CHAPTER XVII. THE ACCUSING FINGER. Of my wanderings after I left the museum on that black-and-dismal d'essirée I have but a dim recollection, but I must have travelled a quite considerable distance, since it wanted an hour or two to the time for returning to the surgery, and I spent the interval walking swiftly through streets and squares, unmindful of the happenings around, intent only on my present misfortune, and driven by a natural impulse to seek relief in bodily exertion. For mental distress sets up, as it were, a sort of induced current of physical unrest, a beneficent arrangement by which a dangerous excess of emotional excitement may be transformed into motor energy, and so safely got rid of. The motor apparatus acts as a safety valve to the psychical, and if the engine races for a while with the onset of a bodily fatigue, the emotional pressure gauge returns to a normal reading. And so it was with me. At first I was conscious of nothing but a sense of utter bereavement, of the shipwreck of all my hopes. But by degrees as I threaded my way among the moving crowds I came to a better and more worthy frame of mind. After all, I had lost nothing that I had ever had. Ruth was still all that she had ever been to me, perhaps even more. And if that had been a rich endowment yesterday, why not today also? And how unfair it would be to her if I should mope and grieve over a disappointment that was no fault of hers, and for which there was no remedy. Thus I reasoned with myself, and to such purpose that, by the time I reached Federer Lane, my dejection had come to quite manageable proportions, and I had formed the resolution to get back to the status quo antebellum as soon as possible. About eight o'clock as I was sitting alone in the consulting room, gloomily persuading myself that I was now quite resigned to the inevitable, a doffus brought me a registered packet at the handwriting on which my heart gave such a bound that I had much adieu to sign the receipt. As soon as the doffus had retired, with undissembled contempt of the shaky signature, I tore open the packet, and as I drew out a letter a tiny box dropped on the table. The letter was all too short, and I devoured it over and over again with the eagerness of a condemned man reading a reprieve. My dear Paul, forgive me for leaving you so abruptly this afternoon, and leaving you so unhappy too. I am more sane and reasonable now, and so send you greeting, and beg you not to grieve for that which can never be. It is quite impossible, dear friend, and I entreat you, as you care for me, never to speak of it again, never again to make me feel that I can give you so little when you have given so much. And do not try to see me for a little while. I shall miss your visits, and so will my father, who is very fond of you, but it is better that we should not meet until we can take up our old relations if that can never be. I am sending you a little keepsake in case we should drift apart on the eddies of life. It is the ring that I told you about, the one that my uncle gave me. Perhaps you may be able to wear it as you have a small hand, but in any case keep it in remembrance of our friendship. The device on it is the Eye of Osiris, a mystic symbol for which I have a sentimentally superstitious affection, as also had my poor uncle, who actually bore it tattooed in scarlet on his breast. It signifies that the great judge of the dead looks down on men to see that justice is done, and that truth prevails. So I commend you to the good Osiris. May his eye be upon you, ever watchful over your welfare, in the absence of, your affectionate friend, Ruth. It was a sweet letter, I thought, even if it carried little comfort, quiet and reticent like its writer, but with an undertone of affection. I laid it down at length and, taking the ring from its box, examined it fondly. Though but a copy, it had all the quaintness and feeling of the antique original, and, above all, it was fragrant with the spirit of the giver. Dainty and delicate, wrought of silver and gold with an inlay of copper, I would not have exchanged it for the co-enure, and when I slipped it on my finger its tiny eye of blue enamel looked up at me so friendly and companionable that I felt the glamour of the old world superstition stealing over me, too. Not a single patient came in this evening, which was well for me, and also for the patient, as I was able forthwith to write in reply a long letter, but this I shall spare the long-suffering reader, accepting its concluding paragraph. And now, dearest, I have had my say. Once for all I have said it, and I will not open my mouth on the subject again. I am not actually opening it now, until the times do alter. And if the times do never alter, if it shall come to pass, in due course, that we too shall sit side by side, white haired and crinkly nosed, and lean our poor old chins upon our sticks, and mumble and gibber amicably over the things that might have been, if the good Osiris had come up to the scratch, I will still be content, because your friendship, Ruth, is better than another woman's love.  This letter I addressed and stamped, and then, with a rye grimace which I palmed off on myself, but not on Adolphus, as a cheerful smile, I went out and dropped it into the postbox, after which I further deluded myself, by murmuring nuk de bitis, and assuring myself that the incident was now absolutely closed. But despite this comfortable assurance I was, in the days that followed, an exceedingly miserable young man. It is all very well to write down troubles of this kind as trivial and sentimental. They are nothing of the pain. When a man of essentially serious nature has found the one woman of all the world, who fulfills his highest ideals of womanhood, who is, in fact, a woman in ten thousand, to whom he has given all that he has to give of love and worship, the sudden wreck of all his hopes, is no small calamity. And so I found it. Resign myself as I would to the bitter reality the ghost of the might have been haunted me night and day, so that I spent my leisure wandering abstractedly about the streets, always trying to banish thought, and never for an instant succeeding. A great unrest was upon me, and when I received a letter from Dick Barnard announcing his arrival at Madeira, homeward bound, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had no plans for the future, but I longed to be rid of the now irksome routine of the practice, to be free to come and go when and how I pleased. One evening, as I sat consuming with little appetite my solitary supper, there fell on me a sudden sense of loneliness.  