 24 He took it with that grave courtesy, that gentle dignity of bearing, which at times distinguished his deportment, and was indeed as puzzling to her as it was to Mr. Maverick Narcombe. It came but rarely that peculiar air, but it was very noticeable when it did come, although the man himself seemed totally oblivious of it. Miss Lorne noticed it now, just as she had noticed it that day in the train, when she had said banteringly, I am not used to court manners. Where, if you please, did you acquire yours?" I can't say how deeply indebted I feel. You must imagine that, Miss Lorne. He said, bending over the hand that lay in his, with an air that made Lady Chepstow lift her eyebrows and look at him narrowly. It is one of the kindest things you could do for the boy, and for me. I thank you very, very much indeed. My thanks are due to you, too, Captain, for I feel that you will gladly do the favour I have asked. Do it! Yes, like a shot, old chap! What a ripping fellow you are! I'm a tired one at all events, replied Cleek. So, if you and the ladies bowing to them will kindly excuse me, I'll be off home for a needed rest. Lady Chepstow, my very best respects, I feel sure that his little lordship will be quite all right in a day or two, although I shall, of course, be glad to learn how he progresses. May I? Perhaps Miss Lorne might be persuaded to send me a word or two through Mr. Narcombe. Lady Chepstow was still looking at him, as she had been from the moment he had taken Elsa's hand. Now she put out her own to him. Why wait for written reports, Mr. Cleek? Why not call in person and see? she asked. It will be more satisfactory than writing, and you will be welcome always. I thank your ladyship, he said gravely, though all the soul of him rioted and laughed and longed to shout out for sheer joy. It is a privilege I shall be happy to enjoy, but afterward when he came to take his leave a dearer one was granted him, for Elsa herself accompanied him to the door. I couldn't let the butler show you out, Mr. Cleek, she said, as they stood together in the wide entrance hall. I couldn't let you go until I had said something that is on my mind, something that has been pricking my conscience all evening. I want to tell you that from this night on I am going to forget those other nights, that one in the mist at Hampstead, that other on the stairway at Wyvernhus. Forget them utterly and entirely, Mr. Cleek. Whatever you may have been once, I know that now you are indeed a man. Then gave him her hand again, smiled at him, and sent him home, feeling that he was as near to the threshold of heaven as any mortal thing may hope to be. Followed a time of such happiness as only they may know who having lived in darkness first know that there is such a thing as light. Followed days and weeks that went like magic things, blessed to the uttermost before they go. For now he was a welcome visitor at the house that sheltered her. Now the armour of reserve had dropped from her, and they were finding out between them that they had many tastes in common. It was in August when the first interruption to this happy state of affairs occurred, and they came to know that separation was to be endured again. Lady Chepstow, planning already for a wedding that was to take place in the early winter, decided to spend the last few months of her widow who were at her country house in Devonshire, and retired to it taking her servants, her little son, and her son's governess with her. For a day or two clique mooned about, restless, lonely despite dollops's presence, finding no savor in anything, and it came as a positive relief when a call from the yard sent him to a modest little house in the neighbourhood of Wandsworth Common. The call in question took the shape of a letter from Mr. Narcombe. My dear clique, it ran. A most amazing case, probably the most amazing you have yet tackled, has just cropped up. The client is one captain Morrison, a retired army officer living solely on his half-pay. His daughter is involved in the astonishing affair. Indeed it is at her earnest appeal that the matter has been brought to my notice. As the captain is in too weak a state of health to journey any distance, I am going to ask you to meet me at number 17 Sonnington Crescent Wandsworth, a house kept by one Mrs. Culpin, widow of one of my yardmen, at three o'clock this afternoon. Knowing your reluctance to have your identity disclosed, I have taken the liberty of giving you the name you adopted in the Baudry Affair, to Whit George Headland. I have also taken the same precaution with regard to the Morrison's, leaving you to disclose your identity or not, as you will see fit. Glad enough for anything to distract his thoughts from the brooding state of melancholy into which they had sunk, clique looked up a timetable, caught the 247 train from Victoria Station, and Narcom, walking into Mrs. Culpin's modest little drawing-room at two minutes past three, found him standing in the window, and looking thoughtfully out at the groups of children romping on the nearby common. Well, here I am at last, you see, my dear fellow. He said, as he crossed the room and shook hands with him. Ripping day, isn't it? What are you doing, admiring the view or taking the stock of Mrs. Culpin's roses? Neither I was speculating in futures, replied clique, glancing back at the sunlit common, and then glancing away again with a faintly audible sigh. How happy, how carefree they are, those merry little beggars, Mr. Narcom! What you said in your letter set my thoughts harking backward, and I was wondering what things the coming years might hold for them and for their parents. At one time, you know, Philip Baudry was as innocent and garless as any of those little shavers, and yet in after years he proved a monster of iniquity, a beast of ingratitude, and—ah, well, let it pass. He paid as thankless as children always do pay under God's good rule. I wonder what his thoughts were when his last hour came. It did come, then. Yes, got playing some of his games with those short tempered chaps out in Buenos Aires, and got knifed a fortnight after his arrival. I had a letter from Mrs. Baudry yesterday. His father never knew of—well, the other thing, and never will now, thank God. The longer I live, Mr. Narcom, the sureer I become that straight living always pays, and that the chapel turned into the other lane gets what he deserves before the game is played out. Ten years of Scotland Yard have enabled me to endorse that statement emphatically, replied Narcom. The riddle of the ninth finger was no different in that respect from nine hundred other riddles that have come my way since I took office. Now, sit down, old chap, and let us take up the present case. But I say, Greek, speaking of rewards reminds me of what I wrote to. There's very little chance of one in this affair. All the parties connected with it are in very moderate circumstances. The sculptor fellow, Van Nant, who figures in it, was quite well to do at one time, I believe, but he ran through the greater part of his money, and a dishonest solicitor did him out of the rest. Miss Morrison herself never did have any, and, as I have told you, the captain hasn't anything in the world but his pension, and it takes every shilling of that to keep them. In the circumstances I'd have made it a simple yard affair, chargeable to the government, and put one of the regular staff upon it. But, well, it's such an astounding, such an unheard of thing, I knew you'd fairly revel in it. And, besides, after all the rewards you have won, you must be quite a well-to-do man by this time, and able to indulge in a little philanthropy. Cleak smiled. I will indulge in it, of course, he said, but not for that reason, Mr. Narcombe. I wonder how much it will surprise you to learn that, at the present moment, I have just one hundred pounds in all the world. My dear fellow! Narcombe exclaimed, with a sort of gasp, staring at him in round-eyed amazement. You fairly take away my breath. Why, you must have received a fortune since you took up these special cases. Fifty or sixty thousand pounds at the smallest calculation. More. To be precise, I have received exactly seventy-two thousand pounds, Mr. Narcombe. But, as I tell you, I have