 CHAPTER I THE VANISHING MAN The school of St. Margaret's Hospital was fortunate in its lecturer on medical jurisprudence, or forensic medicine as it was sometimes described. At some schools the lecturer on this subject is appointed apparently for the reason that he lacks the qualifications to lecture on any other. But with us it was very different. John Thorndike was not only an enthusiast, a man of profound learning and great reputation, but he was an exceptional teacher, lively and fascinating in style and of endless resources. Every remarkable case that had ever been reported he appeared to have at his fingers ends, every fact, chemical, physical, biological, or even historical that could in any way be twisted into a medical legal significance was pressed into his service, and his own varied and curious experiences seemed as inexhaustible as the widow's curse. One of his favorite devices for giving life and interest to a rather dry subject was that of analyzing and commenting upon contemporary cases as reported in the papers, always, of course, with a due regard to the legal and social proprieties. And it was in this way that I first became introduced to the astonishing series of events that was destined to exercise so great an influence on my own life. The lecturer which had just been concluded had dealt with the rather unsatisfactory subject of survivorship. Most of the students had left the theatre, and the remainder had gathered round the lecturer's table to listen to the informal comments that Dr. Thorndike was want to deliver on these occasions in an easy conversational manner, leaning against the edge of the table and apparently addressing his remarks to a stick of blackboard chalk that he held in his fingers. The problem of survivorship, he was saying, in reply to a question put by one of the students, ordinarily occurs in cases where the bodies of the parties are producible, or where, at any rate, the occurrence of death and its approximate time are actually known. But an analogous difficulty may arise in a case where the body of one of the parties is not forthcoming, and the fact of death may have to be assumed on collateral evidence. Here, of course, the vital question to be settled is, what is the latest instant at which it is certain that this person was alive? And the settlement of that question may turn on some circumstance of the most trivial and insignificant kind. There is a case in this morning's paper which illustrates this. A gentleman has disappeared rather mysteriously. He was last seen by the servant of a relative, at whose house he had called. Now, if this gentleman should never reappear, dead or alive, the question as to what was the latest moment at which he was certainly alive will turn upon the further question, was he or was he not, wearing a particular article of jewelry when he called at the relative's house. He paused, with a reflective eye bent upon the stump of chalk he still held. Then, noting the expectant interest with which we were regarding him, he resumed. The circumstances in this case are very curious. In fact, they are highly mysterious, and if any legal issue should arise in respect of them, they are likely to yield some very remarkable complications. The gentleman who has disappeared, Mr. John Bellingham, is a man well known in archaeological circles. He recently returned from Egypt, bringing with him a very fine collection of antiquities, some of which, by the way, he has presented to the British Museum, where they are now on view. And having made this presentation, he appears to have gone to Paris on business. I may mention that the gift consisted of a very fine mummy and a complete set of tomb furniture. The latter, however, had not arrived from Egypt at the time when the missing man left for Paris. But the mummy was inspected on the 14th of October at Mr. Bellingham's house by Dr. Norbury of the British Museum, in the presence of the donor and his solicitor. And the latter was authorized to hand over the complete collection to the British Museum authorities when the tomb furniture arrived, which he has since done. From Paris, he seems to have returned on the 23rd of November, and to have gone direct to Charing Cross to the house of a relative, a Mr. Hearst, who is a bachelor and lives at Eltham. He appeared at the house at 20 minutes past five, and as Mr. Hearst had not yet come down from town, and was not expected until a quarter to six, he explained who he was and said he would wait in the study and write some letters. The house maid, accordingly, showed him into the study, furnished him with writing materials, and left him. At a quarter to six, Mr. Hearst let himself in with his latchkey, and before the housemaid had time to speak to him, he had passed through into the study and shut the door. At six o'clock, when the dinner bell was rung, Mr. Hearst entered the dining room alone, and observing that the table was laid for two, asked the reason. I thought Mr. Bellingham was staying to dinner, sir, was the housemaid's reply. Mr. Bellingham! exclaimed the astonished host. I didn't know he was here. Why was I not told? I thought he was in the study with you, sir, said the housemaid. On this a search was made for the visitor, with the result that he was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared without leaving a trace, and what made the incident more odd was that the housemaid was certain that he had not gone out by the front door. For since neither she nor the cook was acquainted with Mr. John Bellingham, she had remained the whole time, either in the kitchen, which commanded a view of the front gate, or in the dining room, which opened into the hall opposite the study door. The study itself has a French window opening on a narrow grass plot, across which is a side gate that opens into an alley, and it appears that Mr. Bellingham must have made his exit by this rather eccentric route. At any rate, and this is the important fact, he was not in the house, and no one had seen him leave it. After a hasty meal, Mr. Hearst returned to town and called at the office of Mr. Bellingham's solicitor and confidential agent, a Mr. Jellico, and mentioned the matter to him. Mr. Jellico knew nothing of his client's return from Paris, and the two men at once took the train down to Woodford, where the missing man's brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham, lives. The servant who admitted them said that Mr. Godfrey was not at home, but that his daughter was in the library, which is a detached building, situated in a shrubbery beyond the garden at the back of the house. Here the two men found, not only Miss Bellingham, but also her father, who had come in by the back gate. Mr. Godfrey and his daughter listened to Mr. Hearst's story with the greatest surprise, and assured him that they had neither seen nor heard anything of John Bellingham. Presently the party left the library to walk up to the house, but only a few feet from the library door, Mr. Jellico noticed an object lying in the grass, and pointed it out to Mr. Godfrey. The latter picked it up, and they all recognized it as a scarab which Mr. John Bellingham had been accustomed to wear, suspended from his watch-chain. There was no mistaking it. It was a very fine scarab of the eighteenth dynasty, fashioned of lapis lazuli, and engraved with the cartouche of Amonhotep the third. It had been suspended by a gold chain, fastened to a wire which passed through the suspension-hole, and the ring, though broken, was still in position. This discovery, of course, only added to the mystery, which was still further increased when, on inquiry, a suitcase bearing the initials J.B., was found to be unclaimed in the cloakroom at Charing Cross. Reference to the counterfoil of the ticketbook showed that it had been deposited about the time of the arrival of the Continental Express on the twenty-third of November, so that its owner must have gone straight on to Eltham. That is how the affair stands at present, and should the missing man never reappear, or should his body never be found, the question, as you see, which will be required to be settled, is, what is the exact time and place, when and where he was last known to be alive? As to the place, the importance of the issue involved in that question is obvious, and we need not consider it. But the question of time has another kind of significance. Cases have occurred, as I pointed out in the lecture, in which proof of survivorship by less than a minute has secured succession to property. Now the missing man was last seen alive at Mr. Hearst House at twenty minutes past five on the twenty-third of November, but he appears to have visited his brother's house at Woodford, and since nobody saw him at that house, it is at present uncertain whether he went there before calling on Mr. Hearst. If he went there first, then twenty minutes past five on the evening of the twenty-third is the latest moment at which he is known to have been alive. But if he went there after, there would have to be added to this time, the shortest time possible in which he could travel from the one house to the other. But the question as to which house he visited first hinges on the scarab. If he was wearing the scarab when he arrived at Mr. Hearst's house, it would be certain that he went there first. But if it was not then on his watch chain, a probability would be established that he went first to Woodford. Thus you see, a question which may conceivably become of the most vital moment in determining the succession of property turns on the observation or non-observation by this housemaid of an apparently trivial and insignificant fact. Has the servant made any statement on this subject, sir? I venture to inquire. Probably not, replied Dr. Thorndike. At any rate, there is no reference to any such statement in the newspaper report, though otherwise, the case is reported in great detail. Indeed, the wealth of detail, including plans of the two houses, is quite remarkable, and well worth noting as being in itself a fact of considerable interest. In what respect, sir, is that of interest? One of the students asked. Ah, replied Dr. Thorndike, I think I must leave you to consider that question yourself. This is an untried case, and we mustn't make free with the actions and motives of individuals. Does the paper give any description of the missing man, sir? I asked. Yes, quite an exhaustive description. Indeed, it is exhaustive to the verge of impropriety, considering that the man may turn up alive and well at any moment. It seems that he has an old pot's fracture of the left ankle, a linear longitudinal scar on each knee, archen not stated, but easily guessed at, and that he has tattooed on his chest in vermilion a very finely and distinctly executed representation of the symbolic eye of Osiris, or Horus or Ra, as the different authorities have it. There certainly ought to be no difficulty in identifying the body, but we hope that it will not come to that. And now I must really be running away, and so must you, but I would advise you all to get copies of the paper and file them when you have read the remarkably full details. It is in most curious case, and it is highly probable that we shall hear of it again. Good afternoon, gentlemen. Dr. Thorndike's advice appealed to all who heard it, for medical jurisprudence was a lively subject at St. Margaret's, and all of us were keenly interested in it. As a result, we saluted forth in a body to the nearest news vendors, and having each provided himself with a copy of the Daily Telegraph, adjourned together to the common room to devour the report, and thereafter to discuss the bearings of the case, unhampered by those considerations of delicacy that afflicted our more squeamish and scrupulous teacher. CHAPTER II. The Eavesdropper. It is one of the canons of correct conduct, scrupulously adhered to, when convenient, by all well- bred persons, that an acquaintance should be initiated by a proper introduction. To this salutatory rule, which I have disregarded to the extent of an entire chapter, I now hasten to conform, and the more so in so much as nearly two years have passed since my first informal appearance. Permit me then to introduce Paul Berkeley, M.D., et cetera, recently, very recently qualified, faultlessly attired in the professional frock coat and tall hat, and at the moment of introduction, navigating with anxious care at a perilous strait between a row of well-filled colesacks and a colossal tray piled high with kidney potatoes. The passage of this strait landed me on the terra firma of Fleur-de-Lis court, where I halted for a moment to consult my visiting list. There was only one more patient for me to see this morning, and he lived at 49 Neville's Court, wherever that might be. I turned for information to the presiding deity of the coleshop. Can you direct me, Mrs. Giblette, to Neville's Court? She could, and she did, grasping me confidentially by the arm, the mark remained on my sleeve for weeks, and pointing a shaking forefinger at the dead wall ahead. Neville's Court, said Mrs. Giblette, is an alley, and you goes into it through an archway. It turns on the fetter lane on the right, and as you goes up, up recite Bream's buildings. I thanked Mrs. Giblette and went on my way, glad that the morning round was nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of the growing appetite and of a desire to wash in hot water. The practice which I was conducting was not my own. It belonged to poor Dick Barnard, an old St. Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits and indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for a trip down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the current trade, and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyage of geographical discovery. I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow arched opening, bearing the superscription Neville's Court, arrested my steps, and here I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait for the traveler in London byways. Expecting to find the gray squalor of the ordinary London Court, I looked out from under the shadow of the arch past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of light in color, a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved by sunlit foliage. In the heart of London a tree is always a delightful surprise, but here was not only trees, but bushes, and even flowers. The narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their wooden palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint and sober rusticity, and even as I entered, a bevy of workgirls with gaily colored blouses and hair of flame in the sunlight bright end up the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summer hedgerow. In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved with what looked like circular tiles, but which on inspection I found to be old-fashioned stone ink-bottles buried bottom upwards, and I was meditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener, who had thus adorned his habitation, a law-writer perhaps or an author, or per chance even a poet, when I perceived the number that I was seeking inscribed on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell or knocker, so lifting the latch I pushed the door open and entered. But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a positive wonder, a dream. Here, with an earshot of the rumble of Fleet Street, I was in an old-fashioned garden, enclosed by high walls, and now that the gate was shut, cut off from all sight and knowledge of the urban world that seethed without. I stood engaged in delighted astonishment, sun-guilted trees and flowerbeds gay with blossom, lupins, snap-dragons, nasturiums, spirey flocks-gloves, and mighty holly-hocks formed the foreground, over which a pair of sulfur-tinted butterflies flitted, unmindful of a buxom and miraculously clean white cat, which pursued them, dancing across the borders and clapping her snowy paws fruitlessly in mid-air. And the background was no less wonderful, a grand old house, dark-eaved and venerable, that must have looked down on this garden when ruffled dandies were born in sedan-chairs through the court, and gentle Isaac Walton, stealing forth from his shop in Fleet Street, strolled up Fetter Lane to Goa Angling at Temple Mills. So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that my hand was on the bottom knob of a row of bell-pulls before I recollected myself. And it was not until a most infernal jangling from within recalled me to my business that I observed underneath it a small brass plate inscribed Miss Oman, the door open with some suddenness and a short middle-aged woman surveyed me hungrily. Have I wrung the wrong bell? I asked, foolishly enough, I must admit. How can I tell? she demanded. I expect you have. It's the sort of thing a man would do. Ring the wrong bell and then say he's sorry. I didn't go as far as that, I retorted. It seems to have had the desired effect, and I've made your acquaintance into the bargain. Who do you want to see? she asked. Mr. Bellingham. Are you the doctor? I'm a doctor. Follow me upstairs, said Miss Oman, and don't tread on the paint. I crossed the spacious hall and proceeded by my conductress, ascended a noble oak staircase, treading carefully on a ribbon of matting that ran up the middle. On the first floor landing Miss Oman opened a door and pointing to the room said, Go in there and wait. I'll tell her you're here. I said, Mr. Bellingham, I began, but the door slammed on me and Miss Oman's footsteps retreated rapidly down the stairs. It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very awkward position, the room into which I had been shown communicated with another, and though the door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly aware of a conversation that was taking place in the adjoining room. At first, indeed, only a vague mutter, with a few disjointed phrases, came through the door, but suddenly an angry voice rang out, clear and painfully distinct. Yes, I did, and I say it again, bribery, collusion, that's what it amounts to, you want to square me. Nothing of the kind, Gottry, was the reply in a lower tone, but at this point I coughed emphatically and moved a chair, and the voice is subsided once more into indistinct murmur. To distract my attention from my unseen neighbors, I glanced curiously about the room and speculated upon the personalities of its occupants, a very curious room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayed splendor and old world dignity, a room full of interest and character, and of contrasts and perplexing contradictions. For the most part, it spoke of unmistakable, though decent, poverty. It was nearly bare of furniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest, a small kitchen table and three Windsor chairs, two of them with arms, a threadbare string carpet on the floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on the table. These, with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed of grocer's boxes, formed the entire suite, and yet, despite its poverty, the place exhaled an air of homely if rather ecstatic comfort, and the taste was irreproachable. The quiet russet of the tablecloth struck a pleasant harmony with the subdued bluish green of the worn carpet. The Windsor chairs and the legs of the table had been carefully denuded of their glaring varnish and stained a sober brown, and the austerity of the whole was relieved by a ginger jar filled with fresh cut flowers and sat in the middle of the table. But the contrasts of which I have spoken were most singular and puzzling. There were the bookshelves, for instance, homemade and stained at the cost of a few pence, but filled with recent and costly new works on archaeology and ancient art. There were the objects on the mantelpiece, a facsimile in bronze, not bronze plaster, of the beautiful head of hypnos, and a pair of fine usehapti figures. There were the decorations of the walls, a number of etchings, signed proofs every one of them, of oriental subjects, and a splendid facsimile reproduction of an Egyptian papyrus. It was incongruous in the extreme, this mingling of costly refinements with the barest and shabbiest necessaries of life, a fastidious culture with manifest poverty. I could make nothing of it. What manner of man I wondered was this new patient of mine? Was he a miser, hiding himself and his wealth in this obscure court, an eccentric savant, a philosopher, or more probably a crank, but at this point my meditations were interrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, once more raised in anger. But I say that you ARE making an accusation. You're implying I made a way with him. Not at all, was the reply. But I repeat, it is your business to ascertain what has become of him. The responsibility rests upon you. Upon me, rejoined the first voice. And what about you? Your position is a pretty fishy one if it comes to that. What, roared the other, do you insinuate, that I murdered my own brother? During this amazing colloquy I stood gaping with sheer astonishment. Suddenly I recollected myself and dropping into a chair, set my elbows on my knees and clapped my hands over my ears, and thus I must have remained for a full minute when I became aware of the closing of a door behind me. I sprang to my feet and turned in some embarrassment, for I must have looked unspeakably ridiculous, to confront the somber figure of a rather tall and strikingly handsome girl, who, as she stood with her hand on the knob of the door, saluted me with a formal bow. In an instantaneous glance I noted how perfectly she matched her strange surroundings, black-robed, black-haired, with black-gray eyes and a grave sad face of ivory pallor. She stood, like one of all Ter Borges' portraits, a harmony in tone so low as to be but one step removed from monochrome. Obviously a lady, in spite of the worn and rusty dress, and something in the poise of the head and the set of the straight brows, hinted at a spirit that adversity had hardened rather than broken. I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting," she said, and as she spoke a certain softening at the corners of the austere mouth reminded me of the absurd position in which she had found me. I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence whatever, that I had, in fact, been rather glad of the rest, and I was beginning somewhat vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the voice from the adjoining room again broke forth with hideous distinctness. I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind. Why, confound you, it's nothing less than a conspiracy that you're proposing. Miss Bellingham, as I assumed her to be, stepped quickly across the floor, flushing angrily, as well she might, but as she reached the door it flew open, and a small spruce middle-aged man burst into the room. Your father is mad, Ruth," he exclaimed, absolutely stark mad, and I refused to halt any further communication with him. The present interview was not of his seeking, Miss Bellingham replied coldly. No, it was not, was the Rathmore rejoinder. It was my mistaken generosity. But there, what is the use of talking? I've done my best for you, and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out. I can find my way. Good morning." And with a stiff bow, and a quick glance at me, the speaker strode out of the room, banging the door after him. I must apologize for this extraordinary reception, said Miss Bellingham. But I believe medical men are not easily astonished. I will introduce you to your patient now. She opened the door, and as I followed her into the adjoining room, she said, Here is another visitor for you, dear. Doctor Berkeley, said I, I am acting for my friend, Dr. Barnard. The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped up in bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand, which I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor. How do you do, sir? said Mr. Bellingham. I hope Dr. Barnard is not ill. Oh no, I answered. He has gone for a trip down the