 DEATH AT THE EXCELSIOR. The room was the typical bedroom of the typical boarding house, furnished in so far as it could be said to be furnished at all, with a severe simplicity. It contained two beds, a pine-chest of drawers, a strip of faded carpet and a wash basin. But there was that on the floor which set this room apart from a thousand rooms of the same kind. Flat on his back, with his hands tightly clenched and one leg twisted oddly under him, and with his teeth gleaming through his grey beard in a horrible grin Captain John Gunner stared up at the ceiling with eyes that saw nothing. Until a moment before he had had the little room all to himself, but now two people were standing just inside the door looking down at him. One was a large policeman, who twisted his helmet nervously in his hands. The other was a tall gaunt old woman in a rusty black dress, who gazed with pale eyes at the dead man. Her face was quite expressionless. The woman was Mrs. Pickett, owner of the Excelsior boarding house. The policeman's name was Grogan. He was a genial giant, a terror to the riotous element of the waterfront, but obviously ill at ease in the presence of death. He drew in his breath, wiped his forehead, and whispered, Look at his eyes, ma'am! Mrs. Pickett had not spoken a word since she had brought the policeman into the room and she did not do so now. Constable Grogan looked at her quickly. He was afraid of Mother Pickett, as was everybody else along the waterfront. Her silence, her pale eyes, and the quiet decisiveness of her personality cowed even the tough old salts who patronized the Excelsior. She was a formidable influence in that little community of sailor men. That's just how I found him, said Mrs. Pickett. She did not speak loudly, but her voice made the policeman start. He wiped his forehead again. It might have been apoplexy, he hazarded. Mrs. Pickett said nothing. There was a sound of footsteps outside and a young man entered carrying a black bag. Good morning, Mrs. Pickett. I was told that, good Lord! The young doctor dropped to his knees beside the body and raised one of the arms. After a moment he lowered it gently to the floor and shook his head in grim resignation. He's been dead for hours, he announced. When did you find him? Twenty minutes back, replied the old woman. I guess he died last night. He never would be called in the morning, said he liked to sleep on. Well, he's got his wish. What did he die of, sir? asked the policeman. It's impossible to say without an examination, the doctor answered. It looks like a stroke, but I'm pretty sure it isn't. It might be a coronary attack, but I happen to know his blood pressure was normal and his heart sound. He called in to see me only a week ago and I examined him thoroughly. But sometimes you can be deceived. The inquest will tell us. He eyed the body almost resentfully. I can't understand it. The man had no right to drop dead like this. He was a tough old sailor who ought to have been good for another twenty years. If you want my honest opinion, though I can't possibly be certain until after the inquest, I should say he had been poisoned. How would he be poisoned? asked Mrs. Pickett quietly. That's more than I can tell you. There's no glass about that he could have drunk it from. He might have got it in capsule form. But why should he have done it? He was always a pretty cheerful sort of old man, wasn't he? Yes, sir, said the constable. He had the name of being a joker in these parts. Kind of sarcastic, they tell me, though he never tried to down me. He must have died quite early last night, said the doctor. He turned to Mrs. Pickett. What's become of Captain Muller? If he shares this room, he ought to be able to tell us something about it. Captain Muller spent the night with some friends at Portsmouth, said Mrs. Pickett. He left right after supper and hasn't returned. The doctor stared thoughtfully about the room, frowning. I don't like it. I can't understand it. If this had happened in India, I should have said the man had died from some form of snake bite. I was out there two years, and I've seen a hundred cases of it. The poor devils all looked just like this. But the thing's ridiculous. How could a man be bitten by a snake in a South Hampton waterfront boarding house? Was the door locked when you found him, Mrs. Pickett? Mrs. Pickett nodded. I opened it with my own key. I had been calling to him and he didn't answer, so I guessed something was wrong. The constable spoke. You ain't touched anything, ma'am. They're always very particular about that. If the doctor's right, and there's been anything up, that's the first thing they'll ask. Everything's just as I found it. What's that on the floor beside him? The doctor asked. Only his harmonica. He liked to play it of an evening in his room. I've had some complaints about it from some of the gentlemen, but I never saw any harm so long as he didn't play it too late. Seems as if he was playing it when... it happened, constable Grogan said. That don't look much like suicide, sir. I didn't say it was suicide. Grogan whistled. You don't think... I'm not thinking anything, until after the inquest. All I say is that it's queer. Another aspect of the matter seemed to strike the policeman. I guess this ain't going to do the excelsior any good, ma'am, he said sympathetically. Mrs. Pickett shrugged her shoulders. I suppose I'd better go and notify the coroner, said the doctor. He went out, and after a momentary pause the policeman followed him. Constable Grogan was not greatly troubled with nerves, but he felt a decided desire to be somewhere where he could not see the dead man's staring eyes. Mrs. Pickett remained where she was, looking down at the still form on the floor. Her face was expressionless, but inwardly she was tormented and alarmed. It was the first time such a thing as this had happened at the excelsior, and as Constable Grogan had hinted it was not likely to increase the attractiveness of the house in the eyes of possible boarders. It was not the threatened pecuniary loss which was troubling her. As far as money was concerned, she could have lived comfortably on her savings, for she was richer than most of her friends supposed. It was the blot on the escutcheon of the excelsior, the stain on its reputation which was tormenting her. The excelsior was her life. Starting many years before, beyond the memory of the oldest border, she had built up the model establishment, the fame of which had been carried to every corner of the world. Men spoke of it as a place where you were fed well, cleanly housed, and where petty robbery was unknown. Such was the chorus of praise that it was not likely that much harm could come to the excelsior from a single mysterious death, but Mother Pickett was not consoling herself with such reflections. She looked at the dead man with pale, grim eyes. Out in the hallway the doctor's voice further increased her despair. He was talking to the police on the telephone, and she could distinctly hear his every word. 2. The offices of Mr. Paul Snyder's detective agency in New Oxford Street had grown in the course of a dozen years from a single room to an impressive suite bright with polished wood, clicking typewriters and other evidences of success. Where once Mr. Snyder had sat and waited for clients and attended to them himself, he now sat in his private office and directed eight assistants. He had just accepted a case, a case that might be nothing at all or something exceedingly big. It was on the latter possibility that he had gambled. The fee offered was, judged by his present standards of prosperity, small. But the bizarre facts, coupled with something in the personality of the client, had won him over. He briskly touched the bell and requested that Mr. Oaks be sent into him. Elliot Oaks was a young man who both amused and interested Mr. Snyder. For, though he had only recently joined the staff, he made no secret of his intention of revolutionizing the methods of the agency. Mr. Snyder himself, in common with most of his assistants, relied for results on hard work and plenty of commons sense. He had never been a detective of the showy type. Results had justified his methods. But he was perfectly aware that young Mr. Oaks looked on him as a dull old man who had been miraculously favored by luck. Mr. Snyder had selected Oaks for the case in hand, principally because it was one where inexperience could do no harm, and where the brilliant guesswork, which Oaks preferred to call his inductive reasoning, might achieve an unexpected success. Another motive actuated Mr. Snyder in his choice. He had a strong suspicion that the conduct of this case was going to have the beneficial result of lowering Oaks' self-esteem. If failure achieved this end, Mr. Snyder felt that failure, though it would not help the agency, would not be an unmixed ill. The door opened and Oaks entered tensely. He did everything tensely, partly from a natural nervous energy and partly as a pose. He was a lean young man, with dark eyes and a thin-lipped mouth, and he looked quite as much like a typical detective as Mr. Snyder looked like a comfortable and prosperous stockbroker. Sit down, Oaks, said Mr. Snyder. I've got a job for you. Oaks sank into a chair like a crouching leopard and placed the tips of his fingers together. He nodded curtly. It was part of his pose to be keen and silent. I want you to go to this address. Mr. Snyder handed him an envelope and look around. The address on that envelope is of a sailor's boarding-house down in Southampton. You know the sort of place. Retired sea-captains and so forth live there. All most respectable. In all its history nothing more sensational has ever happened than a case of suspected cheating at half-penny nap. Well, a man had died there. Murdered, Oaks asked. I don't know. That's for you to find out. The coroner left it open. Death by misadventure was the verdict and I don't blame him. I don't see how it could have been murder. The door was locked on the inside, so nobody could have got in. The window. The window was open, granted, but the room is on the second floor. Anyway, you may dismiss the window. I remember the old lady saying there was a bar across it and that nobody