today but one hundred pounds of that sum left. Lost in speculation? Oh, dear no! I have not invested one farthing in any scheme, company or purchase, since the night you gave me my chance, and helped me to live an honest life. Then, in the name of Heaven, Cleak, what has become of the money? It has gone in the cause of my redemption, Mr. Narcombe. He answered in a hushed voice. My good friend! For you really have been a good friend to me, the best I ever had in all the world. My good friend, let us, for only just this one minute, speak of the times that lie behind. You know what redeemed me, a woman's eyes, a woman's rose-white soul. I said, did I not, that I wanted to win her, wanted to be worthy of her, wanted to climb up and stand with her in the light? You remember that, do you not, Mr. Narcombe? Yes, I remember. But, my dear fellow, why speak of your vanishing cracksman days when you have so utterly put them behind you, and since lived a life beyond reproach? Whatever you did in those times you have amply atoned for, and what can that have to do with your impoverished state? It has everything to do with it. I said I would be worthy of that one dear woman, and I never can be, Mr. Narcombe, until I have made restitution, until I can offer her a clean hand as well as a clean life. I can't restore the actual things that the vanishing cracksman stole, for they are gone beyond recall. But I can at least restore the value of them, and that I have been secretly doing for a long time. Man alive! God bless my soul! Clic my dear fellow! Do you mean to tell me that all the rewards, all the money you have earned, has gone to the people from whom I stole things in the wretched old days that lie behind me? He finished very gently. It goes back in secret gifts as fast as it is earned, Mr. Narcombe. Don't you see the answers, the acknowledgments in the personal columns of the papers now and again? Wheresoever I robbed in those old days I am repaying in these. When the score is wiped off, when the last robbery is paid for, my hand will be clean, and I can offer it, never before. Clic my dear fellow! What a man! What a man! Oh, more than ever am I certain now that old Sir Horace Whiffen was right that night, when he said that you were a gentleman. Tell me, I'll respect it. Tell me for God's sake, man, who are you? What are you, dear friend? Clic, he made reply. Just Clic. The rest is my secret, and God's. We've never spoken of the past since that night, Mr. Narcombe, and with your kind permission we never will speak of it again. I'm Clic, the detective, at your service once more. Now, then, let's have the new strange case on which you called me here. What's it all about? Necromancy, wizardry, fairy law, all the stuff and nonsense that goes to the making of the Arabian knights, said Narcombe, waxing excited as his thoughts were thus shoved back to the amazing affair he had in hand. All your red crawls and your sacred sums and your nine-fingered skeletons are fools to it for wonder and mystery. Talk about witchcraft, talk about wizards and giants and enchanters, and the things that witches did in the days of Macbeth, God bless my soul, they're nothing to it. Those were the days of magic anyhow, so you couldn't take it or leave it as you like. But this. Look here, Clic, you've heard a good many queer things, and run foul of a good many mysteries, I'll admit. But did you ever, in this twentieth century, when witchcraft and black magic are supposed to be as dead as Queen Anne? Did you ever, my dear fellow, hear of such a marvel as a man putting on a blue leather belt that was said to have the power of rendering the wearer invisible, and then forthwith, melting into thin air and floating off, like a cloud of pipe smoke? Gammon. Gammon, nothing. Facts. You're off your head, man. The thing couldn't possibly happen. Somebody's having you. Well, somebody had him at all events. Young car boys, I mean, the chap that's engaged, or rather was engaged, to Captain Morrison's daughter, and the poor girl's half out of her mind over it. He put the belt on in the presence of her and her father in their own house, mind you, walked into her bedroom and vanished like smoke. Doors locked, windows closed, room empty, belt on the floor, and man gone. Not a trace of him from that moment to this. And yesterday was to have been his wedding day. There's a mystery, if you like. What do you make of that? Cleek looked at him for an instant. Then, my dear Mr. Narcum, for the moment I thought you were fooling, he said, in a tone of deep interest. But I see now that you are quite in earnest, although the thing sounds so preposterous, a child might be expected to scoff at it. A man to get a magic belt, to put it on and then to melt away. Either seven league boots couldn't be a great attack on one's credulity. Sit down and tell me all about it. The dickens of it is, there doesn't seem to be much to tell, said Narcum, accepting the invitation. Young car boys, who appears to have been a decent sort of chap, had neither money, position, nor enemies. So that's an end to any idea of somebody having a reason for wishing to get rid of him. And as he was devotedly attached to Miss Morrison, and was counting the very hours to the time of their wedding, and in addition had no debts, no entanglements of any sort, and no possible reason for wishing to disappear, there isn't the slightest ground for suspecting that he did so voluntarily. Suppose you'd tell me the story from the beginning, and leave me to draw my own conclusions regarding that, said Clicke. Who and what was the man? Was he living in the same house with his fiance then? You say the disappearance occurred there at night, and that he went into a bedroom. Was the place his home as well as Captain Morrison's then? On the contrary, his home was a matter of three or four miles distant. He was merely stopping at the Morrison's on that particular night. I'll tell you presently why and how he came to do that. For the present, let's take things in their proper order. Once upon a time this George Carboys occupied a fair position in the world, and his parents, long since dead, were well to do. The son, being an only child, was well looked after, sent to Eaton and then to Brazeners, and all that sort of thing. And the future looked very bright for him. Before he was twenty-one, however, his father lost everything through unlucky speculations, and that forced the son to make his own living. At the far city he had fallen in with a rich young Belgian fellow named Maurice Van Nant, who had a taste for sculpture and the fine arts generally, and they had become the warmest and closest of friends. Maurice Van Nant, that's the sculptor fellow you said in the beginning had gone through his money, isn't it? Yes, well, when young Carboys was thrown on the world, so to speak, this Van Nant came to the rescue, made a place for him as private secretary and companion, and for three or four years they knocked round the world together, going to Egypt, Persia, India, etc., as Van Nant was mad on the subject of Oriental art and wished to study it at the fountainhead. In the meantime, both Carboys' parents went over to the silent majority and left him without a relative in the world, barring Captain Morrison, who is an uncle about seven times removed, and would, of course, naturally be heir at law to anything he left if he had anything to leave for beggar which he hadn't. But that's getting ahead of the story. Well, at the end of four years or so Van Nant came to the bottom of his purse, hadn't a stiver left, and from dabbling in art for pleasure, had to come down to it as a means of earning a livelihood. And he and Carboys returned to England, and for purposes of the economy, pooled their interests, took a small box of a house over Putneyway, set up a regular bachelor establishment, and started in the business of bread-winning together. Carboys succeeded in getting a Clark's position in town. Van Nant set about modelling clay figures and painting mediocre pictures, and selling both whenever he could find purchases. Naturally, these were slow in coming, few and far between. But with Carboys steady two pounds a week coming in, they managed to scrape along, and to keep themselves going. They