Mediterranean on a current ship. The chance occurred rather suddenly, and I bustled him off before he had time to change his mind, hence my rather unceremonious appearance, which I hope you will forgive. Not at all, was the hearty response. I am delighted to hear that you sent him off. He wanted a holiday, poor man. And I am delighted to make your acquaintance, too. It is very good of you, I said, whereupon he bowed as gracefully as a man may who is propped up in bed with a heap of pillows, and having thus exchanged broad sides of civility, so to speak, we, or at least I, proceeded to business. How long have you been laid up, I asked cautiously, not wishing to make too evident the fact that my principal had given me no information respecting his case. A week to-day, he replied, the fawns in Aragil Mali was a handsome cab which upset me opposite the law courts, sent me sprawling in the middle of the road, my own fault, of course, at least the cab he said so, and I suppose he knew, but that was no consolation to me. Were you hurt much? No, not really, but the fall bruised my knee rather badly and gave me a deuce of a shake-up. I'm too old for that sort of thing, you know. Most people are, said I. True, but you can take a cropper more gracefully at twenty than at fifty-five. However, the knee is getting on quite well. You shall see it presently, and you observe that I am giving it complete rest. But that isn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it. It's my confounded nerves. I'm as irritable as a devil, and as nervous as a cat. I can't get a decent night's rest. I recalled the tremulous hand that he had offered me. He did not look like a drinker, but still. Do you smoke much? I inquired diplomatically. He looked at me slyly and chuckled. That's a very delicate way to approach the subject, doctor, he said. No, I don't smoke much. And I don't crook my little finger. I saw you look at my shaky hand just now. Oh, it's all right. I'm not offended. It's a doctor's business to keep his eyelids lifting. But my hand is steady enough as a rule, when I'm not upset. But the least excitement sets me shaking like a jelly. And the fact is, I have just had a deucidly unpleasant interview. I think, Miss Bellingham interrupted, Dr. Berkeley and indeed the neighborhood at large are aware of the fact. Mr. Bellingham laughed rather shame-facedly. I'm afraid I did lose my temper, he said. But I'm an impulsive old fellow doctor, and when I'm put out, I'm apt to speak my mind, a little too bluntly, perhaps. And audibly, his daughter added. Do you know that Dr. Berkeley was reduced to the necessity of stopping his ears? She glanced at me as she spoke with something like a twinkle in her solemn gray eyes. Did I shout? Mr. Bellingham asked, not very contritely, I thought, though he added, I'm very sorry, my dear, but it won't happen again. I think we've seen the last of that good gentleman. I am sure I hope so. She rejoined, adding, and now I will leave you to your talk. I shall be in the next room if you should want me. I opened the door for her, and when she had passed on with a stiff little bow, I seated myself by the bedside and resumed the consultation. It was evidently a case of nervous breakdown to which the cab accident had, no doubt, contributed. As to the other antecedents, they were of no concern of mine, though Mr. Bellingham seemed to think otherwise, for he resumed. That cab business was the last straw, you know, and it finished me off, but I've been going down the hill for a long time. I've had a lot of trouble during the last two years, but I suppose I wanted to pester you with the details of my personal affairs. Anything that bears on your present state of health is of interest to me if you don't mind telling it, I said. Mind, he exclaimed, did you ever meet an invalid who didn't enjoy talking about his own health? It's the listener who minds as a rule. Well, the present listener doesn't, I said. Then, said Mr. Bellingham, I'll treat myself to the luxury of telling you all my troubles. I don't often get the chance of a confidential grumble to a responsible man of my own class, and I really have some excuses for railing at fortune, as you will agree when I tell you that, a couple of years ago, I went to bed one night a gentleman of independent means, an excellent prospect, and woke up in the morning to find myself practically a beggar. Not a cheerful experience that, you know, at my time of life, eh? No, I agreed, nor at any other. And that was not all, he continued, for at the same moment I lost my brother, my dearest, kindest friend. He disappeared, vanished off the face of the earth, but perhaps you have heard of the affair. The confounded papers were full of it at the time. He paused abruptly, noticing no doubt a sudden change in my face. Of course I recollected the case now. Indeed, ever since I had entered the house, some court of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now his last words had struck out the full note. Yes, I said, I remember the incident, though I don't suppose I should, but for the fact that our lecturer on medical jurisprudence drew my attention to it. Indeed, said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as I fancied, what did he say about it? He referred to it as a case that was calculated to give rise to some very pretty legal complications. Why, Jove, exclaimed Bellingham, that man was a prophet. Legal complications, indeed, but I'll be bound he never guessed at the sort of infernal tangle that has actually gathered around the affair. By the way, what was his name? Thorndike, I replied. Dr. John Thorndike. Thorndike, Mr. Bellingham repeated an amusing retrospective tone. I seem to remember the name. Yes, of course. I have heard a legal friend of mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the case of a man whom I knew slightly years ago, a certain Jeffrey Blackmore, who also disappeared very mysteriously. I remember now that Dr. Thorndike unraveled that case with most remarkable ingenuity. I daresay he would be very interested to hear about your case, I suggested. I daresay he would, was the reply, but one can't take up a professional man's time for nothing, and I couldn't afford to pay him, and that reminds me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping about purely personal affairs. My morning round is finished, said I, and, moreover, your personal affairs are highly interesting. I suppose I mustn't ask, what is the nature of the legal entanglement? Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day, and go home a raving lunatic. But I'll tell you this much, the trouble is about my poor brother's will. In the first place, it can't be administered, because there's not sufficient evidence that my brother is dead, and in the second place, if it could, all the property would go to people who were never intended to benefit. The will itself is the most diabolically exasperating document that was ever produced by the perverted ingenuity of a wrong-handed man. That's all. Will you have a look at my knee? As Mr. Bellingham's explanation delivered in rapid crescendo and ending almost in a shout, had left him purple-faced and trembling, I thought it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly, I proceeded to inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and to overhaul my patient generally, and having given him detailed instructions as to his general conduct, I rose and took my leave. And remember, I said as I shook his hand, no tobacco, no coffee, no excitement of any kind, lead a quiet, bovine life. That's all very well, he grumbled. But supposing people come here and excite me. Disregard them, said I, and read Whitaker's almanac, and with this parting advice I passed out into the other room. Miss Bellingham was seated at the table, with a pile of blue-covered notebooks before her, two of which were open, displaying pages closely written in a small, neat handwriting. She rose as I entered, and looked at me inquiringly. I heard you advising my father to read Whitaker's almanac, she said. Was that a curative measure? Entirely, I replied, I recommended it for its medicinal virtues. As an antidote to mental excitement, she smiled faintly. It certainly is not a highly emotional book, she said, and then asked, have you any other instructions to give? Well, I might give the conventional advice to maintain a cheerful outlook and avoid worry, but I don't suppose you would find it very helpful. No, she answered bitterly. It is a council of perfection. People in our position are not a very cheerful class, I'm afraid, but still they don't seek out worries from sheer perverseness. The worries come unsought, but of course you can't enter into that. I can't give any practical help, I fear, though I do sincerely hope that your father's affairs will straighten themselves out soon. She thanked me for my good wishes, and accompanied me down to the street door, where, with a bow and a rather stiff handshake, she gave me my congé. Very ungratefully, the noise of fetter lane smote on my ears as I came out through the archway, and very squalid and unrestful, the little street looked, when contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet of the old garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor, and walls made hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards and sham-guilt frames, its aspect was so revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction and was still busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy, Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of The Eye of Osiris This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Eye of Osiris by R. Austin Freeman. Chapter 3. John Thornbike. That the character of an individual tends to be reflected in his dress is the fact familiar to the least observant, that the observation is equally applicable to aggregates of men is less familiar, but equally true. Do not the members of fighting professions, even to this day, deck themselves in feathers, in gaudy colors, and gilded ornaments, after the manner of the African warchief, or the red-skinned brave, and thereby indicate the place of war in modern civilization, does not the Church of Rome center priests to the altar and habilaments that were fashionable before the fall of the Roman Empire, in token of her immovable conservatism? And lastly, does not the law, lumbering on in the wake of progress, symbolize its subjection to precedent by headgear reminiscent of the Good Days of Queen Anne? I should apologize for intruding upon the reader these somewhat trite reflections, which were set going by the quaint stock and trade of the wigmaker shop in the cloisters of the inner temple, wither I strayed on a sultry afternoon in quest of shade and quiet. I had halted opposite the little shop window, and with my eye spent dreamily on the row of wigs, was pursuing the above train of thought when I was startled by a deep voice saying softly in my ear, I'd have the full bottom one if I were you, I turned swiftly and rather fiercely, and looked into the face of my old friend and fellow student, Jervis, behind whom, regarding us with a sedate smile, stood my former teacher, Dr. John Thorndyke. Both men greeted me with a warmth that I felt to be very flattering, for Thorndyke was quite a great personage, and even Jervis was several years my academic senior. You are coming in to have a cup of tea with us, I hope, said Thorndyke, and as I assented gladly, he took my arm and led me across the court in the direction of the treasury. But why that hungry gaze at those forensic vanities, Berkeley, he asked. Are you thinking of following my example and Jervis's, deserting the bedside for the bar? What? Has Jervis gone in for the law? I exclaimed. Bless you, yes, replied Jervis. I have become parasitical on Thorndyke. The big fleas have little fleas, you know. I am the additional fraction trailing after the whole number in the rear of a decimal point. Don't you believe him, Berkeley? Interposed Thorndyke. He is the brains of the firm. I supply the