This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Czechris London, UK. The Triumphs of Eugene Valmont by Robert Barr Chapter 3 The Clue of the Silver Spoons When the card was brought into me, I looked upon it with some misgiving, for I centred a commercial transaction. And although such cases are lucrative enough, nevertheless I, Eugene Valmont, formally high in the service of the French government, do not care to be connected with them. They usually pertain to sordid business affairs, presenting little that is of interest to a man who, in his time, has dealt with subtle questions of diplomacy upon which the welfare of nations sometimes turned. The name of Bentham Gibbs is familiar to everyone, connected, as it is with the much advertised Pickles, whose glaring announcements in crude crimson and green strike the eye throughout Great Britain, and shock the artistic sense wherever seen. Me, I have never tasted them, and shall not so long as a French restaurant remains open in London. But I doubt not they are as pronounced to the palette, as their advertisement is distressing to the eye. If then this gross Pickle manufacturer expected me to track down those who were infringing upon the recipes for making his so-called sauces, chutneys, and the like, he would find himself mistaken. For I was now in a position to pick and choose my cases, and a case of Pickles did not allure me. Beware of imitations," said the advertisement, non-genuine without a facsimile of the signature of Bentham Gibbs. Ah, well, not for me were either the Pickles or the tracking of imitators. A forged cheque, yes, if you like, but the forged signature of Mr. Gibbs on a Pickle bottle was out of my line. Nevertheless, I said to Arman, show the gentleman in, and he did so. To my astonishment there entered a young man, quite correctly dressed in a dark frock-coat, faultless waistcoat, and trousers that proclaimed a Bond Street tailor. When he spoke his voice and language were those of a gentleman. Monsieur Valmont, he inquired. At your service, I replied, bowing and waving my hand as Arman placed chair for him, and withdrew. I am a barrister with chambers in the temple," began Mr. Gibbs, and for some days a matter has been troubling me about which I have come to seek your advice, your name having been suggested by a friend in whom I confided. Am I acquainted with him? I asked. I think not, replied Mr. Gibbs. He also is a barrister, with chambers in the same building as my own. Lionel Dacre is his name. I never heard of him. Very likely not. Nevertheless, he recommended you as a man who could keep his own council, and if you take up this case I desire the utmost secrecy preserved whatever may be the outcome. I bowed, but made no protestation. Secrecy is a matter of course with me. The Englishman paused for a few moments as if he expected fervent assurances. Then went on with no trace of disappointment on his countenance at not receiving them. On the night of the twenty-third I gave a little dinner to six friends of mine in my own rooms. I may say that so far as I am aware they are all gentlemen of unimpeachable character. On the night of the dinner I was detained later than I expected at a reception, and in driving to the temple was still further delayed by a block of traffic in Piccadilly, so that when I arrived at my chambers there was barely time for me to dress and receive my guests. My man, Johnson, had everything laid out ready for me in my dressing-room, and as I passed through to it I hurriedly flung off the coat I was wearing and carelessly left it hanging over the back of a chair in the dining-room, when neither Johnson nor myself noticed it, until my attention was called to it after the dinner was over, and everyone rather jolly with wine. This coat contains an inside pocket. Usually any frock coat I wear at an afternoon reception has not an inside pocket, but I had been rather on the rush all day. My father is a manufacturer whose name may be familiar to you, and I am on the director's board of his company. On this occasion I took a cab from the city to the reception I spoke of, and had not time to go and change at my rooms. The reception was a somewhat bohemian affair, extremely interesting, of course, but not too particular as to costume, so I went as I was. In this inside pocket rested a thin package, composed of two pieces of cardboard, and between them rested five twenty-pound Bank of England notes, folded lengthwise, held in place by an elastic rubber band. I had thrown the coat across the chair-back in such a way that the inside pocket was exposed, leaving the ends of the notes plainly recognizable. Over the coffee and cigars one of my guests laughingly called attention to what he termed my vulgar display of wealth, and Johnson in some confusion at having neglected to put away the coat, now picked it up, and took it to the reception room where the wraps of my guests lay about promiscuously. He should, of course, have hung it up in my wardrobe, but he said afterwards he thought it belonged to the guest who had spoken. You see, Johnson was in my dressing-room when I threw my coat on the chair in the corner while making my way thither, and I suppose he had not noticed the coat in the hurry of arriving guests, otherwise he would have put it where it belonged. After everybody had gone, Johnson came to me and said the coat was there, but the package was missing, nor has any trace of it been found since that night. The dinner was fetched in from outside, I suppose? Yes. How many waiters served it? Two. They are men who have often been in my employ on similar occasions, but apart from that they had left my chambers before the incident of the coat happened. Neither of them went into the reception-room, I take it. No, I am certain that not even suspicion can attach to either of the waiters. Your man, Johnson, has been with me for years. He could easily have stolen much more than the hundred pounds if he had wished to do so, but I have never known him to take a penny that did not belong to him. Will you favour me with the names of your guests, Mr. Gibbs? Viscount Stern sat at my right hand, and at my left Lord Temple-Mere. Sir John Sankler, next to him, and Angus McKellar, next to Sankler. After Viscount Stern was Lionel Dacre, and at his right Vincent Innis. On a sheet of paper I had written the names of the guests, and noted their places at the table. Which guest drew your attention to the money? Lionel Dacre. Is there a window looking out from the reception-room? Two of them. Were they fastened on the night of the dinner-party? I could not be sure. Very likely Johnson would know. You are hinting at the possibility of a thief coming in through a reception-room window while we were somewhat noisy over our wine. I think such a solution highly improbable. My rooms are on the third floor, and a thief would scarcely venture to make an entrance when he could not but know there was a company being entertained. Besides this, the coat was there less than an hour, and it appears to me that whoever stole those notes knew where they were. That seems reasonable, I have to admit. Have you spoken to any one of your loss? To no one but Dacre, who recommended me to see you. Oh yes, and to Johnson, of course. I could not help noting that this was the fourth or fifth time Dacre's name had come up during our conversation. What of Dacre, I asked? Oh well, you see, he occupies chambers in the same building on the ground floor. He's a very good fellow, and we are by way of being firm friends. Then it was he who had called attention to the money, so I thought he should know the sequel. How did he take your news? Now that you call attention to the fact, he seemed slightly troubled. I should like to say, however, that you must not be misled by that. Lionel Dacre could know more steel than he could lie. Did he show any surprise when you mentioned the theft? Mr. Gibbs paused a moment before replying, knitting his brows in thought. No, he said at last, and come to think of it, it appeared as if he had been expecting my announcement. Doesn't that strike you as rather strange, Mr. Gibbs? Really my mind is in such a whirl, I don't know what to think. But it's perfectly absurd to suspect Dacre. If you knew the man, you would understand what I mean. He comes of an excellent family, and he is—oh!—he is Lionel Dacre, and when you have said that, you have made any suspicion absurd. I suppose you caused the rooms to be thoroughly searched. The packet didn't drop out, and remain unnoticed in some corner. No, Johnson and myself examined every inch of the premises. Have you the numbers of the notes? Yes, I got them from the bank next morning. Payment was stopped, and so far not one of the five has been presented. Of course, one or more may have been cashed at some shop, but none have been offered to any of the banks. A twenty-pound note is not accepted without scrutiny, so the chances are the thief may find some difficulty in disposing of them. As I told you, I don't mind the loss of their money at all. It is the uncertainty, the uneasiness caused by the incident which troubles me. You will comprehend how little I care about the notes when I say that if you are good enough to interest yourself in this case, I shall be disappointed if your fee does not exceed the amount I have lost. Mr. Gibbs rose, as he said this, and I accompanied him to the door, assuring him that I should do my best to solve the mystery. Whether he sprang from pickles or not, I realized he was a polished and generous gentleman who estimated the services of a professional expert like myself at their true value. I shall not set down the details of my researches during the following few days, because the trend of them must be gone over in the account of that remarkable interview in which I took parts somewhat later. Suffice it to say that an examination of the rooms, and a close cross-questioning of Johnson, satisfied me he and the two waiters were innocent. I became certain no thief had made his way through the window, and finally I arrived at the conclusion that the notes were stolen by one of the guests. Further investigation convinced me that the thief was no other than Lionel Dacre, the only one of the six in pressing need of money at this time. I caused Dacre to be shadowed, and during one of his absences made the acquaintance of his man Hopper, a surly impolite brute, who accepted my gold and sovereign quickly enough but gave me little in exchange for it. While I conversed with him, there arrived in the passage where we were talking together a huge case of champagne, bearing