 CHAPTER IV. THE GIFTS OF CHANCE. PART I. The testamentary arrangements of eccentric people must, from time to time, have put their legatees in possession of some very queer property. I call to mind an old gentleman, to bequeathed to a distant relative the products of a lifetime of indiscriminate collecting, which products included an obsolete field-gun, a stuffed camel, a collection of bottled tapeworms, a fire-engine, a church-pulpit in the internal fittings of a public-house bar, and other instances could be quoted, but surely no legatee ever found himself in possession of a queer legacy than that which my poor friend Chaloner had bequeathed to me, when he made over to me the mortal remains of some two dozen deceased criminals. The bequest would have been an odd one under any circumstances, but what made it much more so was the strange intimacy that became established between me and the deceased. To the ordinary observer, a skeleton in a museum case or in an art school conveys no vivid sense of humanity, that this bony shape was once an actual person, a me, that walked abroad and wore clothes, that loved and hated, sorrowed and rejoiced, that had friends and lovers, parents and perhaps children, that was, in short, a living man or woman, accursed to him but vaguely, the thing is an osteological specimen, a mere anatomical abstraction. Now these skeletons of Chaloner's were quite different. Walking down the long room and looking into the great wall case, I was confronted with actual individuals. Number one was Jimmy Archer, who had tried to steal the blimey teapot. Number three was the burglar Fred, I could tell him by the notch on his fifth rib that his comrades' bullet had made. Number two was the man who had fired that shot, and number four was Joe, who was done in in the dark. I knew them all. The weird museum archives had told me all about them, and as to the rest of that grisly company, strangers to me as yet, the neatly written, Russian-bound volume that Chaloner had left would give me their histories too. It was some days before I was able to resume my reading of the uncanny little book, but an unoccupied evening at length gave me the opportunity. As ten o'clock struck, I put on my slippers, adjusted the light, drew an armchair up to my study fire, and opened the volume at the place marked by the envelope that I had inserted at the end of the last reading. The page was headlined, circumstances attending to the acquirement of numbers five and six, and the account ran as follows. The most carefully conceived plans, when put into practice, are apt to discover unforeseen defects. My elaborate plan for the capture of burglars was no exception to the rule, the idea of employing palpably dishonest servants to act as decoy ducks to lure the burglars on to the premises was an excellent one, and had fully answered my expectations. But it had a defect which I had overlooked. The burglars themselves, when reduced to a condition suitable for exhibition in a showcase, were entirely innocuous. There was no danger of their making any indiscreet statements. But with the servants, female servants too, it was quite otherwise. From the shelter of my rough they had gone forth to sow distrust and suspicion in quarters where perfect confidence and trustfulness should prevail. It was a most unfortunate oversight. Now, when it was too late, I saw clearly that they ought never to have left me. I ought to have added them to the collection too. The evil results of the mistake soon became apparent. I had to replace the late cook and housemaid by two women of impeachable dishonesty, of whom I had, naturally, great hopes. But nothing happened. I let them handle the plate freely. I gave them the keys of the safe from time to time. I brushed the sham diamond pendants and bracelets under their very noses, and still there was no result. It is true that the silver spoons dwindled in number and that a stray candlestick or salt-suller would now and again report absent. That the tradesman's bills were preposterous and that the tea consumed in a week would have impaired the digestion of a lodge of good Templars. But that was all. No aspirant for museum honours made his appearance. The concusser became dusty with disuse. The safe in the dining-room remained neglected and untouched, and as for the burglar alarm, I had to stand on it myself at stated intervals to keep it in working order. I had already resolved to get rid of these two women when they saved me the trouble, and I directed them to accompany me to the laboratory to clean out the furnace, where they both turned pale and flatly refused. I saw them half an hour later secretly handling their boxes up the area steps to a man with a barrel. Obviously someone had told them something of my methods. The cook-and-house maid who succeeded them were jail-birds pure and simple. They were dirty, dishonest, lazy, and occasionally drunk. But for their actual function they were quite useless. They drank my whiskey, they devoured and disturbed my provisions, they stole my portable property, and once, when I had unconsciously left the door unfastened, I caught them browsing round the museum. But they brought no grist to my mill. It is true that during their reign I had one visitor, a scurvy little rye-faced knave who sneaked in through the scullery window. But I think he had no connection with them or he would have entered by some more convenient route and have used a false key instead of a jimmy to open the safe. He was a wretched little creature and his capture quite uninteresting for, when he had bitten me twice, he crumpled up like a rag doll and I carried him to the tank as if he had been a monkey. Yet I ought not to disparage him unduly, for he was the one specimen in my collection, up to that time, who presented the orthodox stigmata of degeneration. His hair was bushy, his face strikingly asymmetrical, and his ears were like a pair of lombrosos selected examples, outstanding, with enormous Darwinian turbacles and almost devoid of lobules. Still whatever his points of interest he was but a stray catch. Chance had brought him as it might bring others of the same kind in the course of years, but this would not answer my purpose. Numbers were what I wanted and what I had arranged for, and it was with deep disappointment that I recognized that my plan had failed. The supply of anthropological material had come to an end. In a word, the criminal class had smoked me. This was not mere surmise on my part. I had direct and very quaint evidence of it soon after I had completed the preparation of number five. I was returning home one evening and was approaching the vicinity of my house when I became aware of a small man of seedy aspect who appeared to be following me. I slackened my pace somewhat to let him overtake or pass me, and when nearly opposite my side door, the museum entrance, he edged alongside and addressed me in a horse whisper. Governor. I halted, and looked at him attentively, a proceeding that caused him evident discomfort. Did you speak to me? I asked. He edged up closer but still did not meet my eye, and, looking first over one shoulder and then the other replied. Yes, I did, Governor. What do you want? I demanded. He edged up yet closer and said in a horse undertone. I want to know what you've been and done with my cousin Bill. Your cousin Bill, I repeated. Do I know him? I don't know whether you know him, was the reply, but I see him go into your house and I never see him come out again and I want to know what you've been and done with him. Now here was an interesting circumstance. I had already noted something familiar in the man's face. His question explained it. Cousin Bill was clearly number five in the anthropological series. In fact, the resemblance was quite remarkable. The present example, by the late Bill, was an undergrown creature and had the same curiously twisted nose, the same asymmetrical face and similar ears, large, flat ears that stood out from his head like the handles of an amphora, that had strongly marked Darwinian turbocles, uniformed helices and undeveloped lobules. Mombrosa would have loved him. He would have made a delightful photograph for purposes of illustration and—it suddenly occurred to me—he would make a most interesting companion preparation to number five. Your cousin Bill, I said with this new idea in my mind, was he the son of your mother's sister? A few details as to heredity add materiality to the value and instructiveness of a specimen. And suppose, and he was, what about it? I want to know what you've been and done with him. What makes you think I have done anything with him? I asked. Why, I see him go into your house and I never see him come out. But my good man, I protested. That is exceedingly bad logic. If you saw him go in, there is a fair presumption that he went in. I see him with my own eyes, my friend interrupted, as though there were other alternative means of vision. But, I continued, the fact that you did not see him come out establishes no presumption that he did not come out. He may have come out unobserved. No, he didn't. He never come out. I see him go in. So you have mentioned, may I ask what his business was? His business, my acquaintance replied with some hesitation, was of a private nature. I see. Did he go in by the front door? No, he didn't. He went in by the scullery window. In the evening, no doubt. To heim, was the reply. Ah, said I. He went in by the scullery window at two a.m. on private business. Quite so. Well, you see, the common sense of the position is that if he went into the house and never came out, he must be in the house still. That's just what I think, my friend agreed. Very well, that in that case perhaps you would like to stop in and look round to see if you can find him. I took out my latch-key and motioned invitingly towards the museum door. No, you don't, exclaimed the man, backing away hastily down the street. You don't get me in there, so I tell your straight. What do you want me to do, then? I want to know, he reiterated. What you've been and done with my cousin Bill. I see him go into— I know, I interrupted impatiently. You've said that before. And look here, Governor, he added. Where did you get all them skillentens from? Evidently, somebody had been talking to this little rascal. I can't go into questions of that kind, you know, I replied. No, I don't suppose you can, he retorted. But I'll tell you what I think you've been and done with Bill. You got him in there and you done him in, that's what I think. And I tell your it ain't the cheese. When a cove goes into a house, for to do some armless crack, he stands for it to be lagged, if he be as he happens to get copped. But he don't stand for it to be done in, taint play in the game, and I ain't to go on to have it. Then what do you propose to do, I asked with some curiosity. I propose, the little rascal, replied haulsily, for to add the lore on you. I'm a-going to put the coppers on to this ear job. With this he turned somewhat hastily and shambled away up the street at the quick shuffle characteristic of his class. I let myself in at the side door and proceeded to the museum to examine number five with renewed interest. The resemblance was remarkable. It was plainly traceable even in the skull and in the proportions of the skeleton generally. While in the small, dry preparation of the head, the likeness was ridiculous. It was most regrettable that he should have refused my invitation to come in. As a companion preparation, illustrating the physical resemblances in degenerate families, he would have been invaluable. His conversation and his ludicrous threat of legal proceedings gave me much matter for reflection. To him Bergley presented itself as a legitimate sporting pursuit governed by certain rules. The players were respectively the Bergler and the householder of whom the latter staked his property and the former a certain period of personal liberty, and the rules of the game were equally binding on both. It was a conception worthy of comic opera, and yet, incredible as it may seem, it is the very view of crime that is today accepted and act upon by society. The threat uttered by my diminutive acquaintance had the sound of a broad farce, and so, I make confess, I regarded it. The idea of a Bergler proceeding against a householder for hindering him, in the execution of his private business, might have emanated from the whimsical brain of the late W. S. Gilbert. The quaint topsy-turvy dumb of it caused me many a chuckle of amusement when I recalled the interview during the next few days. But, of course, I never dreamed of any actual attempts to carry out the threat. Imagine therefore my astonishment when I realized that not only had the complaint been made, but the law had actually been set, at least tentatively, in motion. The stunning discovery descended on me with the force of a concusser three days after the interview with Number Five's cousin. I was sitting in my study reading Schevner's Crime Against the Person, when the housemaid entered with a visiting card. A gentleman wished to see me to discuss certain scientific matters with me. I looked at the card. It bore the name Mr. James Ramchild, a name quite unknown to me. It was very odd. A scientific colleague would surely have written for an appointment and stated the object of his visit. I looked at the card again. It was printed from a script type instead of the usual engraved plate. And it bore an address in Kennington Park Road. These were weighty facts and a trifle suspicious. I seemed to send a traveller from beyond the Atlantic, a traveller of commercial leanings. Show Mr. Ramchild up here, I said, and the housemaid departed to return anon accompanied by a tall, massive man of somewhat military aspect. I could have laughed aloud, but I did not. It would not have been politic, and it would certainly not have been polite. But I chuckled inwardly as I offered my visitor a chair. Experientia doset. I had seen quite a number of plain-closed police officers in the last few months, and the present specimen would have been typical even without his boots. I prepared to enjoy myself. I have taken the liberty of calling on you, Mr. Chaliner, my visitor began, to make a few inquiries concerning—er, skeletons. I nodded gravely and smothered a giggle. He was a simple soul, this Ramchild, concerning skeletons, what an expression for a man of science to use, an artless creature indeed, a veritable Ramchild of nature, so to speak. I understand, he continued, that you have a famous collection of—er, skeletons. I nodded again. Of course I had not anything of the kind. Mine was only a little private collection, but it was of no consequence. So, he concluded, I have called to ask you if you would be so kind as to let me see them. From whom did you hear of my collection? I asked. It was mentioned to me by my friend, Mr.