could have squeezed through. Oaks' eyes glistened. He was interested. What was the cause of death, he asked. Mr. Snyder coughed. Snake bite, he said. Oaks' careful calm deserted him. He uttered a cry of astonishment. Why, that's incredible! It's the literal truth. The medical examination proved that the fellow had been killed by snake poison, Cobra, to be exact, which is found principally in India. Cobra. Just so. In a South Hampton boarding house, in a room with a locked door, this man was stung by a cobra. To add a little mystification to the limpid simplicity of the affair, when the door was opened, there was no sign of any cobra. It couldn't have got out through the door because the door was locked. It couldn't have got out of the window because the window was too high up and snakes can't jump. And it couldn't have gotten up the chimney because there was no chimney. So there you have it. He looked at Oaks with a certain quiet satisfaction. It had come to his ears that Oaks had been heard to complain of the infantile nature and unworthiness of the last two cases to which he had been assigned. He had even said that he hoped some day to be given a problem which should be beyond the reasoning powers of a child of six. It seemed to Mr. Snyder that Oaks was about to get his wish. I should like further details, said Oaks, a little breathlessly. You had better apply to Mrs. Pickett, who owns the boarding house, Mr. Snyder said. It was she who put the case in my hands. She is convinced that it is murder. But if we exclude ghosts, I don't see how any third party could have taken a hand in the thing at all. However, she wanted a man from this agency and was prepared to pay for him, so I promised her I would send one. It is not our policy to turn business away. He smiled riley. In pursuance of that policy, I want you to go and put up at Mrs. Pickett's boarding house and do your best to enhance the reputation of our agency. I would suggest that you pose as a ship's chandler or something of that sort. You will have to be something maritime or they'll be suspicious of you. And if your visit produces no other results, it will at least enable you to make the acquaintance of a very remarkable woman. I commend Mrs. Pickett to your notice. By the way, she says she will help you in your investigations. Oaks laughed shortly. The idea amused him. It's a mistake to scoff at amateur assistance, my boy," said Mr. Snyder in the benevolently paternal manner which had made a score of criminals refused to believe him a detective until the moment when the handcuffs snapped on their wrists. Crime investigation isn't an exact science. Success or failure depends on a large measure on applied common sense and the possession of a great deal of special information. Mrs. Pickett knows certain things which neither you nor I know and it's just possible that she may have some stray piece of information which will provide the key to the entire mystery. Oaks laughed again. It is very kind of Mrs. Pickett, he said, but I prefer to trust my own methods. Oaks rose, his face purposeful. I'd better be starting at once, he said. I'll send you reports from time to time. Good! The more detail the better," said Mr. Snyder genially. I hope your visit to the Excelsior will be pleasant and cultivate Mrs. Pickett. She's worth while. The door closed and Mr. Snyder lighted a fresh cigar. Dashed young fool, he murmured as he turned his mind to other matters. Three. A day later Mr. Snyder sat in his office reading a type written report. It appeared to be of a humorous nature, for as he read, chuckles escaped him. Finishing the last sheet he threw his head back and laughed heartily. The manuscript had not been intended by its author for a humorous effort. What Mr. Snyder had been reading was the first of Elliot Oaks' reports from the Excelsior. It read as follows. I am sorry to be unable to report any real progress. I have formed several theories which I will put forward later, but at present I cannot say that I am hopeful. Directly I arrived here, I sought out Mrs. Pickett, explained who I was, and requested her to furnish me with any further information which might be of service to me. She is a strange, silent woman, who impressed me as having very little intelligence. Your suggestion that I should avail myself of her assistance seems more curious than ever, now that I have seen her. The whole affair seems to me at the moment of writing quite inexplicable. Assuming that this Captain Gunner was murdered, there appears to have been no motive for the crime whatsoever. I have made careful inquiries about him and found that he was a man of fifty-five, had spent nearly forty years of his life at sea, the last dozen in command of his own ship, was of a somewhat overbearing disposition, though with a fund of rough humor, had travelled all over the world and had been an inmate of the Excelsior for about ten months. He had a small inuity and no other money at all, which disposes of money as the motive for the crime. In my character of James Burton, a retired ship's chandler, I have mixed with the other boarders and have heard all they have to say about the affair. I gather that the deceased was by no means popular. He appears to have had a bitter tongue, and I have not met one man who seems to regret his death. On the other hand, I have heard nothing which would suggest that he had any active and violent enemies. He was simply the unpopular border. There is always one in every boarding-house, but nothing more. I have seen a good deal of the man who shared his room, another sea-captain named Muller. He is a big, silent person, and it is not easy to get him to talk. As regards the death of Captain Gunner, he can tell me nothing. It seems that on the night of the tragedy he was away at Portsmouth with some friends. All I have got from him is some information as to Captain Gunner's habits which leads nowhere. The dead man seldom drank, except at night, when he would take some whisky. His head was not strong, and a little of the spirit was enough to make him semi-intoxicated, when he would be hilarious and often insulting. I gather that Muller found him a difficult roommate. But he is one of those placid persons who can put up with anything. He and Gunner were in the habit of playing drafts together every night in their room, and Gunner had a harmonica which he played frequently. Apparently he was playing it very soon before he died, which is significant as seeming to dispose of the idea of suicide. As I say I have one or two theories, but they are in a very nebulous state. The most plausible is that on one of his visits to India, I have ascertained that he had made several voyages there, Captain Gunner may in some way have fallen foul of the natives. The fact that he certainly died of the poison of an Indian snake supports this theory. I am making inquiries as to the movements of several Indian sailors who were here in their ships at the time of the tragedy. I have another theory. Does Mrs. Pickett know more about this affair than she appears to? I may be wrong in my estimate of her mental qualities. Her apparent stupidity may be cunning. But here again the absence of motive brings me up against a dead wall. I must confess that at present I do not see my way clearly. However, I will write again shortly. Mr. Snyder derived the utmost enjoyment from the report. He liked the substance of it, and above all, he was tickled by the bitter tone of frustration which characterized it. Oaks was baffled, and his knowledge of Oaks told him that the sensation of being baffled was gall and wormwood to that high spirited young man. Whatever might be the result of this investigation, it would teach him the virtue of patience. He wrote his assistance a short note. Dear Oaks, your report received. You certainly seem to have got the hard case which I hear you were pining for. Don't build too much on plausible motives in a case of this sort. Fauntleroy, the London murderer, killed a woman for no other reason than that she had thick ankles. Many years ago I myself was on a case where a man murdered an intimate friend because of a dispute about a bet. My experience is that five murderers out of ten act on the whim of the moment, without anything which, properly speaking, you could call a motive at all. Yours very cordially, Paul Snyder. PS, I don't think much of your picket theory. However, you're in charge, I wish you luck. 4. Young Mr. Oaks was not enjoying himself. For the first time in his life the self-confidence which characterized all his actions seemed to be failing him. The change had taken place almost overnight. The fact that the case had the appearance of presenting the unusual had merely stimulated him at first, but then doubts had crept in and the problem had begun to appear insoluble. True, he had only just taken it up, but something told him that for all the progress he was likely to make he might just as well have been working on it steadily for a month. He was completely baffled. And every moment which he spent in the Excelsior boarding-house made it clear to him that that infernal old woman with the pale eyes thought him an incompetent fool. It was that, more than anything, which made him acutely conscious of his lack of success. His nerves were being sorely troubled by the quiet scorn of Mrs. Pickett's gaze. He began to think that perhaps he had been a shade too self-confident and abrupt in the short interview which he had had with her on his arrival. As might have been expected, his first act, after his brief interview with Mrs. Pickett, was to examine the room where the tragedy had taken place. The body was gone, but otherwise nothing had been moved. Oaks belonged to the magnifying glass school of detection. The first thing he did on entering the room was to make a careful examination of the floor, the walls, the furniture, and the windowsill. He would have hotly denied the assertion that he did this because it looked well, but he would have been hard put to it to advance any other reason. If he discovered anything, his discoveries were entirely negative, and served only to deepen the mystery of the case. As Mrs. Snyder had said, there was no chimney, and nobody could have entered through