respectability and moral worth, but you haven't answered my question. What are you doing here on a summer afternoon, staring into a wigmaker's window? I am Barnard's locum. He is in practice in Fetter Lane. I know, said Thorndyke. We meet him occasionally, and very pale and peeky has been looking of late. Is he taking a holiday? Yes, he has gone on a trip to the Isles of Greece in a current ship. Then, said Jervis, you are actually a local GP. I thought you were looking beastly respectable. And judging from your leisure manner when we encountered you, added Thorndyke, the practice is not a strenuous one. I suppose it is entirely local? Yes, I replied. The patients mostly live in the small streets and courts within a half mile radius of the surgery, and the abodes of some of them are pretty squalid. Oh, and that reminds me of a very strange coincidence. It will interest you, I think. Life is made up of strange coincidences, said Thorndyke. Nobody but a reviewer of novels is ever really surprised at a coincidence, but what is yours? It is connected with a case that you mentioned to us at the hospital about two years ago. The case of a man who disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances. Do you remember it? The man's name was Bellingham. The Egyptologist? Yes, I remember the case quite well. What about it? The brother is a patient of mine. He is living in Neville's court with his daughter, and they seem to be as poor as church mice. Really? said Thorndyke. This is quite interesting. They must have come down in the world rather suddenly. If I remember rightly, the brother was living in a house of some pretensions, standing in its own grounds. Yes, that is so. I see you recollect all about the case. My dear fellow, said Jervis. Thorndyke never forgets a likely case. He is a sort of medical legal camel. He gulps down the raw facts from the newspapers or elsewhere, and then, in his leisure moments, he calmly regurgitates them and has a quiet chew at them. It is a quaint habit. A case crops up in the papers or in one of the courts, and Thorndyke swallows it whole. Then it lapses and everyone forgets it. A year or two later, it crops up in a new form, and, to your astonishment, you find that Thorndyke has got it all cut and dried. He has been ruminating on it periodically in the interval. You notice, said Thorndyke, that my learned friend is pleased to indulge in mixed metaphors. But his statement is substantially true, though obscurely worded. You must tell us more about the Bellingham's, when we have fortified you with a cup of tea. Our talk had brought us to Thorndyke's chambers, which were on the first floor of Number 5A, King's Bench Walk. And as we entered the fine, spacious, paneled room, we found a small, elderly man, neatly dressed in black, setting out the tea service on the table. I glanced at him with some curiosity. He hardly looked like a servant, in spite of his neat black clothes. In fact, his appearance was rather puzzling. For while his quiet dignity and his serious, intelligent face suggested some kind of professional man. His neat, capable hands were those of a skilled mechanic. Thorndyke surveyed the tea tray thoughtfully, and then looked at his retainer. I see you have put three tea cups, Poulton, he said. Now, how did you know I was bringing someone into tea? The little man smiled a quaint, crinkly smile of gratification, as he explained. I happen to look out of the laboratory window as you turn the corners, sir. How disappointingly simple, said Jervis. We were hoping for something abstruse and telepathic. Simplicity is the soul of efficiency, sir, replied Poulton, as he checked the tea service to make sure that nothing was forgotten, and with this remarkable aphorism he silently evaporated. To return to the Bellingham case, said Thorndyke, when he had poured out the tea, have you picked up any facts relating to the parties? And facts, I mean, of course, that it would be proper for you to mention. I have learned one or two things that there is no harm in repeating, for instance, I gather that Godfrey Bellingham, my patient, lost all his property quite subtly about the time of the disappearance. That is really odd, said Thorndyke. The opposite condition would be quite understandable, but one doesn't see exactly how this can have happened, unless there was an allowance of some sort. No, that was what struck me, but there seemed to be some queer features in the case, and the legal position is evidently getting complicated. There is a will, for example, which is giving trouble. They will hardly be able to administer the will without either proof or presumption of death, Thorndyke remarked. Exactly, that's one of the difficulties. Another is that there seems to be some fatal defect in the drafting of the will itself. I don't know what it is, but I expect I shall hear sooner or later. By the way, I mentioned the interest that you have taken in the case, and I think Bellingham would have liked to consult you, but of course, the poor devil has no money. That is awkward for him if the other interested parties have. There will probably be legal proceedings of some kind, and as the law takes no account of poverty, he is likely to go to the wall. He ought to have advice of some sort. I don't see how he is going to get it, said I. Neither do I, Thorndyke admitted. There are no hospitals for impecunious litigants. It is assumed that only persons of means have a right to go to law. Of course, if we knew the man and the circumstances, we might be able to help him, but for all we know to the contrary he may be an errant scoundrel. I had recalled the strange conversation that I had overheard and wondered what Thorndyke would have thought of it if it had been allowable for me to repeat it. Obviously it was not, however, and I could only give my own impressions. He doesn't strike me as that, I said, but of course one never knows. Personally he impressed me rather favorably, which is more than the other man did. What other man? asked Thorndyke. There was another man in the case, wasn't there? I forget his name. I saw him at the house and didn't much like the look of him. I suspect he's putting some sort of pressure on Bellingham. Berkeley knows more about this than he's willing to tell us, said Jervis. Let us look up the rear port and see who this stranger is. He took down from a shelf a large volume of newspaper cuttings and laid it on the table. You see, said he, as he ran his finger down the index, Thorndyke files all the cases that are likely to come to something, and I know he had expectations regarding this one. I fancy he had some ghoulish hope that the missing gentleman's head might turn up in somebody's dustbin. Here we are. The other man's name is Hearst. He is apparently a cousin, and it was at his house the missing man was last seen alive. So you think Mr. Hearst is moving in the matter? said Thorndyke when he had glanced over the report. That is my impression, I replied, though I really know nothing about it. Well, said Thorndyke, if you should learn what is being done and should have permission to speak of it, I shall be very interested to hear how the case progresses, and if an unofficial opinion on any point would be of service, I think there would be no harm in giving it. It would certainly be of great value if the other parties are taking professional advice, I said, and then after a pause, I asked, have you given this case much consideration? Thorndyke reflected. No, he said, I can't say that I have. I turned it over rather carefully when the report first appeared, and I have speculated on it occasionally since. It is my habit, as Jervis was telling you, to utilize odd moments of leisure, such as a railway journey, for instance, by constructing theories to account for the facts of such obscure cases as have come to my notice. It is a useful habit, I think, for apart from the mental exercise and experience that one gains from it, an appreciable portion of these cases ultimately comes into my hands, and then the previous consideration of them is so much time gained. Have you formed any theory to account for the facts in this case? I asked. Yes, I have several theories, one of which I especially favor, and I am awaiting with great interest such new facts as may indicate to me which of these theories is probably the correct one. It's no user trying to pump him, Berkeley, said Jervis, he is fitted with an information valve that opens inward. You can pour in as much as you like, but you can't get any out. Thorndike chuckled. My learning friend is in the main correct, he said. You see, I may be called upon any day to advise on this case, in which event I should feel remarkably foolish if I had already expounded my views in detail. But I should like to hear what you and Jervis make of the case, as reported in the newspapers. There now, exclaimed Jervis, what did I tell you? He wants to suck our brains. As far as my brain is concerned, I said, the process of suction isn't likely to yield much except a vacuum, so I will resign in favor of you. You are a full-blown lawyer, whereas I only a simple GP. Jervis filled his pipe with deliberate care and lighted it. Then, blowing a slender stream of smoke into the air, he said, if you want to know what I make of the case from that report, I can tell you in one word, nothing. Every road seems to end in a cul-de-sac. Oh, come, said Thorndike, this is mere laziness. Berkeley wants to witness a display of your forensic wisdom. A learned counsel may be in a fog, he very often is, but he doesn't state the fact boldly. He wraps it up in a decent verbal disguise. Tell us how you arrive at your conclusion. Show us that you have really weighed the facts. Very well, said Jervis. I will give you a masterly analysis of the case, leading to nothing. He continued to puff at his pipe for a time with slight embarrassment, as I thought, and I fully sympathized with him. Finally, he blew a little cloud and commenced. The position appears to be this. Here is a man seen to enter a certain house, who is shown into a certain room and shut in. He is not seen to come out, and yet, when the room is next entered, it is found to be empty, and that man is never seen again alive or dead. That is a pretty tough beginning. Now, it is evident that one of three things must have happened. Either he must have remained in that room, or at least in that house, alive, or he must have died, naturally or otherwise, and his body had been concealed, or he must have left the house unobserved. Let us take the first case. This affair happened nearly two years ago. Now, he couldn't have remained alive in the house for two years. He would have been noticed. The servants, for instance, while cleaning out the rooms, would have observed him. Here Thorndike interposed with an indulgent smile at his junior. My learned friend is treating the inquiry with unbecoming levity. We accept the conclusion that the man did not remain in the house alive. Very well. Then did he remain in it dead? Apparently not. The report says that as soon as the man was missed, Hearst and the servants together searched the house thoroughly, but there had been at no time nor opportunity to dispose of the body, whence the only possible conclusion is that the body was not there. Moreover, if we admit the possibility of his having been murdered, for that is what concealment of the body would imply, there is the question, who could have murdered him? Not the servants, obviously, and as to Hearst, well, of course we don't know what his relations with the missing man may have been. At least I don't. Neither do I, said Thorndike. I know nothing beyond what is in the newspaper report and what Berkeley has told us. Then we know nothing. He may have had a motive for murdering the man, or he may not. The point is that he doesn't seem to have had the opportunity. Even if we suppose that he managed to conceal the body temporarily, still there was the final disposal of it. He couldn't have buried it in the garden with the servants about. Neither could he have burned it. The