—er—Mr. Winterbottom of Cambridge. Ah, I said, I remember Winterbottom very well. How is he? He is very well, thank you," replied the detective, looking mightily surprised and not without reason, seeing that he had undoubtedly invented the name Winterbottom on the spur of the moment. Is there any branch of the subject that you are especially interested in? I asked, purposely avoiding giving him a lead. No, he replied, no, not particularly. The fact is that I thought of starting a collection myself if it wouldn't be too expensive, but you have a regular museum, haven't you? Yes, come and have a look at it. He rose with a larcity, and I led him through the dining-room to the museum wing, and I noticed that, if he did not know much about osteology, he was uncommonly observant of the details of house construction. He looked very hard at the safe, the mahogany casing of which failed to disguise its nature from the professional eye, and noted the massive door that gave entrance to the museum wing and the Yale lock that secured it. In the museum his eye riveted itself on the five human skeletons in the Great Wall case, but I perversely led him to the case containing my curious collections of abnormal deformed skeletons of the lower animals. There, I said complacently, that is my little hoard, is there any specimen that you would like to take out and examine? He gazed vaguely into the case and murmured that they were all very interesting, and again I caught his eye wandering to the Great Case opposite. I was in the act of reaching out a porcupine, with an ankylosed knee-joint, when he plucked up courage to say frankly, the fact is, I am principally interested in human skeletons. I replaced the porcupine and walked across to the Great Wall case. I am sorry I have not more to show you, I said apologetically. This is only the beginning of a collection, you see. But still, the specimens are of considerable interest. Don't you find them so? He did, for he scrutinized the dates on the dwarf pedestals with the deepest attention, and finally remarked, I see you have written a date on each of these. What does that signify? The dates are those on which I acquired the respective specimens, I answered. Oh, indeed. He reflected, with a profound speculative eye on number five. I judged that he was trying to recall a date furnished by number five's cousin, and that he would have liked to consult his notebook. The particulars, I said, are too lengthy to put on the labels, but they are set out in detail in the catalogue. Can I see the catalogue? he asked equally. Certainly. I produced a small manuscript volume, not the catalogue which is attached to the archives, but a dummy that I had prepared for such a contingency as had arisen, and handed it to him. He opened it with avidity, and, turning it once to number five, began, with manifest disappointment, to read the description aloud. Five. Male skeleton of Teutonic type exhibiting well-marked characteristics of degeneration. The skull is asymmetrical, sub-delicosophallic. He pronounced this word, sub-delicocolophallic, and paused abruptly, turning rather red. It is an awkward word. Yes, he said, closing the catalogue. Very interesting, very remarkable. Exceedingly so. I should very much like to possess a skeleton like that. You are much better off with the one you have got, I remarked. Oh, I don't mean that, he rejoined hastily. I mean that I should like to acquire a specimen like this number five from my proposed collection. Now how could I get one? Well, I said reflectively, there are several ways. I paused and he gazed at me expectantly. You could, for instance, I continued slowly, provide yourself with a lasso and take a walk down White Chapel High Street. Good gracious! he exclaimed excitedly. Do you really mean to say that— Certainly, I interrupted. You would find an abundance of material. For my own part, not being gifted with your exceptionally fine physique, I have to adopt the more prosaic and expensive plan of buying my specimens from the dealers. Quite so. Quite so, he agreed. He was deeply disappointed and inclined to be huffy. Of course you were joking about the lasso, but would you mind giving me the address of the dealer from whom you obtained this specimen? And once more he pointed to Cousin Bill. He thought he had cornered me, and so he would have done if I had been less cautious. I congratulated myself on the wisdom and foresight that had led me to provide myself with those dummy skeletons. For now I held him in the hollow of my hand. That specimen, I said, scanning the date on the pedestal, I fancy I got it from Hammerstein. You know his place in the Seven Dials, no doubt. A very useful man. I get most of my human osteology from him. I fetched my receipt file and turned over the papers in leisurely fashion, while he gnawed his lips with impatience. At last I found the receited invoice, and he read it aloud with a ludicrous expression of disappointment. Complete set superfine human osteology strongly articulated with best brass wire and screw-bolts, with springs to mandible and stout iron-supporting rod, all bones guaranteed to be derived from the same subject. 5 pounds, 3, 4. The invoice was headed Oscar Hammerstein, Dealer in Osteology, Great St. Andrew Street, London, W.C., and was dated 4 February 1891. The detective entered the name and address in a black-bound notebook of official aspect, compared the date with that on Cousin Bill's pedestal and prepared to depart. There is one thing I must point out to you, I said, anticipating an early visit on my friend's part to Mr. Hammerstein. The skeletons as you get them from the dealers are not always up to museum style in point of finish. They are often of a bad colour and may be stained with grease. If they are, you will have to disarticulate them, clean them with benzoil and, if necessary, re-matriculate and bleach. But whatever you do, I continued solemnly. Be careful with the chlorinated soda, or you will spoil the appearance of the bones and make them brittle. Good-bye. I shook his hand effusively, and he took his departure very glum and crestfallen. CHAPTER IV. THE GIFTS OF CHANCE. PART II. As long as he had been with me, something of the old buoyant spirit of playfulness that was my ordinary mood until my great trouble befell, had been revived by the absurdity of the situation. But his departure left me rather depressed, for his visit marked the final collapse of my scheme. Even if the criminal classes had been willing to continue the supply of anthropological material, my methods could not have been carried out under the watchful and disapproving eyes of the police. What then was to be done? This was the question that I asked myself again and again. As to abandoning my activities, of course, such an idea never occurred to me. I remained alive for definite purpose, to search for the man who had murdered my wife and to exact from him payment of his debt. Of this purpose, the collection had been, at first, a mere by-product. And though it was gradually taking such hold of me as to become a purpose in itself, it was but a minor purpose. The discovery of that unknown wretch was the mecca of my earthly pilgrimage, from which no difficulties or obstacles should divert me. The hint that ultimately guided me into new fields of research came to me by the nearest chance. A few days after the visit of the detective I received a letter from one of my few remaining friends, a Dr. Grayson, who had formerly practised in London as a physician, but who, owing to age and infirmity, had retired to his native place, the village of Sholm, near Rochester. Grayson asked me to spend a day with him that we might talk over some matters in which we were both interested. And, being now rather at a loose end, I accepted the invitation, but declined to sleep away from my home in my collection. It is significant of my state of mind at this time that, before starting, I considered what weapon I should take with me. Formerly I should no more have thought of arming myself for a simple railway journey than of putting on a coat of mail. But now a train suggested a train-rubber, a LeFroy, with a very unsubmissive Mr. Gold, and the long tunnel near Strod was but the setting of a railway tragedy. My ultimate choice of weapon, too, is interesting. The familiar revolver I rejected utterly. There must be no noise. My quarrel with the criminal was a personal one in which no outsiders must be allowed to meddle. I should have preferred the concusser, which I now handled with skill, but it was hardly a portable tool, and my choice ultimately fell on a very fine sword-stick, supplemented by a knuckle duster which had been bequeathed to me by one of my clients after trial on my own countenance. And after all, nothing happened. I got into an empty first-class compartment and when, just as the train was starting, a burly fellow dashed in and slammed the door. I eyed him suspiciously and waited for developments. But there were none. The fellow sat huddled in a corner, watching me, and keeping an eye on the handle of the alarm over his head. But he made no sign. When we emerged from a long tunnel he was white as a ghost, and he hopped out onto Strahd Platform almost before the train had begun to slow down. I reached my bag down from the rack and got out after him, smiling at my own folly. The criminal was becoming an obsession of which I must beware if I would not end my days in an asylum. A fact which was further impressed on me when I saw my late fellow passenger, who had just caught sight of me, legging it down the station approach like a professional pedestrian and looking back nervously over his shoulder. Becoming firmly to put the subject out of my mind, I walked slowly into the town and beshook myself to the London Road. And though, as I passed the false-staff in and crossed Gad's Hall, fleeting reminiscences of Prince Harry and the men in Buckrum came unsought, with latter suggestions of a stagecoach struggling up the hill in the dark and masked figures creeping down the banks into the sunken road. I kept to my good resolution. The bag was a little cumbersome. It contained a large parcel of bulbs from Covent Garden that Grayson had asked me to bring. And yet it was pleasant to break off from the high road and astray by well- remembered tracks and footpaths across the fields. It was all familiar ground. For in years gone by, when Grayson was in practice, we would come down together for weekends, to his little demands. And often I would stay on alone for a week or so and ramble about the country by myself. So I knew every inch of the countryside and was so much interested in renewing my acquaintance with it that I was twenty minutes late for lunch. I had a most agreeable day with Grayson, who was working at the historical aspects of disease, and would have stayed later than I did, but at about half past eight, we had dined at seven. Grayson began to be restless and fidgety, and at last said apologetically, Don't think me inhospitable, Chaloner, but if you aren't going to stay the night you had better be going, and we don't go by Gad's Hill. Take the road down to Hyam and catch the train there. Why? What is the matter with Gad's Hill? I asked. Nothing much by daylight, but a great deal at night. It has always been an unsafe spot, and is, especially just now. There has been quite an epidemic of highway robberies lately. They began when the hoppers were here last autumn, but some of those East End ruffians seemed to have settled in the neighborhood. I have seen some very queer-looking characters even in this village, aliens, apparently, of the kind that you see about Stepney and White Chapel. Now, you get down to Hyam like a good fellow before the country settles down for the night. Needless to say, the prowling alien had no terrors for me, but as Grayson was really uneasy I made no demurrer and took my leave almost immediately. But I did not make directly for Hyam. The moon was up and the village looked very inviting. Tree and chimney-stack, thatched ruff and gable end cut pleasant shapes of black against the clear sky, and patches of silvery light fell a thwart the road on wooden palings and weather-boarded fronts. I strolled along the little street, carrying the now light and empty bag, and exchanging greetings with scattered villagers, until I came to the lane that turns down toward the London Road. Here, by a triangular patch of green, I halted and mechanically looked at my watch, holding it up to the moonlight. I was about to replace it