were very happy, too, despite the fact that Carboys had got himself engaged to Miss Morrison, and was hoarding every penny he could possibly save in order to get enough to marry on. And this did not tend to make Van Nant overjoyed, as such a marriage would, of course, mean the end of their long association, and the giving up of their bachelor quarters. To say nothing of leaving Van Nant to rub along as best he could, without any assistance from Carboys, commented Clicke. I think I can guess a portion of what resulted, Mr. Narcombe. Van Nant did not, of course, in these circumstances, have any tender regard for Miss Morrison. No, he did not. In point of fact, he disliked her very much indeed, and viewed the approaching wedding with extreme disfavour. And yet you say that nobody has an interest in doing Carboys some sort of mischief, in order to prevent that wedding from being consummated, Mr. Narcombe, said Clicke, with a shrug of the shoulders. Certainly Van Nant would have been glad to see a spoke put in that particular wheel. Though I freely confess I do not see what good could come of preventing it by doing away with Carboys, as he would then be in as bad a position as if the marriage had been allowed to proceed as planned. Either way, he loses Carboys' companionship and assistance, and his one wish would be to preserve both. Well, go on. What next? I'm anxious to hear about the belt. Where and how does that come in? Well, it appears that Miss Morrison got hold of a humorous book called The Brass Bottle, a fantastic farcical thing about a genie who had been sealed up in a bottle for a thousand years, getting out and causing the poor devil of a hero no end of worry, by heaping riches and honours upon him in the most embarrassing manner. It happened that on the night Miss Morrison got this book, and read it aloud for the amusement of her father and lover, Carboys had persuaded Van Nant to spend the evening with them. Apparently he enjoyed himself too, for he laughed as boisterously as any of them over the farcical tale, and would not go home until he had heard the end of it. When it was finished, Miss Morrison tells me, Carboys, after laughing fit to split his sides over the predicament of the hero of the book, cried out, By George, I wish some old genie would take it into his head to hunt me up, and try the same sort of a dodge with me. He wouldn't find this chicken shying his gold and his gems back at his head, I can tell you. I'd accept all the Arab slaves and all the palaces he wanted to thrust on me. And then I'd make him all over to you, Mary dear, so you'd never have to do another day's worrying or pinching in all your life. But never you nor anybody else depend upon an Arab's gratitude or an Arab's generosity. He'll promise you the moon, and then wriggle out of giving you so much as a star, just as Abdul Ben Mirza did with me. And upon Miss Morrison asking what he meant by that, he replied, laughingly, Ask Van, he knew the old Codger better than I, knew his whole blessed family blow him, and was able to talk to the old skin-flint in his own outlandish tongue. Upon Miss Morrison's acting on this suggestion, Van Nant told of an adventure car boys had had in Persia some years previously. It appears that he saved the life of a miserly old Arab, called Abdul Ben Mirza, at the risk of his own. That the old man was profuse in his expressions of gratitude, and on their parting had said, By the Prophet thou shalt yet find the tree of this day's planting bare rich fruit for thee, and thy feet walk upon golden stones. But in spite of this promise he had walked away, and car boys had never heard another word from nor of him from that hour until three nights ago. Uh-huh, said Clicke, with a strong rising inflection, and he did hear of him then. Yes, replied Nacum, quite unexpectedly, while he was preparing to spend a dull evening at home with Van Nant, for the night was, as you must recollect, my dear fellow, a horribly wet and stormy one. A message came to him from Miss Morrison, asking him to come over to Wandsworth without delay, as a most amazing thing had happened. A box marked, from Abdul Ben Mirza, had been delivered there of all astonishing places. The message concluded by saying that as it was such a horrible night, the captain, her father, would not hear of his returning, so begged him to bring his effects, and come prepared to remain until morning. He went, of course, carrying with him a small bag, containing his pajamas, his shaving tackle, and such few accessories as would be necessary, since, if he stopped, he must start from that a business in the morning. And on his rifle was handed a small leather case, addressed as he had been told. Imagining all sorts of wonders, from jewels of fabulous value, to documents entitling him to endless wealth, he unfastened the case, and found within it a broad belt of blue enameled leather, secured with a circular brass clasp, on which was rudely scratched in English the words, the wizards of the east grew rich by being unseen. Whoso clasps this belt about his waist may become invisible for the wishing. But so does Ben Mirza remember. Of course, car boys treated it as the various rubbish, who wouldn't. Indeed, suspected Van Nant of having played a joke upon him, and laughingly threw it aside, and finding that he had taken an uncomfortable journey for nothing, got some good out of it by spending a pleasant evening with the captain and his daughter. A room had been made ready for him, in fact, although he did not know it, Miss Morrison had given him hers, and had herself gone to a less attractive one, and in due time he prepared to turn in for the night. As they parted, Miss Morrison, in a bantering spirit, picked up the belt and handed it to him, remarking that he had better keep it, as after marriage he might some time be glad to creep into the house unseen. And in the same bantering spirit he had replied that he had better begin learning how the thing worked in case of necessity, and taking the belt, clasped it round his waist, said good night, and stepped into the room prepared for him. Miss Morrison and her father heard him close the door and pull down the blind, and that was the last that was seen or heard of him. In the morning the bed was found undisturbed, his knocked bag on a chair, and in the middle of the floor the blue leather belt, but of the man himself there was not one trace to be found. There, that's the story, Cleek. Now, what do you make of it? I shall be able to tell you better after I have seen the party's concerned, said Cleek after a moment's pause. You have brought your motor, of course. Let us step into it, then, and with run to Captain Morrison's house. What's that? Oh, undoubtedly a case of foul play, Mr. Narcombe. But as to the motive and the matter of who is guilty, it is impossible to decide until I have looked further into the evidence. Do me a favour, will you? After you have left me at the Captain's house, phone up the yard, and let me have the secret cable code with the east. Also, if you can, the name of the chief of the Persian police. My dear chap, you can't really place any credence in that absurd assertion regarding the blue belt. You can't possibly think that Abdul Ben Mirza really sent the thing? No, I can't, said Cleek in reply, because to the best of my belief, it is impossible for a dead man to send anything. And if my memory doesn't betray me, I fancy I read in the newspaper accounts of that big Tajik rising at Kottur a couple of months ago, that the leader, one Abdul Ben Mirza, a rich but exceedingly miserly merchant of the province of Elborz, was, by the Shah's command, bastinado'd within an inch of his life and then publicly beheaded. By Jove, I believe you're right, my dear fellow, asserted Nakhim. I thought the name had a familiar sound, as if I had somewhere heard it before. I suppose there is no likelihood by any chance that the old skin-flint could have lived up to his promise and left poor carboys something after all, Cleek? Because, you know, if he did. Captain Morrison Wood does ere at law inherit it, supplemented Cleek dryly. Get out the motor, Mr. Nakhim, and let's spin round and see him. I fancy I should like a few minutes' conversation with the