the locked door. There remained the window. It was small, and apprehensiveness, perhaps, of the possibility of burglars, had caused the proprietress to make it doubly secure with an iron bar. No human being could have squeezed his way through it. It was late that night that he wrote in dispatch to headquarters the report which had amused Mr. Snyder. Five. Two days later Mr. Snyder sat at his desk, staring with wide, unbelieving eyes at a telegram he had just received. It read as follows. Have solved Gunner's mystery. Returning. Oaks. Mr. Snyder narrowed his eyes and rang the bell. Send Mr. Oaks to me directly he arrives, he said. He was pained to find that his chief emotion was one of bitter annoyance. The swift solution of such an apparently insoluble problem would reflect the highest credit on the agency. And there were picturesque circumstances connected with the case which would make it popular with the newspapers and lead to its being given a great deal of publicity. Yet, in spite of all this, Mr. Snyder was annoyed. He realized now how large a part the desire to reduce Oaks self-esteem had played with him. He further realized, looking at the thing honestly, that he had been firmly convinced that the young man would not come within a mile of reasonable solution of the mystery. He had desired only that his failure would prove a valuable educational experience for him. For he believed that failure, at this particular point in his career, would make Oaks a more valuable asset to the agency. But now here Oaks was, within a ridiculously short space of time, returning to the fold, not humble and defeated but triumphant. Mr. Snyder looked forward with apprehension to the young man's probable demeanor under the intoxicating influence of victory. His apprehensions were well grounded. He had barely finished the third of a series of cigars, which, like milestones, marked the progress of his afternoon, when the door opened and young Oaks entered. Mr. Snyder could not repress a faint moan at the side of him. One glance was enough to tell him that his worst fears were realized. I got your telegram, said Mr. Snyder. Oaks nodded. It surprised you, eh? he asked. Mr. Snyder resented the patronizing tone of the question, but he had resigned himself to be patronized and keep his anger in check. Yes, he replied, I must say it did surprise me. I didn't gather from your report that you had even found a clue. Was it the Indian theory that turned the trick? Oaks laughed tolerantly. Oh, I never really believed that preposterous theory for one moment. I just put it in to round out my report. I hadn't begun to think about the case then, not really think. Mr. Snyder, nearly exploding with wrath, extended his cigar case. Light up and tell me all about it, he said, controlling his anger. Well, I won't say I haven't earned this, said Oaks puffing away. He let the ash of his cigar fall delicately to the floor, another action which seemed significant to his employer. As a rule, his assistants, unless particularly pleased with themselves, used the ashtray. My first act on arriving, Oaks said, was to have a talk with Mrs. Pickett, a very dull old woman. Garious, she struck me as rather intelligent. Not on your life. She gave me no assistance, whatever. I then examined the room where the death had taken place. It was exactly as you described it. There was no chimney, the door had been locked on the inside, the one window was very high up. At first sight it looked extremely unpromising. Then I had a chat with some of the other borders. They had nothing of any importance to contribute, most of them simply gibbered. I then gave up trying to get help from the outside and resolved to rely on my own intelligence. He smiled triumphantly. It is a theory of mine, Mr. Snyder, which I have found valuable, that in nine cases out of ten remarkable things don't happen. I don't quite follow you there, Mr. Snyder interrupted. I will put it another way if you like. What I mean is that the simplest explanation is nearly always the right one. Consider this case. It seemed impossible that there should have been any reasonable explanation of the man's death. Most men would have warned themselves out, guessing at wild theories. If I had started to do that, I should have been guessing now. As it is, here I am. I trusted to my belief that nothing remarkable ever happens, and I won out. Mr. Snyder sighed softly. Oaks was entitled to a certain amount of gloating, but there could be no doubt that his way of telling a story was downright infuriating. I believe in the logical sequence of events. I refuse to accept effects unless they are preceded by causes. In other words, with all due respect to your possibly contrary opinions, Mr. Snyder, I simply declined to believe in a murder unless there is a motive for it. The first thing I set myself to ascertain was what was the motive for the murder of Captain Gunner, and after thinking it over and making every possible inquiry I decided that there was no motive, therefore there was no murder. Mr. Snyder's mouth opened and he obviously was about to protest, but he appeared to think better of it and Oaks proceeded. I then tested the suicide theory. What motive was there for suicide? There was no motive, therefore there was no suicide. This time Mr. Snyder spoke. You haven't been spending the last few days in the wrong house by any chance, have you? You'll be telling me next that there wasn't any dead man. Oaks smiled. Not at all. Captain John Gunner was dead all right. As the medical evidence proved, he died of the bite of a cobra. It was a small cobra which came from Java. Mr. Snyder stared at him. How do you know? I do know beyond any possibility of doubt. Did you see the snake? Oaks shook his head. Then how in heaven's name? I have enough evidence to make a jury convict Mr. Snake without leaving the box. Then suppose you tell me this. How did your cobra from Java get out of the room? By the window replied Oaks impassively. How can you possibly explain that? You say yourself that the window was high up. Nevertheless it got out by the window. The logical sequence of events is proof enough that it was in the room. It killed Captain Gunner there and left traces of its presence outside. Therefore, as the window was the only exit, it must have escaped by that route. It may have climbed or may have jumped, but somehow it got out of that window. What do you mean it left traces of its presence outside? It killed a dog in the backyard behind the house, Oaks said. The window of Captain Gunner's room projects out over it. It is full of boxes and litter and there are a few stunted shrubs scattered about. In fact, there is enough cover to hide any small object like the body of a dog. That's why it was not discovered at first. The maid at the Excelsior came on it the morning after I sent you my report while she was emptying a box of ashes in the yard. It was just an ordinary stray dog without collar or license. The analyst examined the body and found that the dog had died of the bite of a cobra. But you didn't find the snake. No, we cleaned out that yard till you could have eaten your breakfast there but the snake was gone. It must have escaped through the door of the yard which was standing a jar. That was a couple of days ago and there has been no further tragedy. In all likelihood it is dead. The nights are pretty cold now and it would probably have died of exposure. But I just don't understand how a cobra got to Southampton, said the amazed Mr. Snyder. Can't you guess it? I told you it came from Java. How did you know it did? Captain Muller told me. Not directly but I pieced it together from what he said. It seems that an old shipmate of Captain Gunners was living in Java. They corresponded and occasionally this man would send the Captain a present as a mark of his esteem. The last present he sent was a crate of bananas. Unfortunately the snake must have got in unnoticed. That's why I told you the cobra was a small one. Well, that's my case against Mr. Snake and short of catching him with the goods I don't see how I could have made out a stronger one. Don't you agree? It went against the grain for Mr. Snyder to acknowledge defeat but he was a fair-minded man and he was forced to admit that Oaks did certainly seem to have solved the impossible. I congratulate you, my boy. He said as heartily as he could. To be completely frank, when you started out, I didn't think you could do it. By the way, I suppose Mrs. Pickett was pleased? If she was, she didn't show it. I'm pretty well convinced that she hasn't enough sense to be pleased at anything. However, she has invited me to dinner with her tonight. I imagine she'll be as boring as usual but she made such a point of it I had to accept. 