surprised. He was so kind, sir, so kind and thoughtful, he quavered. I don't know what I shall do without him. There was in his voice something of the careless appeal of a little child. Were letters ever taken to the laboratory? Enquired Malcolm Sage, walking over to the window and gazing out. Never, sir, was the reply. Everything was kept until the professor returned to the house, even telegrams. Then he was absolutely cut off, said Malcolm Sage, returning to his seat. That was what he used to say, sir, that he wanted to feel cut off from everybody and everything. You have seen the body? Yes, sir. Did you notice anything remarkable about it? He was more like he was some thirty years ago, sir. Reduvenated, in fact. I beg pardon, sir? He seemed to have become suddenly a much younger man, explained Malcolm Sage. Yes, sir. I've been with him over thirty years, and he looked very much as he did then. Except, of course, that his hair remained grey. Apart from the food not being taken in, you noticed nothing else that struck you as strange? Quared Malcolm Sage. The old man perkered up his eyebrows, as if genuinely anxious to remember something that would please the man who had shown him so much sympathy. I can't think of anything, sir, he said at length, apologetically. Only the marmalade. And that, of course, wouldn't... The marmalade? Malcolm Sage turned quickly. It was nothing, sir, said the old man. Perhaps I oughtn't have mentioned it. But the morning before we found him, the master had not eaten any marmalade, and him so fond of it. I was rather worried, and I asked Mrs. Graham if it was a new brand, thinking perhaps he didn't like it. But I found it was the same he always had. For fully a minute, Malcolm Sage was silent, gazing straight before him. He never smoked, he asked at length. Never, sir, not during the whole thirty years I've been with him. Who cleaned the laboratory? It did not look as if it had been unswept for a week. No indeed, sir, was the reply. The professor was very particular. He always swept it up himself each morning. It was cleaned by one of the servants once a month. You're sure about the sweeping up? Malcolm Sage inquired, with a keen glance, that with him always meant an important point. Quite certain, sir. That, I think, will be all. Thank you, sir, said the butler, rising. Thank you for being so kind and understanding, sir. And he walked a little unsteadily from the room. I was afraid you wouldn't get anything out of him, Mrs. Sage, said Inspector Coffin, with just a suspicion of relief in his voice. No, remarked Malcolm Sage quietly. Nothing new, but an important corporation of the doctor's evidence. What was that? That it was the murderer and not Professor McMurray, who ate Wednesday's breakfast, luncheon, and dinner. Good Lord! the inspector's jaw dropped in his astonishment. I suspect that for some reason or other he returned to the laboratory. That accounts for the rough marks upon the door fastenings, as if someone had first torn them off and then sought to replace them. After his second visit, the murderer evidently stayed too long and was afraid of being seen leaving the laboratory. He therefore remained until the following night, eating the Professor's meals. Incidentally, he knew all about his habits. All I'm blowered if he isn't a cullon, gasped the inspector. Malcolm Sage rose with the air of one who has concluded the business on hand. Can I run you back to town, Carfinn? he asked, as he walked towards the door. No, thank you, said the inspector. I must go over to Strinton and see Brewitt. He's following up a clue he's got. Some tramp who was seen hanging about here for a couple of days just before the murder, he added. Unless he is tall and powerful, left-handed, with something more than a layman's knowledge of surgery, you had better not trouble about him, said Malcolm Sage quietly. You might also note that the murderer belongs to the upper or middle class, as an iron nerve and is strongly humanitarian. For a moment Inspector Carfinn stared at Malcolm Sage with length and jaw. Then suddenly he laughed, a laugh of obvious relief. First I thought you were serious, Mr. Sage, he said, till I saw what you were up to, just like the storybook detectors. And they laughed again, this time more convincingly. Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders. Let me have a description of the man when you get him, he said, and some of the tobacco he smokes. Try him with marmalade, Carfinn, and plenty of it. By the way, you make a great mistake in not reading the present century, he added. It can be curiously instructive. And without another word, he crossed the hall, and a moment later entered his car. Swank, murmured Inspector Carfinn angrily, as he watched Tim's swing the car down the drive at a dangerous rate of speed. Pure, unadulterated, brain-rotting swank. And he, in turn, passed down the drive, determined to let Malcolm Sage see what he could do on his own. Two. Three weeks passed, and there was no development in the McMurray mystery. Malcolm Sage had heard nothing from Inspector Carfinn, who was busily engaged in an endeavor to trace the tramp seen in the neighbourhood of the Hollows on the day previous to the murder. Sir John Dean had called several times upon Malcolm Sage, whom he had come to regard as infallible, only to be told that there was no news. He made no comment, but it was obvious that he was greatly disappointed. Interest began to wane. The newspapers devoted themselves to other stunts, and the McMurray mystery seemed fated to swell the list of unfathomed crimes, with which, from time to time, the press likes to twit Scotland Yard. Suddenly the whole affair flared up anew, and Fleet Street once more devoted itself and its columns to the death of Professor James McMurray. A brief announcement that a man of the vagrant class had been arrested in London whilst endeavouring to sell a gold watch believed to be that of Professor McMurray was the first spark. Later the watch was identified, and the man charged with the murder. He protested his innocence, saying that he had picked up the watch by the roadside just outside Gorling nearly a month before. There were bloodstains upon his clothes, which he explained by saying he had been fighting with another man who had made his nose bleed. Inspector Coffin, unable to keep a note of triumph out of his voice, had telephoned the news to Malcolm Sage, who had asked for the particulars of the man, his pipe, and a specimen of his tobacco, but day after day had passed without these being forthcoming. Finally the man against whom the police had built up a damaging case had been committed for trial. Two weeks later he was found guilty of the assizes and sentenced to death. Then it was that Malcolm Sage had written to Inspector Coffin curtly asking him to call at eleven on the following day, bringing with him the information for which he had asked. At the same time he wrote to Sir John Dean and Sir Jesper Chambers. Punctually at eleven on the following morning the Inspector called to the Malcolm Sage Bureau. Sorry, Mr. Sage, he said, as he entered Malcolm Sage's room. I've been so rushed that I haven't been able to get round, and he dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the table. Malcolm Sage pushed across the cigar box. That's his tobacco box, said Inspector Coffin, placing on the table a small tin box. Opening