captain. And Mr. Nakhim? Yes. We'll stick to the name George Headland, if you please. When you're out for birds, it doesn't do to frighten them off beforehand. Thomas W. Hanshu Chapter 25 It did not take more than five minutes to cover the distance between Sunnington Crescent and the modest little house where Captain Morrison and his daughter lived. So, in a very brief time, Cleek had the satisfaction of interviewing both. Nakhim's assertion that Miss Morrison was half out of her mind over the distressing affair had prepared him to encounter a weeping, red-eyed, heartbroken creature of the most excitable type. He found instead a pale, serious-faced, undemonstrative girl of somewhat uncertain age, sweet of voice, soft of step, quiet of demeanour, who was either one of those persons who repress all external evidence of internal fires and bear their crosses in silence, or was as cold-blooded as a fish and as heartless as a statue. He found the father the exact antithesis of the daughter, a nervous, fretful, irritable individual, gout had him by the heels at the time, who was as full of yaps and snarls as any Irish terrier, and as peevish and fussy as a fault-finding old woman. Added to this, he had a way of glancing all round the room and avoiding the eye of the person to whom he was talking. And if Cleek had been like the generality of people, and hadn't known that some of the best and straightest men in the world have been afflicted in this manner, and some of the worst and crookedest could look you straight in the eyes without turning a hair, he might have taken this for a bad sign. Then, too, he seemed to have a great many more wrappings and swaddlings about his gouty foot than appeared to be necessary, unless it was done to make his helpless state very apparent, and to carry out his assertion that he hadn't been able to walk a foot unassisted for the past week, and could not therefore be in any way connected with young car-boy's mysterious vanishment. Still, even that had its contra aspect. He might be one of those individuals who make a mountain out of a molehill of pain, and insist upon a dozen poltersies where one would do. But Cleek could not forget that, as Narcombe had said, there was not the shadow of doubt that in the event of car-boys having died possessed of means, the captain would be the heir at law by virtue of his kinship, and it is a great deal more satisfactory to be rich oneself than to be dependent upon the generosity of a rich son-in-law. So, after adroitly exercising the pump upon other matters, I suppose, Miss Morrison, said Cleek in a casual offhand sort of way, You don't happen to know if Mr. Car-boy's ever made a will, do you? I am aware from what Mr. Narcombe has told me of his circumstances that he really possessed nothing that would call for the execution of such a document. But young men have odd fancies sometimes, particularly when they become engaged, so it is just possible that he might have done such a thing, that there was a ring or something of that sort he wanted to make sure of your getting should anything happen to him. Of course it is an absurd suggestion, but It is not so absurd as you think, Mr. Headland, she interrupted. As it happens, Mr. Car-boy's did make a will, but that was a very long time ago. In fact, before he knew me, so my name did not figure in it at all. He once told me of the circumstances connected with it. It was executed when he was about three and twenty. It appears that there were some personal trinkets, relics of his more prosperous days, a set of jeweled waistcoat buttons, a scarf pin, a few choice books and things like that, which he desired Mr. Van Nant to have in the event of his death. They were then going to the Orient, and to times there were troublers. So he drew up a will, leaving everything that he might die possessed of to Mr. Van Nant, and left the paper with the latter's solicitor when they bowed goodbye to England. So far as I know that will still exists, Mr. Headland, so here the faintest suggestion of a quiver got into her voice. If anything of a tragical nature had happened to him, and and that trinkets hadn't disappeared with him, Mr. Van Nant could claim them all, and I should have not even one poor little token to cherish in memory of him. And I'm sure, I'm very sure, that if he had known, if he had thought, Mary, for goodness sake, don't begin to snivel, chimed in her father quarrelously. It gets on my nerves, and you know very well how I am suffering. Of course it was most inconsiderate of the car boys, not to destroy that will as soon as you and he were engaged, but he knew that marriage invalidates any will a man may have made previously. And well, you can't suppose that he ever expected things to turn out as they have done. Besides, Van Nant would have seen that you got something to treasure as a remembrance. He's a very decent chap, is Van Nant, Mr. Headland. Although my daughter has never appeared to think so, but there's no arguing with a woman anyway. Cleek glanced at Narcombe. It was a significant glance, and said, as plainly as so many words, What do you think of it? You said there was no motive, and provided car boys fell heir to something of which we know nothing as yet, here are two. If that will was destroyed, one man would, as heir at law, inherit. Ditto the other man if it was not destroyed, and not invalidated by marriage. And here's the one man singing the praises of the other one. Collusion! queried Narcombe's answering look. Perhaps, said Cleek's in response, one of these two men has made away with him. The question is which, and also why, when, where. Then he turned to the captain's daughter, and asked quietly, Would you mind letting me see the room from which the young man disappeared? I confess I haven't the ghost of an idea regarding the case, Captain. But if you don't mind letting your daughter show me the room? Mine? Good Lord, no! responded the captain. All I want to know is what became of the poor boy, and if there's any likelihood of his ever coming back alive. I'd go up with you myself, only you see how helpless I am. Mary, take Mr. Headland to the room, and please don't stop any longer than is necessary. I'm suffering agonies, and not fit to be left alone. Miss Morrison promised to return as expeditiously as possible, and then forthwith led the way to the room in question. This is it, Mr. Headland, she said, as she opened the door and ushered Cleek in. Everything is just exactly as it was when George left it. I couldn't bring myself to touch a thing until after a detective had seen it. Father said it was silly and sentimental of me, to go on sleeping in a little box of a hall-bedroom, when I could be so much more comfortable if I returned to my own. But I couldn't. I felt that I might possibly be unconsciously destroying something in the shape of a clue if I moved a solitary object, and so—look, there is the drawn blind just as he left it. There is Portmanteau on that chair by the bedside, and there—her voice sank to a sort of awed whisper, her shaking finger extended in the direction of a blue semi-circle in the middle of the floor. There is the belt. He had it round his waist when he crossed this threshold that night. It was lying there just as you see it, when the servant brought up his tea and his shaving-water the next morning, and found the room empty, and the bed undisturbed. Cleek walked forward and picked up the belt. Hmm! Unfastened, he said, as he took it up. And Miss Morrison, closing the door, went below and left them. Ah! Wonderful wizard does not seem to have mastered the simple matter of making a man vanish out of the thing without first unfastening the buckle it appears. I should have thought he could have managed that, shouldn't you, Mr. Narcombe? If he could have managed the business of making him melt into thin air. Ah! Reflectively, as he turned the belt over and examined it. Not seen much use, apparently. The leather's quite new, and the inside quite unsoiled. British manufactured brass, too, in the buckle. Shouldn't have expected that in a Persian-made article. Inscription scratched on with the point of a knife, or some other implement not employed in metal engraving. May I trouble you for a pin? Thank you. Hmm! Thought