 Chapter 14 of the Eye of Osiris, which carries the reader into the probate court. The probate court were an air of studious repose when I entered with Miss Bellingham and her father. Apparently the great and inquisitive public had not become aware of the proceedings that were about to take place, or had not realized their connection with the sensational mutilation case. But barristers and pressmen, better informed, had gathered in some strength and the hum of their conversation filled the air like the droning of the voluntary that ushers in a cathedral service. As we entered a pleasant-faced elderly gentleman rose and came forward to meet us, shaking Mr. Bellingham's hand cordially and saluting Miss Bellingham with a courtly bow. "'That is Mr. Marchmont, doctor,' said the former, introducing me, and the solicitor, having thanked me for the trouble I had taken in attending at the inquest, led us to a bench at the farther end of which was seated a gentleman whom I recognized as Mr. Hearst. Mr. Bellingham recognized him at the same moment and glared at him wrathfully. "'I see that scoundrel is here,' he exclaimed in a distinctly audible voice, pretending that he doesn't see me, because he is ashamed to look me in the face, but— "'Hush, hush, my dear sir,' exclaimed the horrified solicitor. "'We mustn't talk like that, especially in this place. Let me beg you. Let me entreat you to control your feelings, to make no indiscreet remarks, in fact, to make no remarks at all.' He added, with the evident conviction that any remarks that Mr. Bellingham might make would be certain to be indiscreet. "'Forgive me, Marchmont,' said Bellingham quite contritely. "'I will control myself. I will really be quite discreet. I won't even look at him again, because if I do I shall probably go over and pull his nose.' This form of discretion did not appear to be quite to Mr. Marchmont's liking, for he took the precaution of insisting that Mr. Bellingham and I should sit on the farther side of his client, and thus effectually separate him from his enemy. "'Who's the long-nosed fellow talking to Jellico?' Mr. Bellingham asked. "'That is Mr. Lorum, K. C., Mr. Hurst's counsel, and the convivial-looking gentleman next to him is our counsel, Mr. Heath, a most able man and, here Mr. Marchmont whispered behind his hand, fully instructed by Dr. Thorndike. At this juncture the judge entered and took his seat. The usher proceeded with great rapidity to swear in the jury, and the court gradually settled down into that state of academic quiet which it maintained throughout the proceedings, accepting when the noisy swing doors were set oscillating by some bustling clerk or reporter. The judge was a somewhat singular-looking old gentleman, very short as to his face and very long as to his mouth, which peculiarities, together with a pair of large and bulging eyes which he usually kept closed, suggested a certain resemblance to a frog, and he had a curious frog-like trick of flattening his eyelids as if in the act of swallowing a large beetle, which was the only outward invisible sign of emotion that he ever displayed. As soon as the swearing in of the jury was completed, Mr. Lorm rose to introduce the case, whereupon his lordship leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for a painful operation. The present proceedings, Mr. Lorm explained, are occasioned by the unaccountable disappearance of Mr. John Bellingham of 141 Queen's Square Bloomsbury, which occurred about two years ago, or to be more precise, on the 23rd of November 1902. Since that date nothing has been heard of Mr. Bellingham and as that are certain substantial reasons for believing him to be dead, the principal beneficiary under his will, Mr. George Hearst, is now applying to the court for permission to presume the death of the testitor and prove the will, as the time which has elapsed since the testitor was last seen alive, is only two years, the application is based upon the circumstances of the disappearance, which were, in many respects, very singular. The most remarkable feature of that disappearance being, perhaps, its suddenness and completeness. Here the judge remarked in a still small voice that it would, perhaps, have been even more remarkable if the testitor had disappeared gradually and incompletely. No doubt, my lord, agreed Mr. Laurem, but the point is that the testitor, whose habits had always been regular and orderly, disappeared on the date mentioned, without having made any of the usual provisions for the conduct of his affairs, and has not since then been seen or heard of. With this preamble Mr. Laurem proceeded to give a narrative of the events connected with the disappearance of John Bellingham, which was substantially identical with that which I had read in the newspapers, and having laid the actual facts before the jury, he went on to discuss their probable import. Now, what conclusion, he asked, will this strange, this most mysterious train of events, suggest to an intelligent person who shall consider it impartially? Here is a man, who steps forth from the house of his cousin, or his brother, as the case may be, and forthwith, in the twinkling of an eye, vanishes from human ken. What is the explanation? Did he steal forth, and without notice or hint of his intention, take train to some sea-port, thence to embark for some distant land, leaving his affairs to take care of themselves, and his friends to speculate vainly as to his whereabouts? Is he now hiding abroad, or even at home, indifferent alike to the safety of his own considerable property, and the peace of mind of his friends? Or is it that death has come upon him unawares, by sickness, by accident, or more probably, by the hand of some unknown criminal? Let us consider the probabilities. Can he have disappeared by his own deliberate act? Why not, it may be asked. Men undoubtedly do disappear from time to time, to be discovered by chance, or to reappear voluntarily, after intervals of years, and find their names almost forgotten, and their places filled by newcomers. Yes, but there is always some reason for a disappearance of this kind, even though it be a bad one. Family discords make life a weariness, pecuniary difficulties make life a succession of anxieties, distaste for particular circumstances and surroundings from which there seems no escape, inherent restlessness and vagabond tendencies, and so on. Do any of these explanations apply to the present case? No, they do not. Family discords, at least those capable of producing chronic misery, appertain exclusively to a married state, but the testitor was a bachelor, with no incumbrances whatever. Pecuniary anxieties can be equally excluded. The testitor was an easy, in fact, in affluent circumstances. His mode of life was apparently agreeable, and full of interest and activity, and he had full liberty of change if he wished. He had been accustomed to travel, and could do so again without absconding. He had reached an age when radical changes do not seem desirable. He was a man of fixed and regular habits, and his regularity was of his own choice, and not due to compulsion or necessity. When last seen by his friends, as I shall prove, he was proceeding to a definite destination with the expressed intention of returning for purposes of his own appointing. He did return, and then vanished, leaving those purposes unachieved. If we conclude that he has voluntarily disappeared, and is at present in hiding, we adopt an opinion that is entirely at variance with all these weighty facts. If, on the other hand, we conclude that he has died suddenly, or has been killed by an accident or otherwise, we are adopting a view that involves no inherent improbabilities, and that is entirely congruous with the known facts—facts that will be proved by the testimony of the witnesses whom I shall call. The supposition that the testitor is dead is not only more probable than that he is alive, I submit, it is the only reasonable explanation of the circumstances of his disappearance. But this is not all. The presumption of death which arises so inevitably out of the mysterious and abrupt manner in which the testitor disappeared has recently received most conclusive and dreadful confirmation. On the fifteenth of July last there were discovered at Sidcup the remains of a human arm, a left arm, gentlemen, from the hand of which the third, or ring finger, was missing. The doctor who has examined that arm will tell you that the finger was cut off either after death or immediately before. His evidence will prove conclusively that the arm must have been deposited in the place where it was found just about the time when the testitor disappeared. Since that first discovery other portions of the same mutilated body have come to light, and it is a strange and significant fact that they have all been found in the immediate neighborhood of Eltham or Woodford. You will remember, gentlemen, that it was either at Eltham or Woodford that the testitor was last seen alive. And now observe the completeness of the coincidence. These human remains, as you will be told presently by the experienced and learned medical gentlemen, who has examined them most exhaustively, are those of a man of about sixty years of age, about five foot eight inches in height, fairly muscular and well preserved, apparently healthy and rather stoutly built. Another witness will tell you that the missing man was about sixty years of age, about five foot eight inches in height, fairly muscular and well preserved, apparently healthy and rather stoutly built. And another most significant and striking fact, the testitor was accustomed to where, upon the third finger of his left hand, the very finger that is missing from the remains that were found, a most peculiar ring which fitted so tightly that he was unable to get it off after once putting it on, a ring, gentlemen, of so peculiar a pattern, that had it been found on the body must have instantly established the identity of the remains. In a word, gentlemen, the remains which have been found are those of a man exactly like the testitor. They differ from him in no respects whatever. They display a mutilation which suggests an attempt to conceal an identifying peculiarity which he undoubtedly presented, and they were deposited in their various hiding-places about the time of the testitor's disappearance. Accordingly, when you have heard these facts, proved by the sworn testimony of competent witnesses, together with the facts relating to the disappearance, I shall ask you for a verdict in accordance with that evidence. Mr. Lorham sat down, and adjusting a pair of pants-nay, rapidly glanced over his brief while the usher was administering the oath to the first witness. This was Mr. Jellicoe, who stepped into the box and directed a stony gaze at the apparently unconscious judge. The usual preliminaries having been gone through, Mr. Lorham proceeded to examine him. You were the testitor's solicitor and confidential agent, I believe. I was and am. How long have you known him? Twenty-seven years. Judging from your experience of him, should you say that he was a person likely to disappear voluntarily and suddenly to cease to communicate with his friends? No. Kindly give your reasons for that