6. For some time after Oaks had gone Mr. Snyder sat smoking and thinking in embittered meditation. Suddenly that was brought the card of Mrs. Pickett, who would be grateful if he could spare her a few moments. Mr. Snyder was glad to see Mrs. Pickett. He was a student of character and she had interested him at their first meeting. There was something about her which had seemed to him unique, and he welcomed this second chance of studying her at close range. She came in and sat down stiffly, balancing herself on the extreme edge of the chair in which a short while before young Oaks had lounged so luxuriously. How are you, Mrs. Pickett? said Mr. Snyder genially. I'm very glad that you could find time to pay me a visit. Well, so it wasn't murder after all. Sir? I've just been talking to Mr. Oaks, whom you met as James Burton, said the detective. He has told me all about it. He told me all about it, said Mrs. Pickett, dryly. Mr. Snyder looked at her inquiringly. Her manner seemed more suggestive than her words. A conceited, headstrong young fool, said Mrs. Pickett. It was no new picture of his assistant that she had drawn. Mr. Snyder had often drawn it himself, but at the present juncture it surprised him. Oaks, in his hour of triumph, surely did not deserve this sweeping condemnation. Did not Mr. Oaks' solution of the mystery satisfy you, Mrs. Pickett? No. It struck me as logical and convincing, Mr. Snyder said. You may call it all the fancy names you please, Mr. Snyder, but Mr. Oaks' solution was not the right one. Have you an alternative to offer? Mrs. Pickett tightened her lips. If you have, I should like to hear it. You will, at the proper time. What makes you so certain that Mr. Oaks is wrong? He starts out with an impossible explanation and rests his whole case on it. There couldn't have been a snake in that room because it couldn't have gotten out. The window was too high. But surely the evidence of the dead dog. Mrs. Pickett looked at him as if he had disappointed her. I had always heard you spoken of as a man with common sense, Mr. Snyder. I have always tried to use common sense. Then why are you trying now to make yourself believe that something happened which could not possibly have happened just because it fits in with something which isn't easy to explain? You mean there is another explanation of the dead dog, Mr. Snyder asked? Not another. What Mr. Oaks takes for granted is not an explanation, but there is a common sense explanation and if he had not been so headstrong and conceited he might have found it. You speak as if you had found it, chided Mr. Snyder. I have. Mrs. Pickett leaned forward as she spoke and stared at him defiantly. Mr. Snyder started. You have? Yes. What is it? You will know before tomorrow. In the meantime, try and think it out for yourself. A successful and prosperous detective agency like yours, Mr. Snyder, ought to do something in return for a fee. There was something in her manner so reminiscent of the school teacher reprimanding a recalcitrant pupil that Mr. Snyder's sense of humor came to his rescue. We do our best, Mrs. Pickett, he said, but you mustn't forget that we are only human and cannot guarantee results. Mrs. Pickett did not pursue the subject. Instead, she proceeded to astonish Mr. Snyder by asking him to swear out a warrant for the arrest of a man known to them both on a charge of murder. Mr. Snyder's breath was not often taken away in his own office. As a rule, he received his client's communications calmly, strange as they often were, but at her words he gasped. The thought crossed his mind that Mrs. Pickett might well be mentally unbalanced. The details of the case were fresh in his memory, and he distinctly recollected that the person she mentioned had been away from the boarding-house on the night of Captain Gunner's death, and could, he imagined, produce witnesses to prove it. Mrs. Pickett was regarding him with an unfaltering stare. To all outward appearances she was the opposite of unbalanced. But you can't swear out a warrant without evidence, he told her. I have evidence, she replied firmly. Precisely what kind of evidence, he demanded. If I told you now, you would think that I was out of my mind. But Mrs. Pickett, do you realize what you are asking me to do? I cannot make this agency responsible for the arbitrary arrest of a man on the strength of a single individual's suspicions. It might ruin me. At the least it would make me a laughing stock. Mr. Snyder, you may use your own judgment whether or not to make the arrest on that warrant. You will listen to what I have to say, and you will see for yourself how the crime was committed. If after that you feel you cannot make the arrest, I will accept your decision. I know who killed Captain Gunner, she said. I knew it from the beginning. It was like a vision, but I had no proof. Now things have come to light, and everything is clear. Against his judgment Mr. Snyder was impressed. This woman had the magnetism which makes for persuasiveness. It, it sounds incredible. Even as he spoke, he remembered that it had long been a professional maxim of his that nothing was incredible, and he weakened still further. Mr. Snyder, I ask you to swear out that warrant. The detective gave in. Very well, he said. Mrs. Pickett Rose. If you will come and dine at my house tonight, I think I can prove to you that it will be needed. Will you come? I'll come, promised Mr. Snyder. Seven. When Mr. Snyder arrived at the Excelsior, and shortly after he was shown into the little private sitting-room where he found Oaks, the third guest of the evening unexpectedly arrived. Mr. Snyder looked curiously at the newcomer. Captain Muller had a peculiar fascination for him. It was not Mr. Snyder's habit to trust over much to appearances. But he could not help admitting that there was something about this man's aspect which brought Mrs. Pickett's charges out of the realm of the Fantastic into that of the possible. There was something odd, an unnatural aspect of gloom about the man. He bore himself like one carrying a heavy burden. His eyes were dull, his face haggard. The next moment the detective was reproaching himself with allowing his imagination to run away with his calmer judgment. The door opened and Mrs. Pickett came in. She made no apology for her lateness. To Mr. Snyder, one of the most remarkable points about the dinner was the peculiar metamorphosis of Mrs. Pickett from the brooding silent woman he had known to the gracious and considerate hostess. Oaks appeared also to be overcome with surprise, so much so that he was unable to keep his astonishment to himself. He had come prepared to endure a dull evening absorbed in grim silence, and he found himself instead opposite a bottle of champagne of a brand and ear which commanded his utmost respect. What was even more incredible, his hostess had transformed herself into a pleasant old lady whose only aim seemed to be to make him feel at home. Besides, each of the guest's plates was a neat paper parcel. Oaks picked his up and stared at it in wonderment. Why, this is more than a party, souvenir, Mrs. Pickett, he said. It's the kind of mechanical marvel I've always wanted to have on my desk. I'm glad you like it, Mr. Oaks, Mrs. Pickett said, smiling. You must not think of me simply as a tired old woman whom age has completely defeated. I am an ambitious hostess. When I give these little parties, I'd like to make them a success. I want each of you to remember this dinner. I'm sure I will, Mrs. Pickett smiled again. I think you all will. You, Mr. Snyder, she paused, and you, Captain Muller. To Mr. Snyder there was so much meaning in her voice, as she said this, that he was amazed that it conveyed no warning to Muller. Captain Muller, however, was already drinking heavily. He looked up when addressed and uttered a sound which might have been taken for an expression of polite acquiescence. Then he filled his glass again. Mr. Snyder's parcel revealed a watch charm fashioned in the shape of a tiny, candid eye camera. That, said Mrs. Pickett, is a compliment to your profession. She leaned toward the Captain. Mr. Snyder is a detective, Captain Muller. He looked up. It seemed to Mr. Snyder that a look of fear lit up his heavy eyes for an instant. It came and went, if indeed it came at all, so swiftly that he could not be certain. So, said Captain Muller, he spoke quite evenly, with just the amount of interest which such an announcement would naturally produce. Now for yours, Captain, said Oaks. I guess it's something special. It's twice the size of mine, anyway. It may have been something in the old woman's expression as he watched Captain Muller slowly tearing the paper that sent a thrill of excitement through Mr. Snyder. Something seemed to warn him of the approach of a psychological moment. He bent forward eagerly. There was a strangled gasp, a thump, and onto the table from the Captain's hands there fell a little harmonica. There was no mistaking the look on Muller's face now. His cheeks were like wax, and his eyes, so dull till then, blazed with a panic and horror which he could not repress. The glasses on the table rocked as he clutched at the cloth. Mrs. Pickett spoke. Why, Captain Muller, has it upset you? I thought that, as his best friend, the man who shared his room, you would value a memento of Captain Gunner. How fond you must have been of him for the sight of his harmonica to be such a shock. The Captain did not speak. He was staring fascinated at the thing on the table. Mrs. Pickett turned to Mr. Snyder, her eyes, as they met his, held him in trance. Mr. Snyder, as a detective you will be interested in a curious and very tragic affair which happened in this house a few days ago. One of my boarders, Captain Gunner, was found dead in his room. It was the room which he shared with Captain Muller. I am very proud of the reputation of my house, Mr. Snyder, and it was a blow to me that this should have happened. I applied to an agency for a detective, and they sent me a stupid boy, with nothing to recommend him except his belief in himself. He said that Captain Gunner had died by accident, killed by a snake which had come out of a crate of bananas. I knew better. I knew that Captain Gunner had been murdered. Are you listening, Captain Muller? This will interest you as you were such a friend of his. The Captain did not answer. He was staring straight before him, as if he saw something invisible in eyes forever closed in death. Yesterday we found the body of a dog. It had been killed, as Captain Gunner had been, by the poison of a snake. The boy from the agency said that this was conclusive. He said that the snake had escaped from the room after killing Captain Gunner and had in turn killed the dog. I knew that to be impossible, for if there had been a snake in that room it could not have made its escape. Her eyes flashed and became remorselessly accusing. It was not a snake that killed Captain Gunner. It was a cat. Captain Gunner had a friend who hated him. One day, in opening a crate of bananas, this friend found a snake. He killed it and extracted the poison. He knew Captain Gunner's habits. He knew that he played a harmonica. This man also had a cat. He knew that cats hated the sound of a harmonica. He had often seen this particular cat fly at Captain Gunner and scratch him when he played. He took the cat and covered its claws with the poison, and then he left it in the room with Captain Gunner. He knew what would happen. Oaks and Mr. Snyder were on their feet. Captain Muller had not moved. He sat there, his fingers gripping the cloth. Mrs. Pickett rose and went to a closet. She unlocked the door. Kitty, she called. Kitty, kitty! A black cat ran swiftly out into