when a voice asked, What's the right time, mister? I looked up sharply. The man who had spoken was sitting on the bank under the hedge, and in such deep shadow I had not noticed him. Nor could I see much of him now, though I observed that he seemed to be taking some kind of refreshment. But the voice was not a kentish voice, nor even an English one. It seemed to engraft an unfamiliar, guttural accent on the dialect of East London. I told the man the time and asked him if the road, pointing to the ridgeway, would take me to Hyam. Of course I knew it would not, and I have no very distinct idea why I asked. But he answered properly enough. Yes, straight down the road? Was you wanting to get to the station? I replied that I was, and he added, you go straight down the road a mile and a half and you'll see the station right in front of you. Now here was palpable misdirection, obviously intentional, too, for the circumstantiality excluded the idea of a mistake. He was deliberately sending me, an obssensible stranger, along a solitary side-road that led to the heart of the country. With what object? I had very little doubt, and that doubt should soon be set at rest. I thanked him for his information and set out along the road at an easy pace. But when I had gone a little way, I lengthened my stride so as to increase my speed without altering the rhythm of my footfalls. As I went, I speculated on the intentions of my friend and noted with interest and a little surprise that I was quite without fear of him. I suspected him of being a footpad, one of the gang of which Grayson had spoken, and I had set forth along this unfrequented road in a spirit of mere curiosity to see if it were really so. Presently I came to a gate at the entrance of a cart-track, and here I halted to listen. From the road behind me came the sound of footsteps, quick steps but not sharp and crisp, rather of a shuffling stealthy quality. I climbed quietly over the gate and took up a position behind the trunk of an elm that grew in the hedgerow. The footsteps came on a pace. Soon round a bend of the moonlighted road a figure appeared moving forward rapidly and keeping in the shadow there was. I watched it through the thick hedge as it approached and resolved itself into a seedy-looking man carrying a thick-knobbed stick. Opposite the gate the man halted and, as I could see by his shadow, looked across the silvery fields that stretched away down to the valley and listened, but only for a few moments. Then he started forward again at something between a quick walk and a slow trot. As soon as he had gone I came out and began to walk down the cart-track. My figure must have stood out conspicuously on the bare field and must have been plainly visible from the ridgeway. I did not hurry. Pursuing my way quietly down the gentle slope I went on for some three hundred yards until the ground fell away more steeply, and here, before descending, I looked over my shoulder. A man was getting over the gate. I walked on more quickly now until I topped a second rise and then again I looked back. The figure of a man stood out on the brow of the hill, black against the moonlit sky, and now he was hearing forward in undisguised pursuit. I quickened my pace and looked about me. The night was calm and lovely, the fields bathed in silvery light and the wooded up-lunch shrouded in a soft gray shadow, from the heart of which a single lighted window gleamed forth, a spot of rosy warmth. The bark of a watch-dog came softened by distance from some solitary farmstead, and far away below, the hoot of a steamer creeping up the river to the twinkling anchorage. Presently I came to a spot where the rough road divided. One well-worn track led down towards the footpath that ultimately enters the London Road. A fainter track led, as I knew, to an old chalk pit where, in mysterious caverns, the farm carts rested through the winter months. Here I halted for a moment as if in doubt. The man was now less than a hundred yards behind me and walking as fast as he could. I turned around and looked at him. He appeared once more to hesitate, and then started at a run along the track to the chalk pit. There was no disguise about the man's intentions. As I started off he broke into a run and followed, but he did not hail me to stop. I supposed he knew whether the path led. But if his purpose was definite, so was mine, and again I noted with a faint surprise that I had no feeling of nervousness. My contact with the criminal class had left me with nothing but a sentiment of hostile contempt. That a criminal might kill me never presented itself as a practical possibility. I was only concerned in inducing him to give me a fair pretext for killing him. So I ran on, wondering if my pursuer had ringed hair. If it were possible that, in this remote place and by this chance meeting, I might find the object of my quest, and conscious of that fierce, playful delight that always came over me when I was hunting the enemies of my race. For, of course, I was now hunting the fellow behind me, although the poor devil supposed he was hunting me. When the track approached the chalk pit it descended rather suddenly. I ran down between two clumps of bushes into the weed-grown area at the bottom, past the roof caverns wherein the wagons were even now lurking unseen, and on until the track ended among a range of mole-hills in a sort of bay encompassed by the time-stained cliff. Here I wheeled about, putting down my bag and facing my pursuer. "'Stand off,' I said sharply. What are you following me for?' The man stopped and then approached more slowly. "'Look here, mister,' he said. I don't want to hurt you. You needn't be afeard of me.' "'Well,' I said, what do you want?' "'I'll tell you,' he said confidentially. "'I'm a poor man, I am. I ain't got no watch. I ain't got no money. And I can't get no work. Now you're a rich man. You've got a very handsome watch. I see it. And lots more don't, Addessa. Well, you makes me a present of that watch that's what you do, and any small change that you've got about your. You do that, and I'll let you go peaceable.' And supposing I don't. Then some of them farm-blocks so find a dead man in a chalk-pit. And it ain't no good for you to holler. There ain't no one within a mile of this place. So you pass over that watch and turn out your blooming pockets. "'Do I understand,' I began, but he interrupted me savagely. "'Oh, shut your face and hand over. Do you hear?' He advanced threateningly, grasping his bludgeon by the smaller end. But when he had approached within a couple of paces I made a sudden lunge with my stick, introducing its furl to his abdomen about the region of the solar plexus. He sprang back with an astonished yelp which sounded like, hour, and stood gasping and rubbing his abdomen. As he recovered he broke out into absurd and disgusting speech and began cautiously to circle round me, balancing his club in readiness for a smashing blow. "'You wait till I'm done with your,' he said, watching for a chance. "'I'll make your pay for that. I'm a-going to do your in, I am. You'll look ugly when I've finished.' "'Hour?' "'Hour!' The concluding exclamation was occasioned by the furl of my stick impinging on the fleshy part of his chest. And, as he uttered it, he sprang back out of range. After this he kept a greater distance but continued to circle round and pour out an unceasing torrent of foul words. But he had not the faintest idea how to use a stick, whereas my practice with the foils at the gymnasium had made me quite skillful. From time to time he raised his bludgeon and ran in at me, but a sharp prod under the upraised arm always sent him leaping back out of reach with the inevitable hour. His lack of skill deprived the encounter of much of his interest. I think he felt this himself, for I saw him looking about furtively as if in search of something. Then he aspired a large and knobby flint, and would have picked it up, but as he was stooping I applied the point of my stick so vigorously that he staggered back with the alps of pain. And now it was suddenly borne in upon me that he had had enough. I realized it just in time to plant myself on the track between him and the entrance to the chalk-pit. He was still as savage and murderous as ever, but his nerve was gone. He shrank away from me and as I followed closely he tried again and again to dodge past toward the opening. Look ear, mister, he said at length. You chuck it and I'll let your go peaceable. Let me go, I laughed scornfully, but stood my ground. And yet it was unpleasant. One cannot go on hammering a beaten man, and it is difficult to refuse a surrender. On the other hand it was out of the question to let this fellow go. He had come here prepared to murder me for a paltry watch and a handful of loose change. Common justice and my duty to my fellow men demanded his elimination. Besides if I let him escape into the open what would happen? The fields were sprinkled with big flints. It was practically certain that I should never leave the neighborhood alive. Even as I stood hesitating he furnished an illustrative commentary on my thoughts. Springing back from me he suddenly stooped and caught up a great flint nodule. And though I ducked quickly as he flung it and so avoided its full force, I caught such a buffet as it glanced off the side of my head as convinced me that a settlement must be speedily arrived at. Rushing in on him, I bore him backwards till he was penned up in the entrance of one of the caverns against the shafts of a wagon. Then suddenly he changed his tactics. Realizing at last that a combsly wielded bludgeon is powerless against a stick expertly handled rapier-wise, he dropped his club, and the next moment the moon-beams flashed from the broad blade of a knife. This was quite a different affair. He now stood on guard with the knife poised in his left-hand outspread, ready to snatch at my stick. It was a much more effective plan, only he did not know that inside my stout malacca reposed a keen Toledo sword-blade. I slipped my thumb on the press-button of the sword-stick and watched him. From time to time he made a dash at me with his knife, and when I prodded him back he snatched at the stick. Again and again he nearly caught it, but I was just a little too quick for him, and he fell back gasping and cursing on the wagon-shafts. And then the end came with inevitable suddenness. He rushed out on me with upraised knife. I stopped him with a vigorous poke in the chest, but before I could whisk away the stick he had clutched it with a howl of joy. I gave a final drive, pressed the button and sprang back, leaving the scabbard end in his hand. Before he had realized what had happened he darted out brandishing the knife and came fairly on the point of the sword-blade. At the same moment I must have lunged, although I was not aware of it, for when he staggered back the handle was against his breast. It was over, and I had hardly realized that the final stage had begun. In an instant, as it seemed, that yelping, murderous wretch had subsided into a huddled inert heap. It was a quick end merciful dispatch. By the time I had cleaned the blade and replaced it in its scabbard the last twitchings had ceased. As I stood and looked down at him I felt something of the chill of an anticlimax. It had all gone off so easily. Now that it was finished my thoughts went back to the final purpose of my quest. Was this man by any chance the wretch whom I was seeking? It did not seem likely, and yet the possibility must be considered. The first question was as to his hair. Stooping down with my pocket scissors I cut off a good-sized lock and secured it in an envelope for future examination. Then, taking out my pocketbook, I pressed his fingers on some of the blank pages. The natural surface of his hands offered a passable substitute for ink, and the fingerprints could be further developed at home. Then arose a more difficult question. I naturally wished to add him to my collection, but the things seemed impossible. I certainly could not take him away with me. But if I left him exposed he would undoubtedly be found and buried and thus an excellent specimen would be lost to science. There was only one thing to be done. The middle of the chalk pit was occupied by a large area covered with nettles and other large weeds. Probably no human being trod on that space from one year's end to another. For the stinging nettles, four or five feet high, were enough to keep off stray children. Even now the spring vegetation was coming up apace. If I placed the body inconspicuously in the middle of the weedy area it would soon be overgrown and hidden. Then the natural agencies would do the rougher part of my work. Necrophagus insects and other vermin would come to the aid of air, moisture, and bacteria, and I could return in the autumn and gather up the bones already for the museum. This rather makeshift plan I proceeded to execute. Transporting the material to the middle of the weed-grown space, I covered it lightly with twigs and various articles of loose rubbish. It was now quite invisible, and I was turning away to go when suddenly I bethought me of the dry preparation of the head that ought to accompany the skeleton. Without that the specimen would be incomplete, and an incomplete specimen would spoil the series. I reflected awhile. It seemed a pity to spoil the completeness of the series for the sake of a little trouble. I had a good-sized bag with me, and a quantity of stout brown paper in it in which the bulbs had been wrapped. Why not? In the end I decided that the series should not be spoiled. I need not describe the obvious details of the simple procedure. When I came up out of the chalk-pit