one of the best known names in the trade, and branded as being of the vintage of seventy-eight. Now I knew that the product of Camelot-Frayer is not bought as cheaply as British beer. And I also had learned that two short weeks before Mr. Lionel Dacre was at his wits end for money. Yet he was still the same briefless barrister he had ever been. On the morning after my unsatisfactory conversation with his man Hopper, I was astonished to receive the following note, written on a dainty correspondence card. Three and four vellum buildings in a temple E.C. Mr. Lionel Dacre presents his compliments to Monsieur Eugène Valmont, and would be obliged if Monsieur Valmont could make it convenient to call upon him in his chambers tomorrow morning at eleven. Had the young man become aware that he was being shadowed, or had the surly servant informed him of the inquiries made, I was soon to know. I called punctually at eleven next morning, and was received with charming urbanity by Mr. Dacre himself. The tacitan Hopper had evidently been sent away for the occasion. My dear Monsieur Valmont, I am delighted to meet you, began the young man, with more of effusiveness than I had ever noticed in an Englishman before, although his very next words supplied an explanation that did not occur to me until afterwards a somewhat far-fetched. I believe we are by way of being countrymen, and therefore, although the hour is early, I hope you will allow me to offer you some of this bottled sunshine of the year seventy-eight from Label, France, to whose prosperity and honour we shall drink together. For such a toast any hour is propitious, and to my amazement he brought forth from the case I had seen arrive two days before, a bottle of that superb Camelot-fraer, seventy-eight. Now, said I to myself, it is going to be difficult to keep a clear head if the aroma of this nectar rises to the brain. But tempting as is the cup, I shall drink sparingly, and hope he may not be so judicious. Sensitive, I already experienced the charm of his personality, and well understood the friendship Mr. Bentham Gibbs felt for him. But I saw the trap spread before me. He expected, under the influence of champagne and courtesy, to extract a promise from me which I must find myself unable to give. Sir, you interest me by claiming kinship with France. I had understood that you belong to one of the oldest families of England. Ah, England, he cried, with an expressive gesture of outspreading hands truly Parisian in its significance. The trunk belongs to England, of course, but the root, ah, the root, Monsieur Valmont, penetrated the soil from which this wine of the gods has been drawn. Then filling my glass and his own, he cried, to France, which my family left in the year 1066. I could not help laughing at his fervent ejaculation. 1066 with William the Conqueror. That is a long time ago, Mr. Dacre. In years, perhaps. In feelings, but a day. My forefathers came over to steal, and lord how well they accomplished it. They stole the whole country. Something like a theft, say I, under that prince of robbers whom you have well named the Conqueror. In our secret hearts we all admire a great thief, and if not a great one, then an expert one, who covers his tracks so perfectly that the hounds of justice are baffled in attempting to follow them. Now, even you, Monsieur Valmont, I can see you are the most generous of men, with a lively sympathy found to perfection only in France. Even you must suffer a pang of regret, when you lay a thief by the heels who has done his task deftly. I fear, Mr. Dacre, you credit me with a magnanimity to which I dare not lay claim. The criminal is a danger to society. True, true, you are in the right, Monsieur Valmont. Still admit there are cases that would touch you tenderly. For example, a man, ordinarily honest, a great need, a sudden opportunity. He takes that of which another has abundance, and he nothing. What then, Monsieur Valmont? Is the man to be sent to perdition for a momentary weakness? His words astonished me. Was I on the verge of hearing a confession? It almost amounted to that already. Mr. Dacre, I said, I cannot enter into the subtleties you pursue. My duty is to find the criminal. Again, I say you are in the right, Monsieur Valmont, and I am enchanted to find so sensible a head on French shoulders.  It is your duty to hunt down the criminal. Very well. In that I think I can aid you, and thus have taken the liberty of requesting your attendance here this morning. Let me fill your glass again, Monsieur Valmont. No more, I beg of you, Mr. Dacre. What? You think the receiver is as bad as the thief? I was so taken aback by this remark that I suppose my face showed the amazement within me. But the young man merely laughed with apparent free-hearted enjoyment, poured some wine into his own glass, and tossed it off. Not knowing what to say, I changed the current of conversation. Mr. Gibbs said you had been kind enough to recommend me to his attention. May I ask how you came to hear of me? Ah! Who has not heard of the renowned Monsieur Valmont? And as he said this, for the first time there began to grow a suspicion in my mind that he was chaffing me, as it is called in England, a procedure which I cannot endure. Indeed, if this gentleman practised such a barbarism in my own country, he would find himself with a duel on his hands before he had gone far. However, the next instant his voice resumed its original fascination, and I listened to it as to some delicious melody. I need only mention my cousin, Lady Gladys Dacre, and you will at once understand why I recommend you to my friend. The case of Lady Gladys, you will remember, required a delicate touch which is not always to be had in this land of England, except when those who possess the gift do as the honour to sojourn with us. I noticed that my glass was again filled, and bowing an acknowledgement of his compliment, I indulged in another sip of the delicious wine. I sighed, for I began to realise it was going to be very difficult for me, in spite of my disclaimer, to tell this man's friend he had stolen the money. All this time he had been sitting on the edge of the table, while I occupied a chair at its end. He sat there in careless fashion, swinging a foot to and fro. Now he sprang to the floor, and drew up a chair placing on the table a blank sheet of paper. Then he took from the mantel shelf a packet of letters, and I was astonished to see they were held together by two bits of cardboard and a rubber band, similar to the combination that had contained the folded banknotes. With great nonchalance he slipped off the rubber band, through it and the pieces of cardboard on the table before me, leaving the documents loose to his hand. Now, Monsieur Valmont, he cried jauntily, you have been occupied for several days on this case, the case of my dear friend Bentham Gibbs, who is one of the best fellows in the world. He said the same of you, Mr. Daker. I am gratified to hear it. Would you mind letting me know to what point your researchers have led you? They have led me in a direction rather than to a point. Ah, in the direction of a man, of course, certainly. Who is he? Will you pardon me if I decline to answer this question at the present moment? That means you are not sure. It may mean, Mr. Daker, that I am employed by Mr. Gibbs, and do not feel at liberty to disclose the results of my quest without his permission. Mr. Bentham Gibbs and I are entirely at one in this matter. Perhaps you are aware that I am the only person with whom he has discussed the case, beside yourself. That is undoubtedly true, Mr. Daker. Still, you see the difficulty of my position. Yes, I do, and so shall press you no further. But I also have been studying the problem in a purely amateurish way, of course. You will perhaps express no disinclination to learn whether or not my deductions agree with yours. None in the least. I shall be very glad to know the conclusion at which you have arrived. May I ask if you suspect anyone in particular? Yes, I do. Will you name him? No. I shall copy the admirable reticence you yourself have shown. And now let us attack this mystery in a sane and business-like manner. You have already examined the room. Well, here is a rough sketch of it. There is the table. In this corner stood the chair on which the coat was flung. Here sat Gibbs at the head of the table. Those on the left-hand side had their backs to the chair. I, being on the centre to the right, saw the chair, the coat, and the notes, and called attention to them. Now our first duty is to find a motive. If it were a murder, our motive might be hatred, revenge, robbery, what you like. As it is simply the stealing of money, the man must have been either a born thief or else some hitherto innocent person pressed to the crime by great necessity. Do you agree with me, Monsieur Valmont? Perfectly. You follow exactly the line of my own reasoning. Very well. It is unlikely that a born thief was one of Mr. Gibbs's guests. Therefore we are reduced to look for a man under the spur of necessity. A man who has no money of his own, but who must raise a certain amount, let us say, by a certain date. If we can find such a man in that company, do you not agree with me that he is likely to be the thief? Yes, I do. Then let us start our process of elimination. Out goes Viscount Stern, a lucky individual with 20,000 acres of land and God only knows what income. I mark off the name of Lord Temple-Mere, one of his Majesty's judges, entirely above suspicion. Next Sir John Sinclair. He also is rich, but Vincent Innis is still richer, so the pencil obliterates both names. Now we arrive at Angus McKellar, an author of some note, as you are well aware, deriving a good income from his books and a better one from his plays. A canny scot, so we may rub his name from our paper and our memory. How do my erasures correspond with yours, Monsieur Valmont? They correspond exactly, Mr. Daker. I am flattered to hear it. There remains one name untouched. Mr. Lionel Daker, the descendant, as I have said, of robbers. I have not said so, Mr. Daker. Ah, my dear Valmont, the politeness of your country asserts itself. Let us not be deluded, but follow our inquiry wherever it leads. I suspect Lionel Daker. What do you know of his circumstances before the dinner of the 23rd? As I made no reply, he looked up at me with his frank, boyish face, illumined by a winning smile. You know nothing of his circumstances? It grieves me to state that I do. Mr. Lionel Daker was penniless on the night of the dinner.  