so. Some dirty clayy stuff rubbed in to make the letters appear old and of long standing. Look here, Mr. Narcombe. Metal quite bright underneath when you pick the stuff out. Inscription very recently added. Leather American tanned. Brass Birmingham. Stitching by the Blake shoe and harness machine. Wizard, probably born in Tottenham Court Road, and his knowledge of Persia confined to Persian powder in fourpony tins. He laid the belt aside, and walked slowly round the room, inspecting its contents, before turning his attention to the portmanteau. Evidently the vanishing qualities of the belt did not assert themselves very rapidly, Mr. Narcombe. He said. For Mr. Carboys not only prepared to go to bed, but had time to get himself ready to hurry off to business in the morning with as little delay as possible. Look here. Here are his pyjamas on the top of this chest of drawers neatly folded, just as he lifted them out of his portmanteau. And as a razor has been wiped on this towel—see this slim line of dust-like particles of hair—he shaved before going to bed, in order to save himself the trouble of doing so in the morning. But as there is no shaving mug visible—and he couldn't get hot water at that hour of the night—we shall probably discover a spirit lamp and its equipment when we look into the portmanteau. Now, as he had time to put these shaving articles away after using—and as no man shaves with his collar and neck-tie on—if we do not find those, too, in the portmanteau, we may conclude that he put them on again. And as he wouldn't put them on again if he were going to bed, the inference is obvious. Something caused him to dress and prepare to leave the house voluntarily. That something must have manifested itself very abruptly and demanded great haste. Either that or he expected to return, for you will observe that, although he replaced his shaving tackle in the portmanteau, he did not put his sleeping suit back with it. While I am poking about, do me the favour of looking in the bag, Mr. Narkham, and tell me if you'll find the collar and neck-tie there. Not a trace of them! announced the superintendent a moment or two later. Here are the shaving mug, the brush, and the spirit lamp, however, just as you suggested. And—hello, what have you stumbled upon now? For Cleek, who had been poking about as he termed it, had suddenly stooped, picked up something, and was regarding it fixedly as it lay in the palm of his hand. A somewhat remarkable thing to discover in a lady's bed-chamber, Mr. Narkham, unless—just step downstairs and ask Miss Morrison to come up again for a moment, will you? And then held out his hand, so that Narkham could see in passing that a hemp seed, two grains of barley, and an oat lay upon his palm. Miss Morrison, he inquired, as Mary returned in company with the superintendent. Miss Morrison, do you keep pigeons? She gave a little cry, and clasped her hands together as if reproaching herself for some heartless act. Oh! she said, moving hastily forward toward the window. Poor dears! how good of you to remind me to think that I should forget to feed them for three whole days. They may be dead by now. But at such a time I could think of nothing but this hideous mystery. My pigeons! my poor pretty pigeons! Oh! then you do keep them. Yes, oh yes! in a wire-enclosed coat attached to the house, just outside this window. Homing pigeons, Mr. Headland. George bought them for me. We had an even half dozen each. We used to send messages to each other that way. He would bring his over to me, and take mine away with him at night, when he went home, so he could correspond at any moment without waiting for the post. That's how I sent him the message about the arrival of the belt. Oh! do unlock the window, and let me see if the pretty dears are still alive. It doesn't need to be unlocked, Miss Morrison. He replied as he pulled up the blind. See, it can be opened easily. The catch is not secured. Not secured? Why, how strange! I myself fastened it after I dispatched the bird with the message about the belt. And nobody came into the room after that, until George did so that night. Oh! do look and see if the pretty creatures are dead. They generally coo so persistently, and now I don't hear a sound from them. Creeke threw up the sash and looked out. A huge wisteria with tendrils as thick as a man's wrist covered the side of the house, and made a veritable ladder down to the little garden. And firmly secured to this, on a level with the window-sill, and within easy reach therefrom was the dove-cot in question. He put in his hand, and slowly drew out four stiff, cold-feathered little bodies, and laid them on the dressing-table before her. Then, while she was grieving over them, he groped round in all corners of the coat, and drew forth still another. Five! she exclaimed in surprise. Five? Oh! but there should only be four, Mr. Headland. It is true that George brought over all six the day before, but I flew one to him in the early morning, and I flew a second at night, with the message about the belt, so there should be but four. Oh! well, possibly one was flown by him to you, and it home'd without your knowledge. Yes, but it couldn't get inside the wired enclosure unassisted, Mr. Headland. See, that spring-door has to be opened when it is returned to the coat after it has carried its message home. You see, I trained them, by feeding them in here, to come into this room when they were flown back to me. They always flew directly in if the window was opened, or gave warning of their presence, by fluttering about and beating against the panes if the sash was closed. And for a fifth pigeon to be inside the enclosure, I can't understand the thing at all. Oh! Mr. Headland, do you think it is anything in the nature of a clue? It may be, he replied evasively. Clues are funny things, Miss Morrison. You never know when you may pick one up, nor how. I shouldn't say anything to anybody about this fifth pigeon, if I were you. Let that be our secret for a while. And if your father wants to know why I sent you to come up here again, why, just say I have discovered that your pigeons are dead for want of food. And for a moment or two, after she had closed the door and gone below again, he stood, looking at Mr. Narcombe, and slowly rubbing his thumb and forefinger up and down his chin. Then, of a sudden, I think, Mr. Narcombe, we can fairly decide on the evidence of that fifth pigeon, that George Carboys left this room voluntarily, returned Creeke, that the bird brought him a message of such importance, it was necessary to leave this house at once, and that not wishing to leave it unlocked while he was absent, and not, because of the captain's inability to get back upstairs afterward, having anybody to whom he could appeal to get up and block it after him, he chose to get out of this window, and to go down by means of that wisteria. I think, too, we may decide that as he left no note to explain his absence, he expected to return before morning, and that, as he never did return, he has met with foul play. Of course it is no use looking for footprints in the garden in support of this hypothesis, for the storm that night was a very severe one, and quite sufficient to blot out all trace of them. But look here, Mr. Narcombe, put two and two together. If a message was sent him by a carrier pigeon, where must that pigeon have come from, since it was one of Miss Morrison's? Why, from Van Nant's place, of course. It couldn't possibly come from any other place. Exactly. And as Van Nant and car boys lived together, kept to Bachelor Hall, and there was never anybody but their two selves in the house at any time, why nobody but Van Nant himself could have dispatched the bird. Look at that fragment of burnt paper lying in the basin of that candlestick on the wash stand. If that isn't all that's left of the paper that was tied under the pigeon's wing, and if car boys didn't use it for the purpose of lighting the spirit lamp by which he heated his shaving-water, depend upon it that in his haste and excitement he tucked it into his pocket. And if ever we find his body, we shall find that paper on it. His body? My dear Creek, you don't believe that the man has been murdered? I don't know yet. I