a quarter of an hour later, my bag contained the material for the required preparation of a mummified head. I soon struck the familiar footpath and set forth at a brisk pace to catch the late train from Gravesend. It was a long walk and a pleasant one, though the bag was uncomfortably heavy. I thought, with grim amusement, of Grayson's gang of footpads. It would be a quaint situation if I encountered some of them and was robbed of my bag. The possibilities that the idea opened out were highly diverting and kept me entertained until I at last reached Gravesend Station, and was bundled by the guard into a first-class compartment just as the train was starting. I should have preferred an empty compartment but there was no choice, and as three of the corners were occupied I took possession of the fourth. The rack over my seat was occupied by a bag about the size of my own, apparently the property of a clergyman who sat in the opposite corner, so I had to place my bag on the rack over his head. I watched him during the journey as he sat opposite to me reading the church times and wondered how he would feel if he knew what was in the bag above him. Probably he would have been quite disturbed, for many of these clerics entertained the quaintest of old-world ideas, and he was mighty near to knowing too, for when the train had stopped at Hither Green and was just about to move off, he suddenly sprang up exclaiming, God bless my soul, and snatching my bag from the rack darted out on the platform. I immediately grabbed his bag from my rack and rushed out after him as the train started hailing him to stop. Hi, my good sir, you've taken my bag. Not at all, he replied indignantly. You're quite mistaken. And then, as I held out his own bag, he looked from one to the other and, to my horror, pressed the clasp of my bag and pulled it wide open. On what small chances to great events turn, but for the brown paper in my bag there would have been a catastrophe. As it was, when his eyes lighted on that rough, globular paper parcel, he handed my bag to me with an apologetic smirk and received his own in exchange. But after that I kept my property in my hand until I was safe within the precincts of my laboratory. The usual disappointments awaited me when I came to examine the hair and fingerprints. He was not the man whom I sought. But he made an acceptable addition to the series of criminal anthropology in my museum, for I duly collected the bones from the Great Nettle Bed in the chalk pit early in the following September, and set them, properly bleached and riveted together, in the large wall case. But this specimen had a further, though indirect, value. From him I gathered a useful hint by which I was subsequently guided into a new and fruitful field of research. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. The next entry in the amazing museum archives exhibited my poor friend Humphrey Chaloner in circumstances that were to me perfectly incredible. When I recall that learned, cultivated man as I knew him, I find it in shop in an east end by-street. Yet this appears actually to have been his condition at one time, but let me quote the entry in his own words, which need no comments of mine to heighten their strangeness. As connected with the acquirement of Numbers 7, 8 and 9 in the anthropological series. We are the creatures of circumstance. Blind chance, which guided that unknown wretch to my house in the dead of the night and which led my dear wife to her death at his murderous hands, also impelled that other villain, Number 6, anthropological series. To pursue me to the lonely chalk-pit, where he would have done me to death had I not fortunately anticipated his intentions. So, too, it was by a mere chance that I presently found myself the proprietor of a shop in a white-chapel back-street. Let me trace the connections of events. The first link in the chain was a visit that I had paid in my younger days to Moscow and Warsaw, where I had stayed long enough to acquire a useful knowledge of Russian and Yiddish. The second link was the failure of my plan to lure the murderer of my wife, and incidentally other criminals, to my house. The trap had been scented not only by the criminals but also by the police, of whom one had visited my museum, with very evident suspicion as to the nature of my specimens. After the visit of the detective I was rather at a loose end. That unknown wretch was still at large. He had to be found, and I had to find him, since the police could not. But how? That detective had completely upset my plans and, for time, I could think of no other. Then came the dirty rascal who had tried to murder me in the chalk-pit, and from his mongrel jargon, half cockney, half foreign, I had gathered a vague hint. If I could not entice the criminal population into my domain, how would it be to reconnoiter theirs? The alien area of London was well known to me, for it had always seemed interesting since my visit to Warsaw, and, judging from the police reports, it appeared to be a veritable happy hunting ground for the connoisseur in criminals. Hence it was that my unrest led me almost daily to perambulate that strange region east of Altgate, where uncouth foreign names stare out from the shop signs, and almost every public or private notice is in the Hebrew character. Dressed in my shabbiest clothes, I trudged, hour after hour, and day after day, through the gray and joyless streets and alleys, looking earnestly into the beady eyes and broad faces of the East European Wayfarers, and wondering whether any of them was the man I thought. One evening, as I was returning homeward through the district that lies at the rear of Middlesex Street, my attention was arrested by a large card tacked on the door of a closed shop. A dingy barber's pole gave a clue to the nature of the industry formerly carried on, and the card, which was written upon in fare and even scholarly Hebrew characters, supplied particulars. I had stopped to read the inscription, faintly amused at the incongruity between the recondite-oriental lettering, and the matter-of-fact references to eligible premises and fixtures and goodwill, when the door opened and two men came out. One was a typical English Jew, smart, chubby, and prosperous. The other was evidently a foreigner. Both men stood aside to enable me to continue my reading, and, as I was about to turn away, the smart of the two addressed me. Good chance here, Mr. Nice, a little business going for nothing. No charge for goodwill or fixtures. Ready made business, and nothing to pay but rent. Yeah, the other man broke in. That shop is a lead of goldmine, and you buys him for noting. It was an absurd situation. I was beginning smilingly to shake my head when the Jew resumed eagerly. I tell you, Mr., it's a chance in a million. A fifth-clothed beneath, and not a brown to pay for the goodwill. Come in and have a look round, he added persuasively. I suppose I am curious by nature. At any rate, I am sure it was nothing but idle curiosity to see what the interior of a white chapel house was like that led me to follow the two men into the dark and musty-smelling shop. But hardly have my eyes lighted on the frowsy fixtures and appartenances of the trade when they're flashed into my mind a really luminous idea. Why did the last man leave? I asked. The Jew caught hold of my coat and exclaimed impressively. The last man, what the fool, got himself mixed up with the crooked, set up a roulette-table in the theller, and let him come in and gamble away their thwag. Stupid thing to do! Though, mind you, he did a rare good line while it laughed it, got the stuff for nothing, you thief! His tone in this point was regretfully sympathetic. What happened in the end? I asked. The copper-worth dropped on him, thumb-buddy gave him away. Some of the ladies, perhaps, I suggested. Ach, so! the other man burst in fiercely. Of course it buzzed their viman. It is always their viman. These damned viman, they makes all their drabble. He thumbed on the table with his fist and then catching the Hebrew's eye, suddenly subsided into silence. From the shop we proceeded to the little parlor behind, from which a door gave access by a flight of most dangerous stone steps, to the large cellar. This was lighted by a grating from the backyard, with which it also communicated by a flight of steps in a door, and we next examined the yard itself, a small paved enclosure with a gate opening on an alley, and occupied at the moment by an empty beer-barrel, a builder's hand-cart, and a dead cat. Like Thuthi, the up-thereth room, inquired the Hebrew gentleman, whose name I understood to be Nathan. I nodded abstractedly, and followed him up the stairs, gathering a general impression of all pervading dirt. The upper rooms were of no interest to me after what I had seen downstairs. Well, said Mr. Nathan, when we were once back in the shop, what do you think of it? I did not answer his question literally. If I had, I should have startled him, for I thought the place absolutely ideal for my business. Just consider its potentialities. I was searching for a criminal whom I could identify by his hair. Here was a barbershop, in the heart of a criminal neighbourhood, and admittedly the late haunt of criminals. Those criminals were certain to come back. I could examine their hair at my leisure, and there was the cellar. It was, I repeat, absolutely ideal. I think the place will suit me, I said. Mr. Nathan beamed on me. Of course, he said. Reference will be that the theory, or rent in advance. A year's rent in advance will do, I suppose, said I, and Mr. Nathan nearly jumped clear off the floor. A few minutes later I departed, the accepted tenant, under the pseudonym of Simon Vosper, of Samuel Nathan, with the understanding that I should deliver my advance rent in banknotes, and that he should have the top dressing of dirt removed from the house and the name of Vosper painted over the shop. My preparations for the new activities on which I was to enter were quickly made. In my Bloomsbury house I installed, as caretaker, a retired sergeant major of incomparable tax eternity. I locked up the museum wing and kept the keys. I took a few lessons in haircutting from a West End barber. I paid my advance rent, sent in a set of bedroom furniture to my new premises in Sal Street, White Chapel, abandoned the habit of shaving for some ten days, and then took possession of the shop. At first the customers were few and far between. A stray coaster or car-man came in from time to time, but mostly the shop was silent and desolate. But this did not distress me. I had various preparations to make and a plan of campaign to settle. There were the cellar stairs, for instance, a steep flight of stone steps unguarded by baluster or handrail. They were very dangerous. But when I had fitted a sort of giant stride by suspending a stout rope from the ceiling, I was able to swing myself down the whole flight in perfect safety. Other preparations consisted in the placing of an iron safe in the parlor, with a small mirror above it, and the purchase of a tin of stiff cart-grease and a few large barrels. These latter I brought from a cooper in the form of staves and hoops, and built them up in the cellar in my rather extensive spare time. Meanwhile trade gradually increased. The harmless coaster and laborer began to be varied by customers rather more in my line. In fact, I had not quite completed my arrangements when I got the first windfall. It was a Wednesday evening. I had nearly finished shaving a large military-looking laborer when the door opened very quietly and a seedy, middle-aged man entered and sat down. His movements were silent, almost stealthy, and when he had seated himself he picked up a newspaper from behind which I saw him steal furtive and suspicious glances at the patient in the operating-chair. The latter being scraped clean rose to depart and the newcomer underwent a total eclipse behind the newspaper. "'Uzi,' he demanded, when the laborer was safely outside. "'I don't know him,' I replied. But I should say, by his hands, a laborer.' "'Looked rather like a copper,' said my customer. He took his place in the vacated chair with a laconic, air-cut, and then became conversational. "'So you've took on Polenski's job.' I nodded in the mirror that faced us. Polenski was my predecessor, and he continued, "'Polenski's doing time, Amy.' I believed he was, and said so, and my friend then asked, "'Young Pongo ever come in here now?' Naturally, I had never heard of young Pongo, but I felt that I must not appear too ignorant. It were better to invent a little. "'Pongo,' I ruminated. "'Pongo. Is that the fellow who is with Joe Bartels in this job at—er—you know?' "'No, I don't,' said my friend, and, "'Oo's Joe Bartels.' "'Oh, I thought you knew him. But if you don't, I'd better say no more. You see, I don't know who you are.' "'Don't you? Then I'll tell you. I'm Spoddy Bamber of Spittle Fields. That's who I am. So now you know.' I made a mental note of the name, the first part of which had apparently been suggested by Mr. Bamber's complexion. And my attention must have wandered somewhat, for my patient suddenly shouted, "'Ear! I say! I didn't come here to be scalped. I come to have my air-cut.' I apologised and led the conversation back to Polinsky. "'Ah!' said Bamber. He was a Downian, he was. "'Bit too Downie!' opened his mouth too wide. Wanted it all for nicks. That was why he got peached on. Here Spoddy turned his head with a jerk. What are you looking at me through that thing for? My head ain't as small as all that.' That thing was a Cottington lens through which I examined the hair of every customer with a view to identification. But I