only conceivable method by which he could have got rid of it would have been that of cutting it up into fragments and burying the dismembered parts in some secluded spots or dropping them into ponds or rivers. But no remains of the kind have been found, as some of them probably would have been by now, so there is nothing to support this suggestion. Indeed, the idea of murder, in this house at least, seems to be excluded by the search that was made the instant the man was missed. Then, to take the third alternative, did he leave the house unobserved? Well, it is not impossible, but it would be a queer thing to do. He may have been an impulsive or eccentric man, we can't say. We know nothing about him. But two years have elapsed, and he has never turned up, so that if he left the house secretly, he must have gone into hiding and be hiding still. Of course, he may have been the sort of lunatic who would behave in that manner, or he may not. We have no information as to his personal character. Then there is the complication of the scarab that was picked up in the grounds of his brother's house at Woodford. That seems to show that he visited that house at some time, but no one admits having seen him there, and it is uncertain, therefore, whether he went first to his brother's house or to Hearst. If he was wearing the scarab when he arrived at the Eltham house, he must have left that house unobserved and gone to Woodford. But if he was not wearing it, he probably went from Woodford to Eltham, and there finally disappeared. As to whether he was or was not wearing the scarab when he was last seen alive by Hearst's housemaid, there is at present no evidence. If he went to his brother's house after his visit to Hearst, the disappearance is more understandable if we don't mind flinging accusations of murder about rather casually, for the disposal of the body would be much less difficult in that case. Apparently no one saw him enter the house, and if he did enter it was by a back gate, which communicated with the library, a separate building some distance from the house. In that case it would have been physically possible for the Bellingham's to have made away with him. There was plenty of time to dispose of the body unobserved, temporarily at any rate. Nobody had seen him come to the house, and nobody knew that he was there. If he was there, and apparently no search was made, either at the time or afterward. In fact, if it could be shown that the missing man left Hearst's house alive, or that he was wearing the scarab when he arrived there, things would look rather fishy for the Bellingham's. For, of course, the girl must have been in it if the father was, but there's the crux. There is no proof that the man ever did leave Hearst's house alive, and if he didn't, but there, as I said at first, whichever turning you take, you find that it ends in a blind alley. A lame ending to a masterly exposition was Thorndike's comment. I know, said Jervis, but what would you have? There are quite a number of possible solutions, and one of them must be the true one, but how are we to judge which it is? I maintain that until we know something of the parties and the financial and other interest involved, we have no data. There, said Thorndike, I disagree with you entirely. I maintain that we have ample data. You say that we have no means of judging which of the various possible solutions is the true one, but I think that if you read the report carefully and thoughtfully, you will find that the facts now known point to one explanation and one only. It may not be the true explanation, and I don't suppose it is, but we are now dealing with the matter speculatively, academically, and I contend that our data yield a definite conclusion. What do you say, Berkeley? I say it is time for me to be off. The evening consultations begin at half past six. Well, said Thorndike, don't let us keep you from your duties, with poor Barnard current picking in the Grecian Isles, but come in and see us again. Drop in when you like after your work is done. You won't be in our way even if we are busy, which we very seldom are after eight o'clock. I thank Dr. Thorndike most heartily for making me free of his chambers in this hospitable fashion, and took my leave, setting forth homework by way of Middle Temple Lane and the embankment, not a very direct route for Frederick Lane, it must be confessed, but our talk had revived my interest in the Bellingham household and put me in a reflective vein. From the remarkable conversation that I had overheard, it was evident that the plot was thickening. Not that I suppose that these two respectable gentlemen really suspected one another of having made away with the missing man, but still, their unguarded words spoken in anger made it clear that each had allowed the thought of sinister possibilities to enter his mind, a dangerous condition that might easily grow into actual suspicion. And then the circumstances really were highly mysterious, as I realized with a special vividness, now after listening to my friend's analysis of the evidence. From the problem itself my mind traveled, not for the first time during the last few days, to the handsome girl, who had seen in my eyes the high priestess of this temple of mystery in the quaint little court. What a strange figure she had made against this strange background, with her quiet, chilly, self-contained manner, her pale face so sad and worn, her black, straight brows, and solemn gray eyes, so inscrutable, mysterious, sibiline. A striking, impressive personality this, I reflected, with something in it somber and enigmatic that attracted and yet repelled. And here I recalled Jervis's words, the girl must have been in it if the father was. It was a dreadful thought, even though only speculatively uttered, and my heart rejected it, rejected it with indignation that rather surprised me. And this notwithstanding that the somber, black-robed figure that my memory conjured up was one that associated itself with the idea of mystery and tragedy. Here you are, then, said she. You are perfectly correct, Ms. Oman, I replied. In fact, you have put the case in a nutshell. What can I have the pleasure of doing for you? Nothing, was the answer. But I brought a note from Mr. Bellingham. Here it is. And she thrust the envelope into my hand. I glanced through the note and learned that my patient had had a couple of bad nights and a very harassing day. Could I have something to give me a night's rest, it concluded. I reflected for a few moments. One is not very ready to prescribe sleeping drafts for unknown patients, but still insomnia is a very distressing condition. In the end, I temporized with a moderate dose of bromide, deciding to call and see if more people were asleep. He had better take a dose of this at once, Ms. Oman, said I, as I handed her the bottle, and I will look in later and see how he is. I expect he will be glad to see you," she answered, for he is all alone tonight and very dumpy. Ms. Bellingham is out, but I must remind you that he is a poor man and pays his way. You must excuse my mentioning it. I am very much obliged to you for the hint, Ms. Oman, I rejoined. It isn't necessary for me to see him, but I should like just to look in and have a chat. Yes, that would do him good. You have your points. The punctuality doesn't seem to be one of them. And with this parting shot, Ms. Oman bustled away. Half past eight found me ascending the great dim staircase of the house in Neville's Court, preceded by Ms. Oman, by whom I was ushered into the room. Mr. Bellingham, who had just finished some sort of meal, was sitting hunched up in his chair, gazing gloomily into the empty grate. He brightened up as I entered, but was evidently in very low spirits. I didn't mean to drag you out after your day's work was finished, he said, though I am very glad to see you. You haven't dragged me out. I heard you were alone, so I just dropped in for a few minutes' gossip. That is really kind of you, he said heartily, but I'm afraid you'll find me rather poor company. A man who is full of his highly-owned disagreeable affairs is not a desirable companion. If you'd rather be alone, said I, with a sudden fear that I was intruding. Oh, you won't disturb me, he replied, adding with a laugh. It's more likely to be the other way about. In fact, if I were not afraid of boring you to death, I would ask you to let me talk my difficulties over with you. You won't bore me, I said. It is generally interesting to share another man's experiences without their inconveniences. The proper study of mankind is man, you know, especially to a doctor. Mr. Bellingham chuckled grimly. You make me feel like a microbe, he said. However, if you would care to take a peep at me through your microscope, I will crawl under the stage for your inspection. Though it is not my actions that furnish the materials for your psychological studies, it is my poor brother, who is the deuces machina, who, from his unknown grave as I fear, pulls the strings of this infernal puppet show. He paused, and for a space gazed thoughtfully into the grate as if he had forgotten my presence. At length he looked up and resumed. It is a curious story, doctor, a very curious story, part of it, you know, the middle part. I will tell you it from the beginning, and then you will know as much as I do, for, as to the end, that is known to no one. It is written, no doubt, in the Book of Destiny, but the page has yet to be turned. The mischief began with my father's death. He was a country clergyman of very moderate means, a widower with two children, my brother John and me. He managed to send us both to Oxford, after which John went into the foreign office, and I wished to have gone into the church. But I suddenly discovered that my views on religion had undergone a change that made this impossible, and just about this time, my father came into a quite considerable property. Now, as it was his expressed intention to leave the estate equally divided between my brother and me, there was no need for me to take up any profession for a livelihood. Archaeology was already the passion of my life, and I determined to devote myself henceforth to my favorite study, in which, by the way, I was following a family tendency. For my father was an enthusiastic student of ancient Oriental history, and John was, as you know, an ardent Egyptologist. Then my father died quite suddenly, and left no will. He had intended to have one drawn up, but had put it off until it was too late, and since nearly all the property was in the form of real estate, my brother inherited practically the whole of it. However, in deference to the known wishes of my father, he made me an allowance of five hundred a year, which was about a quarter of the annual income. I urged him to assign me a lump sum, but he refused to do this. Instead, he instructed his solicitor to pay me an allowance in quarterly installments during the rest of his life, and it was understood that, on his death, the entire estate should devolve on me, or, if I died first, on my daughter Ruth. Then, as you know, he disappeared suddenly, and as the circumstances suggested that he was dead, and there was no evidence that he was alive, his solicitor, a Mr. Jellico, found himself unable to continue the payment of the allowance. On the other hand, as there was no positive evidence that my brother was dead, it was impossible to administer the will. You say the circumstances suggested that your brother was dead. What circumstances were they? Principally, the suddenness and completeness of the disappearance, his luggage, as you may remember, was found lying unclaimed at the railway station, and there was another circumstance even more suggested. My brother drew a pension from the Foreign Office, for which he had to apply in person, or, if abroad, produce proof that he was alive on the date when the payment became due. Now, he was exceedingly regular in this respect. In fact, he had never been known to fail, either to appear in person or to transmit the necessary documents to his