it, and after a swift glance at the contents, Malcolm Sage raised it to his nose. Cigarette ends, he remarked, without looking up. And that's his pipe. Inspector laid on the table a black clap pipe, with some two inches of stem attached to the bowl. Malcolm Sage scarcely glanced at it. Pulling out a drawer, he produced a small cardboard box which he opened and pushed towards the Inspector. That's the tobacco smoked by the murderer. The makers are prepared to swear to it. Where did you get it? gasped the Inspector. Grain by grain from the linoleum in the laboratory, replied Malcolm Sage. That is why it was necessary to be sure it was swept each day. It also helped me to establish the man as middle or upper class. This tobacco is expensive. What is the man like who's been condemned? Regular wandering willy, replied the Inspector. Oldish chap gives his age at sixty-one, five foot three and a half, thin as a rake, twenty-nine inch chest, miserable sort of devil, says he picked up the watch about a quarter of a mile from the hollows early one morning. Does he eat marmalade? Eat it, the Inspector laughed. He wolves it. I remember what you said and took a pound along with me to strengthen just for fun. He looked across at Malcolm Sage a little shame-facedly. I afterwards heard that there was only the jar and the label left, but I don't see what all this has to do with it. The fellas got the swing for it and carven, you've made a fool of yourself. The Inspector started back in his chair as if someone had struck him. I gave you a description of the man who had killed Professor McMurray, yet you proceed to build up a fantastical case against this poor devil. But, again the Inspector, he was interrupted by the door being burst violently open and Sir John Dean shot into the room. For a moment he stood staring at the two men, Gladys Norman and William Johnson framed in the doorway behind him. So Jasper's killed himself, he cried. Moses, Aunt, cried the Inspector, starting to his feet. Malcolm Sage sat immovable at his table, his eyes upon his outstretched hands. Slowly looking up, he motioned to Miss Norman to close the door, then nodded towards the chair into which Sir John Dean sank. The Inspector resumed his own seat. It was obvious that the news had considerably shaken him. He knew, Sir John Dean interrogated, his voice a little unsteady. I expected it, said Malcolm Sage quietly. But how, Mr. Sage, inquired Inspector Carphon in a whisper, his throat dry with excitement. Because I wrote to him yesterday, saying that I could not allow the condemned man to be sacrificed, it was Sir Jasper Chambers who killed Professor McMurray. For a moment Inspector Carphon's eyes looked as if they would start out of his head. He turned and looked at Sir John Dean, who with unsteady hand was taking a shrewd from his case. Malcolm Sage threw his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to fill it. On the Tuesday night he began, it is obvious that Professor McMurray admitted someone to the laboratory. That man was Sir Jasper Chambers. When the two had dined together a week before, proceeded Malcolm Sage, an appointment was obviously made for a week later. The Professor's last words were significant. Anyway Chambers, you will be the first to know. If the experiments had proved fatal, how could Sir Jasper be the first to know, unless an appointment had been made for him to call at the laboratory and discover for himself the result? The Inspector coughed noisily. When Sir Jasper learned of the unqualified success of the experiments, and saw by the Professor's changed appearance, proof of his triumph, he remembered the article in the present century. He realized that in the lengthening of human life, a terrible catastrophe threatened the world. Humanitarianism triumphed over his affection for his friend, and he killed him. Sir John Dean nodded his head in agreement. The Inspector was leaning forward, his arms on the table, staring at Malcolm Sage with glassy eyes. The assailant was clearly a tall, powerful man and left-handed. That was shown by the nature of the blow, that yet some knowledge of physiology is obvious from the fact that he made no attempt at a second blow to ensure a death, as a layman most likely would have done. He knew that he had smashed the occipital bone right into the brain. In his early years Sir Jasper studied medicine. The crime committed, Sir Jasper proceeded to cover his tracks. With the poker he loosened the sockets of the bolts, and that of the lock in order to give an expression that the door had been burst open from without. He then left the place, and to suggest robbery as a motive for the crime, he took with him the Professor's gold watch which he threw away. This was found a few hours later by the tramp whom you, Carfan, want to hang for a crime of which he knows nothing. There was a note of sternness in Malcolm Sage's voice. But began the Inspector. I suspect, continued Malcolm Sage, that after he had left the laboratory, Sir Jasper suddenly realized that the Professor had probably recorded in his book all those processes. He returned, discovered the manuscript, and was for hours absorbed in it, at first smoking continuously, later too interested in his task to think of his pipe. It must be remembered that he had studied medicine. The Inspector glanced across at Sir John Dean, who sat rigidly in his chair, his eyes fixed upon Malcolm Sage. I rather think that he was roused from his preoccupation by the ringing of the bell announcing the arrival of the Professor's breakfast. He then realized that he could not leave the place until nightfall. He therefore ate that meal, carefully avoiding the marmalade which he disliked, and subsequently he consumed the luncheon and dinner, passed through the wicked. Malcolm Sage paused to press down the tobacco in his pipe. He burned the manuscript, tearing up letters, and throwing them into the waste-paper basket to give the appearance of Professor McMurray having had a clearing up. He then destroyed all the test tubes he could find. Finally, he left the laboratory late on the Wednesday night, or early Thursday morning. But how did you find out all this? It was Sir John Dean who spoke. First of all, Sir Jasper and the murderer smoked the same tobacco or mont mixture. I verified that by picking Inspector Carthens' pocket. Taking a tobacco pouch from a drawer, Malcolm Sage handed it across the table. You will remember Sir Jasper lent me his pouch. I picked up some tobacco on the floor and on the hearth. Secondly, the murderer was left-handed, and so is Sir Jasper. Thirdly, the murderer does not eat marmalade, and Sir Jasper had the same distaste. But how? began the Inspector. I telephoned to his housekeeper in the name of a local grocer, and asked if it would be Sir Jasper who had ordered some marmalade, as an assistant could not remember the gentleman's name. That grocer, I suspect, got into trouble, as the housekeeper seemed to expect him to know that Sir Jasper disliked marmalade. Well, you seem to have gotten the thing pretty well figured out, remarked Sir John Dean grimly. Another man's life and liberty were at stake, was the calm reply. Otherwise, he shrugged his shoulders. As Sir Jasper did not come forward, I wrote to him yesterday, giving him until noon to-day to make a statement, continued Malcolm Sage. Otherwise, I should have to take steps to save the man