did not tell Mr. Bamber this. My explanation was reckoned I dim rather obscure, but it seemed to satisfy him. "'Well,' he said, you're a rum-cove. Talk like a Blumen Toff too, you do.' I made a careful mental note of that fact and determined to study the local dialect. Meanwhile I explained. I wasn't always a hairdresser, you know. "'So I should suppose,' answered Spoddy, twisting his neck to get a look at his pole in the glass. "'What you'd call a Blumen Amdur!' He stood up, shook himself, and tendered a half-crown in payment, which I examined carefully before giving change. Then I brought out of my pocket a handful of assorted coins, including two sovereigns, a quantity of silver, and some coppers. I do not ordinarily carry my money mixed up in this lovelily fashion, but had adopted the habit, since I came to the shop, for a definite reason, and was now justified by the avaricious glare that lighted up in Spoddy's eyes at the sight of the coins in my hand. I picked out his change deliberately and handed it to him, when he took it and stood for a few seconds, evidently thinking hard. Suddenly he thrust his hand into his pocket and said, "'I suppose, Mr., you haven't got such a thing as a five-pen note, what you can give me in exchange for five jimmies.' He held out five sovereigns, which I took from him and inspected critically. "'Oh, they're all right,' said Spoddy, as I weighed them in my hand, and so they were. "'I think I can let you have a note, if you will wait a moment,' I said, and as I turned to enter the parlor, Spoddy sat down ostentatiously in the chair. I drew the door, too, after me, but did not latch it. A small jet of gas was burning in the parlor, and by its light I unlocked the safe, pulled out a drawer, took from it a bundle of banknotes and looked them over, all very deliberately, and with my eye on the mirror that hung above the safe. That mirror reflected the door. It also reflected me, but as the light was on my back my face was in the shadow. Hardly had I opened the safe when, slowly and silently, the door opened a couple of inches and an eye appeared in the space. I picked a note out of the bundle, returned the remainder to the drawer, closed the safe, and slowly walked to the door. When I re-entered the shop, Spoddy was seated in the chair as I had left him, with the immovable air of an Egyptian statue. I've no doubt that Spoddy Bamber chuckled with joy when he got outside. I should like to think so, to feel that our pleasure was mutual. For as to me, my feelings can only be appreciated by some patient angler who, after a long and fruitless setting, has seen his quill or cork sink down with eager bite of perch, on bleak or dace. Spoddy was on the hook. He would come again, and not alone, at least I trusted not alone, for my brief inspection of his hair had convinced me that he was not the unknown man whom I sought, and though he would make an acceptable addition to the group of specimens in the long wall-case, I was more interested in the companion whom I felt confident he would bring with him. The elation of spirit produced by the prospect of this second visit was such that I forthwith closed the shop, and spent the rest of the evening exercising with the concusser and practicing flying leaps down the cellar steps, with the aid of the giant stride. I slept little that night. As a special precaution against failure I had left the back gate unbolted and refrained from locking the outside cellar door, with the sole result that I was roused up at one in the morning by a meddlesome constable and rebuked sourly for my carelessness. Otherwise not a soul came to enliven my solitude. The second night passed in the same dull fashion, leaving me restless and disappointed. And when the third slipped by without a sign of a visitor, I became uneasy. The fourth day was Saturday, and late evening, the end of the Sabbath, turned my shop into a veritable land of Goshen. The conversation, mostly in Yiddish, of which I professed total ignorance, kept me pretty well amused until closing time arrived. Then as the shop emptied my hopes and fears began to revive together. I was about to begin shutting up the premises when the door opened softly and a man slipped into the shop. My heart leaped exultingly. The man was body-bamber. And he was not alone, by no means. Two more men stroll in in the same stealthy fashion, and having first glanced at one another and then peered suspiciously round the shop, they all looked at me. For my part I regarded them with deep interest, especially as to their hair. Habitual criminal was written large on all of them. As anthropological material they were quite excellent. Mr. Bamber opened the proceedings with one eye on me and the other on the door. Look here, Mr., we've come about a little matter of business. You know Polenski used to do a bit of trade. Yes, I said, and now he's doing a bit of time. I know, replied Spotty, but you must take that fat with the lean. It ain't all soup. And you know that Polenski was a bloomin' fool. It comes to this ear, said one of the other men, stepping up close to me. Do you know a Jerry when you seize one? A Reddon, mind you? I had not the faintest idea what the man meant, I temporized. I haven't seen one yet, you know. The fellow looked furtively at the door and then, diving into an inner pocket, pulled out a handsome gold watch with a massive chain attached, exhibited it for a moment, and then dropped it back. That's the little article, he said, and before you makes a bid you can look it over and try if the stuff's genuine. But not out here, you know. We does our deal inside where you can't get oogled by a copper through the window. I saw the plan at a glance, and in the main, approved, though three at once was a bigger handful than I should have desired. They would require careful treatment. I will just go and see that it's all clear, I said. And with this I retired to the parlor, quietly bolting the door behind me. CHAPTER V. BY PRODUCTS OF INDUSTRY. PART II Once inside I made my simple preparations rapidly. Placing the concusser in a tall, cylindrical basket close to the cellar door, I opened the ladder and hitched the rope in a position where I could grasp it easily. Then I took from the cupboard the tin of cart-grease, and, with a large knife, spread a thick layer of the grease on the upper four steps of the cellar stairs. While thus engaged, I turned over my plans quickly but with considerable misgivings. The odds were greater than I ought to have taken, for, as to the intentions of these men, I could have no reasonable doubt. Bamber was known to me and he would not run the risk of my giving information. The amiable intention of these gentry was to do me in, as they would have expressed it, and the vital question for me was, how did they mean to do it? Firearms they would probably avoid on account of the noise, but if they all came at me at once with knives my chance would be infinitesimal. It comes back to me now rather oddly that I weighed these probabilities quite impersonally as though I were a mere spectator, as such was virtually the case. The fact is that, although I had long since abandoned the idea of suicide, I remained alive as a matter of principle and not by personal desire. My objection to being killed was merely the abstract objection to the killing of any worthy member of society by these human vermin, but if any such person must needs be killed I was quite indifferent as to whether the subject of the action were myself or some other. I had no personal interest in the matter, hence when I unbolted the door and beckoned the three men into the room, though doubtful of the issue, I had no feeling of nervousness. The advantage that my impassiveness gave me over these three rascals was very evident when they slouched in, for they were all trembling and twitching with nervous excitement, and no wonder. To a man who values his life above everything on earth it is a serious matter to walk into the very shadow of the gallows. As soon as they were inside one of them, who looked like a Polish Jew, bolted the door and then they gathered round me like a pack of hyenas. I becked unastentiously into the corner by the cellar door, talking valuably to the three men by turn as I went, and the Jew edged along the wall to get behind me. I realized that he was the one whom I had to watch, and I watched him, not looking at him but keeping him on the periphery of my field of vision, for, as it is well known, the peripheral area of the retina, although insensitive to impressions of form, is highly sensitive to impressions of movement. My remarks on the danger to respectable persons of meddling with stolen property gave Mr. Bamber his cue. Stolen property, he roared. Who said anything about stolen property? What do you mean, your bloomin' scalps-graper? And he advanced threateningly, with his chin stuck forward, and a most formidable scowl. In the next few moments I reaped the reward of my strenuous practice at the gymnasium of the art of jujitsu and the French style of boxing. Bamber's advance was the signal I had seen the Jew's hand steel under his coat skirt. He now made a quick movement, and so did I. Whisking round, in an instant I had his wrist in that kind of grip that dislocates the elbow joint, and, as I turned, I planted my foot heavily on Spotty Bamber's chest. The swift movement took them all by surprise. The Jew screamed and then dropped his knife, staggering heavily against the cellar door, which swung back on its well-oiled hinges. Bamber flew backwards like a football, and, as he canoned against the third man, the two crashed together to the floor. I thrust the Jew through the open doorway, released his wrist, and then followed a slithering sound from the cellar's steps, ending in a soft thump. The position was marvelously changed in those few moments. The Jew, I took it, was eliminated, and the odds thus brought back down to a reasonable figure. As to the other two, though they scrambled to their feet quickly enough, they kept their distance. Bamber, in particular, having some little difficulty with his breath. I picked up the concusser and faced them. If I had been quick, I could have dispatched them both without difficulty, but I did not. Once more I was aware of that singular state of consciousness, to which I have elsewhere eluded as possessing me in the presence of violent criminals. A vivid pleasure in the mere act of physical contest, perfectly incomprehensible to me in my normal state of mind. This strange joy now sent the blood surging through my brain until my ears hummed, and yet I kept my judgment, calmly attentive, and even wary. Thus, when the third Ruffian rushed at me with a large sheathed knife, I knocked his hand aside quite neatly with the concusser, and drove him out of range with a heavy blow of my left fist. But at this moment I observed Bamber frantically lugging something from his hip pocket, something that was certainly not a knife. It was time for a change of tactics. Before the third rascal could close with me again, I darted at the open doorway, grasping the rope, and in an instant had swung myself clear of the steps down into the darkness of the cellar. In swinging I had turned half round, and, as I alighted, I saw my aggressor, knife in hand, come through the doorway in pursuit. He had more courage than his body, but less discretion. In the haste of his pursuit he actually sprang over the cell onto the slippery top step, and the next moment was bumping down the stairs like an overturned sack of potatoes. As he picked himself up, half stunned from the prostrate Jew on whom he had fallen, I regretfully felled him with the concusser. It was a dull finish to the affair, but there was Bamber's revolver to be reckoned with. To do Mr. Bamber justice he was not rash. In fact he was so unobtrusive that I began to fear that he had made off, and, it being obviously unsafe to go up and ascertain, I proceeded to make a few encouraging demonstrations. Oh! I shouted, Let me go! Let go my hands or I'll call for the police. This appeal had the desired effect. The dimly lighted doorway framed the figure of spotty Bamber, with revolver poised, peering cautiously into the darkness. I renewed my protest, and, retiring to the darkest corner, shuffled noisily about the brick floor. Have you got a mouth? inquired the discreet Bamber, leaning forward and stepping over the cell. I continued to dance heavily in my corner, and to other breathless snorts and exclamation such as, Let go, I tell you! Aha! Would you! and so forth. Bamber took another step forward, craned his neck, and called out, Shove him over this way, Al, so as I can— He did not finish the sentence. Watching him I saw his feet suddenly fly from under him, the revolver clatter on the cellar floor, and spotty, himself having slipped halfway down the steps, fell over the edge onto the hard brick pavement. As he picked himself up, breathing heavily, I dropped the concusser into the big pocket of my apron and pounced on him. He uttered a yell of terror and began to struggle like a maniac to free himself from my grip, while I edged him away from the dangerous vicinity of the revolver. At first he was disposed to show a good deal of fight, and, as we gyrated round the cellar, tugging, thrusting, wrenching, and kicking, I found the strenuous muscular exercise strangely exhilarating. Evidently there is something to be said for the simple life, as lived in those primitive communities where every man is his own policeman. But this physically stimulating bow came to a sudden end. Our mazy revolutions brought us presently near the foot of the steps, and here spotty tripped over the prostrate form of the third man. He staggered