His pockets held one sixpence, two pennies, and a half-penny. How came you to suspect he was penniless? I knew he ordered a case of champagne from the London Representative of Camelot-Fraer and was refused unless he paid the money down. Quite right. And then when you were talking to Hopper, you saw that case of champagne delivered. Excellent, excellent, Monsieur Valmont. But will a man's steel, thank you, even to supply himself with so delicious a wine as this we have been tasting?  Not another drop, if you will excuse me, Mr. Daker. Ah, yes, champagne should not be mixed with evidence. When we have finished, perhaps. What further proof have you discovered, Monsieur? I hold proof that Mr. Daker was threatened with bankruptcy, if on the twenty-fourth he did not pay a bill of seventy-eight pounds that have been long outstanding. I hold proof that this was paid, not on the twenty-fourth, but on the twenty-sixth. Mr. Daker had gone to the solicitor and assured him he would pay the money on that date, whereupon he was given two days' grace. Ah, well, he was entitled to three, you know, in law. Yes, there, Mr. Valmont, you touch the fatal point. The threat of bankruptcy will drive a man in Daker's position to almost any crime. Bankruptcy to a barrister means ruin. It means a career blighted. It means a life buried with little chance of resurrection. I see you grasp the supreme importance of that bit of evidence. The case of champagne is as nothing compared with it, and this reminds me that in the crisis now upon us, I shall take another sip with your permission. Sure you won't join me? And not at this juncture, Mr. Daker? I envy your moderation. Here's to the success of our search, Mr. Valmont. I felt sorry for the gay young fellow, as with smiling face he drank the champagne. Now, Monsieur, he went on. I am amazed to learn how much you have discovered. Really, I think tradespeople, solicitors, and all such should keep better guard on their tongues than they do. Nevertheless, these documents at my elbow, which I expected would surprise you, are merely the letters and receipts. Here is the communication from the solicitor, threatening me with bankruptcy. Here is his receipt dated the 26th. Here is the refusal of the wine merchant, and here is his receipt dated the 26th. Here is his receipt for the money. Here are smaller bills liquidated. With my pencil, we will add them up. £78, the principal debt, bulks large. We add the smaller items, and it reaches a total of £93, seven shillings and fourpence. Let us now examine my purse. Here is a £5 note. There is a golden sovereign. I now count out and place on the table twelve and sixpence in silver, and two pence in coppers. The purse thus becomes empty. Let us add the silver and copper to the amount on the paper.  There is your money fully accounted for. Pardon me, Mr. Daker, I said, but I observe a sovereign resting on the mantelpiece. Daker threw back his head and laughed with greater heartiness than I had yet known him to indulge in during our short acquaintance. By Joe, he cried, you've got me there. I'd forgotten entirely about that pound on the mantelpiece, which belongs to you. To me? Impossible. It does, and cannot interfere in the least with our century calculation. That is the sovereign you gave to my man Hopper, who, knowing me to be hard-pressed, took it and shame-facedly presented it to me that I may enjoy the spending of it. Hopper belongs to our family, or the family belongs to him, I am never sure which.  Now here, Monsieur, is the evidence of the theft, together with the rubber-band and two pieces of cardboard. Ask my friend Gibbs to examine them minutely, they are all at your disposition, Monsieur, and thus you'll learn how much easier it is to deal with the master than with the servant. All the gold you possess would not have wrung these incriminating documents from old Hopper. I was compelled to send him away to the West End an hour ago, fearing that in his brutal British way he might assault you if he got an inkling of your mission. Mr. Daker, said I slowly, you have thoroughly convinced me, I thought I would, he interrupted with a laugh, that you did not take the money. Oh, whole, this is a change of wind, surely. Many a man has been hanged on a chain of circumstantial evidence much weaker than this which I have exhibited to you. Don't you see the subtlety of my action?  But there comes in my craftiness. Of course the rock you run up against will be Gibbs's incredulity. The first question he will ask you may be this, why did not Daker come and borrow the money from me? Now there you find a certain weakness in your chain of evidence. I knew perfectly well that Gibbs would lend me the money, and he knew perfectly well that if I were pressed to the wall I should ask him. Mr. Daker, said I, you have been playing with me. I should resent that with most men, but whether it is your own genial manner, or the effect of this excellent champagne, or both together, I forgive you. But I am convinced of another thing. You know who took the money. I don't know, but I suspect. Will you tell me whom you suspect? That would not be fair. But I shall now take the liberty of filling your glass with champagne. I am your guest, Mr. Daker. Admirably answered, Monsieur, he replied, pouring out the wine, and now I offer you a clue. Find out all about the story of the Silver Spoons. The story of the Silver Spoons? What Silver Spoons? Ah, that is the point. Step out of the temple into Fleet Street, seize the first man you meet by the shoulder, and ask him to tell you about the Silver Spoons. There are but two men, and two Spoons, concerned. When you learn who those two men are, you will know that one of them did not take the money. And I give you my assurance that the other did. You speak in mystery, Mr. Daker. But certainly, for I am speaking to Monsieur Eugene Valmont. I echo your words, sir. Admirably answered. You put me on my metal, and I flatter myself that I see your kindly drift. You wish me to solve the mystery of this stolen money. Sir, you do me honour, and I drink to your health. To yours, Monsieur, said Lionel Daker. And thus we drank and parted. On leaving Mr. Daker, I took a handsome to a cafe in Regent Street, which is a passable imitation of similar places of refreshment in Paris. There, calling for a cup of black coffee, I sat down to think. The clue of the Silver Spoons? He had laughingly suggested that I should take by the shoulders the first man I met, and ask him what the story of the Silver Spoons was. This course naturally struck me as absurd, and he doubtless intended it to seem absurd. Nevertheless, it contained a hint. I must ask somebody, and that of the right person, to tell me the tale of the Silver Spoons. Under the influence of the black coffee, I reasoned it out in this way. On the night of the 23rd, one of the six guests there present stole a hundred pounds. But Daker had said that an actor in the Silver Spoon episode was the actual thief. That person then must have been one of Mr. Gibbs's guests at the dinner of the 23rd. Probably two of the guests were the participators in the Silver Spoon comedy. But, be that as it may, it followed that one at least of the men around Mr. Gibbs's table knew the episode of the Silver Spoons. Perhaps Bentham Gibbs himself was cognizant of it. It followed therefore that the easiest plan was to question each of the men who partook of that dinner. Yet if only one knew about the Spoons, that one must also have some idea that these Spoons formed the clue which attached him to the crime of the 23rd, in which case he was little likely to divulge what he knew to an entire stranger. Of course, I might go to Daker himself and demand the story of the Silver Spoons. But this would be a confession of failure on my part, and I rather dreaded Lionel Daker's hearty laughter when I admitted that the mystery was too much for me. Besides this, I was very well aware of the young man's kindly intentions towards me. He wished me to unravel the coil myself, and so I determined not to go to him except as our last resource. I resolved to begin with Mr. Gibbs, and finishing my coffee, I got again into a handsome, and drove back to the temple. I found Bentham Gibbs in his room, and after greeting me, his first inquiry was about the case. How are you getting on? he asked. I think I'm getting on fairly well, I replied, and expect to finish in a day or two, if you will kindly tell me the story of the Silver Spoons. The Silver Spoons, he echoed, quite evidently not understanding me. There happened an incident in which two men were engaged, and this incident related to a pair of Silver Spoons. I want to get the particulars of that. I haven't the faintest idea of what you are talking about, replied Gibbs thoroughly bewildered. You will need to be more definite, I feared, if you are to get any help from me. I cannot be more definite, because I have already told you all I know. What bearing has all this on our own case? I was informed that if I got hold of the clue of the Silver Spoons, I should be in a fair way of settling our case. Who told you that? Mr. Lionel Daker. Oh, does Daker refer to his own conjuring? I don't know, I'm sure. What was his conjuring? A very clever trick he did one night at dinner here, about two months ago. Had it anything to do with Silver Spoons? Well, it was Silver Spoons, or Silver Forks, or something of that kind. I had entirely forgotten the incident. So far as I recollect at the moment, there was a slight of handman with great expertness in one of the music halls, and the talk turned upon him. Then Daker said the tricks he did were easy, and holding up a spoon or a fork, I don't remember which, he professed his ability to make it disappear before our eyes, to be found afterwards in the clothing of someone there present. Several offered to bet that he could do nothing of the kind, but he said he would bet with no one but Innis, who sat opposite him. Innis, with some reluctance, accepted the bet, and then Daker, with a great show of the usual conjurer's gesticulations, spread forth his empty hands and said we should find the spoon in Innis's pocket. And there, sure enough, it was. It seemed a proper slight of hand trick, but we were never able to get him to repeat it. Thank you very much, Mr. Gibbs, I think I see daylight now. If you do, you are cleverer than I by a long chalk, cried Bentham Gibbs, as I took my departure. I went directly downstairs and knocked at Mr. Daker's door once more. He opened the door himself, his man not yet having returned. Ah, Monsieur, he cried back already. You don't mean to tell me you have so soon got