That indeed which I craved for most was forbidden, and I must abide by my lady's wishes. But there were my friends in the temple. It was more than a week since I had seen them. In fact, we had not met since the morning of that unhappiest day of my life. They would be wondering what had become of me. I rose from the table, and having filled my pouch from a tin of tobacco, set forth for King's Bench Walk. As I approached the entry of Number 5A in the Gathering Darkness, I met Thorndike himself emerging, encumbered with two deck-chairs, a reading lantern, and a book. Well, I Berkeley, he exclaimed, is it indeed thou? We have been wondering what had become of you. It is a long time since I looked you up, I admitted. He scrutinized me attentively by the light of the entry-lamp, and then remarked, Federlein doesn't seem to be agreeing with you very well, my son. You are looking quite thin and peaky. Well, I've nearly done with it. Barnard will be back in about ten days. His ship is putting in at Madeira to coal, and taken some cargo, and then he is coming home. Where are you going with those chairs? I am going to sit at the end of the walk by the railings. It's cooler there than indoors. If you will wait a moment, I will go and fetch another chair for Jervis, though he won't be back for a little while. He ran up the stairs and presently returned with a third chair, and we carried our impedimenta down to the quiet corner of the walk. So your term of servitude is coming to an end, said he, when we had placed the chairs and hung the lantern on the railings. Any other news? No, have you any? I am afraid I have not. All my inquiries have yielded negative results. There is, of course, a considerable body of evidence, and it all seems to point one way. But I am unwilling to make a decisive move, without something more definite. I am really waiting for confirmation, or otherwise, of my ideas on the subject, for some new item of evidence. I didn't know there was any evidence. Didn't you? said Thorndegg. But you know as much as I know you have all the essential facts. But apparently you haven't collated them and extracted their meaning. If you had, you would have found them curiously significant. I suppose I mustn't ask what their significance is. No, I think not. When I am conducting a case, I mention my surmises to nobody, not even to Jervis. Then I can say confidently that there has been no leakage, but don't think I distrust you. Remember that my thoughts are my client's property, and that the essence of strategy is to keep the enemy in the dark. Yes, I see that. Of course I ought not to have asked. You ought not need to ask," Thorndegg replied, with a smile. You should put the facts together and reason from them yourself. While we had been talking, I had noticed Thorndegg glanced at me inquisitively from time to time. Now, after an interval of silence, he asked suddenly, Is anything amiss, Berkeley? Are you worrying about your friend's affairs? No, not particularly, though their prospects don't look very rosy. Perhaps they are not quite as bad as they look, said he. But I am afraid something is troubling you, all your gay spirits seem to have evaporated. He paused for a few moments and then added, I don't want to intrude on your private affairs, but if I can help you by advice or otherwise, remember that we are old friends and that you are my academic offspring. Instinctively, with a man's natural reticence, I began to mumble a half-articulate disclaimer, and then I stopped. After all, why should I not confide in him? He was a good man and a wise man, full of human sympathy, as I knew, though so cryptic and secretive in his professional capacity, and I wanted a friend badly just now. I am afraid, I began shyly, it is not a matter that admits of much help, and it's hardly the sort of thing that I ought to worry you by talking about.  Of course I don't, sir, I exclaimed. Then fire away, and don't call me sir. We are brother practitioners now. Thus encouraged I poured out the story of my little romance, bashfully at first, and with halting phrases, but later with more freedom and confidence. He listened with grave attention, and once or twice put a question when my narrative became a little disconnected. When I had finished, he laid his hands softly on my arm. You have had rough luck, Berkeley. I don't wonder that you are miserable. I am more sorry than I can tell you. Thank you, I said. It's exceedingly good of you to listen so patiently, but it's a shame for me to pester you with my sentimental troubles. Now, Berkeley, you don't think that, and I hope you don't think that I do. We should be bad biologists and worse physicians, if we should underestimate the importance of that which is nature's chiefest care. The one salient biological truth is the paramount importance of sex, and we are deaf and blind if we do not hear and see it in everything that lives when we look abroad upon the world, when we listen to the spring song of the birds, or when we consider the lilies of the field, and as is man to the lower organisms, so is human love to their merely reflex manifestations of sex. I will maintain, and you will agree with me, I know, that the love of a serious and honorable man for a woman who is worthy of him is the most momentous of all human affairs. It is the foundation of social life, and its failure is a serious calamity, not only to those whose lives may be thereby spoiled, but to society at large. It's a serious enough matter for the party's concerned, I agreed, but that is no reason why they should bore their friends. But they don't. Friends should help one another and think it a privilege. Oh, I shouldn't mind coming to you for help, knowing you as I do. But no one can help a poor devil in a case like this, and certainly not a medical jurist. Oh, come, Berkeley, he protested. Don't rate us too low. The humblest of creatures has its uses, even the little Pismire. You know, as Isaac Walton tells us, why I have got substantial help from a stamp collector, and then reflect upon the motor scorcher, and the earthworm, and the blowfly. All these lowly creatures play their parts in the scheme of nature, and shall we cast out the medical jurist as nothing worth? I laughed dejectedly at my teacher's genial irony. What I meant, I said, was that there is nothing to be done but wait, perhaps forever. I don't know why she isn't able to marry me, and I mustn't ask her. She can't be married already. Certainly not. She told you explicitly that there was no man in the case. Exactly, and I can think of no other valid reason, excepting that she doesn't care enough for me. That would be a perfectly sound reason, but then it would only be a temporary one, not the insuperable obstacle that she assumes to exist, especially as we really got on excellently together. I hope it isn't some confounded perverse feminine scruple. I don't see how it could be, but women are most frightfully torturous and wrong-headed at times. I don't see, said Thorndike, why we should cast about for perversely abnormal motives when there is a perfectly reasonable explanation, staring us in the face. Is there, I exclaimed, I see none. You are, not unnaturally, overlooking some of the circumstances that affect Miss Bellingham, but I don't suppose she has failed to grasp their meaning. Do you realize what her position really is? I mean with regard to her uncle's disappearance. I don't think I quite understand you. Well, there is no use in blinking the facts, said Thorndike. The position is this. If John Bellingham ever went to his brother's house at Woodford, it is nearly certain that he went there after his visit to Hearst. Mind, I say, if he went, I don't say that I believe he did. But it is stated that he appears to have gone there, and if he did go, he was never seen alive afterward. Now, he did not go in at the front door. No one saw him enter the house. But there was a back gate, which John Bellingham knew, and which had a bell which rang in the library. And you will remember that when Hearst and Jellico called, Mr. Bellingham had only just come in. Previous to that time, Miss Bellingham had been alone in the library. That is to say, she was alone in the library, at the very time when John Bellingham is said to have made his visit. That is the position, Berkeley. Nothing pointed has been said up to the present, but sooner or later, if John Bellingham is not found, dead or alive, the question will be opened. Then it is certain that Hearst, in self-defense, will make the most of any facts that may transfer suspicion from him to someone else, and that someone else will be Miss Bellingham. I sat for some moments, literally paralyzed with horror. Then my dismay gave place to indignation.  