shall, however, if this Van Nant puts anything in the way of my searching that house thoroughly, or makes any pretence to follow me whilst I am doing so. I want to meet this Morris Van Nant just as soon as I can, Mr. Narcombe, just as soon as I can. And it was barely two minutes after he had expressed this wish that Miss Morrison reappeared upon the scene, accompanied by a pale, nervous, bovine-eyed man of about thirty-five years of age, and said in a tone of agitation, Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Hedlund, but this is Mr. Morris Van Nant. He is most anxious to meet you, and father would have me bring him up at once. Narcombe screwed round on his heel, looked at the Belgian, and lost faith in Miss Morrison's powers of discrimination instantly. On the dressing-table stood Car Boy's picture, heavy, gild, sleepy-eyed, dull-looking. And on the threshold stood a man with the kindest eyes, the sweetest smile, and the handsomest and most sympathetic countenance he had seen in many a day. If the eyes are the mirror of the soul, if the face is the index of the character, then here was a man weak as water, as easily led as any lamb, and as gullless. You are just the man I want to see, Mr. Van Nant, said Cleak, after the first formalities were over, and assuming, as he always did at such times, the heavy, befolked expression of incompetence. I confess this bewildering affair altogether perplexes me. But you, I understand, were Mr. Car Boy's close friend and associate, and as I can find nothing in the nature of a clue here, I should like, with your permission, to look over his home quarters, and see if I can find anything there. If he had looked for any sign of reluctance, or of embarrassment upon Van Nant's part, when such a request should be made, he was wholly disappointed, for the man, almost on the point of tears, seized his hand, pressed it warmly, and said in a voice of eager entreaty, Oh, do, Mr. Headland, do, search anywhere, do anything that will serve to find my friend, and to clear up this dreadful affair. I can't sleep for thinking of it, I can't get a moment's peace night or day. You didn't know him, or you would understand how I am tortured, how I miss him. The best friend, the dearest, and the light-artist fellow, that ever lived. If I had anything left in this world, I'd give it all, all, Mr. Headland, to clear up the mystery of this thing, and to get him back. One man could do that, I believe, could and would if I had the money to offer him. Indeed, and who may he be, Mr. Van Nant? The great, the amazing, the undeceivable man clique. He'd get at the truth of it, nothing could baffle and bewilder him. But, oh, well, it's the old, old tale of the power of money. He wouldn't take the case, a high and mighty top notcher like that, unless the reward was attempting one, I'm sure. No, I'm afraid he wouldn't, agreed clique with the utmost composure. So you must leave him out of your calculations altogether, Mr. Van Nant. And now, if you don't mind accompanying us, and showing the show further away, perhaps Mr. Narcombe will take us over to your house in his motor. Mind? No, certainly I don't mind. Anything in the world to get at a clue to this thing, Mr. Headland, anything. Do let us go at once. Clique led the way from the room. Halfway down the stairs, however, he excused himself on the plea of having forgotten his magnifying glass, and ran back to get it. Two minutes later he rejoined them in the little drawing-room, where the growling captain was still demanding the whole time and attention of his daughter. And, the motor being ready, the three men walked out, got into it, and were whisked away to the house which once had been the home of the vanished George Carboys. It proved to be a small, isolated brick house in very bad condition, standing in an out-of-the-way road somewhere between Putney and Wimbledon. It stood somewhat back from the road, in the midst of a little patch of ground, abounding in privet and laurel bushes. And it was evident that its cheapness had been its chief attraction to the two men who had rented it, although, on entering, it was found to possess at the back a sort of extension, with top and side-lights, which must have appealed to Van Lant's need of something in the nature of a studio. At all events he had converted it into a very respectable apology for one, and clique was not a little surprised by what it contained. Rich stuff's bits of tapestry, Persian draperies, Arabian prayer-mats, relics of his other and better days and of his oriental wanderings, hung on the walls and ornamented the floor. His rejected pictures and his unsold statues, many of them life-sized and all of clay, coated with a lustreless paint to make them look like marble, were disposed about the place with an eye to artistic effect. And near to an angle, where stood, on a pedestal, half concealed, half revealed by artistically arranged draperies, the life-size figure of a Roman senator in toga and sandals, there was the one untidy spot, the one utterly inartistic thing the room contained. It was the crude, half-finished shape of a recumbent female figure, of large proportions and abominable modelling, stretched out at full length upon a long, low, trestle-supported sculptor's staging, on which also lay Van Nant's modelling tools and his clay-stained working-glows. Cleek looked at the huge, unnatural thing, out of drawing, anatomically wrong in many particulars, and felt like quoting Angelo's famous remark, and then his master Lorenzo's thorn, water-pity to have spoilt so much expensive material. And Van Nant, observing, waved his hand toward it. A slumbering nymph, he explained, only their head and shoulders finished as yet, you see. I began it the day before yesterday, but my hand seems somehow to have lost its cunning. Here are the keys of all the rooms, Mr. Headland. Carboys was the one directly at the head of the stairs in the front. Won't you and Mr. Narcom go up and search without me? I couldn't bear to look into the place and see the things that belong to him, and he not there. It would cut me to the heart if I did. Or maybe you would sooner go alone, and leave Mr. Narcom to search round this room. We used to make a general sitting-room of it at nights, when we were alone together, and some clue may have been dropped. A good suggestion, Mr. Narcom commented, Cleek, as he took the keys. Look round and see what you can find whilst I poke about upstairs. Then he walked out of the studio, and searching every nook and corner, whilst Van Nant, for the want of something to occupy his mind and his hands, worked on the nymph, and could hear him moving about overhead in quest of possible clues. For perhaps twenty minutes, Cleek was away. Then he came down, and walked into the room looking the very picture of hopeless bewilderment. Mr. Narcom, he said, this case stumps me. I believe there's magic in it, if you ask me. And as the only way to find magic is with magic, I am going to consult a clairvoyant, and if one of those parties can't give me a clue, I don't believe the mystery will ever be solved. I know of a ripping one, but she is over in Ireland, and as it's a dickens of a way to go, I shan't be able to get back before the day after tomorrow at the earliest. But look here, sir, I'll tell you what. This is Tuesday evening, isn't it? Now, if you and Mr. Van Nant will be at Captain Morrison's house on Thursday evening at seven o'clock, and will wait there until I come, I'll tell you what that clairvoyant says, and whether there's any chance of this thing being solved or not. Is that agreeable, Mr. Van Nant? Quite, Mr. Edland, I'll be there promptly. And stop until you hear from me. And stop until I hear from you, yes. Right, you are, sir. Now then, Mr. Narcom, if you'll let the chauffeur whisk me over to the station, I'll get back to London and onto the earliest possible train for Hollyhead so as to be on hand for the first Irish packet tomorrow. And while you're looking for your hat, sir, good evening, Mr. Van Nant, I'll step outside and tell Leonard to start up. With that, he passed out of the studio, walked down the hall, and went out of the house. And half a minute later, when the superintendent joined him, he found him sitting in