to the bottom of the silver spoon entanglement? I think I have, Mr. Daker. You were sitting at dinner opposite Mr. Vincent Innis. You saw him conceal a silver spoon in his pocket. You probably waited for some time to understand what he meant by this, and as he did not return the spoon to its place, you proposed a conjuring trick, made the bet with him, and thus the spoon was returned to the table. Excellent, excellent, Monsieur, that is very nearly what occurred, except that I acted at once. I had had experiences with Mr. Vincent Innis before. Never did he enter these rooms of mine without my missing some little trinket after he was gone. Although Mr. Innis is a very rich person, I am not a man of many possessions, so if anything is taken, I meet little difficulty in coming to a knowledge of my loss. Of course I never mentioned these abstractions to him. They were all trivial, as I have said, and so far as the silver spoon was concerned, it was of no great value either. But I thought the bet and the recovery of the spoon would teach him a lesson. It apparently has not done so. On the night of the twenty-third he sat at my right hand, as you will see by consulting your diagram of the table and the guests. I asked him a question twice to which he did not reply, and looking at him I was startled by the expression in his eyes. They were fixed on a distant corner of the room, and following his gaze I saw what he was staring at with such hypnotising concentration. So absorbed was he in contemplation of the packet there so plainly exposed, now my attention was turned to it, that he seemed to be entirely oblivious of what was going on around him. I roused him from his trance by jocularly calling Gibb's attention to the display of money. I expected in this way to save Innes from committing the act, which he seemingly did commit. Imagine then the dilemma in which I was placed when Gibb's confided to me the morning after what had occurred the night before. I was positive Innes had taken the money, yet I possessed no proof of it. I could not tell Gibb's, and I dare not speak to Innes. Of course, monsieur, you do not need to be told that Innes is not a thief in the ordinary sense of the word. He has no need to steal, and yet apparently cannot help doing so. I am sure that no attempt has been made to pass those notes. They are doubtless resting securely in his house at Kensington. He is, in fact, a kleptomaniac, or a maniac of some sort. And now, monsieur, it was my hint regarding the silver spoons of any value to you, of the most infinite value, Mr. Daker. Then let me make another suggestion. I leave it entirely to your bravery, a bravery which I confess I do not myself possess. Will you take a handsome, drive to Mr. Innes's house on the Cromwell Road? Confront him quietly and ask for the return of the packet. I am anxious to know what will happen. If he hands it to you, as I expect he will, then you must tell Mr. Gibb's the whole story. Mr. Daker, your suggestion shall be immediately acted upon, and I thank you for your compliment to my courage. I found that Mr. Innes inhabited a very grand house. After a time he entered the study on the ground floor to which I have been conducted. He held my card in his hand and was looking at it with some surprise. I think I have not the pleasure of knowing you, Mr. Valmont, he said, courteously enough. No, I ventured to call on a matter of business. I was once investigator for the French Government, and now I am doing private detective work here in London. Ah, and how is that supposed to interest me? There is nothing that I wish investigated. I did not send for you, did I? And no, Mr. Innes. I merely took the liberty of calling to ask you to let me have the package you took from Mr. Bentham Gibb's frock coat pocket on the night of the twenty-third. He wishes it returned, does he? Yes. Mr. Innes calmly walked to a desk which he unlocked and opened, displaying a veritable museum of trinkets of one sort and another.  Apparently it had never been opened. With a smile he handed it to me. You will make my apologies to Mr. Gibb's for not returning it before. Tell him I have been unusually busy of late. I shall not fail to do so, said I, with a bow. Thanks so much. Good morning, Mr. Valmont. Good morning, Mr. Innes. And so I returned the packet to Mr. Bentham Gibb's, who pulled the notes from between their paste-board protection and begged me to accept them. End of Chapter 3 THE CLOOM OF THE SILVER SPOONS This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Czechris London, UK The Triumphs of Eugene Valmont by Robert Barr Chapter 4 Lord Chiselrig's Missing Fortune The name of the late Lord Chiselrig never comes to my mind without instantly suggesting that of Mr. T. A. Edison. I never saw the late Lord Chiselrig, and I have met Mr. Edison only twice in my life. Yet the two men are linked in my memory, and it was a remark the latter once made that in great measure enabled me to solve the mystery which the former had wrapped around his actions. There is no memorandum at hand to tell me the year in which those two meetings with Edison took place. I received a note from the Italian ambassador in Paris, requesting me to wait upon him at the Embassy. I learned that on the next day a deputation was to set out from the Embassy to one of the chief hotels, there to make a call in state upon the great American inventor, and formally present to him various insignia accompanying certain honours which the King of Italy had conferred upon him. As many Italian nobles of high rank had been invited, and as these dignitaries would not only be robed in the costumes pertaining to their orders, but in many cases would wear jewels of almost inestimable value, my presence was desired in the belief that I might perhaps be able to ward off any attempt on the part of the deft-handed gentry, but might possibly make an effort to gain these treasures.  Mr. Edison, of course, had long before received notification of the hour at which the deputation would wait upon him, but when we entered the large parlour assigned to the inventor, it was evident to me at a glance that the celebrated man had forgotten all about the function. He stood by a bare table, from which the cloth had been jerked and flung into a corner, and upon that table were placed several bits of black and greasy machinery, cog-wheels, pulleys, bolts, etc. These seemingly belonged to a French workman who stood on the other side of the table with one of the parts in his grimy hand. Edison's own hands were not too clean, for he had palpably been examining the material and conversing with the workman, who wore the ordinary long blouse of an iron craftsman in a small way. I judged him to be a man with a little shop of his own in some back street, who did odd jobs of engineering, assisted perhaps by a skilled helper or two, and a few apprentices. Edison looked sternly toward the door as the solemn procession filed in, and there was a trace of annoyance on his face at the interruption, mixed with a shade of perplexity as to what this gorgeous display all meant. The Italian is as ceremonious as the Spaniard where a function is concerned, and the official who held at the ornate box which contained the jewellery resting on a velvet cushion stepped slowly forward, and came to a stand in front of the bewildered American. Then the ambassador, in sonorous voice, spoke some gracious words regarding the friendship existing between the United States and Italy, expressed a wish that their rivalry should ever take the form of benefits conferred upon the human race, and instanced the honoured recipient, as the most notable example the world has yet produced, of a man bestowing blessings upon all nations in the arts of peace. The eloquent ambassador concluded by saying that, at the command of his royal master, it was both his duty and his pleasure to present, and so forth, and so forth. Mr. Edison, visibly ill at ease, nevertheless made a suitable reply in the fewest possible words, and the et alâge being thus at an end, the noble men, headed by their ambassador, slowly retired, myself forming the tale of the procession. Inwardly I deeply sympathised with the French workmen, who thus unexpectedly found himself confronted by so much magnificence. He cast one wild look about him, but saw that his retreat was cut off unless he displaced some of these gorgeous grandees. He tried then to shrink into himself, and finally stood helpless like one paralysed. In spite of republican institutions, there is deep down in every Frenchman's heart a respect and awe for official pageants, sumptuously staged and costumed as this one was. But he likes to view it from afar, and supported by his fellows, not thrust incongruously into the midst of things, as was the case with this panic-stricken engineer. As I passed out, I cast a glance over my shoulder at the humble artisan, content with the profit of a few francs a day, and at the millionaire inventor opposite him. Edison's face, which, during the address had been cold and impassive, reminding me vividly of a bust of Napoleon, was all now aglow with enthusiasm, as he turned to his humble visitor. He cried joyfully to the workman. A minute's demonstration is worth an hour's explanation. I'll call round tomorrow at your shop about ten o'clock, and show you how to make the thing work. I lingered in the hall until the Frenchman came out, then introducing myself to him, as the privilege of visiting his shop next day at ten. This was accorded with that courtesy which you will always find among the industrial classes of France, and next day I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Edison. During our conversation, I complimented him on his invention of the incandescent electric light, and this was the reply that has ever remained in my memory. It was not an invention, but a discovery. We knew what we wanted, a carbonized tissue which would withstand the electric current in a vacuum for, say, a thousand hours. If no such tissue existed, then the incandescent light, as we know it, was not possible. My assistants started out to find this tissue, and we simply carbonized everything we could lay our hands on, and ran the current through it in a vacuum. At last we struck the right thing, as we were bound to do if we kept on long enough, and if the thing existed. Patience and hard work will overcome any obstacle. This belief has been of great assistance to me in my profession. I know the idea is prevalent that a detective arrives at his solutions in a dramatic way, through following clues invisible to the ordinary man. This