condemned. Then, after a short pause, he continued, In Sir Jasper's chambers, you have an illustration of the smallness of a great mind. He has devoted his vast wealth to philanthropy, yet he was willing to allow another man to be hanged for his crime. And this, I take it, said Sir John Dean, is his reply, and he handed a letter across to Malcolm Sage. Read it out, he said. Malcolm Sage glanced swiftly through the pages, and then read, My dear Dean, by the time you received this letter I shall be dead. I have just received a letter from Mr. Malcolm Sage which shows him to be a man of remarkable perception and possessed of powers of analysis and deduction that I have entered to think must be unique. All he says is correct, but for one detail. I left a laboratory in the first instance with the deliberate intention of returning, although I did not realise the significance of the manuscript until after I had tempered with the fastenings of the doors. Had my servants found that my bed had not been slept in, suspicion might have attached itself to me. I therefore returned to remedy this, and I left a note to say that I had gone out early for a long walk, a thing I frequently do. In his experiments McMurray had succeeded beyond his wildest imaginings, and I foresaw the horrors that must inevitably follow such a discovery as his. I had to choose between myself and the welfare of the race, and I chose the race. I did not come forward to save the man condemned for the crime as I regarded my life of more value to the community than his. Will you thank Mr. Sage for the very gentle and humane way in which he has written calling upon me to see that justice be not outraged? I am sending this letter by hand. My body will be found in my study. I have used morphia as a means of satisfying justice. Very sincerely yours, Jasper Chambers. It was strange I should have made that mistake by the reason for his leaving the laboratory, Sub Malcolm Sage, meditatively. I made two mistakes, one I corrected, but the other was unpardonable. And he knocked the ashes from his pipe onto the copper tray before him with the air of a man who is far from satisfied. And I might have arrested an O.M., murmured Inspector Carfinn, as he walked down Whitehall. Damn! End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of Malcolm Sage Detective by Herbert George Jenkins. This lipovox recording is in the public domain, recording by Anna Simon. It's all very well for the Chief to sit in there like a five-ginny palmist, glad as Norman cried one morning, as after interviewing the umpteenth caller that day she proceeded vigorously to powder her nose to the obvious interest of William Johnson. But what about me? If anyone else comes, I must speak the truth. I have not unused line left. Then you had better let Johnson have a turn, said a quiet voice behind her. She spun round, with flaming cheeks and white-flagged nose, to see the steel-gray eyes of Malcolm Sage gazing on her quizzically through gold-rimmed spectacles. There was only the slightest fluttering at the corners of his mouth. As his activities enlarged, Malcolm Sage's fame had increased, and he was overwhelmed with requests for assistance. Clients bore down upon him from all parts of the country, some even crossing the Channel, whilst from America and the Colonies came a flood of letters giving long, rambling details of mysteries, murders, and disappearances, all of which he was expected to solve. Those who wrote, however, were as nothing to those who called. They arrived in various stages of excitement and agitation, only to be met by Miss Gladys Norman with the stereotyped smile and the equally stereotyped information that Mr. Malcolm Sage saw no one, except by appointment, which was never made, until the nature of the would-be client's business had been stated in writing. The surrey cattle-maiming affair and the consequent publicity it gave to the name of Malcolm Sage had resulted in something like a siege of the bureau's offices. I told you so, said Lady Dean gaily to her husband, and he had nodded his head in an entire agreement. Malcolm Sage's success was largely due to the very quality that had rendered him a failure as a civil servant, the elasticity of his mind. He approached each problem entirely unprejudiced, weighed the evidence, and followed the course it indicated, prepared at any moment to retrace his steps, should they lead to a cul-de-sac. He admitted the importance of the Roman judicial interrogation, qui bono, whom benefits it, yet he realized that there was always the danger of confusing the pathological with the criminal. The obvious is the correct solution of most mysteries, he had once remarked to Sir James Walton, but there is always the possibility of exception. The surrey cattle-maiming mystery had been a case in point. Even more so was the affair that came to be known as the Gilston Slander. In this case Malcolm Sage arrived at the truth by a refusal to accept what, on the face of it, appeared to be the obvious solution. It was through Roger Freens, the eminent K.C., that he first became interested in the series of anonymous letters that had created considerable scandal in the little village of Gilston. Tucked away in the northwest corner of Hampshire, Gilston was a village of some eight hundred inhabitants. The vigour, the Reverend John Crane, had held the living for some twenty years, aided by his wife and daughter, Muriel, a pretty and high-spirited girl of nineteen, he devoted himself to the parish, and in return enjoyed great popularity. Life at the vigourage was an ideal of domestic happiness. Mr. and Mrs. Crane were devoted to each other, and to their daughter, and she to them. Muriel Crane had grown up among the villages, devoting herself to parish work as soon as she was old enough to do so. She seemed to find her life sufficient for her needs, and many were the comparisons drawn by other parents in Gilston between the vigour's daughter and their own restless offspring. A year previously a new curate had arrived in the person of the Reverend Charles Blade. His frank, straightforward personality, cobbled with his good looks and masculine bearing, had caused him to be greatly liked, not only by the vigour in his family, but by all the parishioners. Suddenly, and without warning, the peace of the vigourage was destroyed. One morning Mr. Crane received by post an anonymous letter in which the names of his daughter and the curate were linked together in a way that caused him both pain and anxiety. A man with a strong sense of honour himself, he cordially despised the anonymous letter writer, and his first instinct had been to ignore that which he had just received. On second thought, however, he reasoned that the writer would be unlikely to rest content with a single letter, but would in all probability make the same columnar statements to others. After consulting with his wife, he had reluctantly questioned his daughter. At first she was inclined to treat the matter lightly, but on the grave nature of the accusations being pointed out to her, she had become greatly embarrassed and assured him that the curate had never been more than ordinarily attentive to her. The vigour decided to allow the matter to rest there, and accordingly he made no mention of the letter to Blade. A week later his daughter brought him a letter she had found lying in the vigourage grounds. It