I beg your pardon. But could anyone have the infernal audacity to insinuate that that gentle, refined lady murdered her uncle? That is what will be hinted, if not plainly asserted, and she knows it. And that being so, is it difficult to understand why she should refuse to allow you to be publicly associated with her? To run the risk of dragging your honorable name into the sordid transactions of the police court or the Old Bailey? To invest it, perhaps, with a dreadful notoriety? Oh, don't, for God's sake! It is too horrible. Not that I would care for myself. I would be proud to share her martyrdom of ignomy, if it had to be. But it is the sacrilege, the blasphemy, of even thinking of her in such terms that enrages me. Yes, said Thorndyke, I understand and sympathize with you. Indeed, I share your righteous indignation at this dastardly affair. So you mustn't think me brutal for putting the case so plainly. I don't. You have only shown me the danger that I was fool enough not to see. But you seem to imply that this hideous position has been brought about deliberately. Certainly I do. This is no chance affair. Either the appearances indicate the real events, which I am sure they do not, or they have been created of a set purpose to lead to false conclusions. But the circumstances convince me that there has been a deliberate plot, and I am waiting in no spirit of Christian patience I can tell you to lay my hand on the wretch who has done this. What are you waiting for? I asked. I am waiting for the inevitable, he replied, for the false move that the most artful criminal invariably makes. At present he is lying low, but presently he will make a move, and then I shall have him. But he may go on laying low. What will you do then? Yes, that is the danger. We may have to deal with the perfect villain, who knows when to leave well alone. I have never met him, but he may exist nevertheless. And then we should have to stand by and see our friends go under. Perhaps, said Thorndyke, and we both subsided into gloomy and silent reflection. The place was peaceful and quiet, as only a backwater of London can be. Occasional hoots from faraway tugs and steamers told of the busy life down below in the crowded pool. A faint hum of traffic was born in from the streets outside the precincts, and the shrill voices of newspaper boys came in unceasing chorus from the direction of Carmelite Street. They were too far away to be physically disturbing, but the excited yells toned down as they were by distance, nevertheless stirred the very marrow in my bones, so dreadfully suggestive were they of those possibilities of the future at which Thorndyke had hinted. They seemed like the sinister shadows of coming misfortunes. Perhaps they called up the same association of ideas in Thorndyke's mind, for he remarked presently, The news-vendor is abroad tonight, like a bird of ill omen, something unusual has happened, some public or private calamity, most likely, and these yelling gulls are out to feast on the remains. The newspaper men have a good deal in common with the carrion-birds that hover over a battlefield. Again, we subsided into silence and reflection. Then, after an interval, I asked, Would it be possible for me to help in any way in this investigation of yours? That is exactly what I have been asking myself, replied Thorndyke. It would be right and proper that you should, and I think you might. How? I asked eagerly. I can't say offhand, but Jervis will be going away for his holiday almost at once. In fact, he will go off actual duty to-night. There is very little doing, the long vacation is close upon us, and I can do without him. But if you would care to come down here and take his place, you would be very useful to me, and if there should be anything to be done in the Bellingham's case, I am sure you would make up an enthusiasm for any deficiency in experience. I couldn't really take Jervis's place, said I, but if you would let me help you in any way it would be a great kindness. I would rather clean your boots than be out of it altogether. Very well. Let us leave it that you come down here as soon as Barnard has done with you. You can have Jervis's room, which he doesn't often use nowadays, and you will be more happy here than elsewhere, I know. I may as well give you my latchkey now. I have a duplicate upstairs, and you understand that my chambers are yours too, from this moment. He handed me the latchkey, and I thanked him warmly from my heart, for I felt sure that the suggestion was made, not for any use that I should be to him, but for my own peace of mind. I had hardly finished speaking, when a quick step on the paved walk caught my ear. Here is Jervis, said Darn Dyke. We will let him know that there is a locum tenon's ready to step into his shoes when he wants to be off. He flashed the lantern across the path, and a few moments later his junior stepped up briskly, with a bundle of newspapers tucked under his arm. It struck me that Jervis looked at me a little queerly when he recognized me in the dim light. Also he was a trifle constrained in his manner, as if my presence were an embarrassment. He listened to Thorn Dyke's announcement of our newly made arrangement without much enthusiasm, and with none of his customary facetious comments. And again I noticed a quick glance at me, half curious, half uneasy, and wholly puzzling to me. That's all right, he said, when Thorn Dyke had explained the situation. I dare say you'll find Berkeley as useful as me, and in any case, he'll be better here than staying on with Barnard. He spoke with unwanted gravity, and there was in his tone a solicitude for me that attracted my notice and that of Thorn Dyke as well, for the latter looked at him curiously, though he made no comment. After a short silence, however, he asked, And what news does my learned brother bring? There is a mighty shouting among the outer barbarians, and I see a bundle of newspapers under my learned friend's arm. Has anything in particular happened? Gervis looked more uncomfortable than ever. Well, yes, he replied hesitatingly. Something has happened. There, it's no use beating about the bush. Berkeley may as well learn it from me as from those yelling devils outside. He took a couple of papers from his bundle, and silently handed one to me and the other to Thorn Dyke. Gervis's ominous manner, naturally enough, alarmed me, not a little. I opened the paper with a nameless dread, but whatever my vague fears they fell far short of the occasion, and when I saw those yells from without crystallize into scare headlines and flaming capitals, I