back a few paces and uttered a husky shriek. And then we came down together on top of the Jew. That finished him. The contact with these two motionless shapes shattered his nerves utterly and reduced him to sheer panic. He ceased to fight, and only whimpered for mercy. It was very unpleasant. As long as the fight was hot and strenuous, the revived instincts of long-forgotten primitive ancestors kept my blood racing. But, with the first cry for mercy, all my exhilaration died out, and the degenerate emotions of civilized men began to make themselves felt. If I hesitated, I was lost. At every pitiful bleed I felt myself weakening. There was only one thing to do, and I did it, with a concussor. Verbal description is a slow affair compared with action, the whole set of events that I have narrated occupied but a few minutes. When I unbolted the parlor door, and found a somnolent Navi waiting to be shaved, I realized with astonishment how brief the interlude had been. Hope I haven't kept you waiting, I said, anxious to learn if he had heard anything unusual. No, he replied, I've only just come in, didn't expect to find you open. He seated himself in the chair, and I lathered him profusely, with luxurious pleasure in handling the clean soap-sets. The folly of my late visitors in leaving the shop door unfastened surprised me, and illustrated afresh the poverty of the criminal intelligence. They had assumed that it would all be over in a moment and had taken no precautions against the improbable, and such is the habitual with whom the costly machinery of the law is unable to cope. Verily there must be a good many fools besides the dishonest ones. I shut up the shop when my customer departed, indulged in a good wash and a substantial supper, for there was much to be done before I could go to bed. I had providently laid in six casks of a suitable size, of which two were put together and the remainder in the form of loose staves and hoops. One of these would have to be made up at once, since it was necessary that the specimen should be packed before rigor mortise set in, and rendered them unmanageable. Accordingly I fell to work after supper with the mallet and the broad chisel-like tool with which the hoops are driven in, and did not pause until the bundle of staves was converted into a cask, complete save for the top hoop and head. I proceeded systematically, into one cask I poured a quart of water, and wetted the interior thoroughly, to make the woods swell and secure tight joints. Then into it I introduced the chew, in a sitting posture, and was gratified to find that the specimen occupied the space comfortably, but here a slight difficulty presented itself. The center of gravity in a cask filled with homogeneous matter coincides with a geometrical center. But in a cask containing a deceased Jew, the center of gravity would be markedly eccentric. Such a cask would not roll evenly, and irregular rolling might lead to investigation. However the remedy was quite simple. My predecessor had been accustomed to cover the floor of the shop with sawdust, and the peculiar habits of my customers had led me to continue the practice. An immense bin at the material occupied a corner of the cellar, and furnished the means of imparting a fictitious homogeneity to the contents of the cask. I shoveled in a quantity around the specimen, headed up the cask, and finished filling it through the bunk-hole. When I had driven in the bunk I gave the cask a trial roll on the cellar floor, and found that it moved without noticeable irregularity. It was past midnight before I had finished my labours, and had the three casks ready for removal. After another good wash I went to bed, and, thanks to the invigorating physical exercise, had an excellent night. The following day being Sunday, there was a regrettable delay, since it would have been unwise to challenge attention by trundling the casks through the street when all the world was resting. However, I called at my Bloomsbury house, instructed the Sergeant Major that some packages might be delivered on the following day, and, I added, that I should probably be working in the laboratory tomorrow, so if you hear me moving about you will know that it is all right. The Sergeant Major touched his cap. He always wore a cap indoors, without speaking. He was the most tact-turned and incurious man that I have ever met. When I had taken a look round the laboratory, and made a few preparations, I departed, going out by the museum entrance. It was as well to get the Sergeant Major used to these casual, unannounced appearances and disappearances. I walked slowly back to Whitechapel, turning over my plans for the removal of the casks. At first I had thought of taking them to Pickford's receiving-office, but there was danger in this, though it was a remote danger. If one of the casks should be accidentally dropped, it would most certainly burst, and then I had no particular objection to being killed, but I had a very great objection to being sent to Broadmoor. So I decided to effect the removal myself, and with the aid of the builder's truck that I had allowed the owner to keep in my yard. But this plan involved the adoption of some sort of disguise, a very slight one would be sufficient, as it was merely to prevent recognition by casual strangers. Now, among the stock of my predecessor, Polenski, I had found a collection of powder colors, grease paint, to pay-paste, spirit gum, and other materials which threw a curious light on his activities. On my return to the shop I made a few experiments with these materials, and was astonished to find on what trivial peculiarities facial expression depends. For instance, I discovered that a strip of corp plaster carried tightly up the middle of the forehead where it would be hidden by a hat altered the angle of the eyebrows and completely changed the expression, and that a thin scramble of purple, rubbed on the nose, totally altered the character of the face. This was deeply interesting, and, as it finally disposed of one difficulty, it left me free to consider the rest of my plans, which I continued to do until every possible emergency was anticipated and provided for. Early on Monday morning I went out and purchased four lengths of stout quartering, too long and too short, a coil of rope, and two block of tackle of the kind known to mariners as Handy Billy, and a pair of cask grips. With the quartering and some lengths of rope I made two cask slides, one long for the cellar and a short one for the hand cart. Placing the long side in position I greased it with cart grease, hooked up the tackle above the upper end, attached the grips and very soon had the three casks hoisted up into the passage that opened into the backyard. With the aid of the short slide and the tackle I ran them up into the cart, lashed them firmly in position with the stout rope, threw in the slide and tackle and was ready to start. Running into the shop I fixed the necessary strip of corp plaster on my forehead, tinted my nose and, having pocketed the stick of paint and a piece of plaster, put on my shabbiest overcoat and neck-cloth, trod on my hat and jammed it on my head so that it should cover the strip of plaster. Then I went out, trundling the cart into the alley, knocked the back gate and set forth on my journey. Navigating the crowded streets with the heavy cart clattering behind me I made my way westward, avoiding the main thoroughfares with their bewildering traffic, until I found myself in Theobads Row at the end of Red Lion Street. Here I began to look about for a likely deputy and presently my eye lighted on a sturdy-looking man who leaned somewhat dejectedly against the post and sucked at an empty pipe. He was evidently not a regular corner-boy. I judged him to be a labourer out of work and deciding that he would serve my purpose I addressed him. "'Want a job, mate?' he roused at once. "'You've it it, mate. I do. What sort of job?' Pull this truck round to 6A, Pimsbury Street, and deliver the tubs. "'How much do you give me?' was the inevitable inquiry. "'Old chap will give you half a crown, if you ask him. And how much am I to keep? Oh, we won't quarrel about that. I've got to see to another job where I'd take him myself. You deliver the tubs and be careful of them. They're full of valuable chemicals. And meet me here at ten o'clock and I'll give you another job. Will that do you?' My friend pocketed his pipe and spat on his hands. "'Give me the bloomin' truck,' he said, and when I had surrendered the pole to him he set off at a pace that made me thankful for the stout-robed blashings of the casks. I let him draw ahead and then followed at a discrete distance, keeping him in sight until he was within a few hundred yards of my house. Then I darted down a side turning, took a shortcut across a square, and, arriving at the museum entrance, let myself in with my Yale key. To remove my hat, overcoat and coat, to tear off the plaster and wash my nose was but the work of a minute. I had placed in readiness my laboratory apron, a velvet skull cap, and a pair of spectacles, and scarcely had I assumed these and settled my eyebrows into a studious frown when the bell rang. I glanced into a little mirror that hung on the wall satisfied me as to the radical change in my appearance, and I went out confidently and opened the street door. My deputy was standing on this doorstep and touched his cap nervously as he met my portentous frown. "'These here are barrels for you, sir,' he asked. "'Quite bright,' I replied in deep pompous tones. "'I will help you to bring them in.' We brought the cart up on the pavement with a pole across the threshold, and I fixed the slide in position while my assistant cast off the lashings. In a couple of minutes we had run the casks down the slide and I had the satisfaction of seeing them safely deposited in the hall. The dangers and difficulties of the passage were at an end. I handed my proxy the half-crown, which he sheepishly demanded, with an extra shilling, for a glass of beer, and saw him go on his way rejoicing. Then I went back to the laboratory, stuck on a fresh strip of plaster, rubbed on a tint of grease paint and resumed my disreputable garments. When I came forth into the street the hand-cart had already disappeared, leaving me to pursue my way unobserved to the rendezvous, where I presently met my friend and, having rejoiced with him a further shilling, resumed possession of the cart. On my arrival at my Whitechapel premises I fixed a notice to the window informing the nobility and gentry that I was absent on business. Then I clothed myself decently, emptied the contents of the safe into a handbag, into which I also put the Cooper's chisel, locked up the premises and hurried off to Aldgate Station. My first objective was the establishment of Mr. Hammerstein, the dealer in osteology, from whom I purchased three articulated human skeletons, and obtained the invaluable receded invoices, and having thus taken every precaution that prudence in human foresight could suggest, I repaired to my Bloomsbury house, let myself in at the museum door, rolled the casks through into the laboratory and proceeded to unpack the specimens. The initial processes occupied me far into the night, while as to the finishing operations they kept me busy for over a month, during which time I shaved and cut hair throughout the day, up to nine o'clock at night, reserving the laboratory work for a relaxation after the prosaic labours of the day. Looked at broadly the episode was highly satisfactory and successful, accepting in one vital respect. None of the three specimens had ringed hair. The completed preparations were, after all, the by-products of my industry, the wretch whom I sought was still at large and unidentified. My collection still lacked its crowning ornament. CHAPTER VI. THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT. Hitherto, in my transcriptions from Humphrey Chaliner's museum archives, I have taken the entries in their order, omitting only such technical details as might seem unsuitable for the lay reader. Now, however, I pass over a number of entries. The capture of numbers seven, eight, and nine exhibit the methods to which Chaliner, in the main, adhered during his long residence in East London. And, though there were occasional variations, the accounts of the captures present a general similarity which might render their recitals tedious. The last entry but one, on the other hand, is among the most curious and interesting. Apart from the stirring incidents that it records, the new light that it throws on a hitherto unsolved mystery makes it worth exacting entire, which I now proceed to do with the necessary omissions alluded to above. Circumstances connected with the acquirement of numbers twenty-three and twenty-four in the anthropological series. The sand of my life ran out with varying speed, as it seemed to me, in the little barber's shop in Sal Street, White Chapel. Now would my pulses beat and the current of my blood run swift. Those were the times when I had visitors, and presently a new skeleton or two would make their appearance in the long wall case. But there were long intervals of sordid labour and dull inaction when I would cut hair and examine it through my lens. Day after day and wonder whether, in electing to live, rather than pass voluntarily into eternal repose, I had, after all, chosen the better part. For in all those years no customer with ringed hair ever came to my shock. The long pursuit seemed to bring me no nearer to that unknown wretch, the slayer of my beloved wife. Still, was he hidden from me amidst the unclean multitude that seized a round? Or perchance some sort of grave