opinion. Such conduct on the part of the testitor would be entirely opposed to his habits and character, as they are known to me. He was exceedingly regular, and business-like in his dealings with me. When travelling abroad, he always kept me informed as to his whereabouts, or, if he was likely to be beyond reach of communication, he always advised me beforehand. One of my duties was to collect a pension which he drew from the Foreign Office, and on no occasion, previous to his disappearance, has he ever failed to furnish me punctually with the necessary documents. Had he, so far as you know, any reasons for wishing to disappear? No. When and where did you last see him alive? At six o'clock in the evening, on the fourteenth of October 1902, at one forty-one, Queen Square, Bloomsbury. Kindly tell us what happened on that occasion. The testitor had called for me at my office at a quarter-past three, and asked me to come with him to his house, to meet Dr. Norbury. I accompanied him to one forty-one, Queen Square, and shortly after we arrived, Dr. Norbury came to look at some antiquities that the testitor proposed to give to the British Museum. The gift consisted of a mummy and four canopic jars and other tomb furniture, which the testitor stipulated should be exhibited together in a single case, and in the state in which they were then presented. Of these objects, the mummy only was ready for inspection. The tomb furniture had not yet arrived in England, but was expected within a week. Dr. Norbury accepted the gift on behalf of the Museum, but could not take possession of the objects until he had communicated with the director and obtained his formal authority. The testitor accordingly gave me certain instructions concerning the delivery of the gift, as he was leaving England that evening. Are those instructions relevant to the subject of this inquiry? I think they are. The testitor was going to Paris, and perhaps from thence to Vienna. He instructed me to receive and unpack the tomb furniture on its arrival and to store it with the mummy in a particular room, where it was to remain for three weeks. If he returned within that time, he was to hand it over in person to the museum authorities. If he had not returned within that time, he desired me to notify the museum authorities that they were at liberty to take possession of and remove the collection at their convenience. From these instructions I gathered that the testitor was uncertain as to the length of his absence from England and the extent of his journey. Did he state precisely where he was going? No. He said he was going to Paris and perhaps to Vienna, but he gave no particulars and I asked for none. Do you, in fact, know where he went? No. He left the house at six o'clock wearing a long, heavy overcoat and carrying a suitcase and an umbrella. I wished him good-bye at the door and watched him walk away as if going toward Southampton Row. I have no idea where he went and I never saw him again. Had he no other luggage than the suitcase? I don't know, but I believe not. He was accustomed to travel with the bare necessaries and to buy anything further he wanted en route. Did he say anything to the servants as to the probable date of his return? There were no servants accepting the caretaker. The house was not used for residential purposes. The testitor slept and took his meals at his club, though he kept his clothes at the house. Did you receive any communication from him after he left? No. I never heard from him again in any way. I waited for three weeks as he had instructed me and then notified the museum authorities that the collection was ready for removal. Five days later Dr. Norbury came and took formal possession of it, and it was transferred to the museum forthwith. When did you next hear of the testitor? On the 23rd of November following, at a quarter past seven in the evening, Mr. George Hearst came to my rooms, which are over my office, and informed me that the testitor had called at his house, during his absence, and had been shown into the study to wait for him. Yet on his, Mr. Hearst's, arrival, it was found that the testitor had disappeared, without acquainting the servants of his intended departure, and without being seen by anyone to leave the house. Mr. Hearst thought this so remarkable, that he had hastened up to town to inform me. I also thought it a remarkable circumstance, especially as I had received no communication from the testitor, and we both decided that it was advisable to inform the testitor's brother, Godfrey, of what had happened. Accordingly Mr. Hearst and I proceeded as quickly as possible to Liverpool Street, and took the first train available to Woodford, where Mr. Godfrey Bellingham then resided. We arrived at his house at five minutes to nine, and were informed by the servant that he was not at home, but that his daughter was in the library, which was a detached building situated in the grounds. The servant lighted a lantern, and conducted us through the grounds to the library, where we found Mr. Godfrey Bellingham and Miss Bellingham. Mr. Godfrey had only just come in, and had entered by the back gate, which had a bell that rang in the library. Mr. Hearst informed Mr. Godfrey of what had occurred, and then we left the library to walk up to the house. A few paces from the library I noticed by the light of the lantern, which Mr. Godfrey was carrying, a small object lying on the lawn. I pointed it out to him, and he picked it up, and then we all recognized it as a scarab that the testitor was accustomed to wear on his watch-chain. It was fitted with a gold wire, passed through the suspension hole, and a gold ring. Both the wire and the ring were in position, but the ring was broken. We went to the house and questioned the servants as two visitors, but none of them had seen the testitor, and they all agreed that no visitor whatsoever had come to the house during the afternoon or evening. Mr. Godfrey and Miss Bellingham both declared that they had neither seen nor heard anything of the testitor, and were both unaware that he had returned to England. As the circumstances were somewhat disquieting, I communicated on the following morning with the police, and requested them to make inquiries, which they did, with the result that a suitcase bearing the initials J.B. was found to be lying unclaimed in the cloakroom at Charing Cross Station. I was able to identify the suitcase, as that which I had seen the testitor carry away from Queen Square. I was also able to identify some of the contents. I interviewed the cloakroom attendant, who informed me that the suitcase had been deposited on the 23rd about 4.15 p.m. He had no recollection of the person who deposited it. It remained unclaimed in the possession of the railway company for three months, and was then surrendered to me. Were there any marks or labels on it showing the route by which it had travelled? There were no labels on it, and no marks other than the initials J.B. Do you happen to know the testitor's age? Yes. He was 59, on the 11th of October 1902. Can you tell us what his height was? Yes. He was exactly 5 feet 8 inches. What sort of health had he? So far as I know, his health was good. I am not aware that he suffered from any disease. I am only judging by his appearance. Which was that of a healthy man. Should you describe him as well preserved, or otherwise? I should describe him as a well preserved man for his age. How should you describe his figure? I should describe him as rather broad and stout in build, and fairly muscular, though not exceptionally so. Mr. Lauren made a rapid note of these answers, and then said, You have told us, Mr. Jellicoe, that you have known the testitor intimately for twenty-seven years. Now, did you ever notice whether he was accustomed to wear any rings upon his fingers? He wore, upon the third finger of his left hand, a copy of an antique ring which bore the device of the eye of Osiris. That was the only ring he ever wore, as far as I know. Did he wear it constantly? Yes, necessarily, because it was too small for him, and having one squeezed it on, he was never able to get it off again. This was the sum of Mr. Jellicoe's evidence, and at its conclusion the witness glanced inquiringly at Mr. Bellingham's counsel. But Mr. Heath remained seated, attentively considering the notes that he had just made, and finding that there was to be no cross-examination, Mr. Jellicoe stepped down from the box. I leaned back on my bench, and turning my head, observed Miss Bellingham deep in thought. What do you think of it? I asked. It seems very complete and conclusive, she replied. And then, with a sigh, she murmured, Poor old Uncle John, how hard it sounds to talk of him in this cold-blooded, businesslike way, as the testitor, as if he were nothing but an algebraical sign. There isn't much room for sentiment, I suppose, in the proceedings of the probate court, I replied, to which she assented, and then asked, Who is this lady? This lady was a fashionably dressed young woman who had just bounced into the witness-box, and was now being sworn. With the preliminaries being finished, she answered Miss Bellingham's question and Mr. Lorams by stating that her name was Augustina Gwendolyn Dobbs, and that she was housemaid to Mr. George Hurst, of the poplar's Eltham. Mr. Hurst lives alone, I believe, said Mr. Loram. I don't know what you mean by that! Miss Dobbs began. But the barrister explained, I mean that I believe he is unmarried. Well, and what about it? The witness demanded tartly. I am asking you a question. I know that, said the witness viciously, and I say that you have no business to make any such insinuations to a respectable young lady, when there's a cookhousekeeper in a kitchen maid living in the house, and him old enough to be my father. Here his lordship flattened his eyelids with startling effect, and Mr. Loram interrupted. I make no insinuations, I merely ask. Is your employer Mr. Hurst an unmarried man, or is he not? I never asked him, said the witness sulkily. Please answer my question, yes or no. How can I answer your question? He may be married, or he may not. How do I know? I'm no private detective. Mr. Loram directed a stupefied gaze at the witness, and in the ensuing silence a plaintive voice came from the bench. Is that point material? Certainly my lord, replied Mr. Loram. Then as I see that you are calling Mr. Hurst, perhaps you had better put the question to him. He will probably know. Mr. Loram bowed, and as the judge subsided into his normal state of coma, he turned to the triumphant witness. Do you remember anything remarkable occurring on the 23rd of November, the year before last? Yes, Mr. John Bellingham called at our house. How did you know he was Mr. John Bellingham? I didn't, but he said he was, and I suppose he knew. At what time did he arrive? At twenty minutes past five in the evening. What happened then? I told him that Mr. Hurst had not come home yet, and he said he would wait for him in the study and write some letters. So I showed him into the study and shut the door. What happened next? Nothing. Then Mr. Hurst came home at his usual time, a quarter to six, and let himself in with his key. He went straight into the study, where I suppose