turned for a moment sick and dizzy with fear. The paragraph was only a short one, and I read it through in less than a minute. The missing finger, dramatic discovery at Woodford. The mystery that has surrounded the remains of a mutilated human body, portions of which have been found in various places in Kent and Essex, has received a partial and very sinister solution. The police have, all along, suspected that those remains were those of a Mr. John Bellingham, who disappeared under circumstances of some suspicion about two years ago. There is now no doubt upon the subject, for the finger which was missing from the hand that was found at Sidcup has been discovered at the bottom of a dish used well, together with a ring which has been identified as one habitually worn by Mr. John Bellingham. The house in the garden of which the well is situated was the property of the murdered man, and was occupied at the time of the disappearance by his brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham. But the latter left it very soon after, and it has been empty ever since. Just lately it has been put in repair, and it was in this way that the well came to be emptied and cleaned out. It seems that Detective Inspector Badger, who was searching the neighborhood for further remains, heard of the emptying of the well, and went down in the bucket to examine the bottom, where he found the three bones and the ring. Thus the identity of the body is established beyond all doubt, and the question that remains is, who killed John Bellingham? It may be remembered that a trinket, apparently broken from his watch chain, was found in the grounds of this house on the day that he disappeared, and that he was never again seen alive. What may be the import of these facts time will show. That was all, but it was enough. I dropped the paper to the ground, and glanced round furtively at Jervis, who sat gazing gloomily at the toes of his boots. It was horrible. It was incredible. The blow was so crushing it left my faculties numb, and for a while I seemed unable to think intelligibly. I was aroused by Thorndyke's voice, calm, businesslike, composed. Time will show, indeed. But meanwhile we must go warily, and don't be unduly alarmed, Berkley. Go home. Take a good dose of bromide with a little stimulant, and turn in. I am afraid this has been rather a shock to you. I rose from my chair, like one in a dream, and held up my hand to Thorndyke. And even in the dim light, and in my day's condition, I noticed that his face bore a look that I had never seen before. The look of a granite mask of fate, grim, stern, inexorable. My two friends walked with me as far as the gateway at the top of inner Temple Lane, and as we reached the entry, a stranger, coming quickly up the lane, overtook and passed us. In the glare of the lamp outside the porter's lodge, he looked at us quickly over his shoulder, and though he passed on without halt or greeting, I recognized him with a certain dull surprise, which I did not understand then, and do not understand now. It was Mr. Jellicoe. I shook hands once more with my friends, and strode out into Fleet Street. But as soon as I was outside the gate, I made direct for Neville's Court. What was in my mind I do not know, only that some instinct of protection led me there, where my lady lay unconscious of the hideous menace that hung over her. At the entrance to the Court a tall, powerful man was lounging against the wall, and he seemed to look at me curiously as I passed, but I hardly noticed him, and strode forward into the narrow passage. By the shabby gateway of the house I halted, and looked up at such of the windows as I could see over the wall. They were all dark. All the inmates then were in bed. Fagely comforted by this, I walked on to the new street end of the Court and looked out. Here too a man, a tall, thick-set man, was loitering, and as he looked inquisitively into my face I turned and re-entered into the Court, slowly retracing my steps. As I again reached the gate of the house I stopped to look once more at the windows, and turning I found the man whom I had last noticed close behind me, then in a flash of dreadful comprehension I understood. These two were plain clothes policemen. For a moment a blind fury possessed me, an insane impulse urged me to give battle to this intruder, to avenge upon this person the insult of his presence. Fortunately the impulse was but momentary, and I recovered myself without making any demonstration. But the appearance of those two policemen brought the peril into the immediate present, imparted to it a horrible actuality. A chilly sweat of terror stood on my forehead, and my ears were ringing when I walked with false ring steps out into Fetter Lane. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The Eye of Osiris by R. Austin Freeman Chapter 18 John Bellingham The next few days were a very nightmare of horror and gloom. Of course I repudiated my acceptance of the decree of banishment that Ruth had passed upon me. I was her friend, at least, and in time of peril my place was at her side. Tassently, though thankfully enough, poor girl, she had recognized the fact, and made me once more free of the house. For there was no disguising the situation. Newspaper boys yelled the news up and down Fleet Street from morning to night, soul-shaking posters grinned on gaping crowds, and the newspapers fairly wallowed in the shocking details. It is true that no direct accusations were made, but the original reports of the disappearance were reprinted with such comments as made me gnash my teeth with fury. The wretchedness of those days will live in my memory until my dying day. Never can I forget the dread that weighed me down, the horrible suspense, the fear that clutched at my heart as I furtively scanned the posters in the streets. Even the wretched detectives who prowled about the entrance to Neville's Court became grateful to my eyes. For, embodying as they did the hideous menace that hung over my dear lady, their presence at least told me that the blow had not yet fallen. Indeed we came after a time to exchange glances of mutual recognition, and I thought that they seemed to be sorry for her and for me, and had no great liking for their task. Of course I spent most of my leisure at the old house, though my heart ached more there than elsewhere, and I tried, with but poor success I fear, to maintain a cheerful, confident manner, cracking my little jokes as of old, and even assaying to skirmish with Miss Oman. But this last experiment was a dead failure, and when she had suddenly broken down in a stream of brilliant repartee, to weep hysterically on my breast, I abandoned the attempt and did not repeat it. A dreadful gloom had settled down upon the old house. Poor Miss Oman crept silently but restlessly up and down the ancient stairs, with dim eyes and a tremulous chin, or moped in her room with a parliamentary petition, demanding if I remember rightly, the appointment of a female judge to deal with divorce and matrimonial causes, which lay on her table languidly awaiting signatures that never came. Mr. Bellingham, whose mental condition at first alternated between furious anger and absolute panic, was fast sinking into a state of nervous prostration that I viewed with no little alarm. In fact, the only