contained a passionate declaration of love and ended with a threat of what might happen if the writer's passion were not reciprocated. Although the letter was unsigned, the vigour could not disguise from himself the fact that there was a marked similarity between the handwriting of the two anonymous letters and that of his curate. He decided therefore to ask Blade if he could throw any light on the matter. At first the young man had appeared bewildered. Then he had pledged his word of honour not only that he had not written the letters, but that there was no truth in the statements they contained. With that the vigour had to rest content, but worse was to follow. Two evenings later, one of the church wardens called to the vigourage, and after behaving in what to the vigour seemed a very strange manner, he produced from his pocket a letter he had received that morning, in which were repeated the scandalous statements contained in the first episode. From then on the district was deluged with anonymous letters, all referring to the alleged passion of the curate for the vigour's daughter and the intrigue they were carrying on together. Some of the letters were frankly indelicate in their expression, and as the whole parish ceded with the scandal the vigour appeared to the police for aid. One peculiarity of the letters was that all written upon the same paper known as Olympic script. This was supplied locally to a number of people in the neighbourhood, among others the vigour, the curate, and the schoolmaster. Soon the story began to find its way into the newspapers, and Blade's position became one full of difficulty and embarrassment. He had consulted Robert Freens, who had been at Oxford with his father, and the case see, convinced that the young man's innocence had sought Malcolm Sage's aid. You see, Sage, Freens had remarked, I am sure the boy is straight and incapable of such conduct, but it's impossible to talk to that ass, Murdy, he has no more imagination than a tin-linet. Freens's reference was the chief inspector Murdy of Scotland Yard, who had been entrusted with the inquiry, the local police having proved unequal to the problem. Although Malcolm Sage had promised Robert Freens that he would undertake the inquiry into the Gilston scandal, it was not until nearly a week later that he found himself at liberty to motor down into Hampshire. One afternoon the vigour of Gilston, on entering his church, found a stranger in his knees in the chancel. Notebook in hand, he was transcribing the inscription of a monumental brass. As the vigour approached, he observed that the stranger was vigorously shaking a fountain pen, from which the ink had evidently been exhausted. At the sound of Mr. Crane's footsteps the stranger looked up, turning towards him a pair of gold-rimped spectacles, above which a bold, conical head seemed to contradict the keenness of the eyes and the youthful lines of the face beneath. You are interested in monumental brasses, inquired the vigour, as he entered the chancel, and the stranger rose to his feet. I'm the vigour, he explained. There was a look of eager interest in the pale grey eyes that looked out from a placid scholarly face. I was taking the liberty of copying the inscription on this, replied Malcolm Sage, indicating the time-worn brass at his feet. Only, unfortunately, my fountain pen has given out. There is pen and ink in the vestry, said the vigour, impressed by the fact that the stranger had chosen the finest brass in the church, one that had been saved from Cromwell's Puritans by the ingenuity of the then incumbent, who had caused it to be covered with cement. Then, as an afterthought, the vigour added, I can get your pen filled at the vigourage. My daughter has some ink. She always uses a fountain pen. Malcolm Sage thanked him, and for the next half-hour the vigour forgot the worries of the past few weeks in listening to a man who seemed to have the whole subject of monumental brasses and Norman architecture at his finger ends. Subsequently, Malcolm Sage was invited to the vigourage, where another half-hour was occupied in Mr. Crane showing him his collection of books on brasses. As Malcolm Sage made a movement to depart, the vigour suddenly remembered the matter of the ink, apologised for his remissness, and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of fountain pen ink. Malcolm Sage drew from his pocket his pen, and proceeded to replenish the ink from the bottle. Finally, he completed the prescription of the lettering of the brass from a rubbing produced by the vigour. Reluctant to allow so interesting a visitor to depart, Mr. Crane pressed him to take tea, but Malcolm Sage pleaded an engagement. As they crossed the hall, a fair girl suddenly rushed out from the door on the right. She was crying hysterically. Her hair was desordered, her deep, violent eyes rimmed with red, and her moist lips seemed to stand out strangely red against the alabaster paleness of her skin. Muriel! Malcolm Sage glanced swiftly at the vigour. The look of scullily calm had vanished from his features, giving place to a sad sternness that reflected the tone in which he had uttered his daughter's name. At the sight of a stranger, the girl had passed, then, as if realising her tear-stained face and his ordered hair, she turned and disappeared through the door from which he had rushed. My daughter, murmured the vigour, a little sadly. Malcolm Sage thought. She has always been very highly strung and emotional, he added, as if considering some explanation necessary. We have to be very stern with her on such occasions, it is the only way to repress it. You find it answers? remarked Malcolm Sage. She has been much better lately, although she has been sorely tried. Perhaps you have heard. Malcolm Sage nodded absently, as he gazed intently at the thumbnail of his right hand. A minute later he was walking down the drive, his thoughts occupied with a pretty daughter of the vicar of Gilston. At the curate's lodgings he was told that Mr. Blade was away and would not return until late that night. As he turned from the gate, Malcolm Sage encountered a pale-faced, narrow-shouldered man with a dark moustache and a hard, peevish mouth. To Malcolm Sage's question, as to which was the way to the inn, he nodded in the direction from which he had come and continued on his way. A man who has failed in what he set out to accomplish was Malcolm Sage's mental diagnosis of John Gray, the Gilston schoolmaster. It was not long before Malcolm Sage realised that the village of Gilston was intensely proud of itself. It had seen in the London papers accounts of the mysterious scandal of which it was the centre. A Scotland Yard officer had been down, and had subjected many of the inhabitants to a careful cross-examination. In consequence, Gilston realised that it was a village to be reckoned with. The tired traveller was the centre of all rumour and gossip. Here, each night in the public bar or in the private parlour, according to their social status, the inhabitants would forgather and discuss the problem of the mysterious leases. Every sort of theory was advanced and every sort of explanation offered. Whilst popular opinion tended to the view that the curate was the guilty party, there were some who darkly shook their heads and muttered, We shall see. It was remembered and discussed with relish that John Gray, the schoolmaster, had