Mr. Bellingham still was, so I took no notice, but laid the table for two. At six o'clock Mr. Hurst came into the dining room. He has tea in the city and dines at six, and when he saw the table laid for two, he asked the reason. I said, I thought Mr. Bellingham was staying to dinner. Mr. Bellingham says he, I didn't know he was here. Why didn't you tell me? He says, I thought he was with you, sir, I said. I showed him into the study, I said. Well, he wasn't there when I came in, he said, and he isn't there now, he said. Perhaps he has gone to wait in the drawing room, he said. So he went and looked in the drawing room, but he wasn't there. Then Mr. Hurst said, he thought Mr. Bellingham must have got tired of waiting and gone away, but I told him I was quite sure he hadn't, because I had been watching all the time. Then he asked me if Mr. Bellingham was alone, or whether his daughter was with him, and I said that it wasn't Mr. Bellingham at all, but Mr. John Bellingham, and then he was more surprised than ever. I said we had better search the house to make sure whether he was there or not, and Mr. Hurst said he would come with me. So we went all over the house and looked in all the rooms, but there was not a sign of Mr. Bellingham in any of them. Then Mr. Hurst got very nervous and upset, and when he had just snatched a little dinner, he ran off to catch the 631 train up to town. You say Mr. Bellingham could not have left the house because you were watching all the time. Where were you while you were watching? I was in the kitchen. I could see the front gate from the kitchen window. You say that you laid the table for two. Where did you lay it? In the dining room, of course. Could you see the front gate from the dining room? No, but I could see the study door. The study is opposite the dining room. Do you have to come upstairs to get from the kitchen to the dining room? Yes, of course you do. Then might not Mr. Bellingham have left the house while you were coming up the stairs? No, he couldn't have done. Why not? Because it would have been impossible. But why would it have been impossible? Because he couldn't have done it. I suggest that Mr. Bellingham left the house quietly while you were on the stairs. No, he didn't. How do you know he did not? I am quite sure he didn't. But how can you be certain? Because I would have seen him if he had. But I mean while you were on the stairs. He was in the study while I was on the stairs. How do you know he was in the study? Because I showed him in there and he hadn't come out. Mr. Lauren paused and took a deep breath and his lordship flattened his eyelids. Is there a side gate to the premises? The barrister resumed wearily. Yes, it opens into a narrow lane at the side of the house. And there is a French window in the study, is there not? Yes, it opens onto the small grass plot opposite the side gate. The window and the gate both have catches on the inside. Could it have been possible for Mr. Bellingham to let himself out into the lane? The window and the gate both have catches on the inside. He could have got out that way, but of course he didn't. Why not? Well, no gentleman would go creeping out the back way like a thief. Did you look to see if the French window was shut and fastened after you missed Mr. Bellingham? I looked at it when we shut the house up for the night. It was then shot and fastened on the inside. And the side gate? That gate was shot and latched. You have to slam the gate to make the latch fastened so no one could have gone out of the gate without being heard. Here the examination in chief ended, and Mr. Lorham sat down with an audible sigh of relief. Miss Stubbs was about to step down from the witness box when Mr. Heath rose to cross-examine. Did you see Mr. Bellingham in a good light? He asked. Pretty good. It was dark outside, but the hall lamp was a light. Kindly look at this. Here a small object was passed across to the witness. It is a trinket that Mr. Bellingham has stated to have carried, suspended from his watch-guard. Can you remember if he was wearing it in that manner when he came to the house? No, he was not. You are quite sure of that. Quite sure. Thank you, and now I want to ask you about the search that you have mentioned. You say that you went all over the house. Did you go into the study? No, at least not until Mr. Hearst had gone to London. When you did go in, was the window fastened? Yes. Could it have been fastened from the outside? No, there's no handle outside. What furniture is there in the study? There is a writing-table, a revolving chair, two easy chairs, two large bookcases, and a wardrobe that Mr. Hearst keeps his overcoats and hats in. Was the wardrobe locked? Yes. Was it locked when you went in? I'm sure I don't know. I don't go about trying the cupboards and drawers. What furniture is there in the drawing-room? A cabinet, six or seven chairs, a Chesterfield sofa, a piano, a silver table, and one or two occasional tables. Is the piano a grand or an upright? It's an upright grand. In what position is it placed? It stands across the corner near the window. Is there a sufficient room behind it for a man to conceal himself? Miss Dobbs was amused and did not dissemble. Oh, yes, she sniggered. There's plenty of room for a man to hide behind it. When you searched the drawing-room, did you look behind the piano? No, I didn't, Miss Dobbs replied scornfully. Did you look under the sofa? Certainly not. What did you do then? We opened the door and looked into the room. We were not looking for a cat or a monkey. We were looking for a middle-aged gentleman. And am I to take it that your search over the rest of the house was conducted in a similar manner? Certainly. We looked into the rooms, but we did not search under the beds or in the cupboards. Are all the rooms in the house in use as living or sleeping rooms? No. There is one room on the second floor that is used as a store and lumber room, and one on the first floor that Mr. Hirsh uses to store trunks and things that he is not using. Did you look in those rooms when you searched the house? No. Have you looked in them since? I have been in the lumber-room since, but not in the other. It has always kept locked. At this point an ominous flattening became apparent in his lordship's eyelids, but these symptoms passed when Mr. Heath sat down and indicated that he had no further questions to ask. This stops once more prepared to step down from the witness-box, when Mr. Lorham shot up like a jack-in-the-box. You have made certain statements, said he, concerning this scarab which Mr. Bellingham was accustomed to wear, suspended from his watch-guard. You say that he was not wearing it when he came to Mr. Hirsh's house on the 23rd of November, 1902. Are you quite sure of that? Quite sure. I must ask you to be very careful in your statement on this point. The question is a highly important one. Do you swear that the scarab was not hanging from his watch-guard? Yes, I do. Did you notice the watch-guard particularly? No, not particularly. Then what makes you sure that the scarab was not attached to it? It couldn't have been. Why could it not? Because if it had been there I should have seen it. What kind of watch-guard was Mr. Bellingham wearing? Oh, an ordinary sort of watch-guard. I mean, was it a chain, or a ribbon, or a strap? A chain, I think, or perhaps a ribbon, or it might have been a strap. His lordship flattened his eyelids, but made no further sign, and Mr. Lorm continued. Did you or did you not notice what kind of watch-guard Mr. Bellingham was wearing? I did not. Why should I? It was no business of mine. But yet, are you quite sure about the scarab? Yes, quite sure. You notice that, then? No, I didn't. How could I, when it wasn't there? Mr. Lorm paused and looked helplessly at the witness. A suppressed titter arose from the body of the court, and a faint voice from the bench inquired. Are you quite incapable of giving a straightforward answer? Miss Stobbs' only reply was to burst into tears, whereupon Mr. Lorm abruptly sat down and abandoned his re-examination. The witness box vacated by Miss Stobbs was occupied successively by Dr. Norbury, Mr. Hurst, and the cloakroom attendant, none of whom contributed any new facts, but merely corroborated the statements made by Mr. Jellico and the housemaid. Then came the laborer, who discovered the bones at Sidcup, and who repeated the evidence that he had given at the inquest, showing that the remains could not have been lying in the watercress bed more than two years. Finally, Dr. Summers was called. And after he had given a brief description of the bones that he had examined, was asked by Mr. Lorm. You have heard the description that Mr. Jellico has given of the testator? I have. Does that description apply to the person whose remains you examined? In a general way, it does. I must ask you for a direct answer. Yes or no? Does it apply? Yes. But I ought to say that my estimate of the height of the deceased is only approximate. Right so. Judging from your examination of those remains and from Mr. Jellico's description, might those remains be the remains of the testator, John Bellingham? Yes, they might. On receiving this admission, Mr. Lorm sat down, and Mr. Heath immediately rose to cross-examine. When you examined the remains, Dr. Summers, did you discover any personal peculiarities which would enable you to identify them as the remains of any one individual rather than any other individual of similar size, age, and proportions? No, I found nothing that would identify the remains as those of any particular individual. As Mr. Heath asked no further questions, the witness received his dismissal, and Mr. Lorm informed the court that that was his case. The judge bowed somnolently, and then Mr. Heath rose to address the court on behalf of the respondent. It was not a long speech, nor was it enriched by any displays of florid rhetoric. It concerned itself exclusively with a rebuttment of the arguments of the council for the petitioner. Having briefly pointed out that the period of absence was too short to give rise of itself to the presumption of death, Mr. Heath continued. The claim therefore rests upon evidence of a positive character. My learned friend asserts that the testator is presumably dead, and it is for him to prove what he has affirmed. Now, has he done this? I submit that he has not. He has argued with great force and ingenuity that the testator, being a bachelor, a solitary man without wife or child, dependent or master, public or private office of duty, or any bond, responsibility, or any other condition limiting his freedom of action, had no reason or inducement for absconding. This is my learned friend's argument, and he has conducted it with so much skill and ingenuity that he has not only succeeded in proving his case, he has proved a great deal too much. For if it is true, as my learned friend so justly argues, that a man thus unfettered by obligations of any kind has no reason for disappearing, is it not even more true that he has no reason for not disappearing? My friend has urged that the testator was at liberty to go where he pleased, when he pleased, and how he pleased, and that therefore there was no need for him to abscond. I reply, if he