doubtless frequently happens, but as a general thing, the patience and hard work which Mr. Edison commends is a much safer guide. Very often the following of excellent clues has led me to disaster, as was the case with my unfortunate attempt to solve the mystery of the five hundred diamonds. As I was saying, I never think of the later Lord Chiselrig without remembering Mr. Edison at the same time, and yet the two were very dissimilar. I suppose Lord Chiselrig was the most useless man that ever lived, while Edison is the opposite. One day my servant brought into me a card on which was engraved Lord Chiselrig. Show his lordship in, I said, and there appeared a young man of perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five, well-dressed and of most charming manners, who nevertheless began his interview by asking a question such as had never before been addressed to me, and which, if put to a solicitor or other professional man, would have been answered with some indignation. Indeed, I believe it is a written or unwritten law of the legal profession that the acceptance of such a proposal as Lord Chiselrig made to me would, if proved, result in the disgrace and ruin of the lawyer. Monsieur Valmont began Lord Chiselrig. Do you ever take up cases on speculation? On speculation, sir? I do not think I understand you. His lordship blushed like a girl, and stammered slightly as he attempted an explanation. What I mean is, do you accept a case on a contingent fee? That is to say, Monsieur, well, not but to find a point upon it. No results, no pay. I replied, somewhat severely, such an offer has never been made to me, and I may say at once that I should be compelled to decline it where I favoured with the opportunity. In the cases submitted to me, I devote my time and attention to their solution. I try to deserve success, but I cannot command it, and as in the interim I must live, I am reluctantly compelled to make a charge for my time at least. I believe the doctor sends in his bill, though the patient dies. A young man laughed uneasily, and seemed almost too embarrassed to proceed, but finally he said, Your illustration strikes home with greater accuracy than probably you imagined when you uttered it. I have just paid my last penny to the physician who attended my late uncle, Lord Chiselrig, who died six months ago. I am fully aware that the suggestion I made may seem like a reflection upon your skill, or rather as implying a doubt regarding it. But I should be grieved, monsieur, if you fell into such an error. I could have come here and commissioned you to undertake some elucidation of the strange situation in which I find myself, and I make no doubt you would have accepted the task if your numerous engagements had permitted. Then, if you failed, I should have been unable to pay you, for I am practically bankrupt. My whole desire, therefore, was to make an honest beginning, and to let you know exactly how I stand. If you succeed, I shall be a rich man. If you do not succeed, I shall be what I am now, penniless. Have I made it plain now why I began with a question which you had every right to resent? Perfectly plain, my Lord, and your candour, does you credit? I was very much taken with the unassuming manners of the young man, and his evident desire to accept no service under false pretenses. When I had finished my sentence, the pauper nobleman rose to his feet and bowed. I am very much your debtor, monsieur, for your courtesy in receiving me, and can only beg pardon for occupying your time on a futile quest. I wish you good morning, monsieur. One moment, my Lord, I rejoined, waving him to his chair again. Although I am unprepared to accept a commission on the terms you suggest, I may nevertheless be able to offer a hint or two that will prove of service to you. I think I remember the announcement of Lord Chislerigg's death. He was somewhat eccentric, was he not? Accentric, said the young man with a slight laugh, seating himself again. Well, rather. I vaguely remember that he was accredited with the possession of something like 20,000 acres of land? Twenty-seven thousand, as a matter of fact, replied my visitor. Have you fallen heir to the lands, as well as to the title? Oh yes, the estate was entailed. The old gentleman could not divert it from me if he would, and I'd rather suspect that fact must have been the cause of some worry to him. But surely, my Lord, a man who owns, as one might say, a principality in this wealthy realm of England cannot be penniless. Again the young man laughed. Well, no, he replied, thrusting his hand in his pocket and bringing to light a few brown coppers and a white silver piece. I possess enough money to buy some food tonight, but not enough to dine at the hotel Cecil. You see, it is like this. I belong to a somewhat ancient family, various members of whom went the pace and mortgaged their acres up to the hilt. I could not raise a further penny on my estates were I to try my hardest, because at the time the money was lent, land was much more valuable than it is today. Agricultural depression, and all that sort of thing, have, if I may put it so, left me a good many thousands worse off than if I had no land at all. Besides this, during my late uncle's life, Parliament, on his behalf, intervened once or twice. Allowing him in the first place to cut a valuable timber, and in the second place to sell the pictures of chisel-rig chase at Christie's for figures which make one's mouth water. And what became of the money, I ask, whereupon once more this genial nobleman laughed. That is exactly what I came up in the lift to learn if Monsieur Valmont could discover. My Lord, you interest me, I said, quite truly, with an uneasy apprehension that I should take up his case after all. For I like the young man already. His lack of pretense appealed to me, and that sympathy which is so universal among my countrymen enveloped him, as I may say, quite independent of my own will. My uncle, went on Lord Chisel-rig, was somewhat of an anomaly in our family. He must have been a reversal to a very, very ancient type, a type of which we have no record. He was as miserly as his forefathers were prodigal, when he came into the title and estates on twenty years ago, he dismissed the whole retinue of servants, and indeed was defendant in several cases at law, where retainers of our family brought suit against him for wrongful dismissal, or dismissal without a penny compensation in lieu of notice. I'm pleased to say he lost all his cases, and when he pleaded poverty, got permission to sell a certain number of heirlooms, enabling him to make compensation, and giving him something on which to live. These heirlooms, at auction, sold so unexpectedly well, that my uncle acquired a taste, as it were, of what might be done. He could always prove that the rents went to the mortgagees, and that he had nothing on which to exist, so on several occasions he obtained permission from the courts to cut timber and sell pictures, until he denuded the estate, and made an empty barn of the old manor house. He lived like any labourer, occupying himself sometimes as a carpenter, sometimes as a blacksmith. Indeed, he made a blacksmith's shop of the library, one of the most noble rooms in Britain, containing thousands of valuable books, which again and again he applied for permission to sell, but this privilege was never granted to him. I find, on coming into the property, that my uncle quite persistently evaded the law, and depleted this superb collection book by book, surreptitiously through dealers in London. This, of course, would have got him into deep trouble, if it had been discovered before his death, but now the valuable volumes are gone, and there is no redress. Many of them are doubtless in America, or in museums, and collections of Europe. Are you wish me to trace them, perhaps? I interpolated. Oh no, they are past praying for. The old man made tens of thousands by the sale of the timber, and other thousands by disposing of the pictures. The house is denuded of its fine old furniture, which was immensely valuable. And then the books, as I have said, must have brought in the revenue of a prince, if he got anything like their value, and you may be sure he was shrewd enough to know their worth. Since the last refusal of the courts to allow him further relief, as he termed it, which was some seven years ago, he had quite evidently been disposing of books and furniture by a private sale in defiance of the law. At that time I was under age, but my guardians opposed his application to the courts, and demanded an account of the monies already in his hands. The judges upheld the opposition of my guardians, and refused to allow a further spoliation of the estate, but they did not grant the accounting my guardians asked, because the proceeds of the former sales were entirely at the disposal of my uncle, and were sanctioned by the law to permit him to live as befitted his station. If he lived meagrely instead of lavishly, as my guardians contended, that the judges said was his affair, and there the matter ended. My uncle took a violent dislike to me, on account of this opposition to his last application, although, of course, I had nothing whatever to do with the matter. He lived like a hermit, mostly in the library, and was weighted upon by an old man and his wife, and these three were the only inhabitants of a mansion that could comfortably house a hundred. He visited nobody, and would allow no one to approach chiselrig chase. In order that all who had the misfortune to have dealing with him should continue to endure trouble after his death, he left what might be called a will, but which, rather, may be termed a letter to me. Here is a copy of it. My dear Tom, you will find your fortune between a couple of sheets of paper in the library. Your affectionate uncle, Reginald Moran, Earl of Chiselrig. I should doubt if that were a legal will, said I. It doesn't need to be, replied the young man with a smile. I am next of kin and heir to everything he possessed, although, of course, he might have given his money elsewhere if he had chosen to do so. Why he did not bequeath it to some institution, I do not know. He knew no man personally except his own servants, whom he misused and starved. But as he told them, he misused and starved himself, so they had no cause to grumble. He said he was treating them like one of the family. I suppose he thought it would cause me more worry and anxiety if he concealed the money and put me on the wrong scent, which I am convinced he has done, than to leave it openly to any person or charity. I need not ask if you have searched at the library. Searched it? Why, there never was such a search since the world began. Possibly you put the task into incompetent hands.  