for some time past shown a marked admiration for the vigorous daughter. She, however, had made it clear that the cadaverous, setonine pedicogue possessed for her no attractions. During the half hour that Malcolm Sage spent at the tired traveller eating a hurried meal, he heard all that was to be heard about local opinion. The landlord, a ruby-kind old fellow, whose baldness extended to his eyelids, was bursting with information. By nature capable of making a mystery out of a sunbeam, he reveled in the scandal that hermed around him. After a quarter of an hour's conversation, the landlord's conversation, Malcolm Sage found himself possessed of a bewildering amount of new material. A young girl don't have them high sterics for nothing, my host remarked darkly, as fits of them every now and then, ever since she was a flapper, sobbing and crying fit to break her heart, and the vigour that crossed with her. That is considered the best way to treat hysterical people, remarked Malcolm Sage. Maybe, was the reply. But she's only a gal, and a pretty one, too. He added inconsequently. Then there's the schoolmaster, he continued. Eighth, the cured like poison he does. Shouldn't be surprised if it was him that done it. He's always been a bit sweeter that quarter himself, as Mr. Gray. Gutt talked about a good deal one time, hanging about at a Miss Murrell, out of the locations publican. By the time Malcolm Sage had finished his meal, the landlord was well in his stride of scandalous reminiscence. It was with obvious reluctance that he allowed so admirable a listener to depart, and it was with manifest regret that he watched Malcolm Sage's car disappear round the curve in the road. A little way beyond the vigourage, an at-monetary triangle caused Tims to slow up. Just by the bend, Malcolm Sage observed a youth and a girl standing in the recess of a gate giving access to a meadow. Although they were in the shadow, cast by the hedge, Malcolm Sage's quick eyes recognised in the girl the vigour's daughter. The youth looked as if he might be one of the lads of the village. In the short space of two or three seconds, Malcolm Sage noticed the change in the girl. Although he could not see her face very clearly, the vervecity of her bearing and the ready laugh were suggestive of a gaiety contrasting strangely with the tragic figure he had seen in the afternoon. Murrell Crane was obviously of a very mercurial temperament he decided, as the car swung round the bend. The next morning, in response to a telephone message, Inspector Murdie called on Malcolm Sage. Well, Mr. Sage, he cried as he shook hands, going to have another try to teach us our job, and his blue eyes twinkled good-humorately. The Inspector had already made up his mind. He was a man with many successes to his record, achieved as a result of undoubted astuteness in connection to the grosser crimes such as train murders, post office hold-ups, and burglaries. He was incapable, however, of realising that there existed a subtler form of law-breaking arising from something more intimately associated with the psychic than the material plane. Did you see Mr. Blade, inquired Malcolm Sage? Saw the whole blessed lot, was a cheery reply. It's all as clear as milk, and he laughed. What did Mr. Blade say, inquired Malcolm Sage, looking keenly across at the Inspector? Just that he had nothing to say. His exact words. Can you remember them? Quared Malcolm Sage. Oh, yes, replied the Inspector. He said, Inspector Murdie, I have nothing to say, and then he shut up like a real wistful. He was away yesterday, remarked Malcolm Sage, who then told the Inspector of his visit. How about John Gray, the schoolmaster, he queried. He practically told me to go to the devil, with a genial reply. Inspector Murdie was accustomed to rudeness. His profession invited it, and to his rough-and-ready form of reasoning, rudeness meant innocence, politeness, guilt. He handed to Malcolm Sage a copy of a list of people who purchased Olympic script from Mr. Granger, the local widely, volunteering the information that the curate was the biggest consumer, as if that settled the question of his guilt. And yet the vicar would not hear of the rest of Blade. Now at Malcolm Sage, turning the copper ashtray around with his restless fingers, the Inspector shrugged his massive shoulders. Sheard good nature and kindness, Mr. Sage, he said. He's as gentle as a woman. I once knew a man, remarked Malcolm Sage, who said that in the annals of crime lay the master key to the world's mysteries, past, present, and to come. A dreamer, Mr. Sage, smiled the Inspector. We haven't time for dreaming at the art, he added good temperately, as he rose and shook himself like a newfoundland dog. I suppose it never struck you to look elsewhere than at the curate's lodgings for the writer of the letters, inquired Malcolm Sage quietly. It never strikes me to look about for someone when I'm sitting on his chest, laughed Inspector Murdy. True, said Malcolm Sage. By the way, he continued, without looking up. In future, can you let me see every letter as it is received? You might also keep careful record of how they are delivered. Suddenly, Mr. Sage, anything that will make you happy? Later I may get you to ask the vicar to seal up any subsequent anonymous letters that reach him without allowing anyone to see the contents. Do you think he would do that? Without doubt, if I ask him, said the Inspector, surprised in his eyes as he looked down upon the cone of boldness beneath him, realizing what the handicap it is to talk to a man who keeps his eyes averted. He must then put the letters in a place where no one can possibly obtain access to them. One thing more, continued Malcolm Sage. Will you ask Miss Crane to write out the full story of the letters as far as she is personally acquainted with it? Very well, Mr. Sage, said the Inspector, with the air of one humoring a child. I'll be going. He walked towards the door, then suddenly stopped and turned. I suppose you think I'm wrong about the curate? I'll tell you later, was the reply. When you find the Master Key, laugh the Inspector as he opened the door. Yes, when I find the Master Key, said Malcolm Sage quietly, and as the door closed behind Inspector Murdy, he continued to finger the copper ashtray as if that were the Master Key. End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14 of Malcolm Sage Detective by Herbert George Jenkins. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Anosimum. Chapter 14. Malcolm Sage Plays Patience 1. Malcolm Sage was seated at a small green-covered table playing solitaire. A velvet smoking jacket and a pair of wine-colored Morocco slippers suggested that the day's work was done. Patience, chess, and the cinema were his unfailing sources of inspiration when engaged upon a more than usually difficult case. He had once told Sir James Walton that they clarified his brain and coordinated his thoughts, the cinema in particular. The fact that in his surrounding darkness were hundreds of other brains, vital and active, appeared to stimulate his own imagination. Puffing steadily at a gigantic mere charm, he moved the cards with a deliberation which suggested that his attention, rather than his thoughts, was absorbed in the game. Nearly a month had elapsed since he had agreed to take up the inquiry into the authorship of a series of anonymous letters with which Gilston and the neighbourhood had been flooded, yet still the matter remained a mystery. A celebrated writer of detective stories had interested himself in the affair, with the result that the press throughout the country had stunned at Gilston as if it had been a heavyweight championship or a train-murder. For a fortnight, Malcolm Sage had been on the continent in connection with the theft of the Adair diamonds. Two days previously, after having restored the famous jewels to Lady Adair, he had returned to London to find that the Gilston affair had developed a new and dramatic phase. The curate had been arrested for an attempt at assault upon Miss Crane, and pleading not guilty had been committed for trial. The incident that led up to this had taken place on the day that Malcolm Sage left London. Late that afternoon, Miss Crane had arrived at the vicarage in a state bordering on collapse. On becoming more collected, she stated that on returning from paying a call, and when halfway through cops, known locally as Gypsy's Wood, blade had sprung out upon her and violently protested his passion. He had gripped hold of her wrists. The mark of his fingers was to be seen on the delicate skin and threatened to kill her and himself. She had been terrified, thinking he meant to kill her. The approach of a farm labourer had saved her, and the curate had disappeared through the cops. This story was borne out by Joseph Higgins, the farm labourer in question. He had arrived to find Miss Crane in a state of great alarm and agitation, and he had walked with her as far as the vicarage gate. He did not, however, actually see the curate. On the strength of this statement the police had applied for a warrant, and had subsequently arrested the curate. Later he appeared before the magistrates, had been remanded, and finally committed for trial, bail being allowed. Blade protested his innocence alike of the assault and the writing of the letters, but two handwriting experts had testified to the similarity of the handwriting of the anonymous letters with that of the curate. Furthermore, they were all written upon Olympic script, the paper that Blade used for his sermons. Malcolm Sage had just started a new deal when the door opened, and Rogers showed in Robert Frenes. With a nod, Malcolm Sage indicated the chair opposite. His visitor dropped into it, and, taking a pipe from his pocket, proceeded to fill and light it. Placing his maresham on the mantelpiece, Malcolm Sage produced a well-worn briar from his pocket, which, having got into commission, he proceeded once more with the game. Heads looking pretty ugly for Blade, remarked Frenes, recognizing by the substitution of the briar for the maresham that Malcolm Sage was ready for conversation. Tell me. It's those damned handwriting experts, growled Frenes. They're the greatest anomaly of our legal system, but Judge always warns the jury of the danger of accepting their evidence, yet each side continues to produce them. It's an insult to intelligence and justice. To hang a man because his S resembles that of an implicating document, remarked Malcolm Sage as he plays the red queen on a black nave, is about as sensible as to imprison him because he has the same accent as a footpad. Then there's Blade's astonishing apathy, continued Frenes. He seems quite indifferent to the gravity of his position, refuses to say a word. Anyone might think he knew the real culprit and was trying to shield him, and he sucked modally at his pipe. The handwriting expert, continued Malcolm Sage impaterably, is too concerned with the crossing of a T, the dotting of an I, or the tail of a G, to give time and thought to the way in which the writer uses, for instance, the compound tensors of verbs. Blade was no more capable of writing those letters than our friend Merdi is of transliterating the Rosetta Stone. Yes, but can we prove it? asked Frenes gloomily, as with the blade of a pen-knife he'll loosen the tobacco in the bow of his pipe. Can we prove it? he repeated, and snapping the knife to, he replaced it in his pocket. Blade's sermons, Malcolm Sage continued, and such letters of his, as you've been able to collect, show that he adopted a very definite and precise system of punctuation. He frequently uses the colon and the semicolon, and always in the right place. In a parenthetical clause preceded by the conjunction, end, he uses a comma after the end, not before it, as most people do. Before such words as yet and but, he, without exception, uses a semicolon. The word only, he always puts in its correct place. In short, he is so academic as to savor somewhat of the pomposity of the eighteenth century. Go on, said Frenes, as Malcolm Sage paused, as if to give the other a chance of questioning his reasoning. Turning to the unanimous letters, continued Malcolm Sage, it must be admitted that the handwriting is very similar, but there, all likeness to Blade's sermons and correspondence ends. Meredith has shown me nearly all the anonymous letters, and in the whole series there is not one instance of the colon or the semicolon being used. The punctuation is of the vaguest, consisting largely of the dash, which, after all, is a literary evasion. In these letters the word but frequently appears without any punctuation mark before it. At other times it has a comma, a dash, or a full stop. He paused, and for the next two minutes devoted himself to the game before him. Then, he continued, such phrases as, if only you knew, I should have loved have been. Different then, which appear in these letters, would have been absolutely impossible to a man of Blade's meticulous literary temperament. As Malcolm Sage spoke, Robert Frenes' brain had been working rapidly. Presently he brought his hand down with his smack upon his knee. By heaven, Sage, he cried, this is a new pill for the handwriting expert. I'll put you in the box. We've got a fighting chance after all. Their most curious factor in the whole case, continued Malcolm Sage, is the way in which the letters were delivered. One was thrown into a fly onto Miss Crane's lap, she tells us, when she and her father were driving home after dining at the hall. Another was discovered in the vigourage garden. A third was thrown through Miss Crane's bedroom window. A few of the earlier group were posted in the neighbouring town of Whitchurch, some on days that Blade was certainly not there. That was going to be one of my strongest points, remarked Frenes. The letters always imply that there is some obstacle existing between the writer and the girl he desires. What possible object could Blade have in writing letters to various people, suggesting an intrigue between his vigour's daughter and himself? Yet these letters were clearly written by the same hand that addressed those to the girl, her father, and her mother. Frenes noddled his head comprehendingly. If Blade were in love with that girl, continued Malcolm Sage, what was there to prevent him from pressing his suit along legitimate and accepted lines? Murdy frankly acknowledges that there has been nothing in Blade's outward demeanour that suggests that Miss Crane was to him anything more than the daughter of his vicar. What do you make of the story of the assault? As evidence it is worthless, replied Malcolm Sage, being without corroboration. The farmhand did not actually see Blade. Frenes nodded his agreement. Having convinced myself that Blade