agent, Mr. Jellico, but, from the moment when he vanished so mysteriously to the present day, nothing whatever has been heard of him. It's a very awkward position for you, I said, but I should think there would not be much difficulty in obtaining the permission of the court to resume death and to proceed to prove the will. Mr. Bellingham made a rye face. I expect you are right, he said, but that doesn't help me much. You see, Mr. Jellico, having waited a reasonable time for my brother to reappear, took a very unusual, but I think in the special circumstances a very proper step. He summoned me and the other interested party to his office, and communicated to us the provisions of the will, and very extraordinary provisions they turned out to be. I was thunderstruck when I heard them, and the exasperating thing is that I feel sure my poor brother imagined that he had made everything perfectly safe and simple. They generally do, I said rather vaguely. I suppose they do, said Mr. Bellingham, but poor John had made the most infernal hash of his will, and I am certain that he has utterly defeated his own intentions. You see, we are an old London family. The house in Queens Square where my brother nominally lived, but actually kept his collection, has been occupied by us for generations, and most of the Bellinghams are buried in St. George's burial ground close by, though some members of the family are buried in other churchards in the neighborhood. Now my brother, who by the way, was a bachelor, had a strong feeling for the family traditions, and he stipulated, not unnaturally, in his will, that he should be buried in St. George's burial ground among his ancestors, or at least in one of the places of burial appertaining to his native parish. But instead of simply expressing the wish and directing his executors to carry it out, he made it a condition affecting the operation of the will. Affecting it in what respect, I asked. In a very vital respect, answered Mr. Bellingham, the bulk of the property he bequeathed to me, or if I pre-deceased him, to my daughter Ruth. But the bequest was subject to the condition I have mentioned, that he should be buried in a certain place, and if that condition was not fulfilled, the bulk of the property was to go to my cousin, George Hearst. But in that case, said I, as you can't produce the body, neither of you could get the property. I am not so sure of that, he replied. If my brother is dead, it is pretty certain that he was not buried in St. George's or any of the other places mentioned, and the fact can easily be proved by production of the registers, so that a permission to presume death would result in the handing over to Hearst of almost the entire estate. Who is the executor? I asked. Ah, he exclaimed. There is another muddle. There are two executors. Jellico is one, and the other is the principal beneficiary, Hearst or myself as the case may be. But, you see, neither of us can become an executor until the court has decided which of us is the principal beneficiary. But who is to apply to the court? I thought that was the business of the executors. Exactly. That is Hearst's difficulty. We were discussing it when you called the other day, and a very animated discussion it was, he added, with a grim smile. You see, Jellico naturally refuses to move in the matter alone. He says he must have the support of the other executor. But Hearst is not at present the other executor, neither am I. But the two of us together are the co-executor, since the duty devolves upon one or the other of us in any case. It's a complicated position, I said. It is, and the complication has elicited a very curious proposal from Hearst. He points out, quite correctly I am afraid, that as the conditions as to burial have not been complied with, the property must come to him. And he proposes a very neat little arrangement, which is this, that I shall support him and Jellico in their application for permission to presume death and to administer the will, and that he shall pay me four hundred a year for life, the arrangement to hold good in all eventualities. What does he mean by that? He means, said Bellingham, fixing me with a ferocious scowl, that if the body should turn up at any future time, so that the conditions as to burial should be able to be carried out, he should still retain the property and pay me the four hundred a year. That deuce, said I, he seems to know how to drive a bargain. His position is that he stands to lose four hundred a year for the term of my life, if the body is never found, and he ought to stand to win if it is. And I gather that you have refused this offer? Yes, very emphatically, and my daughter agrees with me, but I am not sure that I have done the right thing. A man should think twice, I suppose, before he burns his boats. Have you spoken to Mr. Jellico about the matter? Yes, I have been to see him today. He is a cautious man, and he doesn't advise me one way or the other, but I think he disapproves of my refusal. In fact, he remarked that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, especially when the whereabouts of the bush is unknown. Do you think he will apply to the court without your sanction? He doesn't want to, but I suppose, if Hearst puts pressure on him, he will have to. Besides, Hearst as an interested party could apply on his own account, and after my refusal he probably will, at least that is Jellico's opinion. The whole thing is a most astonishing muddle, I said, especially when one remembers that your brother had a lawyer to advise him. Didn't Mr. Jellico point out to him how absurd the provisions were? Yes, he did. He tells me that he implored my brother to let him draw at be will, embodying the matter in a reasonable form, but John wouldn't listen to him. Poor old fellow. He could be very pig-headed when he chose. And is Hearst's proposal still open? No, thanks to my peppery temper. I refused it very definitely, and sent him off with a flea in his ear. I hope I have not made a false step. I was quite taken by surprise when Hearst made the proposal and got rather angry. You remember, my brother was last seen alive at Hearst's house, but there I awedn't to talk like that, and I awedn't to pester you with my confounded affairs when you come in for a friendly chat. Though I gave you fair warning, you remember. Oh, but you have been highly entertaining. You don't realize what an interest I take in your case. Mr. Bellingham laughed somewhat grimly. My case, he repeated, you speak as if I were some rare and curious sort of criminal lunatic. However, I'm glad you find me amusing. It's more than I find myself. I didn't say amusing. I said interesting. I view you with deep respect as the central figure of a stirring drama, and I am not the only person who regards you in that light. Do you remember my speaking to you of Dr. Thorndike? Yes, of course I do. Well, oddly enough, I met him this afternoon, and we had a long talk at his chambers. I took the liberty of mentioning that I had made your acquaintance. Did I do wrong? No, certainly not. Why shouldn't you tell him? Did he remember my infernal case, as you call it? Perfectly in all its details. He is quite an enthusiast, you know, and uncommonly keen to hear how the case develops. Oh, am I? For that matter, said Mr. Bellingham. I wonder, said I, if you would mind my telling him what you have told me tonight. It would interest him enormously. Mr. Bellingham reflected for a while with his eyes fixed on the empty grate. Presently he looked up and said slowly, I don't know why I should. It's no secret, and if it were I hold no monopoly in it. No, tell him. If you think he'd care to hear about it. You needn't be afraid of his talking, I said. He's as close as an oyster, and the facts may mean more to him than they do to us. He may be able to give a useful hint or two. Oh, I'm not going to pick his brains, Mr. Bellingham said quickly and with some wrath. I'm not the sort of man who goes round caging for free professional advice. Understand that, doctor. I do, I answered hastily. That wasn't what I meant at all. Is that Miss Bellingham coming in? I heard the front door shut. Yes, that will be my girl, I expect. But don't run away. You're not afraid of her, are you?" he added, as I hurriedly picked up my hat. I'm not sure that I'm not, I answered. She's a rather majestic young lady. Mr. Bellingham chuckled and smothered a yawn, and at that moment his daughter entered the room, and in spite of her shabby black dress and a shabbier handbag that she carried, I thought her appearance and manner fully justified my description. You come in, Miss Bellingham, I said, as she shook my hand with cool civility, to find your father yawning and me taking my departure. So I have my uses, you see. My conversation is the infallible cure for insomnia. Miss Bellingham smiled. I believe I am driving you away," she said. Not at all, I replied hastily. My mission was accomplished. That was all. Sit down a few moments, doctor, urged Mr. Bellingham, and let Ruth sample the remedy. She will be affronted if you run away as soon as she comes in. Well, you mustn't let me keep you up, I said. Oh, I'll let you know when I fall asleep," he replied, with a chuckle, and with this understanding I sat down again, not at all unwillingly. At this moment Miss Ullman entered with a small tray and a smile of which I should not have supposed her capable. You'll take your toast and cocoa while they're hot, dear, won't you? she said coaxingly. Yes, I will, Phyllis. Thank you," Miss Bellingham answered. I am only just going to take off my hat. And she left the room, followed by the astonishingly transfigured spinster. She returned almost immediately as Mr. Bellingham was in the midst of a profound yawn and sat down to her frugal meal, when her father mystified me considerably by remarking, You're late to-night, chick. Have the shepherd-kings been giving trouble? No, she replied, but I thought I might as well get them done, so I dropped in at the Ormond Street Library on my way home and finished them. Then they're ready for stuffing now? Yes. As she answered, she caught my astonished eye, for a stuffed shepherd-king is undoubtedly a somewhat surprising phenomenon, and laughed softly. We mustn't talk in riddles like this," she said, before Dr. Berkeley, or he will turn us both into pillars of salt. My father is referring to my work," she explained to me. Are you a taxidermist, then? I asked. She hastily sat down the cup that she was raising to her lips and broke into a ripple of quiet laughter. I am afraid my father has misled you with his irreverent expressions. He will have to atone by explaining. You see, Dr., said Mr. Bellingham. Ruth is a literacy searcher. Oh, don't call me a searcher, Miss Bellingham protested. It suggests a female searcher at a police station. Say, investigator. Very well. Investigator or investigate tricks, if you like. She hunts up references and bibliographies at the museum for people who are writing books. She looks up everything that has been written on a given subject, and then, when she has crammed herself to a bursting point with facts, she goes to her client and disgorges, and crams him or her, and he or she finally disgorges into the press. What a disgusting way to put it, said his daughter. However, that is what it abounds to. I am a literary jackal, a collector of Provenger for the literary lions. Is that quite clear? Perfectly, but I don't think that even now I quite understood about the stuffed shepherd-kings. Oh, it was not the shepherd-kings who were to be stuffed. It was the author. That was mere obscurity of speech on the part of my father. The position is this. A venerable archdeacon wrote an article on the patriarch, Joseph, and didn't know anything about him, interrupted Mr. Bellingham, and got tripped up by a specialist who did, and then got shirty. Nothing of the kind, said Miss Bellingham. He knew as much as venerable archdeacons ought to know, but the expert knew more. So the archdeacon commissioned me to collect the literature on the state of