really self-possessed person in the entire household was Ruth herself, and even she could not conceal the ravages of sorrow and suspense and overshadowing peril. Her manner was almost unchanged, or rather I should say, she had gone back to that which I had first known, quiet, reserved, taciturn, with a certain bitter humor showing through her unvarying amiability. When she and I were alone, indeed her reserve melted away and she was all sweetness and gentleness. But it wrung my heart to look at her, to see how, day by day, she grew ever more thin and haggard, to watch the growing pallor of her cheek, to look into her solemn gray eyes so sad and tragic and yet so brave and defiant of fate. It was a terrible time, and through it all the dreadful questions haunted me continually. When will the blow fall? What is it that the police are waiting for? And when they do strike, what will Thorndike have to say? So things went on for four dreadful days. But on the fourth day, just as the evening consultations were beginning, and the surgery was filled with waiting patients, Poulton appeared with a note, which he insisted to the indignation of Adolphus on delivering into my own hands. It was from Thorndike, and was to the following effect. I learned from Dr. Norbury that he has recently heard, from Herr Liederboken of Berlin, a learned authority on Oriental Antiquities, who makes some reference to an English Egyptologist whom he met in Vienna about a year ago. He cannot recall the Englishman's name, but there are certain expressions in the letter which make Dr. Norbury suspect that he is referring to John Bellingham. I want you to bring Mr. and Miss Bellingham to my chambers this evening at 8.30 to meet Dr. Norbury and talk over his letter, and in view of the importance of the matter, I look to you not to fail me. A wave of hope and relief swept over me. It was still possible that this Gordian knot might be cut, that the deliverance might come before it was too late. I wrote a hasty note to Thorndike and another to Ruth, making the appointment, and having given them both to the trusty polton, returned somewhat feverishly to my professional duties. To my profound relief, the influx of patience ceased, and the practice sank into its accustomed torpor. Whereby I was able, without base and mendacious subterfuge, to escape in good time to my tryst. It was near enough upon eight o'clock when I passed through the archway into Neville's court. The warm afternoon light had died away, for the summer was running out apace. The last red glow of the setting sun had faded from the ancient roofs and chimney stacks, and down in the narrow court the shades of evening had begun to gather in nooks and corners. I was due at eight, and as it still wanted some minutes to the hour, I sauntered slowly down the court, looking reflectively on the familiar scene and the well-known friendly faces. The day's work was drawing to a close. The little shops were putting up their shutters, lights were beginning to twinkle in parlor windows. A solemn hymn arose in the old Moravian chapel, and its echo stole out through the dark entry that opens into the court under the archway. Here was Mr. Finniemore, a man of versatile gifts, with a leaning toward paint and varnish, sitting white-aproned and shirt-sleeved on a chair in his garden, smoking his pipe with a complacent eye on his dahlia's. There, at an open window, a young man, with a brush in his hand and another behind his ear, stood up and stretched himself, while an older lady deftly rolled up a large map. The barber was turning out the gas in his little saloon.  All these good, homely folk were Neville's courtiers of the genuine breed, born in the court, as had been their fathers before them for generations, and of such, to a great extent, was the population of the place. Ms. Oman herself claimed aboriginal descent, and so did the sweet-faced Moravian lady next door, a connection of the famous Latrobes of the old conventical, whose history went back to the Gordon riots. And as to the gentleman who lived in the ancient timber-and-plaster house at the bottom of the court, it was reported that his ancestors had dwelt in that very house since the days of James I. On these facts I reflected, as I sauntered down the court, on the strange phenomenon of an old-world hamlet with its ancient population lingering in the very heart of the noisy city, an island of peace set in an ocean of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and ferment. My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and as I raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of the house, talking to Ms. Oman. She was evidently waiting for me, for she wore her somber black coat and hat and a black veil, and when she saw me she came out, closing the door after her, and holding out her hand. You are punctual, said she. St. Dunstan's clock is striking now. Yes, I answered, but where is your father? He has gone to bed, poor old dear. He didn't feel well enough to come, and I did not urge him. He is really very ill. This dreadful suspense will kill him if it goes on much longer. Let us hope it won't, I said, but with little conviction I fear in my tone. It was harrowing to see her torn by anxiety for her father, and I yearned to comfort her. But what was there to say? Mr. Bellingham was breaking up visibly under the stress of the terrible menace that hung over his daughter, and no words of mine could make the fact less manifest. We walked silently up the court. The lady at the window greeted us with a smiling salutation. Mr. Finniemore removed his pipe and raced his cap, receiving a gracious bow from Ruth in return, and then we passed through the covered way into Fetter Lane, where my companion paused and looked about her. What are you looking for? I asked. The detective, she answered quietly, it would be a pity if the poor man should miss me after waiting so long. However, I don't see him. And she turned away toward Fleet Street. It was an unpleasant surprise to me that her sharp eyes detected the secret spy upon her movements, and the dry, sardonic tone of her remark pained me too, recalling, as it did, the frigid self-possession that had so repelled me in the early days of our acquaintance, and yet I could not but admire the cool unconcern with which she faced her horrible peril. Tell me a little more about this conference, she said, as we walked down Fetter Lane. Your note was rather more concise than lucid, but I suppose you wrote it in a hurry. Yes, I did, and I can't give you any details now. All I know is that Dr. Norbury has had a letter from a friend of his in Berlin, an Egyptologist, as I understand, named Liederbogen, who refers to an English acquaintance of his and Norbury's whom he saw in Vienna about a year ago. He cannot remember the Englishman's name, but from some of the circumstances Norbury seems to think that he is referring to your Uncle John. Of course if this should turn out to be really the case, it would set everything straight, so Thorndike was anxious that you and your father should meet Norbury and talk it over. I see, said Ruth. Her tone was thoughtful, but by no means enthusiastic. You don't seem to attach much importance to the matter, I remarked. No, it doesn't seem to fit the circumstances. What is the use of suggesting