had already offered him an everlasting sanctuary, leaving me weary to pursue a phantom enemy. But I'm digressing. This is not a record of my emotions, but a history of the contents of my museum. Let me proceed to specimens twenty-three and twenty-four and the very remarkable circumstances under which I had the good fortune to acquire them. First, however, I must describe an incident which, although it occurred some time before, never developed its importance until this occasion arose. One drowsy afternoon there came to my shop a smallish, shabby-looking man. Quiet and civil in manner, and particularly wooden as to his countenance. In short, a typical old lag. I recognized the type at a glance. The penal servitude phase had become a familiar phenomenon. He spread himself out to be shaved, and to have the severely official style of his coffereer replaced by less distinctive mode. And as I worked he conversed affably. Saw old Polinsky a week or two ago. Did you indeed? said I. Yes. Portland. Got into hot water, too, he did. Tried to fetch the farm and didn't pull it off. The farm, I may explain, is the prison infirmary. Got dropped on for malingering. That's the way with these bloomin' foreigners. He didn't impose on the doctor, then. Lord, no. Doctor had seen that sort of bloke before. Polinsky said he'd got a pain in his stomach, so the doctor says it must be because his diet was too rich, and knocks off Arf is grub. I tell you, Polinsky was sorry he'd spoke. Here my client, showing a disposition to smile, I removed the razor to allow him to do so. Presently he resumed, discursively. I knew this owse years ago, before Polinsky's time. One old dirtler had it. Dirtler used to do the smashing lay-up on the second floor, and me and two or three nippers used to work for him. Platten the snide, you know. He was a rare lyrian, was dirtler. It was in what made that sliding door on the wall in the second floor front. I picked up my ears at this. A sliding door, in this house? Good-blimey! exclaimed my client. Meant to say you don't know about that door? I assured him most positively that I had never heard of it. Well, well, he muttered. Such a useful thing, too. Dirtler used to keep his molds and stuff up there, and then, when there was a scare of the cops, he used to pop the thing through into the next house, Mrs. Jacob at a room next door, and the coppers used to come and sniff around, but of course there wasn't nothing to see. Regular suck-in for them. And it was useful if he was followed. You could missile in through the shop, run upstairs, pop through the door, downstairs next door, and out through the backyard. I've done it myself. Who's got the second floor front now? I have, said I. I kept the whole of the house. My I, exclaimed my friend, whose name I learned to be Tauler. You are blue and tough. Like me to show you that door? I said that I should like it very much, and accordingly, when the trimming operations were concluded and I had secured a wisp of Mr. Trailer's hair for subsequent examination, we ascended to the second floor front, and he demonstrated the hidden door. It's in this ear cupboard, under that raw pegs, that peg underneath that the side is the handle. You catch his all of it, so, and you gives it a pull to the right. He suited the action to the words, and, with a loud groan, the middle third of the back of the cupboard slid bodily to the right, leaving an opening about three feet square, beyond which was a solid-looking panel with a small knob at the left-hand side. That, whispered Tauler, is the back of a cupboard in the next house. If he was to pull that handle to the right, it would slide along same as this one, only I expect there's somebody in the room there. I rewarded Mr. Tauler with a half-sovereign, which he evidently thought liberal, and he departed gleefully. Shortly afterwards I learned that he had got a stretch, in connection with a job at Camberwell, and he vanished from my ken. But I did not forget the sliding doors. No special use for them suggested itself, but their potentialities were so obvious that I resolved to keep a sharp eye on the second floor front next door. I had not long to wait. Presently the whole floor was advertised by a card on the street door as being to let, and I seized the opportunity of a quiet Sunday to reconnoitre and put the arrangements in going order. I slid back the panel on my side, and then, dragging at the handle, pushed back the second panel, both moved noisily, and would require careful treatment. I passed through the second opening into the vacant room, and looked around. But there was little to see, though a good deal to smell, for the windows were hermeneutically sealed, and a closed stove fitted into the fireplace to preclude any possibility of ventilation. The aroma of the late tenants still lingered in the air. I returned through the opening and began my labours. First, with a hard brush I cleaned out both sets of grooves, top and bottom. Then, into each groove I painted a thick coating of tallow and black lead, mixed into a paste and heated. By moving the panels backwards and forwards a great number of times I distributed the lubricant and brought the black lead to such a polish that the door slid with the greatest ease and without a sound. I was so pleased with the result that I was tempted to engage the room next door, but as this might have aroused suspicion, seeing that I had a whole house already, I refrained, and shortly afterwards the floor was taken by a family of Polish Jews who apparently supplemented their income by letting a part of it furnished. I now pass over an intervening period and come to the circumstances of one of my most interesting and stirring experiences. It was about this time that some misbegotten mechanician invented the automatic magazine pistol and thereby rendered possible a new and exerble type of criminal that was not long before the appropriate criminal arrived. The scene of the first appearance was in the suburb of Trottenham, where two Russian Poles attempted, and failed in, an idiotic street robbery. The attempt was made in broad daylight in the open street, and the two wretches, having failed, ran away, shooting at every human being they met. In the end they were both killed, one by his own hand, but not until they had murdered a gallant constable and a poor little child and injured in all twenty-two persons. I read the newspaper account with deep interest and the conviction that this was only a beginning. These two frenzied degenerates belonged to a common enough type, the type of the Slav criminal, who has not sense enough to take precautions or courage enough to abide the fortune of war. The automatic pistol, I felt sure, would bring him into view, and I was not mistaken. One night, returning from a tour of inspection, I met a small excited crowd accompanying a procession of three police ambulances. I joined the throng and presently turned into a small blind thoroughfare, in which had gathered a small and nervous-looking crowd and a few flurried policemen. Several of the windows were shattered and on the ground were three prostrate figures. One was dead, the others were badly wounded, and all three were members of the police force. I watched the ambulances depart with their melancholy burdens, and then turned for information to a bystander. He had not much to give, but the substance of his account, confirmed later by the newspapers, was this. The police had located a gang of suspected burglars, and three officers had come to the house to make arrests. They had knocked at the door, which, after some delay, was opened. Some person within had immediately shot one of the officers dead, and the entire gang of four or five had rushed out, fired point blank at the other two officers, and then raced up the street shooting right and left like madmen. Several people had them wounded and, grievous to relate, the whole gang of miscreants had made their escape into the surrounding slums. I was profoundly interested and even excited for several reasons. In the first place, here at last, was the real Lombrosso criminal. The subhuman matoid, devoid of intelligence, devoid of the faintest glimmering of a moral sense, fit for nothing but the lethal chamber, compared with whom the British habitual, was a civilized gentleman. Without a specimen or two of this type, my collection was incomplete. Then there was the evident applicability of my methods to this class of offender, methods of quiet extermination without fuss, public disorder, or risk to the precious lives of the police. But beyond these there was another reason for my interest. The murder of my wife had been a purposeless, unnecessary crime, committed by some wretch to whom human life was a thing of no consideration. There was an analogy in the circumstances that seemed to connect that murder with this type of miscreant. It was even possible that one of these villains might be the one whom I had so patiently sought through the long and weary years. The thought fired me with new enthusiasm. Fourth with, I started to pursue the possible course of the fugitives, threading countless by-streets and alleys, peering into squalid courts, and sending many doubtful-looking loiterer shuffling hastily round the nearest corner. Of course it was fruitless. I had no clue and did not even know the men. I was merely walking off my own excitement. Nevertheless, every night as soon as I had closed my shop, I set forth on a voyage of exploration, impelled by sheer restlessness, and during the day I listened eagerly to the talk of my customers in Yiddish, a language of which I was supposed to be entirely ignorant. But I learned nothing. Either the fugitives were unknown, or the natural secretiveness of an alien people forbade any reference to them, even among themselves. And meanwhile, as I have said, I tramped the streets nightly into the small hours of the morning. Returning from one of these expeditions a little earlier than usual, I found a small party of policemen and a sprinkling of idlers gathered opposite the house next door. There was no need to ask what was doing, the suppressed excitement of the officers and the service revolvers in their belts told the story. There was going to be another slaughter, and I was probably too late for anybody's spectator's part. The street door was open and the house was being quietly emptied of its human occupants. They came out one by one, shivering and complaining, with little bundles of their possessions hastily snatched up, and collected in a miserable group on the pavement. I opened my shop door and invited them to come in and rest while their messengers went to look for a harbor of refuge, but I stayed outside to see the upshot of the proceedings. When the last of the tenants had come out, a sergeant emerged and quietly closed the street door with a latch key. The rest of the policemen took up sheltered positions and doorways after warning the idlers to disperse, and the sergeant turned to me. Now, Mr. Vosper, you'd better keep your nose indoors if you don't want it shot off. There's going to be trouble presently. He pushed me gently into the shop and shut the door after me. I found the evicted tenants chattering excitedly and very unhappy, but they were not rebellious. They were mostly Jews, and Jews are patient, submissive people. I boiled some water in my little copper, which they drank gratefully, out of shaving mugs, my outfit of crockery being otherwise rather limited, and meanwhile they talked volubly, and I listened. I wonder, said a stout elderly Jewess, how do police know those shundlemen's got to lodge them at me? Somebody must have told them. Yes, agreed an evicted tenant of doubtful occupation. Some bloomin' narc has given him away. Good job, too. Taint play in the game for to go potting at coppers like that there. Coppers has got their job to do same as we have. You know that, Mrs. Khminsky. Yeah, that is through, said the Jewess, but they might let me bring my things with me. Tomorrow is Ky-Fox-Tay. Now I lose my money. How is that, Mrs. Khminsky? I asked. Because I sell them not the things I buy for Ky-Fox-Tay, the fireworks, the grangers, the mags, and other things for the children's. Dvende Vye's shillings for Ky-Fox-Tay. They are in my room on the second floor. I asked the police to let me fetch them, hot they say no. I shall disturb the shundlemen's in the front room. So I lose my money because I sell them not. Here the unfortunate woman burst into tears and I was so much affected by her distress that I instantly offered to buy the whole consignment for two pounds, where she wept more copiously than ever, but collected the purchase money with great promptitude and stowed it away in a very internal pocket, displaying in the process as many layers of clothing as an old-fashioned pen wiper. Ah, Mr. Fasper, you are a zoo-cute to all the poor peoples, though you are only a poor man yourself. But it is the poor, but it is the friends of the poor, and in her gratitude she would have kissed my hands if I had not prudently stuck them into my trouser-pockets. A messenger now arrived to say that a refuge had been secured for the night and my guests departed with many thanks and benedictions. The street, as I looked out, was now quite deserted, say, for one or two prowling policemen who, apparently, bored with their hiding-places, had come forth to patrol in the open. I did not stay to watch them, for Mrs. Kusminsky's remarks had started a train of thought which required to be carried out quickly. Accordingly I went in and fell to pacing the empty shop. The police, I assumed, were waiting for daylight to rush the house. It was a mad plan, and yet I was convinced that they had