Egypt at the end of the 17th dynasty, which I have done, and tomorrow I shall go and stuff him as my father expresses it, and then, and then, Mr. Bellingham interrupted, the archdeacon will rush forth and pelt that expert with shepherd-kings and sequent-ra and the whole tag-rag and bobtail of the 17th dynasty. Oh, there'll be wigs on the green, I can tell you. Yes, I expect there will be quite a skirmish, said Miss Bellingham, and thus dismissing the subject, she made an energetic attack on the toast, while her father refreshed himself with a colossal yawn. I watched her with furtive admiration and deep and growing interest. In spite of her power, her weary eyes, and her drawn and almost haggard face, she was an exceedingly handsome girl, and there was in her aspect a suggestion of purpose, of strength and character that marked her off from the rank and file of womanhood. I noted this as I stole an occasional glance at her, or turned to answer some remark addressed to me, and I noted too that her speech, despite a general undertone of depression, was yet not without a certain caustic, ironical humor. She was certainly a rather enigmatic young person, but very decidedly interesting. Once she had finished her repast, she put aside the tray, and opening the shabby handbag asked, Do you take an interest in Egyptian history? We are as mad as hatters on the subject. It seems to be a family complaint. I don't know much about it, I answered. Medical studies are rather engrossing, and don't leave much time for general reading. Naturally, she said, you can't specialize in everything, but if you would care to see how the business of a literary jackal is conducted, I will show you my notes. I accepted the offer eagerly, not I fear from pure enthusiasm for the subject, and she brought forth from the bag four blue-covered Quattro notebooks, each dealing with one of the four dynasties from the 14th to the 17th. As I glanced to the neat and orderly extracts with which they were filled, we discussed the intricacies of the peculiarly difficult and confused period that they covered, gradually lowering our voices as Mr. Bellingham's eyes closed and his head fell against the back of his chair. We had just reached the critical reign of a pep of the second when a resounding snore broke in upon the studious quiet of the room and sent us both into a fit of silent laughter. Your conversation has done its work, she whispered, as I stealthily picked up my hat and together we stole on tiptoe to the door, which she opened without a sound. Once outside she suddenly dropped her bantering matter and said quite earnestly, how kind of you it was to come and see him to-night. You have done him a world of good, and I am most grateful. Good night! She shook hands with me really cordially, and I took my way down the creaking stairs in a world of happiness that I was quite at a loss to account for. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of The Eye of Osiris This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Eye of Osiris by R. Austin Freeman Chapter 5 The Watercress Bed Barnard's practice, like most others, was subject to those fluctuations that filled the struggling practitioner alternately with hope and despair. The work came in paroxysms with intervals of almost complete stagnation. One of these intermissions occurred on the day after my visit to Neville's Court, with the result that by half past eleven I found myself wondering what I should do with the remainder of the day. The better to consider this weighty problem, I strolled down to the embankment and, leaning on the parapet, contemplated the view across the river, the gray stone bridge with its perspective of arches, the picturesque pile of the shot towers, and beyond the shadowy shapes of the abbey in St. Stephen's. It was a pleasant scene, restful and quiet, with a touch of life and a hint of sober romance, when a barge swept down through the middle arch of the bridge with a lug sail hoisted to a jury-mast and a white-aproned woman at the tiller. Dreamily I watched the craft creep up upon the moving tide, noted the low freeboard, almost awash, the careful helmswoman, and the dog on the forecastle yapping at the distant shore, and thought of Ruth Bellingham. What was there about this strange girl that had made so deep an impression on me? That was the question that I propounded to myself, and not for the first time. Of the fact itself there was no doubt, but what was the explanation? Was it her unusual surroundings, her occupation and rather recondite learning, her striking personality and exceptional good looks, or her connection with the dramatic mystery of her lost uncle? I concluded that it was all of these. Everything connected with her was unusual and arresting, but over and above these circumstances there was a certain sympathy and personal affinity of which I was strongly conscious, and of which I dimly hoped that she, perhaps, was a little conscious, too. At any rate I was deeply interested in her, of that there was no doubt whatever. Short as our acquaintance had been, she held a place in my thoughts that had never been held by any other woman. From Ruth Bellingham my reflections passed by a natural transition to the curious story that her father had told me. It was a queer affair, that ill-drawn will, with the baffled lawyer protesting in the background. It almost seemed as if there must be something behind it all, especially when I remembered Mr. Hearst's very singular proposal. But it was out of my depth. It was a case for a lawyer, and to a lawyer it should go. This very night I resolved I would go to Thorndike and give him the whole story as it had been told to me. And then there happened one of those coincidences at which we all wonder when they occur, but which are so frequent as to have become enshrined in a proverb. For even as I formed the resolution I observed two men approaching from the direction of Blackfriars and recognized in them my quantum teacher and his junior. I was just thinking about you, I said, as they came up. Very flattering, replied Jervis. But I thought you had to talk of the devil. Perhaps, suggested Thorndike, he was talking to himself. But why were you thinking of us, and what was the nature of your thoughts? My thoughts had references to the Bellingham case. I spent the whole of last evening at Neville's court. Ha! And are there any fresh developments? Yes, by Jove there are. Bellingham gave me a full detailed description of the will and a pretty document it seems to be. Did he give you permission to repeat the details to me? Yes, I asked specifically if I might, and he had no objection whatever. Good, we are lunching at Soho today as Poulton has his hands full. Come with us and share our table and tell us your story as we go. Will that suit you? It suited me admirably in the present state of the practice and I accepted the invitation with un-dissembled glee. Very well, said Thorndike. Then let us walk slowly and finish with matters confidential before we plunge into the maddening crowd. We set forth at a leisurely pace along the broad pavement and I commenced my narration. As well as I could remember, I related the circumstances that had led up to the present disposition of the property and then proceeded to the actual provisions of the will, to all of which my two friends listened with rapt interest, Thorndike occasionally stopping me to jot down a memorandum in his pocketbook. Why, the fellow must have been a stark lunatic, the service exclaimed when I had finished. He seems to have laid himself out with the most devilish ingenuity to defeat his own ends. That is not an uncommon peculiarity with testiters, Thorndike remarked. A direct and perfectly intelligible will is rather the exception. But we can hardly judge until we have seen the actual document. I suppose belling him hasn't a copy? I don't know, said I, but I will ask him. If he has one, I should like to look through it, said Thorndike. The provisions are very peculiar and as Dervis says, admirably calculated to defeat the testitors' wishes if they have been correctly reported and apart from that they have a remarkable bearing on the circumstances of the disappearance. I dare say you noticed that. I noticed that it is very much to Hearst's advantage that the body has not been found. Yes, of course, but there are some other points that are very significant. However, it would be premature to discuss the terms of the will until we have seen the actual document or a certified copy. If there is a copy extant, I said, I will try to get hold of it. But Bellingham is terribly afraid of being suspected of a desire to get professional advice gratis. That, said Thorndike, is natural enough and not discreditable, but you must overcome his scruples somehow. I expect you will be able to. You are a plausible young gentleman, as I remember of old, and you seem to have established yourself as quite the friend of the family. You are interesting people, I explained, very cultivated and with a strong leaning toward archaeology, it seems to be in the blood. Yes, said Thorndike, a family tendency, probably due to contact and common surroundings, rather than heredity, so you like Godfrey Bellingham? Yes, he is a trifle peppery and impulsive, but quite an agreeable, genial old buffer. And the daughter, said Jervis, what is she like? Oh, she is a learned lady, works up bibliographies and references at the museum. Ah, Jervis exclaimed with disfavor. I know the breed, inky fingers, no chest to speak of, all side and spectacles. I rose artlessly at the gross and palpable bait. You're quite wrong, I exclaimed indignantly, contrasting Jervis' hideous presentment with the comely original. She is an exceedingly good-looking girl, and her manners, all little ladies should be, a little stiff perhaps, but then I am only in acquaintance, almost a stranger. But, Jervis persisted, what is she like? In appearance, I mean. Short, fat, sandy, give us intelligible details. I made a rapid mental inventory, assisted by my recent cogitations. She is about five foot seven, slim but rather plump, very erect in carriage and graceful in movements, black hair, loosely parted in the middle, and falling very prettily away from the forehead, pale, clear complexion, dark gray eyes, straight eyebrows, straight, well-shaped nose, short mouth, rather full, round chin. What the deuce are you grinning at, Jervis? For my friend had suddenly unmasked his batteries, and now threatened, like the Cheshire cat, to dissolve into a mere abstraction of amusement. If there is a copy of that will, Thorndike, he said, we shall get it. I think you agree with me, Reverend Senior. I have already said, was the reply, that I put my trust in Berkeley, and now let us dismiss professional topics. This is our hostelry. He pushed open an unpretentious glazed door, and we followed him into the restaurant, whereof the atmosphere was pervaded by an appetizing meeting-ness mingled with less agreeable suggestions of the destructive distillation of fat. It was some two hours later, when I wished my friends a Jew under the golden-leaved, plain trees of King's Bench Walk. I won't ask you to come in now," said Thorndike, as we have some consultations this afternoon, but come in and see us soon. Don't wait for that copy of the will. No," said Jervis, drop in in the evening when your work is done. Unless, of course, there is more attractive society elsewhere. Oh, you needn't turn that color, my dear child. We have all been young once. There is even a tradition that Thorndike was young, sometime back in the pre-dynastic period. Don't take any notice of him, Berkeley, said Thorndike. The eggshell is sticking to his head still. He'll know better when he is my age. Miss Thuzela," exclaimed Jervis, I hope I shouldn't have to wait as long as that. Thorndike smiled benevolently at his irrepressible junior and, shaking my hand cordially, turned into the entry. From the temple I wandered northward to the adjacent College of Surgeons where I spent a couple of profitable hours examining the pickles and