that poor Uncle John is alive and behaving like an impassal, which he certainly was not, when his dead body has actually been found? But, I suggested, lamely, there may be some mistake. It may not be his body after all. And the ring, she asked, with a bitter smile. That may be just a coincidence. It was a copy of a well-known form of antique ring. Other people may have had copies made as well as your Uncle. Besides, I added with more conviction. We haven't seen the ring. It may not be his at all. She shook her head. My dear Paul, she said quietly, it is useless to delude ourselves. Every known fact points to the certainty that it is his body. John Bellingham is dead. There can be no doubt of that. And to everyone except his unknown murderer and one or two of my own loyal friends, it must seem that his death lies at my door. I realize from the beginning that the suspicion lay between George Hurst and me, and the finding of the ring fixes it definitely on me. I am only surprised that the police have made no move yet. The quiet conviction of her tone left me for a while speechless with horror and despair. Then I recalled Thorndike's calm, even confident attitude, and I hasten to remind her of it. There is one of your friends, I said, who is still undismayed. Thorndike seems to anticipate no difficulties. And yet, she replied, he is ready to consider a forlorn hope like this. However we shall see. I could think of nothing more to say, and it was in gloomy silence that we pursued our way down inner Temple Lane and into the dark entries and tunnel-like passages that brought us out at length by the treasury. I don't see any lights in Thorndike's chambers, I said, as we cross King's Benchwalk, and I pointed out the row of windows all dark and blank. No, and yet the shutters are not closed. He must be out. He can't be after making an appointment with you and your brother, it is most mysterious. Thorndike is so very punctilious about his engagements. The mystery was solved when we reached the landing by a slip of paper fixed by a tack on the iron-bound oak. A note for P.B. is on the table, was the laconic message, on reading which I inserted my key, swung the heavy door outward, and opened the lighter inner door. The note was lying on the table, and I brought it out to the landing to read by the light of the staircase lamp. Apologize to our friends, it ran, for the slight change of program, nor worry is anxious that I should get my experiments over before the director returns so as to save discussion. He has asked me to begin to-night and says he will see Mr. and Miss Bellingham here at the museum. Please bring them along at once. I think some matters of importance may transpire at the interview. J.E.T. I hope you don't mind, I said apologetically, when I had read the note to Ruth. Of course I don't, she replied. I am rather pleased. We have so many associations with the dear old museum, haven't we? She looked at me for a moment with a strange and touching wistfulness, and then turned to descend the stone stairs. At the temple gate I hailed a handsome, and we were soon speeding westward and north to the soft twinkle of the horse's bell. What are these experiments that Dr. Thorndike refers to? She asked presently. I can only answer you vaguely, I replied. Their object, I believe, is to ascertain whether the penetrability of organic substances by the X-rays becomes altered by age. Whether, for instance, an ancient block of wood is more or less transparent to the rays than a new block of the same size. And of what use would the knowledge be if it were obtained? I can't say. Experiments are made to obtain knowledge without regard to its utility. The use appears when the knowledge has been acquired. But in this case, if it should be possible to determine the age of any organic substance by its reaction to X-rays, the discovery might be found of some value in legal practice, as in demonstrating a new seal on an old document, for instance. But I don't know whether Thorndike has anything definite in view. I only know that the preparations have been on a most pretentious scale. How do you mean? In regard to size, when I went into the workshop yesterday morning, I found Poulton erecting a kind of portable gallows about nine feet high, and he had just finished varnishing a pair of enormous wooden trays, each over six feet long. It looked as if he and Thorndike were contemplating a few private executions, with subsequent postmortems on the victims.  So Poulton said, with his quaint crinkly smile, but he was mighty close about the use of the apparatus all the same. I wonder if we shall see anything of the experiments when we get there. This is Museum Street, isn't it? Yes. As she spoke, she lifted the flap of one of the little windows in the back of the cab and peered out. Then, closing it with a quiet, ironic smile, she said, It's all right. He hasn't missed us. It will be quite a nice little change for him. The cab swung round into Great Russell Street, and glancing out as it turned, I saw another handsome following. But before I had time to inspect its solitary passenger, we drew up at the museum gates. The gate porter who seemed to expect us ushered us up the drive to the Great Portico and into the central hall, where he handed us over to another official. Dr. Norbury is in one of the rooms adjoining the Fourth Egyptian Room, the latter stated, in answer to our inquiries, and providing himself with a wire-guarded lantern he proceeded to escort us thither. Up the great staircase, now wrapped in mysterious gloom, we passed in silence, with bittersweet memories of that day of days when we had first trodden its steps together, through the central saloon, the medieval room and the Asiatic saloon, and so into the long range of the ethnographical galleries. It was a weird journey. The swaying lantern shot its beams abroad into the darkness of the great, dim galleries, casting instantaneous flashes on the objects in the cases, so that they leaped into being, and vanished in the twinkling of an eye. Hidious idols with round, staring eyes started forth from the darkness, lairded us for an instant, and were gone. Grotesque masks suddenly revealed by the shimmering light took on the semblance of demon faces that seemed to mow and gibber at us as we passed. As for the life-size models, realistic enough by daylight, their aspect was positively alarming, for the moving light and shadow endowed them with life and movement, so that they seemed to watch us furtively, to lie in wait, and to hold themselves in readiness to steal out and follow us. The illusion evidently affected Ruth as well as me, for she drew nearer to me, and whispered, These figures are quite startling. Did you see that Polynesian? I really felt as if you were going to spring out on us. They are rather uncanny, I admitted. But the danger is over now. We are passing out of their sphere of influence. We came out on a landing as I spoke, and then turned sharply to the left along the north gallery, from the center of which we entered the fourth Egyptian room. Almost immediately a door in the opposite wall opened, a peculiar high-pitched humming sound became audible, and Jervis came out on tiptoe with his hand raised. Tread as lightly as you can, he said, We are just making an exposure. The attendant turned