the room. With a clatter and a crash of crockery and a ringing of glass, the table heaved, rocked and overturned as Muller staggered to his feet. He threw up his hands as if to ward something off. A choking cry came from his lips. Gutt! Gutt! Mrs. Pickett's voice rang through the room, cold and biting. Captain Muller, you murdered Captain Gunner! The Captain shuddered. Then mechanically he replied. Gutt! Yes, I killed him. You heard Mr. Snyder, said Mrs. Pickett. He has confessed before witnesses. Take him away. Muller allowed himself to be moved toward the door. His arm in Mr. Snyder's grip felt limp. Mrs. Pickett stopped and took something from the debris on the floor. She rose, holding the harmonica. You are forgetting your souvenir, Captain Muller, she said. The End of Death at the Excelsior by P. G. Woodhouse The Mystery of the Felwyn Tunnel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, USA The Mystery of the Felwyn Tunnel by L. T. Mead and Robert Eustis I was making experiments of some interest at South Kensington, and hoped I had perfected a small but not unimportant discovery, when, on returning home one evening in late October in the year 1893, I found a visiting card on my table. On it were inscribed the words Mr. Jeffrey Bainbridge. This name was quite unknown to me, so I rang the bell and inquired of my servant who the visitor had been. He described him as a gentleman who wished to see me on most urgent business, and said further that Mr. Bainbridge intended to call again later in the evening. It was with both curiosity and vexation that I awaited the return of the stranger. Urgent business with me generally meant a hurried rush to one part of the country or the other. I did not want to leave London just then, and when, at half-past nine, Mr. Jeffrey Bainbridge was ushered into my room, I received him with a certain coldness which he could not fail to perceive. He was a tall, well-dressed, elderly man. He immediately plunged into the object of his visit. I hope you do not consider my unexpected presence an intrusion, Mr. Bell, he said. But I have heard of you, from our mutual friends, the Grace of Uplands. You may remember once doing that family a great service. I remember perfectly well, I answered more cordially. Pray tell me, what do you want? I shall listen with attention. I believe you are the one man in London who can help me, he continued. I refer to a matter especially relating to your own particular study. I need hardly say that whatever you do will not be unrewarded. That is neither here nor there, I said. But before you go any further allow me to ask one question. Do you want me to leave London at present? He raised his eyebrows in dismay. I certainly do, he answered. Very well, pray proceed with your story. He looked at me with anxiety. In the first place he began, I must tell you that I am Chairman of the Light and Vale Railway Company in Wales, and that it is on an important matter connected with our line that I have come to consult you. When I explain to you the nature of the mystery, you will not wonder, I think, at my soliciting your aid. I will give you my closest attention, I answered, and then I added, impelled to say the latter words by a certain expression on his face. If I can see my way to assisting you, I shall be ready to do so. Pray accept my cordial thanks, he replied. I have come up from my place at Felwyn today on purpose to consult you. It is in that neighborhood that the affair has occurred. As it is essential that you should be in possession of the facts of the whole matter, I will go over things just as they happened. I bent forward and listened attentively. This day, fortnight, continued Mr. Bainbridge, our quiet little village was horrified by the news that the signalman on duty at the mouth of the Felwyn Tunnel had been found dead under the most mysterious circumstances. The tunnel is at the end of a long cutting between landleys and Felwyn stations. It is about a mile long, and the signal box is on the Felwyn side. The place is extremely lonely, being six miles from the village across the mountains. The name of the poor fellow who met his death in this mysterious fashion was David Prichard. I have known him from a boy. He was quite one of the steadiest and most trustworthy men on the line. On Tuesday evening he went on duty at six o'clock. On Wednesday morning the day man who had come to relieve him was surprised not to find him in the box. It was just getting daylight, and the 630 local was coming down, so he pulled the signals and led her through. Then he went out and looking up the line towards the tunnel saw Prichard lying beside the line close to the mouth of the tunnel. Roberts, the day man, ran to him and found to his horror that he was quite dead. At first Roberts naturally supposed that he had been cut down by a train, as there was a wound at the back of his head. But he was not lying on the metals. Roberts ran back to the box and telegraphed through to Felwyn station. The message was sent on to the village, and at half past seven o'clock the police inspector came up to my house with the news. He and I, with the local doctor, went off at once to the tunnel. We found the dead man lying beside the metals a few yards away from the mouth of the tunnel, and the doctor immediately gave him a careful examination. There was a depressed fracture at the back of the skull, which must have caused his death, but how he came by it was not so clear. On examining the whole place, most carefully, we saw further that there were marks on the rocks at the steep side of the embankment, as if someone had tried to scramble up them. Why the poor fellow had attempted such a climb, God only knows. In doing so, he must have slipped and fallen back on to the line, thus causing the fracture to the skull. In no case could he have gone up more than eight or ten feet, as the banks of the cutting run sheer up, almost perpendicular, beyond that point for more than a hundred and fifty feet. There are some sharp boulders beside the line, and it is possible that he might have fallen on one of these and so sustained the injury. The affair must have occurred sometime between 11.45 p.m. and 6 a.m., as the engine driver of the express at 11.45 p.m. states that the line was signaled clear, and he also caught sight of Pritchard in his box as he passed. This is deeply interesting, I said. Pray, proceed. Bainbridge looked at me earnestly. He then continued. The whole thing is shrouded in mystery. Why should Pritchard have left his box and gone down to the tunnel? Why, having done so, should he have made a wild attempt to scale the side of the cutting, an impossible feat at any time? Had danger threatened, the ordinary course of things would have been to run up the line towards the signal box. These points are quite unexplained. Another curious fact is that the death appears to have taken place just before the day man came on duty, as the light at the mouth of the tunnel had been put out, and it was one of the night signalman's duties to do this as soon as daylight appeared. It is possible, therefore, that Pritchard went down to the tunnel for that purpose. Against this theory, however, and an objection that seems to nullify it, is the evidence of Dr. Williams, who states that when he examined the body his opinion was that death had taken place some hours before. An inquest was held the following day, but before it took place there was a new and most important development. I now come to what I consider the crucial point in the whole story. For a long time there had been a feud between Pritchard and another man of the name of Wynn, a plate-layer on the line. The object of their quarrel was the blacksmith's daughter in the neighboring village, a remarkably pretty girl and an errant flirt. Both men were madly in love with her, and she played them off one against the other. The night but one before his death Pritchard and Wynn met at the village inn, had quarreled in the bar, Lucy, of course, being the subject of their difference. Wynn was heard to say he was a man of powerful build and subject to fits of ungovernable rage that he would have Pritchard's life. Pritchard swore a great oath that he would get Lucy on the following day to promise to marry him. This oath it appears he kept, and on his way to the signal box on Tuesday evening met Wynn and triumphantly told him that Lucy had promised to be his wife. The men had a hand-to-hand fight on the spot, several people from the village being witness to it. They were separated with difficulty, each bowing vengeance on the other. Pritchard went off to his duty at the signal box, and Wynn returned to the village to drown his sorrows at the public house. Very late that same night Wynn was seen by a villager going in the direction of the tunnel. The man stopped him and questioned him. He explained that he had left some of his tools on the line, and he was on his way to fetch them. The villager noticed that he looked queer and excited, but not wishing to pick a quarrel thought it best not to question him further. It has been proved that Wynn never returned home that night, but came back at an early hour on the following morning, looking dazed and stupid. He was arrested on suspicion, and at the inquest the verdict was against him. Has he given any explanation of his movements, I ask? Yes, but nothing that can clear him. As a matter of fact, his tools were nowhere to be seen on the line, nor did he bring them home with him. His own story is that being considerably the worse for drink, he had fallen down in one of the fields and slept there till morning. Things look black against him, I said. They do, but listen, I have something more to add. Here comes a very queer feature of the affair. Lucy Ray, the girl who had caused the feud between Prichard and Wynn, after hearing the news of Prichard's death, completely lost her head, and ran frantically about the village, declaring that Wynn was the man she really loved, and that she had only accepted Prichard in a fit of rage with Wynn for not himself bringing matters to the point. The case looks very bad against Wynn, and yesterday the magistrate committed him for trial at the coming assizes. The unhappy Lucy Ray and the