refreshing my memory on the subjects of pathology and anatomy, marvelling afresh as every practical anatomist must marvel at the incredibly perfect technique of the dissections and inwardly paying tribute to the founder of the collection. At length, the warning of the clock, combined with an increasing craving for tea, drove me forth and bore me toward the scene of my not very strenuous labors. My mind was still occupied with the contents of the cases and the great glass jars so that I found myself at the corner of Fetter Lane without a very clear idea of how I had got there. But at that point I was aroused from my reflections rather abruptly by a raucous voice in my ear. Horrible discovery at Sinkup! I turned wrathfully for a London Street Boys yell let off at point-blank range is, in effect, like the smack of an open hand, but the inscription on the staring yellow poster that was held up for my inspection changed my anger to curiosity. Horrible discovery in a watercress bed! Now let prigs deny it if they will, but there is something very attractive in a horrible discovery. It hints at tragedy, at mystery, at romance. It promises to bring into our grey and commonplace life that element of the dramatic, which is the salt that our existence is savoured with all. In a watercress bed, too, the rusticity of the background seemed to emphasize the horror I bought a copy of the paper and, tucking it under my arm, hurried on to the surgery, promising myself a mental feast of watercress. But as I opened the door I found myself confronted by a corpulent woman of pie-bold and pimply aspect who saluted me with a deep groan. It was the lady from the coal shop in Fleur-de-Lis Court. Good evening, Mrs. Jeblette, I said briskly. Not come about yourself, I hope. Yes, I have," she answered, disguising and following me gloomily into the consulting room, and then, when I had seated her in the patient's chair and myself at the writing table, she continued, It's my inside, you know, doctor. The statement lacked anatomical precision and merely excluded the domain of the skin specialist. I accordingly waited for enlightenment and speculated on the watercress beds while Mrs. Jeblette regarded me expectantly with a dim and watery eye. It's your—your inside, is it, Mrs. Jeblette? Yes, and my head," she added, with a voluminous sigh that filled the apartment with odorous reminiscences of unsweetened. Your headaches, does it? Something chronic," said Mrs. Jeblette, feels as if it was open and in a sha-en, a open and in a sha-en, and when I sit down, I feel as if I should bust. This picturesque description of her sensations, not wholly inconsistent with her figure, gave the clue to Mrs. Jeblette's sufferings, resisting a frivolous impulse to reassure her as to the elasticity of the human integument. I considered her case in exhaustive detail, coasting delicately around the subject of unsweetened and finally sending her away, revived in spirits, and grasping a bottle of Missed Sodecum bismutho from Barnard's big stock jar. Then I went back to investigate the horrible discovery, but before I could open the paper, another patient arrived, and I saw a video contagiosa this time, affecting the wide and arched front sublime of a juvenile fetter laner, and then yet another, and so on through the evening, until at last I forgot the watercress beds all together. It was only when I had purified myself from the evening consultations, with hot water and a nail brush, and was about to sit down to her frugal supper that I remembered the newspaper and fetched it from the drawer of the consulting room table, out of sight. I folded it into a convenient form and standing it upright against the water jug read the report at my ease as I subbed. There was plenty of it. Evidently the reporter had regarded it as a scoop, and the editor had backed him up with ample space and hair-raising headlines. Horrible discovery in a watercress bed at Sidcup. A startling discovery was made yesterday afternoon in the course of clearing out a watercress bed in the rural village of Sidcup in Kent. A discovery that will occasion many a disagreeable qualm to those persons who have been in the habit of regaling themselves with this refreshing escalant. But before proceeding to a description of the circumstances of the actual discovery or of the objects found, which, however, it may be stated at once, are nothing more or less than the fragments of a dismembered human body, it will be interesting to trace the remarkable chain of coincidences by virtue of which the discovery was made. The beds in question have been laid out in a small artificial lake fed by a tiny streamlet which forms one of the numerous tributaries of the River Cray. Its depth is greater than usual in the watercress beds, otherwise the gruesome relics could never have been concealed beneath its surface, and the flow of water through it, though continuous, is slow. The tributary streamlet meanders through a succession of pasture meadows in one of which the beds themselves are situated, and here, throughout most of the year, the fleecy victims of the human carnivore carry on the industry of conferring grass into mutton. Now it happened some years ago that the sheep frequenting these pastures became affected with the disease node as liver rot, and here we must make a short digression into the domain of pathology. Liver rot is a disease of quite romantic antecedents. Its cause is a small flat worm, the liver fluke, which is the liver and bile ducts of the affected sheep. Now how does the worm get into the sheep's liver? That is where the romance comes in. Let us see. The cycle of transformation begins with the deposit of the eggs of the fluke in some shallow stream or ditch running through pasture lands. Now each egg has a sort of lid which presently opens and lets out a minute hairy creature, who swims away in search of a particular kind of water snail, the kind called by naturalist, Limnoe Truncatula. If he finds a snail, he bores his way into its flesh, and soon begins to grow and wax fat. Then he brings forth a family of tiny worms, quite unlike himself. Little creatures called redii, which soon give birth to families of young redii. So they go on for several generations, but at last there comes a generation of redii, which instead of giving birth to fresh redii, produce families of totally different offspring, big-headed, long-tailed creatures like miniature tadpoles, called by the learned, Sarkarcheae. The Sarkarcheae soon wriggle their way out of the body of the snail, and then complications arise. For it is the habit of this particular snail to leave the water occasionally and take a stroll in the fields. Thus the Sarkarcheae, escaping from the snail, find themselves on the grass, whereupon they promptly drop their tails and stick themselves to the grass blades. Then comes the unsuspecting sheep to take his meal, and cropping the grass swallows it, Sarkarcheae, and all. But the latter, when they find themselves in the sheep's stomach, make their way straight to the bile ducts, up which they travel to the liver. Here, in a few weeks, they grow into full-blown flukes and begin the important business of producing eggs, such as the pathological romance of the liver rot. And now, what is its connection with this mysterious discovery? It is this. After the outbreak of liver rot above referred to, the ground landlord, a Mr. John Bellingham, instructed his solicitor to insert a clause in the lease of the beds, directing that the latter should be periodically cleared and examined by an expert to make sure that they were free from the noxious water snails. The last lease expired about two years ago, and since then the beds have been out of cultivation. But for the safety of the adjacent pastures, it was considered necessary to make the customary periodical inspection. And it was in the course of examining the beds for this purpose that the present discovery was made. The operation began two days ago. A gang of three men proceeded systematically to grub up the plants and collect the multitudes of water snails that they might be examined by the expert to see if any obnoxious species were present. They had cleared nearly half of the beds when, yesterday afternoon, one of the men working in the deepest part came upon some bones, the appearance of which excited his suspicion. Thereupon felt his mates, and they carefully picked away the plant's piecemeal, a process that soon laid bare an unmistakable human hand lying on the mud amongst the roots. Fortunately, they had the wisdom not to disturb their remains, but at once sent off a message to the police. Very soon, an inspector and a sergeant accompanied by the divisional surgeon arrived on the scene and were able to view the remains lying as they had been found. And now another very strange fact came to mind. For it was seen that the hand, a left one, lying on the mud was minus its third finger. This is regarded by the police as a very important fact, as bearing on the question of identification, seeing that the number of persons having the third finger of the left hand missing must be quite small. After a thorough examination on the spot the bones were carefully collected and conveyed to the mortuary, where they now lie awaiting further inquiries. The divisional surgeon, Dr. Brandon in an interview with our representative made the following statements. The bones are those of the left arm of a middle-aged or elderly man about five feet eight inches in height. All the bones of the arm are present, including the scapula or shoulder blade and the clavicle or collarbone, but the three bones of the third finger are missing. Is this a deformity or has the finger been cut off? Our correspondent asked. The finger has been amputated, was the reply. If it had been absent from birth the corresponding hand bone or metacarpal would have been wanting or deformed, whereas it is present and quite normal. How long have the bones been in the water was the next question. More than a year I should say, they are quite clean. There is not a vestige of the soft structures left. Have you any theory as to how the arm came to be deposited where it was found? I should rather not answer that question was the guarded response. One more question our correspondent urged. The ground landlord, Mr. John Bellingham, is he not the gentleman who disappeared so mysteriously some time ago? So I understand Dr. Brandon replied. Can you tell me if Mr. Bellingham had lost the third finger of his left hand? I cannot say, said Dr. Brandon, and he added with a smile you had better ask the police. This is how the matter stands at present, but we understand that the police are making active inquiries for any missing man who has lost the third finger of his left hand. And if any of our readers know of such a person, they are earnestly requested to communicate at once either with us or the authorities. Also, we believe that a systematic search is to be made for further remains. I laid the newspaper down and fell into a train of reflection. It was certainly a most mysterious affair. The thought that evidently came to the reporter's mind stole naturally into mine. Could these remains be those of John Bellingham? It was obviously possible, though I could not see that the fact of the bones having been found on his land, while it undoubtedly furnished the suggestion, did not in any way add to its probability. The connection was accidental and in no wise relevant. Then, too, there was the missing finger. No reference to any such deformity had been made in the original report of the disappearance, though it could hardly have been overlooked. But it was useless to speculate without facts. I should be seeing Thorndike in the course of the next few days, and undoubtedly if the discovery had any bearing upon the disappearance of John Bellingham, I should hear of it. With such a reflection I rose from the table and adopting the advice contained in the spurious Johnsonian quotation proceeded to take a walk in Fleet Street before settling down for the evening. End of chapter 5