was at liberty to go away, wither, when, and how he pleased, why do we express surprise that he has made use of his liberty? My learned friend points out that the testator notified nobody of his intention of going away and has acquainted no one with his whereabouts. But I ask, whom should he have notified? He was responsible to nobody. There was no one dependent upon him. His presence or absence was the concern of nobody but himself. The circumstances suddenly arising made it desirable that he should go abroad. Why should he not go? I say there was no reason whatever. My learned friend has said that the testator went away, leaving his affairs to take care of themselves. Now, gentlemen, I ask you, if this can fairly be said of a man whose affairs are, as they have been for many years, in the hands of a highly capable, completely trustworthy agent, who is better acquainted with them than the testator himself, clearly it cannot. To conclude this part of the argument, I submit that the circumstances of the so-called disappearance of the testator present nothing out of the ordinary. The testator is a man of ample means, without any responsibilities to fetter his movements, and has been in the constant habit of traveling, often into remote and distant regions. The mere fact that he has been absent somewhat longer than usual affords no ground whatever for the drastic proceeding of presumption of death and taking possession of his property. With reference to the human remains, which have been mentioned in connection with the case, I need say but little. The attempt to connect them with the testator has failed completely. You yourselves have heard Dr. Summer state on oath that they cannot be identified as the remains of any particular person. That would seem to dispose of them effectually. I must remark upon a very singular point that has been raised by the learned counsel for the petitioner, which is this. My learned friend points out that these remains were discovered near Elfam and near Woodford, and that the testator was last seen alive at one of these two places. This he considers for some reason to be a highly significant fact, but I cannot agree with him. If the testator had been last seen alive at Woodford and the remains had been found at Woodford, or if he had disappeared from Elfam and the remains had been found at Elfam, that would have had some significance. It would only have been last seen at one of the places, whereas the remains have been found at both places. Here again, my learned friend seems to have proved too much. But I need not occupy your time further. I repeat that, in order to justify us in presuming the death of the testator, clear and positive evidence would be necessary. No such evidence has been brought forward. Accordingly, seeing that the testator may return at any time and is entitled to find his property intact, I shall ask you for a verdict that will secure to him this measure of ordinary justice. At the conclusion of Mr. Heath's speech, the judge, as if awakening from a refreshing nap opened his eyes, and uncommonly shrewd, intelligent eyes they were when the expressive eyelids were duly tucked up out of the way. He commenced by reading over a part of the will and certain notes, which he appeared to have made in some miraculous fashion with his eyes shut, and then proceeded to review the evidence and the council's arguments for the instruction of the jury. Before considering the evidence which you have heard, gentlemen, he said, it will be well for me to say a few words to you on the general aspects of the case which is occupying our attention. If a person goes abroad, or disappears from his home and his ordinary places of resort, and is absent for a long period of time, the presumption of death arises at the expiration of seven years from the date on which he was last heard of. That is to say, that the total disappearance of an individual for seven years constitutes presumptive evidence that the said individual is dead, and the presumption can be set aside only by the production of evidence that he was alive at some time within that period of seven years. But, if on the other hand, it is sought to presume the death of a person who has been absent for a shorter period than seven years, it is necessary to produce such evidence as shall make it highly probable that the said person is dead. Of course, presumption implies supposition as opposed to actual demonstration, but nevertheless the evidence in such a case must be of a kind that tends to create a very strong belief that death has occurred, and I need hardly say that the shorter the period of absence, the more convincing must be the evidence. In the present case, the testitor John Bellingham has been absent somewhat under two years. This is a relatively short period, and in itself gives rise to no presumption of death. Nevertheless, death has been presumed in a case where this period of absence was even shorter and the insurance recovered, but here the evidence supporting the belief in the occurrence of death was exceedingly weighty. The testitor in this case was a shipmaster, and his disappearance was accompanied by the disappearance of the ship and the entire ship's company in the course of a voyage from London to Marseilles. The loss of the ship and her crew was the only reasonable explanation of the disappearance, and short of actual demonstration, the facts offered convincing evidence of the death of all persons on board. I mention this case as an illustration. You are not dealing with speculative probabilities. You are contemplating a very momentous proceeding, and you must be very sure of your ground. Consider what it is that you are asked to do. The petitioner asked permission to presume the death of the testitor in order that the testitor's property may be distributed among the beneficiaries under the will. The granting of such permission involves us in the gravest responsibility. An ill-considered decision might be productive of a serious injustice to the testitor, an injustice that could never be remedied. Hence it is incumbent upon you to weigh the evidence with the greatest care, to come to no decision without the profoundest consideration of all the facts. The evidence, as you have heard, divides itself into two parts, that relating to the circumstances of the testitor's disappearance, and that relating to certain human remains. In connection with the latter, I can only express my surprise and regret that the application was not postponed until the completion of the coroner's inquest, and leave you to consider the evidence. You will bear in mind that Dr. Summers has stated explicitly that the remains cannot be identified as those of any particular individual, but that the testitor and the unknown deceased had so many points of resemblance that they might possibly be one and the same person. With reference to the circumstances of the disappearance, you have heard the evidence of Mr. Jellicoe to the effect that the testitor has on no previous occasion gone abroad without informing him as to his proposed destination. But in considering what weight you are to give to this statement, you will bear in mind that when the testitor set out for Paris, after his interview with Dr. Norbury, he left Mr. Jellicoe without any information as to his specific destination, his address in Paris, or the precise state when he should return, and that Mr. Jellicoe was unable to tell us where the testitor went or what was his business. Mr. Jellicoe was, in fact, for a time without any means of tracing the testitor or ascertaining his whereabouts. The evidence of the housemaid, Dobbs and Mr. Hearst, is rather confusing. It appears that the testitor came to the house, and when looked for later was not to be found. A search of the premises showed that he was not in the house. Whence it seems to follow that he must have left it, but since no one was informed of his intention to leave, and he had expressed the intention of staying to see Mr. Hearst, his conduct in thus going away surreptitiously must appear somewhat eccentric. The point that you have to consider, therefore, is whether a person who is capable of thus departing in a surreptitious and eccentric manner from a house, without giving notice to the servants, is capable also of departing in a surreptitious and eccentric manner from his usual places of resort, without giving any notice to his friends or thereafter informing them of his whereabouts. The questions then, gentlemen, that you have to ask yourselves before deciding on your verdict are two. First are the circumstances of the testitor's disappearance and his continued absence, incongruous with his habits and personal peculiarities as they are known to you, and second, are there any facts which indicate in a positive manner that the testitor is dead. Ask yourselves these questions, gentlemen, and the answers to them furnished by the evidence that you have heard will guide you to your decision. Having delivered himself of the above instructions, the judge applied himself to the perusal of the will with professional gusto, in which occupation he was presently disturbed by the announcement of the foreman of the jury that a verdict had been agreed upon. The judge sat up and glanced at the jury box, and when the foreman proceeded to state that, we find no sufficient reason for presuming the testitor, John Bellingham, to be dead, he nodded approvingly. Evidently that was his opinion, too, as he was careful to explain, when he conveyed to Mr. Lorrum the refusal of the court to grant the permission applied for. The decision was a great relief to me, and also, I think, to Miss Bellingham, but most of all to her father, who, with instinctive good manners, since he could not suppress a smile of triumph, rose and hastily stumped out of the court so that the discomfited hearse should not see him. His daughter and I followed, and as we left the court, she remarked with a smile, so our pupperism is not, after all, made absolute. There is still a chance for us in the chapter of accidents, and perhaps even for poor old Uncle John. CHAPTER XV The morning after the hearing saw me setting forth on my round in more than usually good spirits. The round itself was but a short one, for my list contained only a couple of chronics, and this perhaps contributed to my cheerful outlook on life. But there were other reasons. The decision of the court had come as an unexpected reprieve, and the ruin of my friend's prospects was at least postponed. Then I had learned that Thorndike was back from Bristol, and wished me to look in on him. And finally Miss Bellingham had agreed to spend this very afternoon with me, browsing round the galleries at the British Museum. I had disposed of my two patients by a quarter to eleven, and three minutes later was striding down my record, all agog to hear what Thorndike had to say, with reference to my notes on the inquest. The oak was open when I arrived at his chambers, and a modest flourish on the little brass knocker of the inner door was answered by my quantum teacher himself. "'How good of you, Berkeley!' he said, shaking hands genially. "'To look me up so early, I am alone, just looking through the report of the evidence of yesterday's