back with his lantern, and we followed Jervis into the room from whence he had come. It was a large room, and little lighter than the galleries, for the single glow lamp that burned at the end where we entered, left the rest of the apartment in almost complete obscurity. We seated ourselves at once on the chairs that had been placed for us. And when the mutual salutations had been exchanged, I looked about me. There were three people in the room besides Jervis. Thorndike, who sat with his watch in his hand, a gray-headed gentleman, whom I took to be Dr. Norbury, and a smaller person at the dim farther end. Undistinguishable, but probably potent. At our end of the room were the two large trays that I had seen in the workshop. Now mounted on trestles and each fitted with a rubber drain tube leading down to a bucket. At the farther end of the room, the sinister shape of the gallows reared itself aloft in the gloom. Only now I could see that it was not a gallows at all, for a fix to the top cross-par was a large, bottomless glass basin, inside which was a glass bulb that glowed with a strange green light, and in the heart of the bulb a bright spot of red. It was all clear enough so far. The peculiar sound that filled the air was the hum of the interrupter. The bulb was, of course, a crook's tube, and the red spot inside it, the glowing red-hot disc of the anti-cathode. Clearly an x-ray photograph was being made. But of what? I strained my eyes, peering into the gloom at the foot of the gallows, but though I could make out an elongated object lying on the floor directly under the bulb, I could not resolve the dimly seen shape into anything recognizable. Presently, however, Dr. Norbury supplied the clue. I am rather surprised, said he, that you chose so composite an object as a mummy to begin on. I would have thought that a simpler object, such as a coffin or a wooden figure, would have been more instructive. In some ways it would, replied Thorndike, but the variety of materials that the mummy gives us has its advantages. I hope your father is not ill, Miss Bellingham. He is not well at all, said Ruth, and we agreed that it was better for me to come alone. I know Hare Leader Brogan quite well. He stayed with us for a time when he was in England. I trust, said Dr. Norbury, that I have not troubled you for nothing. Hare Leader Brogan speaks of our erratic English friend, with the long name that I can never remember, and it seemed to me that he might be referring to your uncle. I should hardly have called my uncle erratic, said Ruth. Oh no, certainly not, Dr. Norbury agreed hastily. However, you shall see the letter presently and judge for yourself. We mustn't introduce irrelevant topics, while the experiment is in progress. Must we, Doctor? You had better wait until we have finished, said Thorndike, because I am going to turn out the light. Switch off the current, Poulton. The green light vanished from the bulb. The hum of the interrupter swept down an octave or two and died away. Then Thorndike and Dr. Norbury rose from their chairs and went toward the mummy, which they lifted tenderly, while Poulton drew from beneath it what presently turned out to be a huge black paper envelope. The single glow lamp was switched off, leaving the room in total darkness, until there burst out suddenly a bright orange-red light immediately above one of the trays. We all gathered round to watch, as Poulton, the high priest of these mysteries, drew from the black envelope a colossal sheet of bromide paper, laid it carefully in the tray, and proceeded to wet it with a large brush which he had dipped in a pail of water. I thought you always use plates for this kind of work, said Dr. Norbury. We do, by preference, but a six-foot plate would be impossible, so I had a special paper made to the size. There is something singularly fascinating in the appearance of a developing photograph, in the gradual, mysterious emergence of the picture from the blank white surface of plate or paper. But a skiograph or x-ray photograph has a fascination all its own, unlike the ordinary photograph, which yields a picture of things already seen, it gives a presentment of objects hitherto invisible. And hence, when Poulton poured the developer on the already wet paper, we all craned over the tray with the keenest curiosity. The developer was evidently a very slow one. For fully half a minute, no change could be seen in the uniform surface. Then, gradually, almost insensibly, the marginal portion began to darken, leaving the outline of the mummy in pale relief. The change, when started, preceded a pace. Darker and darker grew the margin of the paper, until from slady gray it had turned to black. And still the shape of the mummy, now in strong relief, remained an elongated patch of bold white. But not for long. Presently, the white shape began to be tinged with gray, and as the color deepened, there grew out of it a paler form which seemed to steal out of the enshrouding gray like an apparition. Spectral, awesome, mysterious. The skeleton was coming into view. It is rather uncanny, said Dr. Norbury. I feel as if I were assisting at some unholy right. Just look at it now. The gray shadow of the cartonage, the wrappings in the flesh was fading away into the background, and the white skeleton stood out in sharp contrast. And it certainly was rather a weird spectacle. You'll lose the bones if you develop much farther, said Dr. Norbury. I must let the bones darken, Thorndike replied, in case there are any metallic objects. I have three more papers in the envelope. The white shape of the skeleton now began to gray over, and as Dr. Norbury had said, its distinctness became less and yet less. Thorndike leaned over the tray with his eyes fixed, on a point in the middle of the breast, and we all watched him in silence. Suddenly he rose. Now, Poulton, he said sharply, get the hypo on as quickly as you can. Poulton, who had been waiting with his hand on the stopcock of the drain tube, rapidly ran off the developer into the bucket and flooded the paper with the fixing solution. Now we can look at it at our leisure, said Thorndike. After waiting a few seconds he switched on one of the glow lamps, and as the flood of light fell on the photograph he added, You see, we haven't quite lost the skeleton. No. Dr. Norbury put on a pair of spectacles and bent down over the tray, and at this moment I felt Ruth's hand touch my arm, lightly at first, and then with a strong nervous grasp. And I could feel that her hand was trembling. I looked round at her anxiously, and saw that she had turned deathly pale. Would you rather go out into the gallery? I asked. For the room with its tightly shut windows was close and hot. No, she replied quietly. I will stay here. I am quite well. But still she kept hold of my arm. Thorndike glanced at her keenly, and then looked away as Dr. Norbury turned to ask him a question. Why is it, thank you, that some of the teeth show so much whiter than the others? I think the whiteness of the shadows is due to the presence of metal, Thorndike replied. Do you mean that the teeth have metal fillings? Asked Dr. Norbury. Yes. Really? This is very interesting. The use of gold stoppings and artificial teeth, too, by the ancient Egyptians is well known. But we have no examples in this museum. This mummy ought to be unrolled. Do you think all those teeth are filled with the same metal? They are not equally white. No, replied Thorndike.  