no other. And when they should enter, in the face of a stream of bullets from those terrible automatic pistols, what a carnage there would be. It was frightful to think of. Why does the law permit those coward's tools to be made and sold? A pistol is the one weapon that has no legitimate use. An axe, a knife, even a rifle has some lawful function. But a pistol is an appliance for killing human beings. It has no other purpose whatever. A man who was found, with housebreaking tools in his possession, is assumed to be a housebreaker. Surely a man who carries a pistol convicts himself of the intention to kill somebody. But perhaps the police had some reasonable plan. It was possible, but it was very unlikely. The British policeman is a grandfellow, brave as a lion and ready to march cheerfully into the mouth of hell if duty calls. But he knows no tactics. His very courage is almost a disadvantage, leading him to disdain reasonable caution. I felt that our guardians were again going to sacrifice themselves to these vermin. It was terrible. It was a wicked waste of precious lives. Could nothing be done to prevent it? According to Mrs. Kaminsky, the gentlemen's were in the second floor front, the room with the sliding panel. Then I could, at least, keep a watch on them. I watched slowly upstairs, gnashing my teeth with irritation. The sacrifice was so unnecessary. I could think, offhand, of half a dozen ways of annihilating those wretches without risking a single hair of any decent person's head. And here were the police, with all the resources of science at their disposal, and practically unlimited time in which to work, actually contemplating a fight with the odds against them. I stole into the second floor front and, by the light of a match, found the cupboard. The inside panel, as I will call the one on my side, slid back without a sound. There was now only the second panel between me and the next room. I could plainly hear the murmur of voices and sounds of movement. But I could not distinguish what was being said. And as this was of some importance, I determined to try the other panel. Grasping the handle, I gave a firm but gradual pull, and felt the panel slide back quite silently for a couple of inches. Instantly the voices became perfectly distinct, and a whiff of foul, stuffy air came through, with a faint glimmer of light, by which I knew that the cupboard on their side was at least partly open. I tell you, Piragov, said a voice in Russian. You are nervous about nothing. The police are looking for us, but they know none of us by sight. We can go about quite safely. I'm not so sure, replied another voice, presumably Piragov's. The babbling fool who led us to the house may talk more, and who knows but some of our own people may betray us. That woman Kosmitsky looked very queerly at us, I thought. Bah! exclaimed the other. Come and lie down, Piragov. Tomorrow we will leave this place and separate. We shall go away for a time, and they will forget us. Put some more coke in the stove and let us go to sleep. How incalculable are the groupings of factors that involve the causation of events. Those last words of the invisible ruffian seemed quite trivial and inconsequent, and yet they framed his death warrant. I did not myself realize it fully at the moment. As I closed the slide and stepped back, I was conscious only that a useful train of thought had been started. Put some more coke in the stove and let us go to sleep. Yes, there was a clear connection between the idea of stove and that of sleep, a sleep of infinite duration. Therein lay the solution of the problem. I walked slowly down the stairs, tracing the connection between the ideas of stove and sleep. The nauseous air that had filtered through from that room spoke eloquently of sealed windows and stopped crevices. It was a frosty night and the murderers were chilly. A back-draught in the stovepipe would fill the room with poisonous gases and probably suffocate those wretches slowly and quietly. But how was it to be brought about? For a moment I thought of climbing to the ruff and stopping the chimney from above, but the plan was a bad one. The police might see me and make some regrettable mistake with a revolver. Besides, it would probably fail. The stoppage of the draught would extinguish the fire and the pungent coke fumes would warn the villains of their danger. Still closely pursuing the train of thought, I stepped into my bedroom and lit the gas. I turned to glance around the room and behold, the problem was solved. In the fireplace did a small brass stove of Russian make, a tiny affair too small to burn anything but charcoal, but, as charcoal was easily obtainable in East London, I had bought it and fixed it myself. It was perfectly safe in a well-ventilated room, though otherwise very dangerous. For fumes of charcoal, consisting of nearly pure carbon dioxide, being practically in odorous, give no warning. My course was now quite clear. The stove was fitted with as best as covered handles, a box of charcoal stood by the hearth, and in the corner was an extra length of stovepipe for which I had had no use. But I had a use for it now. I lit the charcoal in the stove and, while it was burning up, carried the stovepipe in the box of fuel upstairs. Then I returned for the stove, inside which the charcoal was now beginning to glow brightly. I fixed on the extra length of pipe and, with my hand, felt the stream of hot air, or rather, hot carbon dioxide gas, pouring out of its mouth. I tried the pipe against the opening and found that it would rest comfortably on the lower edge, and then, very slowly and cautiously, I drew back the sliding panel about six inches. The ruffians were still wrangling on the same subject for I heard one next claim. Don't be a fool, Pyrogoth. You'll only attract attention if you go nosing about downstairs. I don't care, was the answer. I feel uneasy. I must go down and see if all is quiet before I go to sleep. Hear the sound of the opening and shutting of the door. Put an end to the discussion, say for a torrent of curses and maledictions from the two remaining men. But in a few moments the door opened noisily and Pyrogoth shouted, Come out, come out. The house is empty. We are betrayed. A howl of dismay was the answer. The two wretches burst into a grotesque mixture of weeping and cursing, and I heard them literally dancing about the room in the ecstasy of their terror. Come out, repeat it, Pyrogoth. We will kill them all. We will shoot those pigs, every one of them. Some of us shall get away. Come. It's of no use, Pyrogoth, whimpered one of his comrades. They're in the house. It is an ambush. Yes, cried the third man. It is as Borah says. The house is dark and they are hiding in it. Bolt the door and let them come to us, and we will kill them. Kill. Kill. Kill. He ended with an unearthly shriek and a burst of hysterical sobs. I shall go, said Pyrogoth. There's a chance. There's none, shrieked the other. Come back, madman. The door slammed. The key turned in the lock and a heavy bolt was shot. I quietly closed the slide and ran down to the open window of the first floor front room. The street appeared to be empty, save for two constables who stood at a corner conversing in low tones. A profound silence reigned. An unusual silence it seemed. Through which the subdued murmur of the constables' voices was faintly audible. I looked out anxiously, debating whether I ought not to warn the unconscious sentinels, even at the risk of defeating my plans. Suddenly two sharp reports and quick succession rang out from below. Both constables fell and a figure darted out of the doorway and raced madly up the street. One of the fallen constables lay motionless. The other grasped his hip with one hand and with the other fired his revolver repeatedly at the retreating murderer, but apparently missed him every time. In a few seconds a sergeant and another constable came flying round the corner. Police whistles began to sound their warning in all directions, and the previous silence gave place to a very babble of noise. But Pyrgoth had shot up a side turning before the sergeant arrived, and the persistent clamor of the whistles told me that he had, for the moment at least, escaped. I turned away. Pyrgoth was out of my hands, and what I had seen only made it more imperative that I should prevent further bloodshed. As, once more, I softly opened the slide. The voices of the miserable wretches within came to me in a strange and unpleasant mixture of curses, blasphemies and hysterical sobs. They cursed Pyrgoth. They cursed the police. They invoked death and destruction on every man, woman, and child in this nation of pigs, and between the curses they wept and lamented. I had shut the damper of the stove before going down, but the charcoal was still a light, though dull. I now arranged the stove in position, resting the long pipe on the bottom edge of the opening, so that its end projected a few inches into the room, moving quite silently and assisted by the hubbub from without and the noise produced by the two craven villains. When it was fixed I opened the damper, and presently, holding my hand opposite the mouth of the pipe, felt a strong current of hot gas pouring out. That gas would cool rapidly on meeting the cold air, and would then fall by its own weight and collect about the floor. My apparatus was now in full going order, and there was nothing for it but to wait. The noise in the street had subsided, but the two ruffians showed no signs of settling down. They were now engaged in barricading the door so that it could be forced open only a few inches, thus exposing the attackers to a deadly fire. I was much obliged to them. Their movements would help to diffuse the gas and prevent it from settling too densely on the floor. Also their exertions would make them breathe more deeply, and so come more rapidly under the influence of the poison. The time crept on, the police made no sign, the murderers rested from their labors, sometimes talking excitedly, sometimes silent for a few minutes at a time, and at intervals yawning like overstrong women. And all the time the invisible stream of heavy, deadly gas was pouring out of the stove pipe and trickling unseen along the floor. Even now it must be eddying about the murderous feet and slowly diffusing upwards. If only the police would remain quiescent for an hour or two more, the danger would be over. The long hours of the winter's night dragged out their weary length, yet not weary to me, for as I kept my vigil by the pipe and fed the stove silently at intervals, I was on the very tiptoe of expectation. Every moment I dreaded to hear the disastrous crash on the door that should herald a fresh slaughter, and as the minutes passed and all remained still, hope rose higher and higher. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of my quarry through the chink of their cupboard door, for I had opened the slide fully afoot, finding that the clothes that hung from the pegs would scream me, even if the darkness on my side had not done so already. So I saw one of them sit down on a low chair and couch, shuddering over the coke stove, while the other restlessly paced the room, and still the stream of deadly gas trickled unceasingly from the pipe. Presently the former rose and yawned heavily. Bah! he growled. I am tired. I shall lie down. If I fall asleep boars, do you watch and wake me if you hear them coming. By craning my neck through the opening I could just continue to get a glimpse of him as he threw himself on a mattress that was spread on the floor. The other man continued for a while to pace the room, then he sat down on the chair and spread his hands out over the stove, muttering to himself. I watched him as well as I could through the chink of the cupboard doors, by the dim light of the stinking paraffin lamp, a greasy, unwholesome-looking wretch, sallow, pallet and unshorn, and thought how striking he would look in the form of a reduced, dry preparation. But that was impossible. I was now working only for the police. Regrettable as it was, I should have to surrender these two specimens to the coroner and the gravedigger. A deplorable waste of material, but unavoidable, even if one of them should prove to be my long-sought enemy. At this thought I started. And, at that moment, the man on the mattress gave a strange, snorting cry. The ruffian boars, looked round, rose, went over to the mattress and stirred the other with his foot. Louis. Louis, he cried angrily. What the devil are you making that noise for? The other man scrambled up with a cry of terror and a pistol in hand. Ah, it is you, Boris. I was dreaming. I thought they had come. He sat down again on the mattress and yonned. Bah, I am sleepy. I must lie down again. Watch a little longer, Boris. Why should I watch, demanded Boris. They will make enough noise opening the door. I shall lie down a little too. He flung himself down beside his comrade, but in a minute or two started up, taking deep breaths. My God! he exclaimed. I can't breathe lying down. I feel as if I should choke. And you too, Louis, you are snorting like a pig. Get up, man. He shook the prostrate man roughly, but eliciting only a few drowsy curses, resumed his restless pacing of the room. But not for long. Yon after yon told me that the gas was already in his blood, and the loud snoring of the other man indicated plainly the state of the air in the lower part of the room. Presently Boris halted in his walk and sat down by the stove, muttering as before. He began to nod. Then he nearly fell forward on the stove. Finally he rose heavily, staggered across to the mattress, and once more flung himself down. End of Chapter 6 Part 1