proceedings.' He placed an easy chair for me, and gathering up a bundle of typewritten papers, laid them aside on the table. "'Why, are you surprised at the decision?' I asked. "'No,' he answered. "'Two years is a short period of absence, but still, it might easily have gone the other way. I am greatly relieved. The respite gives us time to carry out our investigations without undue hurry.' "'Did you find my notes of any use?' I asked. "'He's did.' Poulton handed them to him, and they were invaluable to him for his cross-examination. I haven't seen them yet. In fact, I have only just got them back from him. Let us go through them together now.' He opened a drawer and, taking from it my notebook, seated himself, and began to read through my notes with grave attention, while I stood and looked shyly over his shoulder. On the page that contained my sketches of the sit-cup arm, showing the distribution of the snail's eggs on the bones, he lingered with a faint smile that made me turn hot and red. "'Those sketches look rather footy,' I said, but I had to put something in my notebook. You did not attach any importance, then, to the facts that they illustrated? No. The egg-patches were there, so I noted the fact. That's all. "'I congratulate you, Berkeley. There is not one man in twenty who would have had the sense to make a careful note of what he considers an unimportant or irrelevant fact, and the investigator who notes only those things that appear significant is perfectly useless. He gives himself no material for reconsideration. But you don't mean that these egg-patches and worm-tubes appear to you, to have no significance at all?' "'Oh, of course. They show the position in which the bones were lying.' "'Exactly. The arm was lying, fully extended, with the dorsal side uppermost. But we also learned from these egg-patches that the hand had been separated from the arm before it was thrown into the pond, and there is something very remarkable in that. I leaned over his shoulder and gazed at my sketches, amazed at the rapidity with which he had reconstructed the limb from my rough drawings of the individual bones. "'I don't quite see how you arrived at it, though,' I said. "'Well, look at your drawings. The egg-patches are on the dorsal surface of the scapula, the humerus, and the bones of the forearm. But here you have shown six of the bones of the hand, two metacarpals, the osmagdom, and three phalanges, and they all have the egg-patches on the palmar surface. Therefore, the hand was lying, palm upward. But the hand may have been pronated. If you mean pronated in relation to the arm, that is impossible. For the position of the egg-patches shows clearly that the bones of the arm are lying in the position of supination. Thus, the dorsal surface of the arm and the palmar surface of the hand, respectively, were uppermost, which is an anatomical impossibility, so long as the hand is attached to the arm. But might not the hand have become detached after lying in the pond for some time? No, it could not have been detached until the ligaments had decayed, and if it had been separated after the decay of the soft parts, the bones would have been thrown into disorder. But the egg-patches are all on the palmar surface, showing that the bones were still in their normal relative positions. No, Berkeley, that hand was thrown into the pond separately from the arm. But why should it have been, I asked. Ah, there is a very pretty little problem for you to consider, and meantime, let me tell you that your expedition has been a brilliant success. You are an excellent observer. Your only fault is that when you have noted certain facts, you don't seem fully to appreciate their significance, which is merely a matter of inexperience. As to the facts that you have collected, several of them are of prime importance. I am glad you are satisfied, said I, though I don't see that I have discovered much, excepting those snail's eggs, and they don't seem to have advanced matters much. A definite fact, Berkeley, is a definite asset. Perhaps we may presently find a little space in our Chinese puzzle which this fact of the detached hand will just drop into. But tell me, did you find nothing unexpected or suggestive about those bones, as to their number and condition? For instance? Well, I thought it a little queer that the scapula and the clavicle should be there. I should have expected him to cut the arm off at the shoulder joint. Yes, said Thorndike, so should I, and so it has been done in every case of dismemberment that I am acquainted with. To an ordinary person, the arm seems to join onto the trunk at the shoulder joint, and that is where he would naturally sever it. What explanation do you suggest of this unusual mode of severing the arm? Do you think the fellow could have been a butcher? I asked, remembering Dr. Summers' remark. This is the way a shoulder of mutton is taken off. No, replied Thorndike. A butcher includes the scapula in a shoulder of mutton for a specific purpose, namely, to take off a given quantity of meat, and also, as a sheep has no clavicle, it is the easiest way to detach the limb. But I imagine a butcher would find himself in difficulties if he attempted to take off a man's arm in that way. The clavicle would be a new and perplexing feature. Then, too, a butcher does not deal very delicately with his subject. If he has to divide a joint, he just cuts through it, and does not trouble himself to avoid marking the bones. But you note here that there is not a single scratch or score on any one of the bones, not even where the finger was removed. Now, if you have ever prepared bones for a museum, as I have, you will remember the extreme care that is necessary in disarticulating joints to avoid disfiguring the articular ends of the bones with cuts and scratches. Then you think that the person who dismembered this body must have had some anatomical knowledge and skill? That is what has been suggested, the suggestion is not mine. Then I infer that you don't agree. Thorndike smiled. I am sorry to be so cryptic, Berkeley, but you understand that I can't make statements. Still I am trying to lead you to make certain inferences from the facts that are in your possession. If I make the right inferences, will you tell me?" I asked. It won't be necessary. He answered with the same quiet smile. When you have fitted the puzzle together, you don't need to be told you have done it. It was most infernally tantalizing. I pondered on the problem with a scowl of such intense cogitation that Thorndike laughed outright. It seems to me, I said at length, that the identity of the remains is the primary question, and that it is a question of fact. It doesn't seem any use to speculate about it. Exactly. Either these bones are the remains of John Bellingham, or they are not. There will be no doubt on the subject when all the bones are assembled, if ever they are, and the settlement of that question will probably throw light on the further question, who deposited them in the places in which they were found. But, to return to your observations, did you gather nothing from the other bones, from the complete state of the neck vertebrae, for instance? Well, it did strike me as rather odd that the fellow should have gone to the trouble of separating the atlas from the skull. He must have been pretty handy with the scalpel, to have done it as cleanly as he seems to have done. But I don't see why he should have gone about the business in the most inconvenient way. You notice the uniformity of method? He has separated the head from the spine, instead of cutting through the spine lower down, as most persons would have done. He removed the arms with the entire shoulder girdle, instead of simply cutting them off at the shoulder joints. Even in the thighs, the same peculiarity appears. For another case was the kneecap found with the thigh bone, although it seems to have been searched for. Now, the obvious way to divide the leg is to cut through the patellar ligament, leaving the kneecap attached to the thigh. But in this case, the kneecap appears to have been left attached to the shank. Can you explain why this person should have adopted this unusual and rather inconvenient method? Can you suggest a motive for this procedure, or can you think of any circumstance which might lead a person to adopt this method by preference? It seems as if he wished, for some reason, to divide the body into definite anatomical regions. Tharndyke chuckled. You are not offering that suggestion as an explanation, are you? Because it would require more explaining than the original problem, and it is not even true. Anatomically speaking, the kneecap apportains to the thigh rather than to the shank. It is a sesamoid bone belonging to the thigh muscles, yet in this case it has been left attached, apparently, to the shank. No, Berkeley, that cat won't jump. Our unknown operator was not preparing a skeleton as a museum specimen. He was dividing a body up into convenient-sized portions for the purpose of conveying them to various ponds. Now, what circumstances might have led him to divide it in this peculiar manner? I am afraid I have no suggestions to offer, have you? Tharndyke suddenly lapsed into ambiguity. I think, he said, it is possible to conceive such circumstances, and so probably will you, if you think it over? Did you gather anything of importance from the evidence of the inquest, I asked? It is difficult to say, he replied. The whole of my conclusions, in this case, are based on what is virtually circumstantial evidence. I have not one single fact of which I can say that it admits only of a single interpretation. Still, it must be remembered that even the most inconclusive facts, if sufficiently multiplied, yield a highly conclusive total, and my little pile of evidence is growing, particle by particle, but we mustn't sit here gossiping at this hour of the day. I have to consult with Marchmont, and you say that you have an early afternoon engagement. We can walk together as far as Fleet Street. A minute or two later we went our respective ways, Tharndyke toward Lombard Street and I to Feder Lane, not unmindful of those coming events that were casting so agreeable a shadow before them. There was only one message awaiting me, and when a doffus had delivered it, amidst mephitic fumes that rose from the basement, premonitory of Fried Place, I pocketed my stethoscope and betook myself to Gunpowder Alley, the aristocratic abode of my patient, joyfully threading the now familiar passages of Goff Square and Wine Office Court, and meditating pleasantly on the curious literary flavor that pervades these little known regions. For the shade of the author of Rassilis still seems to haunt the scenes of his titanic labors and his ponderous but homely and temperate rejoicings. Every court and alley whispers of books and of the making of books. Forms of type trundled noisily on trolleys by ink-smeared boys salute the wayfarer at odd corners. Piles of strawboard, rolls or bales of paper, drums of printing ink, or roller compositions stand on the pavement outside dark entries. Invented windows give glimpses into hadian caverns teneted by legions of printer's devils, and the very air is charged with the hum of press and