Let me assure you such is not the case. Incompetent hands I grant you, but the hands were my own. For the past six months I have lived practically as my uncle lived. I have rummaged that library from floor to ceiling. It was left in a frightful state, littered with old newspapers, accounts, and what not. Then, of course, there were the books remaining in the library, still a formidable collection. Was your uncle a religious man? I could not say. I surmise not. You see, I was unacquainted with him and never saw him until after his death. I fancy he was not religious, otherwise he could not have acted as he did. Still, he proved himself a man of such twisted mentality that anything is possible. I knew a case once where an heir who expected a large sum of money was bequeathed a family Bible, which he threw into the fire, learning afterwards to his dismay that it contained many thousands of pounds in Bank of England notes, the object of the divisor being to induce the legity to read the good book or suffer through the neglect of it. I have searched the scriptures, said the youthful earl with a laugh, but the benefit has been moral rather than material. Is there any chance that your uncle has deposited his wealth in a bank, and has written a cheque for the amount, leaving it between two leaves of a book? Anything is possible, monsieur, but I think that is highly improbable. I have gone through every tome page by page, and I suspect very few of the volumes have been opened for the last twenty years. How much money do you estimate he accumulated? He must have cleared more than a hundred thousand pounds, but speaking of banking it, I would like to say that my uncle evinced a deep distrust of banks and never drew a cheque in his life so far as I am aware. All accounts were paid in gold by this old steward, who first brought the receded bill in to my uncle, and then received the exact amount after having left the room, and waited until he was wrong for, so that he might not learn the repository from which my uncle drew his store. I believe if the money is ever found it will be in gold, and I am very sure that this will was written, if we may call it a will, to put us on the wrong scent. Have you had the library cleared out? Oh no, it is practically as my uncle left it. I realised that if I were to call in help it would be well that the newcomer found it undisturbed. You were quite right, my lord. You say you examined all the papers? Yes, so far as that is concerned the room has been very fairly gone over, but nothing that was in it the day my uncle died has been removed, not even his anvil. His anvil? Yes, I told you he made a blacksmith's shop as well as bedroom of the library. It is a huge room with a great fireplace at one end which formed an excellent forge. He and the steward built the forge in the eastern fireplace of brick and clay with their own hands, and erected there a second-hand blacksmith's bellows. What work did he do at his forge? Oh, anything that was required about the place. He seems to have been a very expert iron-worker. He would never buy a new implement for the garden or the house so long as he could get one second-hand, and he never bought anything second-hand while at his forge he might repair what was already in use. He kept an old cob on which he used to ride through the park, and he always put the shoes on this cob himself, the steward informs me. So he must have understood the use of blacksmith's tools. He made a carpenter's shop of the chief drawing-room, and erected a bench there. I think a very useful mechanic was spoiled when my uncle became an Earl. You have been living at the chase since your uncle died? If you call it living, yes. The old steward and his wife have been looking after me as they looked after my uncle, and seeing me day after day, coatless and covered with dust, I imagine they think me a second edition of the old man. Does the steward know the money is missing? No, no one knows it but myself. This will was left on the anvil in an envelope addressed to me. Your statement is exceedingly clear, Lord Chislerigg, but I confess I don't see much daylight through it. Is there a pleasant country around Chislerigg Chase? Very, especially at this season of the year. In autumn and winter the house is a little drafty. It needs several thousand pounds to put it in repair. Drafts do not matter in the summer. I have been long enough in England not to share the fear of my countrymen for a courant d'oeuvre. Is there a spare bed in the manor house? Or shall I take down a cot with me, or let us say a hammock? Really, stammered the Earl, blushing again. You must not think I detailed all these circumstances in order to influence you to take up what may be a hopeless case. I, of course, am deeply interested and therefore somewhat prone to be carried away when I begin a recital of my uncle's eccentricities.  To tell you the truth, I borrowed a little money from the old steward and visited London to see my legal advisers, hoping that in the circumstances I may get permission to sell something that will keep me from starvation. When I spoke of the house being denuded, I meant relatively, of course. There are still a good many antiquities, which would doubtless bring me in a comfortable sum of money. I have been born up by the belief that I should find my uncle's gold. Lately I have been beset by a suspicion that the old gentleman thought the library the only valuable asset left, and for this reason wrote his note, thinking I should be afraid to sell anything from that room. The old rascal must have made a pot of money out of those shelves. The catalogue shows that there was a copy of the first book printed in England by Caxton and several priceless Shakespeare's, as well as many other volumes that a collector would give a small fortune for. All these are gone. I think when I show this to be the case, the authorities cannot refuse me the right to sell something, and if I get this permission I shall at once call upon you. Nonsense, Lodge's rig.  Let us enjoy a good dinner together at the Cecil tonight, if you will do me the honour to be my guest. Tomorrow we can leave for Chislerigg Chase. How far is it? About three hours, replied the young man, becoming as red as a new Queen Anne Villa. Really, Monsieur Valmont, you overwhelm me with your kindness, but nevertheless I accept your generous offer. Then that's settled. What's the name of the old steward? Higgins. You are certain he has no knowledge of the hiding-place of this treasure? Oh, quite sure. My uncle was not a man to make a confident of anyone, least of all an old babbler like Higgins. Well, I should like to be introduced to Higgins as a benighted foreigner.  Oh, I say! protested the earl. I should have thought you'd lived long enough in England to have got out of the notion that we do not appreciate the foreigner. Indeed, we are the only nation in the world that extends a cordial welcome to him, rich or poor. Ah, c'était mort, my Lord. I should be deeply disappointed did you not take me at my proper valuation. But I cherish no delusions regarding the contempt with which Higgins will regard me. He will look upon me as a sort of simpleton, to whom the Lord had been unkind by not making England my native land. Now Higgins must be led to believe that I am in his own class, that is a servant of yours. Higgins and I will gossip over the fire together, should these spring evenings prove chilly. And before two or three weeks are past, I shall have learned a great deal about your uncle that you never dreamed of. Higgins will talk more freely with a fellow servant than with his master, however much he may respect that master. And then, as I am a foreigner, he will bubble down to my comprehension, and I shall get details that he never would think of giving to a fellow countryman. The young Earl's modesty, in such description of his home as he had given me, left me totally unprepared for the grandeur of the mansion, one corner of which he inhabited. It is such a place as you read of in romances of the Middle Ages, not a pinnacled or turreted French chateau of that period, but a beautiful and substantial stone manor house of a ruddy collar, whose warm hue seemed to add a softness to the severity of its architecture. It is built round an outer and an inner courtyard, and could house a thousand, rather than the hundred with which its owner had accredited it. There are many stone-millioned windows, and one at the end of the library might well have graced a cathedral. This superb residence occupies the centre of a heavily-timbered park, and from the lodge at the gates we drove at least a mile and a half under the grandest avenue of old Oaks I have ever seen. It seemed incredible that the owner of all this should actually lack the ready money to pay his fare to town. Old Higgins met us at the station with a somewhat rickety cart, to which was attached the ancient cob that the late Earl used to shoe. We entered a noble hall which probably looked the larger because of the entire absence of any kind of furniture, unless two complete suits of venerable armor which stood on either hand might be considered as furnishing. I laughed aloud when the door was shut, and the sound echoed like the merriment of ghosts from the dim-timbered roof above me. What are you laughing at? asked the Earl. I am laughing to see you put your modern tall hat on that medieval helmet. Oh, that's it! Well, put yours on the other. I mean no disrespect to the ancestor who wore this suit, but we are short of the harmless necessary hat-rack, so I put my topper on the antique helmet, and thrust the umbrella, if I have one, in behind here, and down one of his legs. Since I came in possession, a very crafty-looking dealer from London visited me and attempted to sound me regarding the sale of these suits of armor. I gathered he would give enough money to keep me in new suits London made for the rest of my life, but when I endeavoured to find out if he had had commercial dealings with my prophetic uncle, he became frightened and bolted. I imagined that if I had possessed presence of mind enough to have lured him into one of our most uncomfortable dungeons, I might have learned where some of the family treasures went to. Come up these stairs, Monsieur Valmont, and I will show you your room. We had lunched on the train coming down, so after a wash in my own room, I proceeded at once to inspect