young man's parents are in a state bordering on distraction. What is your opinion with regard to Wynn's guilt, I ask? Before God, Mr. Bell, I believe the poor fellow is innocent, but the evidence against him is very strong. One of the favorite theories is that he went down to the tunnel and extinguished the light, knowing that this would bring Prichard out of his box to see what was the matter, and that he then attacked him, striking the blow which fractured the skull. Has any weapon been found about, with which he could have given such a blow? No, nor has any of the kind been discovered on Wynn's person. That fact is decidedly in his favor. But what about the marks on the rocks, I ask? It is possible that Wynn may have made them in order to divert suspicion by making people think that Prichard must have fallen, and so killed himself. The holders of this theory base their belief on the absolute want of cause for Prichards trying to scale the rock. The whole thing is the most absolute enigma. Some of the country folk have declared that the tunnel is haunted, and there certainly has been such a rumor current among them for years, that Prichard saw some apparition, and in wild tears sought to escape it by climbing the rocks is another theory, but only the most imaginative hold it. Well, it is a most extraordinary case, I replied. Yes, Mr. Bell, and I should like to get your opinion of it. Do you see your way to elucidate the mystery? Not at present. But I shall be happy to investigate the matter to my utmost ability. But you do not wish to leave London at present. That is so. But a matter of such importance cannot be set aside. It appears, from what you say, that Wynn's life hangs more or less on my being able to clear away the mystery. That is indeed the case. There ought not be a single stone left on a turn to get at the truth. For the sake of Wynn. Well, Mr. Bell, what do you propose to do? To see the place without delay, I answered. That is right. When can you come? Whenever you please. Will you come down to Felwyn with me to-morrow? I shall leave Paddington by the seven-ten. And if you will be my guest, I shall be only too pleased to put you up. That arrangement will suit me admirably, I replied. I will meet you by the train you mention, and the affair shall have my best attention. Thank you, he said, rising. He shook hands with me, and took his leave. The next day I met Bainbridge at Paddington Station, and we were soon flying westward in the luxurious private compartment that had been reserved for him. I could see, by his abstracted manner, and his long lapses of silence, that the mysterious affair at Felwyn Tunnel was occupying all his thoughts. It was two o'clock in the afternoon when the train slowed down at the little station of Felwyn. The station master was at the door in an instant to receive us. I have some terribly bad news for you, sir, he said, turning to Bainbridge, as we alighted, and yet, in one sense, it is a relief, for it seems to clear Wynn. What do you mean, cried Bainbridge? Bad news? Speak out at once! Well, sir, it is this. There has been another death at Felwyn's signal-box. John Davidson, who was on duty last night, was found dead at an early hour this morning, in the very same place where we found poor Pritchard. Good God! cried Bainbridge, starting back! What an awful thing! What in the name of heaven does it mean, Mr. Bell? This is too fearful! Good goodness, you have come down with us! It is as black a business as I ever heard of, sir, echoed the station master, and what we are to do I don't know. Poor Davidson was found dead this morning, and there was neither mark nor sign of what killed him. That is the extraordinary part of it. There's a perfect panic abroad, and not a signalman on the line will take duty to-night. I was in despair, and was afraid at one time that the line would have to be closed. But at last it occurred to me to wire light and veil, and they are sending down an inspector. I expect him by a special every moment. I believe this is he coming now, added the station master, looking up the line. There was the sound of a whistle down the valley, and in a few moments a single engine shot into the station, and an official, in uniform, stepped on to the platform. Good evening, sir, he said, touching his cap to Bainbridge, I have just been sent down to inquire into this affair at the Felwyn Tunnel, and though it seems more of a matter for a Scotland yard detective than one of ourselves, there was nothing for it but to come. All the same, Mr. Bainbridge, I cannot say that I look forward to spending to-night alone at the place. You wish for the services of a detective, but you shall have someone better," said Bainbridge, turning towards me. This gentleman, Mr. John Bell, is the man of all others for our business. I have just brought him down from London for the purpose. An expression of relief flitted across the inspector's face. I am very glad to see you, sir, he said to me, and I hope you will be able to spend the night with me in the signal box. I must say I don't much relish the idea of tackling the thing single-handed, but with your help, sir, I think we ought to get to the bottom of it somehow. I am afraid there is not a man on the line who will take duty until we do. So it is most important that the thing should be cleared and without delay. I readily assented to the inspector's proposition, and Bainbridge and I arranged that we should call for him at four o'clock at the village inn, and drive him to the Tunnel. We then stepped into the wagonette, which was waiting for us, and drove to Bainbridge's house. Mrs. Bainbridge came out to meet us, and was full of the tragedy. Two pretty girls also ran to greet their father, and to glance inquisitively at me. I could see that the entire family was in a state of much excitement. Lucy Ray has just left, father, said the elder of the girls. We had much trouble to soothe her. She is in a frantic state. You have heard, Mr. Bell, all about this dreadful mystery, said Mrs. Bainbridge, as she led me towards the dining-room? Yes, I answered. Your husband has been good enough to give me every particular. And you have really come here to help us? I hope I may be able to discover the cause, I answered. It certainly seems most extraordinary, continued Mrs. Bainbridge. My dear, she continued, turning to her husband. You can easily imagine the state we were all in this morning, when the news of the second death was brought to us. For my part, said Ella Bainbridge, I am sure that Felwyn Tunnel is haunted. The villagers have thought so for a long time, and this second death seems to prove it, does it not? Here she looked anxiously at me. I can offer no opinion, I replied, until I have sifted the matter thoroughly. Come, Ella, don't worry, Mr. Bell, said her father. If he is as hungry as I am, he must want his lunch. We then seated ourselves at the table and commenced the meal. Bainbridge, although he professed to be hungry, was in such a state of excitement that he could scarcely eat. Immediately after lunch he left me to the care of his family and went into the village. It is just like him, said Mrs. Bainbridge. He takes these sort of things to heart dreadfully. He is terribly upset about Lucy Ray, and also about the poor fellow Wynne. It is certainly a fearful tragedy from first to last. Well, at any rate, I said, this fresh death will upset the evidence against Wynne. I hope so. There is some satisfaction in the fact. Well, Mr. Bell, I see you have finished your lunch. Will you come into the drawing-room? I followed her into a pleasant room overlooking the Valley of the Lighten. By and by, Bainbridge returned, and soon afterwards the dog cart came to the door. My host and I mounted. Bainbridge took the reins, and we started off at a brisk pace. Matters get worse and worse, he said, the moment we were alone. If you don't clear things up tonight, Bell, I say frankly that I cannot imagine what will happen. We entered the village, and as we rattled down the ill-paved streets, I was greeted with curious glances on all sides. The people were standing about in groups, evidently talking about the tragedy and nothing else. Suddenly, as our trap bumped noisily over the paving-stones, a girl darted out of one of the houses and made frantic motions to Bainbridge to stop the horse. He pulled the mare nearly up on her haunches, and the girl came up to the side of the dog cart. You have heard it, she said, speaking eagerly and in a gasping voice. The death which occurred this morning will clear Stephen Wynn, won't it, Mr. Bainbridge? It will, you are sure, are you not? It looks like it, Lucy, my poor girl, he answered, but there the whole thing is so terrible that I scarcely know what to think. She was a pretty girl with dark eyes, an under-ordinary circumstances must have had the vivacious expression of face and the brilliant complexion which so many of her countrywomen possess. But now her eyes were swollen with weeping, and her complexion more or less disfigured by the agony she had gone through. She looked piteously at Bainbridge, her lips trembling, the next moment she burst into tears. Come away, Lucy, said a woman who had followed her out of the cottage. Fie, for shame! Don't trouble the gentleman, come back and stay quiet. I can't, mother, I can't, said the unfortunate girl. If they hang him, I'll go clean off my head. Oh, Mr. Bainbridge, do say that the second death has cleared him? I have every hope that it will do so, Lucy, said Bainbridge, but now don't keep us. There's a good girl. Go back into the house. This gentleman has come down from London on purpose to look into the whole matter. I may have good news for you in the morning. The girl raised her eyes to my face, with a look of intense pleading. Oh, I have been cruel, and a fool, and I deserve everything, she gasped. But, sir, for the love of heaven, try to clear him. I promised to do my best. Bainbridge touched up the mare. She bounded forward, and Lucy disappeared into the cottage with her mother. The next moment we drew up at the inn where the inspector was waiting, and soon afterwards we're bowling along between the high banks of the country lanes to the tunnel. It was a cold, still