had nothing to do with writing little letters, I next tried to discover if there anything throwing suspicion on others in the neighbourhood, who were known to use Olympic script as note paper. The schoolmaster, John Gray, was one. He is an admirer of Miss Crane, according to local gossip, but it was obvious from the first that he had nothing to do with the affair. One by one I eliminated all the others, until I came back once more to Blade. It was clear that the letters were written with a fountain pen, and Blade always uses one. That, however, is not evidence as millions of people use fountain pens. By the way, what is your line of defence? he inquired. Smashing the handwriting experts, was the reply. I was calling for myself on the principle that God is on the side of the big battalions, but now I shall depend entirely on your evidence. The assault? queried Malcolm Sage. There I am done, said Frenes, for although Miss Crane's evidence is not proof, it will be sufficient for a jury. Besides, she is a very pretty and charming girl. I suppose, he added, Blade must have made some sort of declaration, which she, in a light of the anonymous letters, entirely misunderstood. What does he say? Denies it absolutely, although he admits being in the neighbourhood of the gypsy's wood, and actually catching sight of Miss Crane in the distance, but he says he did not speak to her. Is he going into the witness-box? Certainly. Then, after a pause, he added, Kelton is prosecuting, and he is as moral as a swan. He will appeal to the jury as fathers of daughters and brothers of sisters. Malcolm Sage made no comment, but continued smoking mechanically, his attention apparently absorbed in the carts before him. If you can smash the handwriting experts, continued the KC, I may be able to manage the girl's testimony. It will not be necessary, said Malcolm Sage, carefully placing a nine of clubs upon an aid of diamonds. Not necessary. I have asked Merdie to come round, continued Malcolm Sage, still intent upon his game. I think that was his ring. A minute later the door opened to admit the burly inspector, more blue-eyed and genial than ever, and obviously in the best of spirits. Good evening, Mr. Sage! he cried cheerfully. Congratulations on the other business! Good evening, sir, he added, as he shook hands with friends. He dropped heavily into his seat, and taking a cigar from the box on the table, which Malcolm Sage had indicated with a nod, he proceeded to light it. No man enjoyed a good cigar more than Inspector Merdie. Well, what do you think of it? he inquired, looking for Malcolm Sage to frieze. It's a clear case now, I think. He slightly stressed the word now. You mean it's Blade, inquired Malcolm Sage, as he proceeded to gather up the carts? Who else? inquired the inspector, through a cloud of smoke. That is the question, which involves your being here now, Merdie, said Malcolm Sage, dryly. We've got three handwriting experts behind us, said the inspector complacently. That is precisely where they should be, retorted Malcolm Sage quietly. In the biblical sense, he added. Friends laughed whilst Inspector Merdie looked from one to the other. He did not quite catch the illusion. You have done, as I suggested, inquired Malcolm Sage, when he had placed the carts in their box and removed the cart table. Here are all the letters received up to a fortnight ago, said the inspector, holding out a bulky packet. Those received since have each been sealed up separately by the vicar, who is keeping half of them, whilst I have the other half. But really, Mr. Sage, I don't understand. Thank you, Merdie, said Malcolm Sage, as he took the packet. It is always a pleasure to work with Scotland Yard. It is so thorough. The inspector beamed, for he knew the complement was sincere. Without a word, Malcolm Sage left the room, taking the packet with him. A bit quaint at times, ain't he, sir? remarked Inspector Merdie to Friends. But one of the best, I trust him with anything. Friends nodded, encouragingly. There are some of them down at the yard that don't like him, he continued. They call him Sage and Onions. But most of us who have worked with him swear by Mr. Sage. He's never out for the limelight himself, and is always willing to give another fellow a leg up. After all, it's our living, he added, a little inconsequently. Friends appreciated the inspector's delicacy in refraining from any mention of the Gilston case during Malcolm Sage's absence. After all, they represented, respectively, the prosecution and the defence. For nearly half an hour the two talked together upon unprofessional subjects. When Malcolm Sage returned, he found them discussing the prospects of Dempsey against Carpentier. Handing back the packet of letters to Inspector Merdie, Malcolm Sage resumed his seat and proceeded to relight his pipe. Spot the culprit, Mr. Sage, inquired the inspector, with something that was very much like a wink in the direction of Friends. I think so, was the quiet reply. You might meet me at Gilston Vicarage, tomorrow at three. I'll telegraph to Blade to be there, too. You had better bring the schoolmaster also. You mean? began the inspector, rising. Exactly, said Malcolm Sage. It's past eleven, and we all require sleep. The next afternoon, the study of the Vicar of Gilston presented a strange appearance. Seated up Mr. Crane's writing table was Malcolm Sage, a small attaché case at his side, whilst before him were several piles of sealed packets. Grouped about the room were Inspector Merdie, Robert Friends, Mr. Gray and the Vicar. All had their eyes fixed upon Malcolm Sage, but with varying expressions. Those with the schoolmaster were frankly cynical. The inspector and Friends looked as if they expected to see produced from the attaché case a guinea pig or a white rabbit, pink eyed and kicking, whilst the Vicar had obviously not yet recovered from his surprise at discovering that the stranger who had shown such a remarkable knowledge of monumental brasas and Norman architecture was none other than the famous investigator about whom he had read so much in the newspapers. With quiet deliberation, Malcolm Sage opened the attaché case and produced a spirit lamp which he lighted. He then placed a metal plate upon a rest above the flame. On this he imposed a thicker plate of a similar metal that looked like steel, but it had a handle across the middle, rather resembling that of a tool used by plasterers. He then glanced up, apparently unconscious of the almost feverish interest with which his every movement was being watched. I should like Miss Crane to be present, he said. As he spoke the door opened and the curate entered, his dark, handsome face lined and care worn. It was obvious that he had suffered. He bowed and then looked about him without any suggestion of embarrassment. Malcolm Sage rose and held out his hand. Friends followed suit. Ask Miss Muriel to come here, said the Vicar, to the maid as she was closing the door. The curate took the seat that Malcolm Sage indicated beside him. Silently the six men waited. A few minutes later Miss Crane entered, pale but self-possessed. She closed the door behind her. Suddenly she caught sight of the curate. Her eyes widened and her paleness seemed to become accentuated. A moment later it was followed by a crimson flush. She hesitated. Her hands clenched at her side. Then with a manifest effort she appeared