with odors of glue and paste and oil. The entire neighborhood is given up to the printer and binder, and even my patient turned out to be a guillotine knife grinder, a ferocious and revolutionary calling strangely at variance with his harmless appearance and meek bearing. I was in good time at my trist, despite the hindrances of fried place and invalid guillotine-ist, but early as I was, Miss Bellingham was already waiting in the garden. She had been filling a bowl with flowers, ready to sally forth. It is quite like old times, she said, as we turned into Fetter Lane, to be going to the museum together. It brings back the tell-out-our-mar tablets and all your kindness and unselfish labor. I suppose we shall walk there to-day?" Certainly I replied. I am not going to share your society with the common mortals who ride in omnibuses. That would be sheer, sinful waste. Besides, it is more companionable to walk. Yes, it is, and the bustle of the streets makes one more appreciative of the quiet of the museum. What are we going to look at when we get there? You must decide that, I replied. You know the collection much better than I do. Well now, she mused, I wonder what you would like to see, or in other words, what I should like you to see. The old English pottery is rather fascinating, especially the fulmerware. I rather think I shall take you to see that. She reflected awhile, and then, just as we reached the gate of Staple Inn, she stopped and looked thoughtfully down the Grayson Road. You have taken a great interest in our case, as Dr. Thorndy calls it. Would you like to see the churchyard where Uncle John wished to be buried? It is a little out of our way, but we are not in a hurry, are we? I certainly was not. Any deviation that might prolong our walk was welcome, and asked the place, why, all places were alike to me, if only she were by my side. Besides, the churchyard was really of some interest. Since it was undoubtedly the exciting cause of the obnoxious paragraph too of the will, I accordingly expressed a desire to make its acquaintance, and we crossed to the entrance of Grayson Road. Do you ever try, she asked, as we turned down the dingy thoroughfare, to picture familiar places as they looked a couple of hundred years ago? Yes, I answered, and very difficult I find it. One has to manufacture the materials for reconstruction, and then the present aspect of the place will keep uptooting itself. But some places are easier to reconstitute than others. That is what I find, said she. Now Holburn, for example, is quite easy to reconstruct, though I dare say the imaginary form isn't a bit like the original, but there are fragments left, like staple in and the front of Grayson, and then one has seen prints of the old middle row and some of the taverns, so that one has some material with which to help out one's imagination. But this road we are walking in always baffles me. It looks so old and yet is, for the most part, so new that I find it impossible to make a satisfactory picture of its appearance, say, when Sir Roger DeCoverly might have strolled in Grayson's walks, or farther back when Francis Bacon had chambers in the inn. I imagine, said I, that part of the difficulty is in the mixed character of the neighborhood. Here on the one side is old Grayson, not much change since Bacon's time, his chambers are still to be seen, I think, over the gateway, and there on the clerkenwell side is a dance and rather squalid neighborhood, which has grown up over a region partly rural and wholly fugitive in character. Places like Bagnic Wells and Hockley in the whole would not have had many buildings that were likely to survive, and in the absence of surviving specimens, the imagination hasn't much to work from. I dare say you are right, said she. Certainly the perluse of old clerkenwell present a very confused picture to me, whereas in the case of an old street like, say, Great Ormond Street, one has only to sweep away the modern buildings and replace them with glorious old houses, like the few that remain. Dig up the roadway and pavements and lay down cobblestones, play at a few wooden posts, hang up one or two oil lamps, and the transformation is complete, and a very delightful transformation it is. Very delightful, which, by the way, is a melancholy thought, for we ought to be doing better work than our forefathers, whereas what we actually do is to pull down the old buildings, clap the doorways, porticoes, paneling, and mantles in our museums, and then run up something inexpensive and useful and deadly uninteresting in their place. Like Empanion looked at me and laughed softly, for a naturally cheerful and even gay young man, said she, you are most amazingly pessimistic. The mantle of Jeremiah, if ever he wore one, seems to have fallen on you, but without, in the least, impairing your good spirits, except in regard to matters architectural. I have much to be thankful for, said I. Am I not taken to the museum by a fair lady, and does she not stay me with mummy cases, and comfort me with crockery? Pottery, she corrected, and then, as we met a party of grave-looking women emerging from a side street, she said, I suppose those are lady medical students. Yes, on their way to the Royal Free Hospital, note the gravity of their demeanor and contrast it with the levity of the male student. I was doing so, she answered, and wondering why professional women are usually so much more serious than men. Perhaps, I suggested, it is a matter of selection. A peculiar type of woman is attracted to the professions, whereas every man has to earn his living as a matter of course. Yes, I dare say that is the explanation. This is our turning. We passed into Heathcote Street, at the end of which was an open gate giving entrance to one of those disused and metamorphosed burial grounds that are to be met with in the older districts of London, in which the dispossessed dead are jostled into corners to make room for the living. Many of the headstones were still standing, and others, displaced to make room for asphalted walks and seats, were ranged by the walls exhibiting inscriptions made meaningless by their removal. It was a pleasant enough place on this summer afternoon, contrasted with the dingy streets once we had come, though its grass was faded and yellow, and the Twitter of the birds and the trees mingled with the hideous board school draws of the children who played around the seats and the few remaining tombs. So this is the last resting place of the illustrious house of Bellingham, said I. Yes, we are not the only distinguished people who repose in this place. The daughter of no less a person than Richard Cromwell is buried here, and the tomb is still standing, but perhaps you have been here before and know it. I don't think I have ever been here before, and yet there is something about the place that seems familiar. I looked around, cuddling my brains for the key to the dimly reminiscent sensations that the place evoked, until suddenly I caught sight of a group of buildings away to the west, enclosed within a wall high end by a wooden trellis. Yes, of course, I exclaimed, I remember the place now. I have never been in this part before, but in that enclosure beyond, which opens at the end of Henrietta Street. There used to be, and may still, for all I know, a school of anatomy, at which I attended in my first year. In fact, I did my first dissection there. There was a certain gruesome appropriateness in the position of the school, remarked Miss Bellingham. It would have been really convenient in the days of the resurrection men. Your material would have been delivered at your very door. Was it a large school? The attendance varied according to the time of the year. Sometimes I worked there quite alone. I used to let myself in with a key, and hoist my subject out of a sort of sepulchre tank by means of a chain tackle. It was a ghoulish business. You have no idea how awful the body used to look to my unaccustomed eyes, as it rose slowly out of the tank. It was like the resurrection scene that you see on some old tombstones, where the deceased is shown rising out of his coffin while the skeleton, Death, falls vanquished with his dart shattered and his crown toppling off. I remember, too, that the demonstrator used to wear a blue apron, which created a sort of impression of a cannibal butcher shop. But I'm afraid I am shocking you. No, you are not. Every profession has its unpresentable aspects, which ought not to be seen by outsiders. Think of the sculptor's studio and of the sculptor himself, when he is modeling a large figure or a group in clay. He might be a bricklayer or a road sweeper, if you judge by his appearance. This is the tomb I was telling you about. We halted before the plain coffer of stone, weathered and wasted by age, but yet kept in decent repair by some pious hands, and read the inscription, setting forth with modest pride, that here reposed Anna, sixth daughter of Richard Cromwell, the Protector. It was a simple monument and commonplace enough, with the crude severity of the ascetic age to which it belonged. But still it carried the mind back to those stirring times when the leafy shades of grays in lane must have resounded with the clank of weapons and the tramp of armed men, when this bald recreation ground was a rustic churchyard, standing amidst green fields and hedgerows, and countrymen leading their pack-horses into London through the lane would stop to look in over the wooden gate. Miss Bellingham looked at me critically as I stood thus reflecting, and presently remarked, I think you and I have a good many mental habits in common. I looked up inquiringly, and she continued, I noticed that an old tombstone seems to set you meditating, so it does me. When I look at an ancient monument, and especially an old headstone, I find myself almost unconsciously retracing the years to the date that is written on the stone. Why do you think that is? Why should a monument be so stimulating to the imagination? And why should a common headstone be more so than any other? I suppose it is, I answered reflectively, that a churchyard monument is a peculiarly personal thing, and apportains in a peculiar way to a particular time. And the circumstance that it has stood untouched by the passing years, while everything around has changed, helps the imagination to span the interval. And the common headstone, the memorial of some dead and gone farmer or laborer who lived and died in the village hard by, is still more intimate and suggestive. The rustic childish sculpture of the village mason, and the artless dogarole of the village schoolmaster, bring back the time and place and the conditions of life more vividly than the more scholarly inscriptions, and the more artistic enrichments of monuments of greater pretensions. But where are your own family tombstones? They are over in that farther corner. There is an intelligent but inopportune person apparently copying the epitaphs. I wish he would go away. I want to show them to you. I now notice for the first time an individual engaged, no book in hand, in making a careful survey of a group of old headstones. Evidently he was making a copy of the inscriptions, for not only was he pouring attentively over the writing