afternoon. The air was wonderfully keen. For a sharp frost had held the countryside in its grip for the last two days. The sun was just tipping the hills to westward, when the trap pulled up at the top of the cutting. We hastily alighted, and the inspector and I, Bad Bainbridge, goodbye. He said that he only wished that he could stay with us for the night, assured us that little sleep would visit him, and that he would be back at the cutting at an early hour on the following morning. Then the noise of his horse's feet was heard fainter and fainter as he drove back over the frost-bound roads. The inspector and I ran along the little path to the wicked gate in the fence, stamping our feet on the hard ground to restore circulation after our cold drive. The next moment we were looking down upon the scene of the mysterious deaths, and a weird and lonely place it looked. The tunnel was at one end of the rock-cutting, the sides of which ran sheer down to the line for over a hundred and fifty feet. Above the tunnel's mouth the hills rose one upon the other. A more dreary place it would have been difficult to imagine. From a little clump of pines a delicate film of blue smoke rose straight up on the still air. This came from the chimney of the signal-box. As we started to descend the precipitous path the inspector sang out a cheery, hello. The man on duty in the box immediately answered. His voice echoed and reverberated down the cutting, and the next moment he appeared at the door of the box. He told us that he would be with us immediately, but we called back to him to stay where he was, and the next instant the inspector and I entered the box. The first thing to do, said Henderson, the inspector, is to send a message down the line to announce our arrival. This he did, and in a few moments a crawling good strain came panting up the cutting. After signaling her through we descended the wooden flight of steps which led from the box down to the line and walked along the metals toward the tunnel till we stood on the spot where poor Davison had been found dead that morning. I examined the ground and all around it most carefully. Everything tallied exactly with the description I had received. There could be no possible way of approaching the spot except by going along the line, as the rocky sides of the cutting were inaccessible. It is a most extraordinary thing, sir, said the signalman whom we had come to relieve. Davison had neither mark nor sign on him. There he lay, stone dead and cold, and not a bruise nowhere, but Prichard had an awful wound at the back of his head. They said he got it by climbing the rocks. Here you can see the marks for yourself, sir. But now is it likely that Prichard would try to climb rocks like these so steep as they are? Certainly not, I replied. Then how do you account for the wound, sir, asked the man with an anxious face? I cannot tell you at present, I answered. And you and Inspector Henderson are going to spend the night in the signal box? Yes. A horrified expression crept over the signalman's face. God preserve you both, he said. I wouldn't do it, not for fifty pounds. It's not the first time I have heard tell that Felwyn Tunnel is haunted. But, there, I won't say any more about that. It's a black business, and it has given trouble enough. There's poor wind, the same as convicted of the murder of Prichard. But now they say that Davison's death will clear him. Davison was as good a fellow as you would come across this side of the country. But, for the matter of that, so was Prichard. The whole thing is terrible. It upsets one. That it do, sir. I don't wonder at your feelings, I answered. But now, see here, I want to make a most careful examination of everything. One of the theories is that wind crept down this rocky side and fractured Prichard's skull. I believe such a feat to be impossible. On examining these rocks I can see that a man might climb up the side of the tunnel as far as from eight to ten feet, utilizing the sharp projections of rock for the purpose. But it would be out of the question for any man to come down the cutting. No, the only way wind could have approached Prichard was by the line itself. But, after all, the real thing to discover is this. I continued, what killed Davison? Whatever caused his death is beyond doubt equally responsible for Prichard's. I am now going into the tunnel. Inspector Henderson went in with me. The place struck damp and chill. The walls were covered with green, evil-smelling fungi, and through the brickwork the moisture was oozing and had trickled down in long lines to the ground. Before us was nothing but dense darkness. When we reappeared the signal man was lighting the red lamp on the post, which stood about five feet from the ground just above the entrance to the tunnel. Is there plenty of oil? asked the inspector. Yes, sir. Plenty, replied the man. Is there anything more I can do for either of you gentlemen? He asked, pausing and evidently dying to be off. Nothing, answered Henderson. I will wish you a good evening. Good evening to both of you, said the man. He made his way quickly up the path and was soon lost to sight. Henderson and I returned to the signal box. By this time it was nearly dark. How many trains pass in the night? I asked the inspector. There's the ten-twenty down express, he said. It will pass here at about ten-forty. Then there's the eleven-forty-five up, and then not another train till the six-thirty local tomorrow morning. We shan't have a very lively time, he added. I approached the fire and bent over it, holding out my hands to try to get some warmth into them. It will take a good deal to persuade me to go down to the tunnel, whatever I may see there, said the man. I don't think, Mr. Bell, I am a coward in any sense of the word, but there's something very uncanny about this place, right away from the rest of the world. I don't wonder, one often hears, of signalmen going mad in some of these lonely boxes. Have you any theory to account for these deaths, sir? Not at present, I replied. This second death puts the idea of Pritchard being murdered, quite out of court, he continued. I am sure of it, I answered. And so am I, and that's one comfort, continued Henderson. That poor girl, Lucy Ray, although she was to be blamed for her conduct, is much to be pitied now, and as to poor Wynn himself, he protests his innocence through thick and thin. He was a wild fellow, but not the sort to take the life of a fellow creature. I saw the doctor this afternoon while I was waiting for you at the end, Mr. Bell, and also the police sergeant. They both say that they do not know what Davidson died of. There was not the least sign of violence on the body. Well, I am as puzzled as the rest of you, I said. I have one or two theories in my mind, but none of them will quite fit the situation. The night was piercingly cold, and although there was not a breath of wind, the keen and frosty air penetrated the lonely signal box. We spoke little, and both of us were doubtless absorbed in our own thoughts and speculations. As to Henderson, he looked distinctly uncomfortable, and I cannot say that my own feelings were too pleasant. Never had I been given a tougher problem to solve, and never had I been so utterly at my wit's end for a solution. Now and then the inspector got up and went to the telegraph instrument, which intermittently clicked away in its box. As he did so, he made some casual remark, and then sat down again. After the ten-forty had gone through, there followed a period of silence which seemed almost oppressive. All at once the stillness was broken by the whir of an electric bell, which sounded so sharp in our ears that we both started. Henderson rose. That's the eleven-forty-five coming, he said, and going over to the three long levers he pulled two of them down with a loud clang. The next moment, with a rush and a scream, the express tore down the cutting. The carriage lights streamed past in a rapid flash. The ground trembled. A few sparks from the engine whirled up into the darkness, and the train plunged into the tunnel. And now, said Henderson, as he pushed back the levers, not another train till daylight. My word! It is cold! It was intensely so. I piled some more wood on the fire, and turning up the collar of my heavy ulster, sat down at the end of the bench and lent my back against the wall. Henderson did likewise. We were neither of us inclined to speak. As a rule, whenever I have any night work to do, I am never troubled with sleeplessness, but on this occasion I felt unaccountably drowsy. I soon perceived that Henderson was in the same condition. Are you sleepy, I ask him? Dead with it, sir, was his answer, but there's no fear. I won't drop off. I got up and went to the window of the box. I felt certain that if I sat still any longer I should be in a sound sleep. This would never do. Already it was becoming a matter of torture to keep my eyes open. I began to pace up and down. I opened the door of the box and went out on the little platform. What's the matter, sir? inquired Henderson, jumping up with a start. I cannot keep awake, I said. Nor can I, he answered, and yet I have spent nights and nights of my life in signal boxes, and never was the least bit drowsy. Perhaps it's the cold. Perhaps it is, I said, but I have been out on as freezing nights before and— The man did not reply. He had sat down again. His head was nodding. I was just about to go up to him and shake him, when it suddenly occurred to me that I might as well let him have his sleep out. I soon heard him snoring, and he presently fell forward in a heap on the floor. By dent of walking up and down I managed to keep from dropping off myself, and in torture which I shall never be able to describe the night wore itself away. At last, towards morning, I awoke Henderson. You have had a good nap, I said, but never mind. I have been on guard, and nothing has occurred. Good God! Have I been asleep? cried the man. Sound! I answered. Well, I never felt anything like it, he replied. Don't you find the air very close, sir? No, I said. It's as fresh as possible. It must be the cold. I will just go have a look at the light at the tunnel, said the man. It will rouse me. He went to the