the limousine and staring at his toes. My dear Cleeke, did you find anything? He queried as he took a seat beside him, and the motor swung out into the road and whizzed away. Of course I know you've no more idea of going to Ireland than you have of taking a pot shot at the moon. But there's something on your mind. I know the signs, Cleeke. What is it? The response to this was rather startling. Mr. Narcombe said, Cleeke, answering one question with another. What's the best thing to make powdered bismuth stick? Lard, cold cream, or cocoa butter? End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Of Cleeke, The Man of the Forty Faces This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. Cleeke, The Man of the Forty Faces Chapter 26 If punctuality is a virtue, then Mr. Morris Van Nant deserved to go on record as one of the most virtuous men in existence. For the little ducked clock in Captain Morrison's drawing-room had barely begun to strike seven on the following Thursday evening when he put in an appearance there, and found the captain and his daughter anxiously awaiting him. But as virtue is, on most excellent authority, its own reward, he had to be satisfied with the possession of it, since neither Narcombe nor Cleeke was there to meet him. But the reason for this defection was made manifest when Miss Morrison placed before him a telegram which had arrived some ten minutes earlier and read as follows. Unavoidably delayed, stop. Be with you at 9.30 stop. Ask Mr. Van Nant to wait, stop. Great and welcome piece of news for him, stop. Narcombe Van Nant smiled. Great and welcome news, he repeated. Then Mr. Adland must have found something in the nature of a clue in Ireland, Captain, so what he could find there I can't imagine. Frankly, I thought he may be a stupid sort of fellow, but if he has managed to find a clue to poor George's whereabouts over in Ireland, he must be sharper than I believed. Well, we shall know about that at half past nine when Mr. Narcombe comes. I hope nothing will happen to make him disappoint us again. Nothing did. Promptly at the hour appointed the red limousine word up to the door, and Mr. Narcombe made his appearance. But contrary to the expectations of the three occupants of the little drawing-room, he was quite alone. So sorry I couldn't come earlier, he said, as he came in, looking and acting like the bearer of great good news. But you will appreciate the delay when I tell you what caused it. What's that, Mr. Van Nant? Hedlund, no, he's not with me. As a matter of fact, I've dispensed with his services in this particular case. Fancy, Miss Morrison, the muff came back from Ireland this evening, said the clairvoyant he consulted went into a trance, and told him that the key to the mystery could only be discovered in Germany, and he wanted me to sanction his going over there on no better evidence than that. Of course I wouldn't, so I took him off the case forthwith, and set out to get another and a better man to handle it. That's what delayed me. And now, Mr. Van Nant, fairly beaming and rubbing his palms together delightedly. Here's where the great and welcome news I spoke of comes in. I remembered what you said the other day. I remembered how your heart is wrapped up in the solving of this great puzzle, what you said about it being a question of money alone, and so what do you think I did? I went to that great man, Kleeck. I laid the matter before him, told him there was no reward, that it was just a matter of sheer humanity, the consciousness of doing his duty and helping another fellow in distress, and throw up your hat and cheer, my dear fellow, for you've got your heart's desire. Kleeck's consented to take the case. A little flurry of excitement greeted this announcement. Miss Morrison grabbed his hand and burst into tears of gratitude. The captain, forgetting in his delight the state of his injured foot, rose from his chair, only to remember suddenly and sit down again, his half-uttered cheer dying on his lips. And Van Nant, as if overcome by this unexpected boon, this granting of a wish he had never dared to hope would be fulfilled, could only clap both hands over his face and sob hysterically. Kleeck, he said, in a voice that shook with nervous catches and the emotion of a soul deeply stirred. Kleeck to take the case, the great, the amazing, the undeceivable Kleeck, Oh, Mr. Narcov, can this be told? As true as that you are standing here this minute, my dear sir. Not so much of a money-grabber as that Muff Headland wanted you to believe, is he? Waved every hope of a reward and took the case on the spot. He'll get at the root of it, Lord, yes, lay you a sovereign to a sixpence, Mr. Van Nant. He gets to the bottom of it and finds out what became of George Carboys in forty-eight hours after he begins on the case. And when will he begin, Mr. Narcov? Tomorrow, the next day? Oh, not this week at all. When, sir, when? When? Why, bless your heart, man, he's begun already, or at least will do so in another hour and a half. He's promised to meet us at your house at eleven o'clock tonight. Choose that place because he lives at Putney and it's nearer. Eleven was the hour he set, though, of course, he may arrive sooner. There's no counting on an erratic fellow like that chap, so we'll make it eleven and possess our souls in patience until it's time to start. But, my dear Mr. Narcov, wouldn't it be better or at least more hospitable if I went over to meet him in case he does come earlier? There's no one in the house, remember, and it's locked up. Lord bless you, that won't bother him. Never travels without his tools, you know, skeleton keys and all that, and he'll be in the house before you can wink an eye. Still, of course, if you'd rather be there to admit him in the regulation way. It would at least be more courteous, Mr. Narcov. Miss Morrison, interposed. So great a man, doing so great a favour. Oh, yes, I really think that Mr. Van Nant should. Oh, well, let him in by all means, said Narcov, and go, if you'd choose, Mr. Van Nant. I'd let you have my motor, only I must get over to the station, and phone up headquarters on another affair in five minutes. He doesn't matter, thank you, Orzissime, I can get a taxi at the top of the road, said Van Nant, and then, making his excuses to Miss Morrison and her father, he took up his hat and left the house. As a matter of fact, it was only courtesy that made him say that about the taxi, for there is rarely one to be found waiting about in the neighbourhood of Wandsworth Common after half-past nine o'clock at night, and nobody could have been more surprised than he when he actually did come across one, loitering about aimlessly and quite empty, before he had gone two dozen yards. He engaged it on the spot, jumped into it, gave the chauffeur his directions, and a minute later was whizzing away to the isolated house. It was eight minutes past ten when he reached it, standing as black and light-less as when he left it four hours ago, and after paying off the chauffeur and dismissing the vehicle, he fumbled nervously for his latch-key, found it, unlocked the door, and went hurriedly in. Have you come yet, Mr. Kleeke? he called out as he shut the door and stood in the pitch-black hall. Mr. Kleeke! Mr. Kleeke, are you here? It is I, Maurice Van Nant. Mr. Nacom has sent me on ahead. Not a sound answered him, not even an echo. He sucked in his breath with a sort of wheezing sound, then groped round the hall-table till he found his bedroom candle, and, striking a match, lit it. The staircase leading to the upper floors gaped at him out of the partial gloom, and he fairly sprang at it. Indeed, was halfway up it when some other idea possessed him, brought him to a sudden standstill, and, facing round abruptly, he went back to the lower hall again, glimmering along it like a shadow, with the inadequate light held above him, and moving fleetly to the studio in the rear. The door stood partly open just as he had left it. He pushed it inward, and stepped over the threshold. Mr. Kleeke! he called again. Mr. Kleeke, are you here? And again the silence alone answered him. The studio was, as he had seen it last, save for those fantastic shadows which the candle's wavering flame wreathed in the dim corners