on the face of the stone, but now and again he helped out his vision by running his fingers over the worn lettering. That is my grandfather's tombstone that he is copying now, said Miss Bellingham, and even as she spoke, the man turned and directed a searching glance at us with a pair of keen, spectacled eyes. Simultaneously we uttered an exclamation of surprise, for the investigator was Mr. Jellicoe. CHAPTER XVI. Oh Artemidoris, farewell. Whether or not Mr. Jellicoe was surprised to see us, it is impossible to say. His countenance, which served the ordinary purposes of a face, in as much as it contained the principal organs of special sense, with inlets to the elementary and respiratory tracks, was, as an apparatus for the expression of the emotions, a total failure. To a thought-reader it would have been about as helpful as the face carved upon the handle of an umbrella, a comparison suggested, perhaps, by a certain resemblance to such an object. He advanced, holding open his notebook and pencil, and having saluted us with a stiff bow and an old-fashioned flourish of his hat, shook hands rheumatically, and waited for us to speak. This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Jellicoe, said Miss Bellingham. It is very good of you to say so, he replied. And quite a coincidence that we should all happen to come here on the same day. A coincidence, certainly, he admitted, and if we had all happened not to come, which must have occurred frequently, that also would have been a coincidence. I suppose it would, said she, but I hope we are not interrupting you. Thank you, no. I had just finished when I had the pleasure of perceiving you. You were making some notes in reference to the case, I imagine, said I. It was an impertinent question, but with malice a forethought for the mere pleasure of hearing him evaded. The case, he repeated. You are referring, perhaps, to Stevens versus the Parish Council? I think Dr. Berkeley was referring to the case of my uncle's will, Miss Bellingham said quite gravely, though with a suspicious dimpling about the corners of her mouth. Indeed, said Mr. Jellicoe, there is a case, is there, a suit? I mean the proceedings instituted by Mr. Hearst. Oh, but that was merely an application to the court, and is, moreover, finished and done with. At least so I understand. I speak, of course, subject to correction. I am not acting for Mr. Hearst. You will be pleased to remember. As a matter of fact, he continued after a brief pause, I was just refreshing my memory as to the wording of the inscriptions on these stones, especially that of your grandfather, Francis Bellingham. It has occurred to me that if it should appear by the finding of the coroner's jury that your uncle is deceased, it would be proper and decorous that some memorial should be placed here. But as the burial ground is closed, there might be some difficulty about erecting a new monument, whereas there would probably be none in adding an inscription to one already existing. Hence, these investigations. For, if the inscriptions on your grandfather's stone had set forth that, here rests the body of Francis Bellingham, it would have been manifestly improper to add also that of John Bellingham, son of the above. Fortunately, the inscription was more discreetly drafted, merely recording the fact that this monument is sacred to the memory of the said Francis, and not committing itself as to the whereabouts of the remains. But perhaps I am interrupting you. No, not at all, replied Miss Bellingham, which was grossly untrue. He was interrupting me most intolerably. We were going to the British Museum, and just looked in here on our way. Ah! said Mr. Delaco. Now I happen to be going to the Museum, too, to see Dr. Norbury. I suppose that is another coincidence? Certainly it is, Miss Bellingham replied, and then she asked, Shall we walk together? And the old curmudgeon actually said yes, con, found him. We returned to the Grey's Inn Road, where, as there was now room for us to walk abreast, I proceeded to indemnify myself for the lawyer's unwelcome company by leading the conversation back to the subject of the missing man. Was there anything, Mr. Delaco, in Mr. John Bellingham's state of health, that would make it probable that he might die suddenly? The lawyer looked at me suspiciously for a few moments, and then remarked, you seem to be greatly interested in John Bellingham and his affairs. I am. My friends are deeply concerned in them, and the case itself is of more than common interest, from a professional point of view. And what is the bearing of this particular question? Surely it is obvious, said I, if a missing man is known to have suffered from some affection, such as heart disease, aneurysm, or arterial degeneration, likely to produce sudden death, that fact will surely be highly material to the question as to whether he is probably dead or alive. No doubt you are right, said Mr. Delaco. I have little knowledge of medical affairs, but doubtless you are right. As to the question itself, I am Mr. Bellingham's lawyer, not his doctor. His health is a matter that lies outside my jurisdiction. But you heard my evidence, in court, to the effect that the testitor appeared, to my untutored observation, to be a healthy man. I can say no more now. If the question is of any importance, said Miss Bellingham, I wonder they did not call his doctor and settle it definitely. My own impression is that he was, or is, rather a strong and sound man. He certainly recovered very quickly and completely after his accident. What accident was that? I asked. Oh, hasn't my father told you? It occurred while he was staying with us. He slipped from a curb and broke one of the bones of the left ankle. Somebody's fracture. Pots? Yes, that was the name, Pots Fracture, and he broke both his kneecaps as well. Sir Morgan Bennett had to perform an operation, or he would have been a cripple for life. As it was, he was about again in a few weeks. Apparently none the worse except for a slight weakness of the left ankle. Could he walk upstairs? I asked. Oh, yes, and play golf and ride a bicycle. You are sure he broke both kneecaps? Quite sure. I remember that it was mentioned as an uncommon injury, and that Sir Morgan seemed quite pleased with him for doing it. That sounds rather libelous, but I expect he was pleased with the result of the operation. He might well be. Here there was a brief lull in the conversation, and even as I was trying to think of a poser for Mr. Jellico, that gentleman took the opportunity to change the subject. Are you going to the Egyptian rooms? He asked. No, replied Miss Bellingham. We are going to look at the pottery. Ancient or modern? That old fulhamware is what chiefly interests us at present, that of the seventeenth century. I don't know whether you call that ancient or modern. Neither do I, said Mr. Jellico. Antiquity and modernity are terms that have no fixed connotation. They are purely relative, and their application in a particular instance has to be determined by a sort of sliding scale. To a furniture collector, a tutor chair or a Jacobian chest is ancient. To an architect, their period is modern, whereas an 11th century church is ancient. But to an Egyptologist, accustomed to remains of a vast antiquity, both are products of modern periods, separated by an insignificant interval. And I suppose, he added reflectively, that to a geologist, the traces of the very earliest dawn of human history, appertain only to the recent period. Conceptions of time, like all other conceptions, are relative. You would appear to be a disciple of Herbert Spencer, I remarked. I am a disciple of Arthur Jellico, sir, he retorted, and I believed him. By the time we had reached the museum he had become almost genial, and if less amusing in this frame, he was so much more instructive and entertaining that I refrained from baiting him, and permitted him to discuss his favorite topic unhindered, especially since my companion listened with lively interest. Nor, when we entered the great hall, did he relinquish possession of us, and we followed submissively, as he led the way past the winged halls of Nineveh and the great seated statues, until we found ourselves, almost without the exercise of our volition, in the upper room, amidst the glaring mummy cases that had witnessed the birth of my friendship with Ruth Bellingham. Before I leave you, said Mr. Jellico, I should like to show you that mummy that we were discussing the other evening, the one you remember that my friend John Bellingham presented to the museum a little time before his disappearance. The point that I mentioned is only a trivial one, but it may become of interest hereafter, if any plausible explanation should be forthcoming. He led us along the room until we arrived at the case containing John Bellingham's gift, where he halted and gazed in at the mummy with the affectionate reflectiveness of the connoisseur. The bitumen, quoting, was what we were discussing, Ms. Bellingham, said he. You have seen it, of course. Yes, she answered, it is a dreadful disfigurement, isn't it? Aesthetically it is to be deplored, but it adds a certain speculative interest to this specimen. You notice that the black coating leaves the principal decoration and the whole of the inscription untouched, which is precisely the part that one would expect to find covered up, whereas the feet and the back, which probably bore no writing, are quite thickly crusted. If you stoop down you can see that the bitumen was dabbed freely into the lacings of the back, where it served no purpose, so that even the strings are embedded. He stooped as he spoke and peered up inquisitively at the back of the mummy, where it was visible between the supports. Has Dr. Norbury any explanation to offer? asked Ms. Bellingham. None, whatever, replied Mr. Delaco. He finds it as great a mystery as I do, but he thinks that we may get some suggestion from the director when he comes back. He is a very great authority, as you know, and a practical excavator of great experience, too. But I mustn't stay here talking of these things, and keeping you from your pottery. Perhaps I have stayed too long already. If I have, I ask your pardon, and I will now wish you a very good afternoon. With a sudden return to his customary wooden impassivity, he shook hands with us, bowed stiffly, and took himself off toward the curator's office. What a strange man that is, said Ms. Bellingham, as Mr. Delaco disappeared through the doorway at the end of the room. What perhaps I should say a strange being, for I can hardly think of him as a man. I have never met any other human creature at all like him. He is certainly a queer old fogey, I agreed. Yes, but there is something more than that. He is so emotionless, so remote and aloof, from all mundane concerns. He moves among ordinary men and women, but as a mere presence, an unmoved spectator of their actions, quite dispassionate and impersonal. Yes, he is astonishingly self-contained. In fact, he seems, as you say, to go to and fro among men, enveloped in a sort of infernal atmosphere of his own, like Marley's ghost. But he is lively and human enough, as soon as the subject of Egyptian antiquities is broached. Lively, but not human, he is