the library. It proved indeed a most noble apartment, and it had been scandalously used by the old reprobate, its late tenant. There were two huge fireplaces, one in the middle of the north wall, and the other at the eastern end. In the latter had been erected a rude brick forge, and beside the forge hung a great black bellows, smoky with usage. On a wooden block lay the anvil, and around it rested and rusted several hammers, large and small. At the western end was a glorious window filled with ancient stained glass, which, as I have said, might have adorned a cathedral. Extensive as the collection of books was, the great size of this chamber made it necessary that only the outside wall should be covered with bookcases, and even these were divided by tall windows. The opposite wall was blank, with the exception of a picture here and there. And these pictures offered a further insult to the room, for they were cheap prints, mostly coloured lithographs that had appeared in Christmas numbers of London weekly journals, encased in poverty-stricken frames, hanging from nails ruthlessly driven in above them. The floor was covered with a litter of papers, in some places knee-deep, and in the corner farthest from the forge, still stood the bed, on which the ancient miser had died. Looks like a stable, doesn't it? commented the earl when I had finished my inspection. I am sure the old boy simply filled it up with this rubbish to give me the trouble of examining it. Higgins tells me that up to within a month before he died the room was reasonably clear of all this muck. Of course it had to be, or the place would have caught fire from the sparks of the forge. The old man made Higgins gather all the papers he could find anywhere about the place, ancient accounts, newspapers, and what not, even to the brown wrapping paper you see in which parcels came, and commanded him to strew the floor with this litter. Because, as he complained, Higgins's boots on the boards made too much noise, and Higgins, who is not in the least of an inquiring mind, accepted this explanation as entirely meeting the case. Higgins proved to be a garrulous old fellow who needed no urging to talk about the late earl. Indeed it was almost impossible to deflect his conversation into any other channel. Twenty years' intimacy with the eccentric nobleman had largely obliterated that sense of deference with which an English servant usually approaches his master. An English underling's idea of nobility is the man who never by any possibility works with his hands. The fact that Lord Chislerig had toiled at the carpenter's bench, had mixed cement in the drawing-room, had caused the anvil to ring out till midnight, aroused no admiration in Higgins's mind. In addition to this, the ancient nobleman had been penuriously strict in his examination of accounts, exacting the uttermost farthing, so the humble servitor regarded his memory with supreme contempt. I realised before the drive was finished from the station to Chislerig Chase, that there was little use of introducing me to Higgins as a foreigner and a fellow servant. I found myself completely unable to understand what the old fellow said. His dialect was as unknown to me as the Choctaw language would have been, and the young earl was compelled to act as interpreter on the occasions when we set this garrulous talking machine going. The new earl of Chislerig, with the enthusiasm of a boy, proclaimed himself my pupil and assistant, and said he would do whatever he was told. His thorough and fruitless search of the library had convinced him that the old man was merely chaffing him, as he put it, by leaving such a letter as he had written. His lordship was certain that the money had been hidden somewhere else, probably buried under one of the trees in the park.  Yet I did not think it probable. All conversations with Higgins showed the earl to have been an extremely suspicious man, suspicious of banks, even of Bank of England notes, suspicious of every person on earth, not omitting Higgins himself. Therefore, as I told his nephew, the miser would never allow the fortune out of his sight and immediate reach. From the first the oddity of the forge and anvil being placed in his bedroom struck me as peculiar, and I said to the young man, I'll stake my reputation that forge or anvil or both contain the secret. You see, the old gentleman worked sometimes till midnight for Higgins could hear his hammering. If he used hard coal on the forge the fire would last through the night, and being in continual terror of thieves as Higgins says, barricading the castle every evening before dark as if it were a fortress, he was bound to place the treasure in the most unlikely spot for a thief to get at it. Now the coal fire smoldered all night long, and if the gold was in the forge underneath the embers it would be extremely difficult to get at. A robber rummaging in the dark would burn his fingers in more senses than one. Then, as his lordship kept no less than four loaded revolvers under his pillow, all he had to do, if a thief entered his room, was to allow the search to go on until the thief started at the forge, then doubtless as he had the range with reasonable accuracy night or day, he might sit up in bed and blaze away with revolver after revolver. There were twenty-eight shots that could be fired in about double as many seconds, so you see the robber stood little chance in the face of such a fuselage. I propose that we dismantle the forge. Lochiselrig was much taken by my reasoning, and one morning early we cut down the big bellows, tore it open, found it empty, then took brick after brick from the forge with a crowbar, for the old man had builded better than he knew with Portland cement. In fact, when we cleared away the rubbish between the bricks at the core of the furnace, we came upon one cube of cement which was as hard as granite. With the aid of Higgins and a set of rollers and levers, we managed to get this block out into the park and attempted to crush it with the sledge-hammers belonging to the forge, in which we were entirely unsuccessful. The more it resisted our efforts, the more certain we became that the coins would be found within it. As this would not be treasure trove in the sense that the government might make a claim upon it, there was no particular necessity for secrecy. So we had up a man from the mines, nearby, with drills and dynamite, who speedily shattered the block into a million pieces, more or less. Alas, there was no trace in its debris of paedirt, as the western miner puts it. While the dynamite expert was on the spot, we induced him to shatter the anvil, as well as the block of cement, and then the workman, doubtless thinking the new Earl was as insane as the old one had been, shouldered his tools, and went back to his mine. The Earl reverted to his former opinion that the gold was concealed in the park, while I held even more firmly to my own belief that the fortune rested in the library. It is obvious, I said to him, that if the treasure is buried outside, someone must have dug the hole. A man so timorous and so reticent as your uncle would allow no one to do this but himself. Higgins maintained the other evening that all picks and spades were safely locked up by himself each night in the tool-house. The mansion itself was barricaded with such exceeding care, that it would have been difficult for your uncle to get outside, even if he had wished to do so. Then such a man as your uncle is described to have been, would continually desire ocular demonstration that his savings were intact, which would be practically impossible if the gold had found a grave in the park. I propose now that we abandon violence and dynamite and proceed to an intellectual search of the library. Very well replied the young Earl, but, as I have already searched the library very thoroughly, your use of the word intellectual, Monsieur Valmont, is not in accord with your customary politeness. However, I am with you. It is for you to command and me to obey. Pardon me, my lord, I said. I use the word intellectual in contra-distinction to the word dynamite. It had no reference to your former search. I merely propose that we now abandon the use of chemical reaction and employ the much greater force of mental activity. Did you notice any writing on the margins of the newspapers you examined? No, I did not. Is it possible that there may have been some communication on the white border of a newspaper? It is, of course, possible. Then will you set yourself to the task of glancing over the margin of every newspaper, piling them away in another room when your scrutiny of each is complete? Do not destroy anything, but we must clear out the library completely. I am interested in the accounts, and will examine them. It was exasperatingly tedious work, but after several days my assistant reported every margin scanned without result, while I had collected each bill and memorandum, classifying them according to date. I could not get rid of a suspicion that the contrary old beast had written instructions for the finding of the treasure on the back of some account, or on the fly-leaf of a book. And as I looked at the thousands of volumes still left in the library, the prospect of such a patient and minute search appalled me. But I remembered Edison's words to the effect that if a thing exists, search exhaustive enough will find it. From the mass of accounts I selected several, the rest I placed in another room alongside the heap of the Earl's Newspapers. Now, said I to my helper, if it please you we will have Higgins in as I wish some explanation of these accounts. Perhaps I can assist you, suggested his lordship, drawing up a chair opposite the table on which I had spread the statements. I have lived here for six months, and know as much about things as Higgins does. He is so difficult to stop when once he begins to talk. What is the first account you wish further light upon? To go back thirteen years I find that your uncle bought a second hand safe in Sheffield. Here is the bill. I consider it necessary to find that safe. Pray forgive me, monsieur Valmont, cried the young man, springing to his feet and laughing. So heavy an article as a safe should not slip radially from a man's memory, but it did from mine. The safe is empty, and I gave no more thought to it. Saying this, the Earl went to one of the bookcases that stood against the wall, pulled it round as if it were a door, books and all, and displayed the front of an iron safe, the door of which he also drew open, exhibiting the usual empty interior of such a receptacle. I came on this, he said, when I took down all these volumes. It appears that there was once a secret door leading from the library into an outside room, which has long since disappeared. The walls are very thick.  