and along the pictured walls. There, on its half-draped pedestal, the Roman senator stood, dared twight against the purple background, and there, close to the foot of it, the great bulk of the disproportionate nymph still sprawled, finished and whitewashed now, and looking even more of a monstrosity than ever in that waving light. He gave one deep, gulping sigh of relief, flashed across the room on tiptoe, and went down on his knees beside the monstrous thing, moving the candle this way and that along the length of it, as if searching for something, and laughing in little jerky gasps of relief, when he found nothing that was not as it had been, as it should be, as he wanted it to be. And then, as he rose and patted the clay, and laughed aloud as he realised how hard it had set, then, at that instant, a white shape lurched forward and swooped downward, carrying him down with it. The candle slipped from his fingers and clattered on the floor, a pair of steel handcuffs clicked as they closed round his wrists. A voice above him said, A voice above him said sharply, You wanted Cleek, I believe? Well, Cleek's got you, you sneaking murderer. Gentlemen, come in. Allow me to turn over to you the murderer of George Carboys. You'll find the body inside that slumbering nymph. And the last thing that Mr. Morris Van Nant saw as he shrieked and fainted, the last thing he realised was that lights were flashing up and men tumbling in through the opening windows, that the Roman senator's pedestal was empty, and the figure which once had stood upon it was bending over him alive. And just at that moment the red limousine flashed up out of the darkness. The outer door whirled open and Narcum came pelting up. He took the bait, then, Cleek. He cried as he saw the manacled figure on the floor, with the Roman senator bending over, and the policeman crowding in about it. I guessed it when I saw the lights flash up. I've been on his heels ever since he snapped at that conveniently placed taxi after he left Miss Morrison and her father. You haven't brought them with you, I hope, Mr. Narcum. I wouldn't have that poor girl face the ordeal of what's to be revealed here tonight for worlds. No, I've not. I made a pretext of having to phone through to headquarters and slipped out a moment after him. But I say, my dear chap! As Cleek's hands made a rapid search of the pockets of the unconscious man, and finally brought to light a folded paper. What's that thing? What are you doing? Compounding a felony in the interest of humanity, he made reply, as he put the end of the paper into the flame of the candle, and held it there until it was consumed. We all do foolish things sometimes when we are young, Mr. Narcum. And, well, George Carboys was no exception when he wrote the little thing I have just burned. Let us forget all about it. Captain Morrison is heir at law, and that poor girl will benefit. There was an estate, then. Yes. My cable yesterday to the head of the Persian police said all doubt upon that point at rest. Abdul Ben-Mieser, parting with nothing while he lived, after the manner of Mises in general, left a will bequeating something like twelve thousand pounds to George Carboys. And his executor communicated that fact to the supposed friend of both parties, Mr. Morris Van Nant, and exactly ten days ago, so his former solicitor informed me, Mr. Morris Van Nant visited him unexpectedly, and withdrew from his keeping a sealed packet, which had been in the firm's custody for eight years. If you want to know why he withdrew it, dollops, right you are, governor. Give me the sledgehammer. Thanks. Now, Mr. Narcum, look. And, swinging the hammer, he struck at the nymph with a force that shattered the monstrous thing to atoms. And, Narcum, coming forward to look, when clique bent over the ruin he had wrought, saw in the midst of the dust and rubbish the body of a dead man, fully clothed, and with the gap of a bullet-hole in the left temple. Again clique's hands began a rapid search, and again as before they brought to light a paper, a little crumpled ball of paper that had been thrust into the right-hand pocket of the dead man's waistcoat, as though jammed there under the stress of strong excitement and the pressure of great haste. He smoothed it out and read it carefully, then passed it over to Mr. Narcum. There, he said, that's how he lured him over to his death, that's the message the pigeon brought. Would any man have failed to fly to face the author of a foul lie like that? Beloved Mary, the message ran, come to me again tonight, how sweet of you to think of such a thing as the belt to get him over and to make him stop until morning. Steal out after he goes to bed, darling, I'll leave the studio window unlocked as usual, with a thousand kisses, your own devoted Morris. The dog, said Narcum fiercely, and against a pure creature like Mary Morrison. Here smothers Petrie Hammond take him away, hangings too good for a beastly curl like that. How did I know that the body was inside the statue? said clique, answering Narcum's query as they drove back in the red limousine toward London and Clodges Street. Well, as a matter of fact, I never did know for certain until he began to examine the thing to-night. From the first I felt sure he was at the bottom of the affair, that he had lured Carboys back to the house and murdered him. But it puzzled me to think what could possibly have been done with the body. I felt pretty certain, however, when I saw that monstrous statue. Yes, but why? My dear Mr. Narcum, you ought not to ask that question. Did it not strike you as odd that a man who was torn with grief over the disappearance of a loved friend should think of modelling any sort of a statue on that very first day, much less such an inartistic one as that? Consider, the man has never been a first-class sculptor, it is true, but he knew the rudiments of his art. He had turned out some fairly presentable work, and that nymph was as abominably conceived and as abominably executed as if he had been the work of a raw beginner. Then there was another suspicious circumstance. Modelling Clay is not exactly as cheap as dirt, Mr. Narcum. Why then should this man, who was confessedly as poor as the proverbial church mouse, plunge into the wild extravagance of buying half a ton of it, and at such a time? Those are the things that brought the suspicion into my mind. The certainty, however, had to be brought about beyond dispute before I could act. I knew that George Carboys had returned to that studio by the dry marks of muddy footprints that were nothing like the shape of Van Nant's which I found on the boards of the veranda and on the carpet under one of the windows. I knew, too, that it was Van Nant who had sent that pigeon. You remember when I excused myself and went back on the pretext of having forgotten my magnifying glass the other day? I did so for the purpose of looking at that fifth pigeon. I had observed something on its breastfeathers which I thought at first glance was dry mud as though it had fallen or brushed against something muddy in its flight. As we descended the stairs I observed that there was a similar mark on Van Nant's sleeve. I brushed against him and scraped off a fleck with my fingernails. It was the dust of dried modeling clay. That on the pigeon's breast proved to be the same substance. I knew then that the hands of the person who liberated that pigeon were the hands of someone who was engaged in modeling something or handling the clay of the modeller, and the inference was clear. As for the rest, when Van Nant entered that studio tonight, frightened half out of his wits at the knowledge that he would have to deal with the one detective he feared, I knew that if he approached that statue and made any attempts to examine it I should have my man, and that the hiding place of his victim's body would be proved beyond question. When he did go to it and did examine it, Clarge's street at last thanked fortune, for I am tired and sleepy. Stop here, Leonard. I'm getting out. Come along, dollops. Good night, Mr. Narcombe. And so to bed, as good old Peep says. And passed on up the street with his hand on the boy's shoulder, and the stillness and the darkness enfolding them. End of Chapter 26