always, to me, quite unhuman. Even when he is most interested and even enthusiastic, he is a mere personification of knowledge. Nature ought to have furnished him with an ibis's head like Tahoudi. Then he would have looked his part. He would have made a rare sensation in Lincoln's Inn, if he had, said I, and we both laughed heartily at the imaginary picture of Tahoudi Jellicoe, slender-beaked and top-hatted, going about his business in Lincoln's Inn and the law courts. Insensibly, as we talked, we had drawn near to the mummy of Artemidora's, and now my companion halted before the case, with her thoughtful gray eyes bent dreamily on the face that looked out at us. I watched her with reverent admiration. How charming she looked as she stood with her sweet gray face turned so earnestly to the object of her mystical affection. How dainty and full of womanly dignity and grace! And then suddenly it was born in upon me that a great change had come over her since the day of our first meeting. She had grown younger, more girlish, and more gentle. At first she had seemed much older than I. A sad-faced woman, weary, solemn, enigmatic, almost gloomy, with a bitter ironic humor and a bearing distant and cold. Now she was only maidenly and sweet. Tinged it is true, with a certain seriousness, but frank and gracious and wholly lovable. Could the change be due to our friendship? As I asked myself the question, my heart leaped with a new hope. I yearned to tell her all that she was to me, all that I hoped we might be to one another in the years to come. At length I ventured to break in upon her reverie. What are you thinking about so earnestly, fair lady? She turned quickly with a bright smile and sparkling eyes that looked frankly into mine. I was wondering, said she, if he was jealous of my new friend. But what a baby I am to talk such nonsense! She laughed softly and happily with just an adorable hint of shyness. Why should he be jealous? I asked. Well, you see, before we were friends, he had me all to himself. I have never had a man-friend before, except my father, and no really intimate friend at all. And I was very lonely in those days, after our troubles had befallen. I am naturally solitary, but still, I am only a girl, I am not a philosopher. So when I felt very lonely, I used to come here and look at Artemidorus, and make believe that he knew all the sadness of my life and sympathized with me. It was very silly, I know, but yet, somehow it was a real comfort to me. It was not silly of you at all. He must have been a good man, a gentle, sweet-faced man who had won the love of those who knew him, as this beautiful memorial tells, and it was wise and good of you to sweeten the bitterness of your life with the fragrance of this human love that blossoms in the dust after the lapse of centuries. No, you were not silly, and Artemidorus is not jealous of your new friend. Are you sure? She still smiled as she asked the question, but her glance was soft, almost tender, and there was a note of whimsical anxiety in her voice. Quite sure, I give you my confident assurance. She laughed gaily. Then she said, I am satisfied, for I am sure you know. But here is a muddy telepathist who can read the thoughts even of a mummy, a most formidable companion, but tell me how you know. I know, because it is he who gave you to me to be my friend. Don't you remember? Yes, I remember, she answered softly. It was when you were so sympathetic with my foolish whim that I felt we were really friends. And I, when you confided your pretty fancy to me, thanked you for the gift of your friendship, and treasured it, and do still treasure it, above everything on earth. She looked at me quickly, with a sort of nervousness in her manner, and cast down her eyes. Then, after a few moments almost embarrassed silence, as if to bring back our talk to a less emotional plane, she said, Do you notice the curious way in which this memorial divides itself up into two parts? How do you mean, I asked, a little disconcerted by the sudden descent? I mean that there is a part of it that is purely decorative, and a part that is expressive or emotional. You notice that the general design and scheme of decoration, although really Greek in feeling, follows rigidly the Egyptian conventions. But the portrait is entirely in the Greek manner, and when they came to that pathetic farewell, it had to be spoken in their own tongue, written in their own familiar characters. Yes, I have noticed that, and admire the taste with which they have kept the inscription so inconspicuous, as not to clash with the decoration, an obtrusive inscription in Greek characters would have spoiled the consistency of the whole scheme. Yes, it would. She assented absently, as if she were thinking of something else, and once more gazed thoughtfully at the mummy. I watched her with deep content. Noted the lovely contour of her cheek, the soft masses of hair that strayed away so gracefully from her brow, and thought her the most beautiful creature that had ever trod the earth. Suddenly she looked at me reflectively. I wonder, she said, what made me tell you about Artemidorus? It was a rather silly, childish sort of make-believe, and I wouldn't have told anyone else for the world, not even my father. How did I know that you would sympathize and understand? She asked the question in all simplicity, with her serious gray eyes looking inquiringly into mine, and the answer came to me in a flash, with the beating of my own heart. I will tell you how you know, Ruth. I whispered passionately. It was because I loved you more than anyone else in the world has ever loved you, and you felt my love in your heart, and called it sympathy. I stopped short, for she had blushed scarlet, and then turned deathly pale, and now she looked at me wildly, almost with terror. Have I shocked you, Ruth Dearest? I exclaimed penitently. Have I spoken too soon? If I have, forgive me. But I had to tell you. I have been eating my heart out for love of you, for I don't know how long. I think I have loved you from the first day we met. Perhaps I shouldn't have spoken yet. But, Ruth dear, if you only knew what a sweet girl you are, you wouldn't blame me. I don't blame you, she said, almost in a whisper. I blame myself. I have been a bad friend to you, who have been so loyal and loving to me. I ought not to have let this happen. For it can't be, Paul. I can't say what you want me to say. We can never be anything more to one another than friends. A cold hand seemed to grasp my heart. A horrible fear that I had lost all that I cared for. All that made life desirable. Why can't we, I asked. Do you mean that, that the gods have been gracious to some other man? No, no, she answered hastily, almost indignantly. Of course I don't mean that. Then it is only that you don't love me yet. Of course you don't. Why should you? But you will, dear, some day, and I will wait patiently until that day comes, and not trouble you within treaties. I will wait for you, as Jacob waited for Rachel, and as the long years seemed to him but a few days because of the love he bore her, so it shall be with me, if only you will not send me away, quite without hope. She was looking down, white-faced, with a hardening of the lips, as if she were in bodily pain. You don't understand, she whispered. It can't be. It can never be. There is something that makes it impossible, now and always. I can't tell you more than that. But, Ruth, dearest, I pleaded despairingly. May it not become possible some day? Can it not be made possible? I can wait, but I can't give you up. Is there no chance whatever that this obstacle may be removed? Very little, I fear. Hardly any. No, Paul, it is hopeless, and I can't bear to talk about it. Let me go now. Let us say good-bye here and see one another no more for a while. Perhaps we may be friends again some day, when you have forgiven me. Forgiven you, dearest, I exclaimed. There is nothing to forgive, and we are friends, Ruth. Whatever happens, you are the dearest friend I have on earth, or can ever have. Thank you, Paul, she said faintly. You are very good to me, but let me go, please. I must be alone. She held out a trembling hand, and as I took it, I was shocked to see how terribly agitated and ill she looked. May I not come with you, dear? I pleaded. No, no, she exclaimed breathlessly. I must go away by myself. I want to be alone. Goodbye. Before I let you go, Ruth, if you must go, I must have a most solemn promise from you. Her sad gray eyes met mine, and her lips quivered with an unspoken question. You must promise me, I went on, that if ever this barrier that parts us should be removed, you will let me know instantly. Remember that I love you always, and that I am waiting for you always on this side of the grave. She caught her breath in a quick little sob, and pressed my hand. Yes, she whispered, I promise. Goodbye. She pressed my hand again and was gone, and as I gazed at the empty doorway through which she had passed, I caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass on the landing, where she had paused for a moment to wipe her eyes. I felt it in a manner indelicate to have seen her, and turned away my head quickly, and yet I was conscious of a certain selfish satisfaction in the sweet sympathy that her grief bespoke. But now that she was gone, a horrible sense of desolation descended on me. Only now, by the consciousness of irreparable loss, did I begin to realize the meaning of this passion of love that had stolen unawares into my life. How it had glorified the present, and spread a glamour of delight over the dimly considered future. How all pleasures and desires, hopes and ambitions, had converged upon it as a focus. How it had stood out as the one great reality behind which the other circumstances of life were as a background, shimmering, half seen, immaterial and unreal. And now it was gone, lost, as it seemed, beyond hope. And that which was left to me was but the empty frame from which the picture had vanished. I have no idea how long I stood rooted to the spot where she had left me, wrapped in a dull consciousness of pain, immersed in a half-numb reverie. Recent events flitted dreamlike through my mind, our happy labors in the reading-room, our first visit to the museum, and this present day that had opened so brightly and with such joyous promise. One by one these phantoms of a vanished happiness came and went. Occasional visitors sauntered into the room, but the galleries were mostly empty that day, gazed inquisitively at my motionless figure, and went their way. And still the dull, intolerable ache in my breast went on, the only vivid consciousness that was left to me. Presently I raised my eyes and met those of the portrait. The sweet pensive face of the old Greek settler looked out at me wistfully as though he would offer comfort, as though he would tell me that he too had known sorrow when he lived his life in the sunny Fayum. And a subtle consolation like the faint scent of old rose leaves seemed to exhale from that friendly face that had looked on the birth of my happiness, and had seen it wither and fade. I turned away, at last, with a silent farewell, and when I looked back he seemed to speed me on my way with a gentle valediction.