Quite so, said I, endeavouring to conceal my disappointment. As this strongbox was bought second hand and not made to order, I suppose there can be no secret crannies in it. It looks like a common or garden safe, reported my assistant, but we'll have it out if you say so. Not just now, I replied. We've had enough of dynamiting to make us feel like housebreakers already. I agree with you. What's the next item on the programme? Your uncle's mania for buying things at second hand was broken in three instances, so far as I have been able to learn from a scrutiny of these accounts. About four years ago he purchased a new book from Denny and Company, the well-known booksellers of the Strand. Denny and Co deal only in new books. Is there any comparatively new volume in the library? Not one. Are you sure of that? Oh, quite. I searched all the literature in the house. What is the name of the volume he bought? That I cannot decipher. The initial letter looks like M, but the rest is a mere wavy line. I see, however, that it cost twelve and sixpence, while the cost of carriage by parcel post was sixpence, which shows it weighed something under four pounds. This, with the price of the book, induces me to think that it was a scientific work, printed on heavy paper, and illustrated. I know nothing of it, said the Earl. The third account is for wallpaper, twenty-seven rolls of an expensive wallpaper, and twenty-seven rolls of a cheap paper, the latter being just half the price of the former. This wallpaper seems to have been supplied by a tradesman in the station-road in the village of Chiselrig. There's your wallpaper, cried the youth, waving his hand. He was going to paper the whole house, Higgins told me, but got tired after he had finished the library, which took him nearly a year to accomplish. For he worked at it very intermittently, mixing the paste in the boudoir, a pailful at a time as he needed it. It was a scandalous thing to do, for underneath the paper is the most exquisite oak panelling, very plain, but very rich in colour. I rose and examined the paper on the wall. It was dark brown, and answered the description of the expensive paper on the bill. What became of the cheap paper, I asked. I don't know. I think, said I, we are on the track of the mystery. I believe that paper covers a sliding panel or concealed door. It is very likely, replied the Earl, I intended to have the paper off, but I had no money to pay a workman, and I am not so industrious as was my uncle. What is your remaining account? The last also pertains to paper, but comes from a firm in Budgerow, London, EC. He has had, it seems, a thousand sheets of it, and it appears to have been frightfully expensive. This bill is also illegible, but I take it a thousand sheets were supplied, although, of course, it may have been a thousand choirs, which would be a little more reasonable for the price charged, or a thousand reams which would be exceedingly cheap. I don't know anything about that. Let's turn on Higgins. Higgins knew nothing of this last order of paper, either. The wallpaper mystery here once cleared up. Apparently the old Earl had discovered by experiment that the heavy expensive wallpaper would not stick to the glossy panelling, so he had purchased a cheaper paper and had pasted that on first. Higgins said he had gone all over the panelling with a yellowish-white paper, and after that was dry he pasted over it the more expensive rolls. But, I objected, the two papers were bought and delivered at the same time. Therefore he could not have found by experiment that the heavy paper would not stick. I don't think there is much in that, commented the Earl. The heavy paper may have been bought first and found to be unsuitable, and then the coarse cheap paper bought afterwards. The bill merely shows that the account was sent in on that date. Indeed, as the village of Chiselrig is but a few miles away, it would have been quite possible for my uncle to have bought the heavy paper in the morning, tried it, and in the afternoon sent for the common a lot. But in any case the bill would not have been presented until months after the order, and the two purchasers were thus lumped together. I was forced to confess that this seemed reasonable. Now about the book ordered from Denny's. Did Higgins remember anything regarding it? It came four years ago. Ah yes, Higgins did. He remembered it very well indeed. He had come in one morning with the Earl's tea, and the old man was sitting up in bed reading his volume with such interest that he was unaware of Higgins's knock, and Higgins himself, being a little hard of hearing, took for granted the command to enter. The Earl hastily thrust the book under the pillow alongside the revolvers, and rated Higgins in a most cruel way for entering the room before getting permission to do so. He had never seen the Earl so angry before, and he laid it all to this book. It was after the book had come that the forge had been erected, and the anvil bought. Higgins never saw the book again, but one morning, six months before the Earl died, Higgins, in raking out the cinders of the forge, found what he supposed was a portion of the book's cover. He believed his master had burnt the volume. Having dismissed Higgins, I said to the Earl, The first thing to be done is to enclose this bill to Denny and company booksellers strand. Tell them you have lost the volume, and ask them to send another. There is likely someone in the shop who can decipher the illegible writing. I am certain the book will give us a clue. Now I shall write to Brown and son's Budge Row. This is evidently a French company. In fact, the name, as connected with papermaking, runs in my mind, although I cannot at this moment place it. I shall ask them the use of this paper that they furnished to the late Earl. This was done accordingly. And now, as we thought, until the answers came, we were two men out of work. Yet the next morning I am pleased to say, and I have always rather plumed myself on the fact, I solved the mystery before replies were received from London. Of course, both the book and the answer of the paper agents, by putting two and two together, would have given us the key. After breakfast I strolled somewhat aimlessly into the library, whose floor was now strewn merely with brown wrapping paper, bits of string, and all that. As I shuffled among this with my feet, as if tossing aside dead autumn leaves in a forest path, my attention was suddenly drawn to several squares of paper unwrinkled, and never used for wrapping. These sheets seemed to me strangely familiar. I picked one of them up, and at once the significance of the name Brown and Sons occurred to me. They are paper-makers in France who produce a smooth, very tough sheet, which, dear as it is, proves infinitely cheap, compared with the fine vellum it deposed in a certain branch of industry. In Paris, years before, these sheets had given me the knowledge of how a gang of thieves disposed of their gold without melting it. The paper was used instead of vellum in the rougher processes of manufacturing gold leaf. It stood the constant beating of the hammer nearly as well as the vellum. And here at once they flashed on me the secret of the old man's midnight anvil work. He was transforming his sovereigns into gold leaf, which must have been of a rude thick kind, because to produce the gold leaf of commerce he still needed the vellum, as well as a clutch and other machinery of which we had found no trace. My lord, I called to my assistant. He was at the other end of the room. I wished to test a theory on the anvil of your own fresh common sense. Hammer away, replied the Earl, approaching me with his usual good-natured, jocular expression. I eliminate the safe from our investigations because it was purchased thirteen years ago. But the buying of the book, of wall-covering, of this tough paper from France, all grouped themselves into a set of incidents occurring within the same month as the purchase of the anvil and the building of the forge. Therefore, I think they are related to one another. Here are some sheets of paper he got from Budge Row. Have you ever seen anything like it? Try to tear this sample. It's reasonably tough, admitted his lordship, fruitlessly endeavouring to rip it apart. Yes, it was made in France and is used in gold-beating. Your uncle beat his sovereigns into gold leaf. You will find that the book from Denis is a volume on gold-beating. And now, as I remember that scribbled word which I could not make out, I think the title of the volume is Metallergy. It contains no doubt a chapter on the manufacture of gold leaf. I believe you, said the Earl, but I don't see that the discovery sets us any further forward. We are now looking for gold leaf instead of sovereigns. Let's examine this wallpaper, said I. I placed my knife under a corner of it at the floor and quite easily ripped off a large section. As Higgins had said, the brown paper was on top and the coarse, light-coloured paper underneath. But even that came away from the oak panelling as easily as though it hung there from habit and not because of paste. Feel the weight of that, I cried, handing him the sheet I had torn from the wall. By Jove, said the Earl, in a voice almost of awe. I took it from him and laid it face downwards on the wooden table, threw a little water on the back, and with a knife scraped away the porous white paper. Instantly there gleamed up at us the baleful yellow of the gold. I shrugged my shoulders and spread out my hands. The Earl of Chisleriggle laughed aloud and very heartily. You see how it is, I cried. The old man first covered the entire wall with this whitish paper. He heated his sovereigns at the forge and beat them out on the anvil, then completed the process rudely between the sheets of this paper from France. Probably he pasted the gold to the wall as soon as he shot himself in for the night and covered it over with the more expensive paper before Higgins entered in the morning. We found afterwards, however, that he had actually fastened the thick sheets of gold to the wall with carpet tacks. His lordship netted a trifle over £123,000 through my discovery. And I am pleased to pay tribute to the young man's generosity by saying that his voluntary settlement made my bank account swell stout as a city alderman. End of Chapter 4 Lord Chislerigg's Missing Fortune