little platform whilst I had been over the fire and began to build it up. Presently he returned with a scared look on his face. I could see by the light of the oil lamp which hung on the wall that he was trembling. Mr. Bell, he said, I believe there is somebody or something down at the mouth of the tunnel now. As he spoke, he clutched me by the arm. Go and look, he said. Whoever it is, it is put out the light. Put out the light? I cried. Why, what's the time? Henderson pulled out his watch. Thank goodness! Most of the night is gone, he said. I didn't know it was so late. It's half past five. Then the local is not due for an hour yet, I said. No, but who should put out the light? cried Henderson. I went to the door, flung it open and looked out. The dim outline of the tunnel was just visible looming through the darkness, but the red light was out. What the dickens does it mean, sir? gasped the inspector. I know the lamp had plenty of oil in it. Can there be any one standing in front of it, do you think? We waited and watched for a few moments, but nothing stirred. Come along, I said. Let's go down together and see what it is. I don't believe I can do it, sir. I really don't. Nonsense, I cried. I shall go down alone if you won't accompany me. Just hand me my stick, will you? For God's sakes, be careful, Mr. Bell. Don't go down, whatever you do. I expect this is what happened before, and the poor fellows went down to see what it was and died there. There's some devilry at work. That's my belief. That is as it may be, I answered shortly. But we certainly shall not find out by stopping here. My business is to get to the bottom of this, and I am going to do it. That there is danger of some sort, I have very little doubt. But danger or not, I am going down. If you'll be warned by me, sir, you'll just stay quietly here. I must go down and see the matter out, was my answer. Now listen to me, Henderson. I see that you are alarmed, and I don't wonder. Just stay quietly where you are and watch. But if I call, come at once. Don't delay a single instant. Remember, I am putting my life in your hands. If I call, come. Just come to me as quick as you can, for I may want help. Give me that lantern. He unhitched it from the wall, and taking it from him, I walked cautiously down the steps onto the line. I still felt curiously, unaccountably, drowsy and heavy. I wondered at this, for the moment was such a critical one, as to make almost any man wide awake. Holding the lamp high above my head, I walked rapidly along the line. I hardly knew what I expected to find. Cautiously along the metals I made my way, peering right and left, until I was close to the fatal spot where the bodies had been found. An uncontrollable shudder passed over me. The next moment, to my horror, without the slightest warning, the light I was carrying went out, leaving me in total darkness. I started back, and stumbling against one of the loose boulders reeled against the wall and nearly fell. What was the matter with me? I could hardly stand. I felt giddy and faint, and a horrible sensation of great tightness seized me across the chest. A loud ringing noise sounded in my ears, struggling madly for breath, and with fear of impending death upon me. I turned and tried to run from a danger I could neither understand, nor grapple with. But before I had taken two steps my legs gave way from under me, and uttering a loud cry I fell insensible to the ground. Out of an oblivion which, for all I knew, might have lasted for moments or centuries a dawning consciousness came to me, I knew that I was lying on hard ground, that I was absolutely incapable of realizing, nor had I the slightest inclination to discover where I was. All I wanted was to lie quite still and undisturbed. Presently I opened my eyes. Someone was bending over me, looking into my face. Thank God, he is not dead, I heard, in whispered tones. Then, with a flash, memory returned to me. What has happened, I ask? You may well ask that, sir, said the Inspector gravely. It has been a touch and go with you for the last quarter of an hour, and a near thing for me, too. I sat up and looked around me. Daylight was just beginning to break, and I saw that we were at the bottom of the steps that led up to the signal box. My teeth were chattering with the cold, and I was shivering like a man with Agu. I am better now, I said. Just give me your hand. I took his arm and, holding the rail with the other hand, staggered up into the box and sat down on the bench. Yes, it has been a near shave, I said, and a big price to pay for solving a mystery. Do you mean to say, you know what it is, asked Henderson eagerly? Yes, I answered. I think I know now. But first tell me, how long was I unconscious? A good bit over a half an hour, sir, I should think. As soon as I heard you call out, I ran down as you told me. But before I got to you, I nearly fainted. I never had such a horrible sensation in my life. I felt as weak as a baby. But I just managed to seize you by the arms and drag you along the line to the steps, and that was about all I could do. Well, I owe you my life, I said. Just hand me that brandy flask. I shall be better for some of its contents. I took a long pull. Just as I was laying the flask down, Henderson started from my side. There, he cried, the six-thirty is coming. The electric bell at the instrument suddenly began to ring. Auti let her go through, sir, he inquired. Certainly, I answered, that is exactly what we want. Oh, she will be all right. No danger to her, sir? None. None. Let her go through. He pulled the lever, and the next moment the train tore through the cutting. Now I think it will be safe to go down again, I said. I believe I shall be able to get to the bottom of this business. Henderson stared at me aghast. Do you mean that you are going down again to the tunnel, he gasped? Yes, I said. Give me those matches. You had better come, too. I don't think there will be any danger now, and there is daylight, so we can see what we are about. The man was very loath to obey me, but at last I managed to persuade him. We went down the line, walking slowly, and at this moment we both felt our courage revived by a broad and cheerful ray of sunshine. We must advance cautiously, I said, and be ready to run back at a moment's notice. God knows, sir, I think we are running a great risk, panted poor Henderson, and if that devil, or whatever else it is, should happen to be about, why, daylight or no daylight. Nonsense, man, I interrupted. If we are careful, no harm will happen to us now. Ah, and here we are. We had reached the spot where I had fallen. Just give me a match, Henderson. He did so, and I immediately lit the lamp. Opening the glass of the lamp I held it close to the ground and passed it to and fro. Suddenly the flame went out. Don't you understand now, I said, looking up at the inspector? No, I don't, sir. He replied with a bewildered expression. Suddenly, before I could make an explanation, we both heard shouts from the top of the cutting, and looking up I saw Bainbridge hurrying down the path. He had come in the dog cart to fetch us. Here's the mystery, I cried as he rushed up to us, and a deadlier scheme of tame natures to frighten and murder poor humanity I have never seen. As I spoke, I lit the lamp again, and held it just above a tiny fissure in the rock. It was at once extinguished. What is it, said Bainbridge, panting with excitement? Something that very nearly finished me, I replied. Why, this is a natural escape of choked damp, carbonic acid gas, the deadliest gas imaginable, because it gives no warning of its presence, and it has no smell. It must have collected here during the hours of the night when no trains was passing, and gradually, rising, put out the signal light. The constant rushing of the trains through the cutting all day would temporarily disperse it. As I made this explanation, Bainbridge stood like one electrified, while a curious expression of mingled relief and horror swept over Henderson's face. An escape of carbonic acid gas is not an uncommon phenomenon in volcanic districts, I continued. As I take this to be, but it is odd what should have started it. It has sometimes been known to follow earthquake shocks, when there is a profound disturbance of the deep strata. It is strange that you should have said that, said Bainbridge, when he could find his voice. What do you mean? Why, that about the earthquake. Don't you remember Henderson, he added, turning to the inspector? We had felt a slight shock all over South Wales, about three weeks back. Then that, I think, explains it, I said. It is evident that Prichard really did climb the rocks in a frantic attempt to escape the gas, and fell back onto these boulders. The other man was cut down at once, before he had time to fly. But what is to happen now, asked Bainbridge? Will it go on forever? How are we to stop it? The Fisher ought to be drenched with lime water, and then filled up. But all really depends on what is the size of the supply, and also the depth. It is an extremely heavy gas, and it would lie at the bottom of the cutting, like water. I think there is more here just now than is good for us, I added. But how, continued Bainbridge, as we moved a few steps from the fatal spot, do you account for the interval between the first death and the second? The escape must have been intermittent. If the wind blew down the cutting, as probably was the case before this frost set in, it would keep the gas so diluted that its effect would not be noticed. There was enough down here this morning, before that train came through, to poison an army. Indeed, if it had not been for Henderson's promptitude, there would have been another inquest on myself. I then related my own experience. Well, this clears wind without a doubt, said Bainbridge, but alas, for the two poor fellows who were victims. Bell, the Light and Vale Railway Company, owe you an unlimited thanks. You have doubtless saved many lives, and also the company, for the line must have been closed if you had not made your valuable discovery. But now, come home with me to breakfast. We can discuss all those matters later on. End of The Mystery of the Felwyn Tunnel, by L. T. Mead and Robert Eustis