to control herself, and with a slight smile and inclination of her head took the chair the schoolmaster moved towards her. Instinctively she turned her eyes toward Malcolm Sage. Inspector Murdie, he said, without raising his eyes, will you please open two of those packets? He indicated the pile upon his left. I should explain, he continued, that each of these contains one of the most recent of the series of letters with which we are concerned. Each was sealed up by Mr Crane. Immediately it reached him, in accordance with Inspector Murdie's request. Therefore only the writer, the recipient and the vicar have had access to these letters. Malcolm Sage turned his eyes interrogatingly upon Mr Crane, who bowed. Meanwhile the inspector had cut open the two top envelopes, unfolded sheets of paper they contained, and handed them to Malcolm Sage. All eyes were fixed upon his long shapely fingers as he smoothed out one of the sheets of paper upon the vicar's blotting pad. Then, lifting the steel plate by the handle, he placed it upon the upturned sheet of paper. The tension was almost unendurable. The heavy breathing of Inspector Murdie seemed like the blowing of a grampus. Mr Gray glanced across at him, irritably. The vicar cuffed slightly, then looked startled that he made so much noise. Everyone bent forward, eagerly expecting something, yet without quite knowing what. Malcolm Sage lifted the metal plate from the letter. There, in the centre of the page, in bluish coloured letters, which had not been there when the paper was smoothed out upon the blotting pad, appeared the words Malcolm Sage, August 12, 1919, No. 138. For some moments they all gazed at the paper as if the mysterious blue letters exercised upon them some hypnotic influence. Secret ink! It was Robert Freens who spoke. A cussment as he was to dramatic moments he was conscious of a strange dryness at the back of his throat and a consequent huskiness of voice. His remarks seemed to break the spell. Instinctively everyone turned to him. The significance of the bluish coloured characters was slowly dawning upon the Inspector, but the others still seemed puzzled to account for their presence. Immediately had lifted the plate from the letter, Malcolm Sage had drawn a sheet of plain-summed paper from the rack before him. This he subjected to the same treatment as the letter. When a few seconds later he exposed it, there, in the centre, appeared the same words. Malcolm Sage, August 12, 1919, But on this sheet the number was 203. Then the true significance of the two sheets of paper seemed to dawn upon the unlookers. Suddenly there was a scream, and Muriel Crane fell forward onto the floor. Oh father! Father, forgive me! she cried, and the next moment she was beating the floor with her hands in violent hysterics. Three. From the first I suspected the truth, remarked Malcolm Sage, as he, Robert Freens and Inspector Murdy sat smoking in the car that Timbs was taking back to London at its best pace. Eighty-five years ago a somewhat similar case occurred in France, that of Marie de Morel, when an innocent man was sentenced to ten years imprisonment, and actually served eight before the truth was discovered. The inspector whistled under his breath. This suspicion was strengthened by the lengthy account of the affair written by Miss Crane, which Murdy obtained from her. The punctuation, the phrasing, the inaccurate use of auxiliary verbs were identical with that of the anonymous letters. Another point was that the similarity of the handwriting of the anonymous letters to blades become more pronounced as the letters themselves multiplied. The writer was becoming more expert as an imitator. Freens nodded his head several times. The difficulty, however, was to prove it, continued Malcolm Sage. There was only one way to substitute secretly marked paper for that in use at the vicarage. I accordingly went down to Gilston, and the vicar found me keenly interested in monumental brasses, his pet subject, and Norman architecture. He invited me to the vicarage. In his absence from his study I substituted a supply of marked Olympic script in place of that in his letter-wreck, and also in the drawer of his writing table. As a further precaution I arranged for my fountain pen to run out of ink. He kindly supplied me with a bottle, obviously belonging to his daughter. I replenished my pen, which was full of a chemical that would enable me, if necessary, to identify any letter in the writing of which it had been used. When I placed my pen, which is a cell filler, in the ink, I forced this liquid into the bottle. The inspector merely stared, words had forsaken him for the moment. It was then necessary to wait until the ink in Miss Crane's pen had become exhausted, and she had to replenish her supply of paper from her father's study. After that, discovery was inevitable. Let's suppose she had denied it, questioned the inspector. There was the ink which she alone used, in which I could identify, was the reply. Why did you ask Gray to be present? inquired Frinn's. As his name had been associated with the scandal, it seemed only fair, remarked Malcolm Sage. Then, turning to Inspector Murdie, he said, I shall leave it to you, Murdie, to see that a proper confession is obtained. The case has had such publicity that Mr. Blade's innocence must be made equally public. You may trust me, Mr. Sage, said the inspector. But why did the curate refuse to say anything? Because he is a high-minded and chivalrous gentleman, was the quiet reply. He knew, cried Frinn's. Obviously, said Malcolm Sage, it is the only explanation of his silence. I text him with it after the girl had been taken away, and he acknowledged that their suspicions amounted almost to certainty. Yet he stayed behind, murmured the inspector, with the air of a man who does not understand. I wonder why? To minister to the afflicted, Murdie, said Malcolm Sage, that is the mission of the church. I suppose you meant that French case when you referred to the master-key, remarked the inspector, as if to change the subject. Malcolm Sage nodded. But how do you account from his crane writing such letters about herself, inquired the inspector, with a puzzled expression in his eyes. Pretty funny letters, some of them, for a parson's daughter. I'm not a pathologist, Murdie, remarked Malcolm Sage dryly, but when you try to suppress hysteria in a young girl by sternness, it's about as effectual as putting ointment on a plague spot. Sex repression, cried Frinn's. Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders. Then, after a pause, during which he lighted the pipe he had just refilled, he added, When you are next in Great Russell Street, drop in at the British Museum, and look at the bust of Faustina. You'll see that her chin is similar in modelling to that of Miss Crane. The girl was apparently very much attracted to Blade, and proceeded to weave what was no doubt to her a romance. Later it became an obsession. It all goes to show the necessity for pathological consideration of certain crimes. But who was Faustina? inquired the inspector, unable to follow the drift of the conversation. Faustina, remarked Malcolm Sage, was the domestic fly in the philosophical ointment of an emperor. An inspector, Murdie, laughed, for, knowing nothing of the marriage or the meditations of Marcus Aurelius, it seemed to him the only thing to do. End of chapter 14