But that grayish one is probably filled with tin. Very interesting, said Dr. Norbury. Very interesting. And what do you make of that faint walk across the chest? Knees atop of the sternum. It was Ruth who answered his question. It is the eye of Osiris, she exclaimed in a hushed voice. Dear me, exclaimed Dr. Norbury, so it is. You are quite right. It is the achat, the eye of Horus, or Osiris, if you prefer to call it so. That, I presume, will be a gilded device on some of the wrappings. No, I should say it is a tattoo mark. It is too indefinite for a gilded device, and I should say further that the tattooing is done in Vermillion, as carbon tattooing would cast no visible shadow. I think you must be mistaken about that, said Dr. Norbury. But we shall see, if the director allows us to unroll the mummy.  Yes, they are metallic. But they are not in front of the knees, they are in the knees. They are pieces of silver wire that have been used to repair fractured kneecaps. Are you sure of that? exclaimed Dr. Norbury, peering at the little white marks with ecstasy. Because if you are, and if these objects are what you say they are, the mummy of Sipichotep is an absolutely unique specimen. I am quite certain of it, said Thorndike. Then, said Dr. Norbury, we have made a discovery, thanks to your inquiring spirit. Poor John Bellingham. He little knew what a treasure he was giving us. How I wish he could have known. How I wish he could have been here with us tonight. He paused once more to gaze in rapture at the photograph, and then Thorndike, in his quiet, impassive way, said, John Bellingham is here, Dr. Norbury. This is John Bellingham. Dr. Norbury started back and stared at Thorndike in speechless amazement. You don't mean, he exclaimed after a long pause, that this mummy is the body of John Bellingham? I do indeed. There is no doubt of it. But it is impossible. The mummy was here in the gallery a full three weeks before he disappeared. Not so, said Thorndike. John Bellingham was last seen alive by you and Mr. Jellico on the 14th of October, more than three weeks before the mummy left Queen Square. After that date he was never seen alive or dead by any person who knew him and could identify him. Dr. Norbury reflected a while in silence. Then in a faint voice he asked, How do you suggest that John Bellingham's body came to be inside that cartonage? I think Mr. Jellico is the most likely person to be able to answer that question. Thorndike replied dryly. There was another interval of silence, and then Dr. Norbury asked suddenly, But what do you suppose has become of sepico-tep? The real sepico-tep, I mean. I take it, said Thorndike, that the remains of sepico-tep, or at least a portion of them, are at present lying in the Woodford Mortuary, awaiting an adjourned inquest. As Thorndike made this statement, a flash of belated intelligence, mingled with self-contempt, fell on me. Now that the explanation was given how obvious it was, and yet I, a competent anatomist and physiologist, and actually a pupil of Thorndike's, had mistaken those ancient bones for the remains of a recent body. Dr. Norbury considered the last statement for some time an evident perplexity. It is all consistent enough, I must admit, said he at length. And yet, are you quite sure there is no mistake? It seems so incredible. There is no mistake, I assure you, Thorndike answered. To convince you, I will give you the facts in detail. First, as to the teeth. I have seen John Bellingham's dentist and obtained particulars from his casebook. There were in all five teeth that had been filled. The right upper wisdom tooth, the molar next to it, and the second lower molar on the right side, all had extensive gold fillings. You can see them all quite plainly in the skiograph. The lower left lateral incisor had a very small gold filling, which you can see as a nearly circular white dot. In addition to these, a filling of tin amalgam had been inserted, while the deceased was abroad. In the second left upper bicuspid, the rather gray spot that we have already noticed. These would, by themselves, furnish ample means of identification. But in addition, there is the tattooed device of the eye of Osiris. Horus, murmured Dr. Norbury. Horus, then, in the exact locality in which it was born by the deceased and tattooed, apparently, with the same pigment. There are, further, the suture wires in the kneecaps. Sir Morgan Bennett, having looked up the notes of the operation, informs me that he introduced three suture wires into the left patella and two into the right, which is what the skiograph shows. Lastly, the deceased had an old pot's fracture on the left side. It is not very apparent now, but I saw it quite distinctly just now, when the shadows of the bones were whiter. I think that you may take it that the identification is beyond all doubt of question. Yes, agree, Dr. Norbury, with gloomy resignation. It sounds, as you say, quite conclusive. Well, well, it is a most horrible affair. Poor old John Bellingham. It looks uncommonly as if he had met with foul play. Don't you think so? I do, replied Thorndike. There was a mark on the right side of the skull that looked rather like a fracture. It was not very clear, being at the side, but we must develop the negative to show it. Dr. Norbury drew his breath in sharply through his teeth. This is a gruesome business, doctor, said he. A terrible business. Awkward for our people, too. By the way, what is our position in the matter? What steps ought we to take? You should give notice to the coroner. I will manage the police. And you should communicate with one of the executors of the will. Mr. Jellicoe? No, not Mr. Jellicoe under the peculiar circumstances. You had better write to Mr. Godfrey Bellingham. But I rather understood that Mr. Hearst was the co-executor, said Dr. Norbury. He is, surely, as matters stand, said Jervis. Not at all, replied Thorndike. He was, as matters stood. But he is not now. You are forgetting the condition of clause two. That clause sets forth the conditions under which Godfrey Bellingham shall inherit the bulk of the estate, and become the co-executor. And those conditions are, that the body of the testitor shall be deposited in some authorized place for the reception of the bodies of the dead, situate within the boundaries of, or appertaining to some place of worship within, the parish of St. George Bloomsbury, and St. Giles in the fields, or St. Andrew above the bars, and St. George the martyr. Now, Egyptian mummies are bodies of the dead, and this museum is an authorized place for their reception, and this building is situate within the boundaries of the parish of St. George Bloomsbury. Therefore, the provisions of clause two have been duly carried out, and therefore Godfrey Bellingham is the principal beneficiary under the will, and the co-executor, in accordance with the wishes of the testitor. Is that quite clear? Perfectly, said Dr. Norbury, and in most astonishing coincidence. But, my dear young lady, had you better not sit down. You are looking very ill. He glanced anxiously at Ruth, who was pale to the lips, and was now leaning heavily on my arm. I think, Berkeley, said Thorndike, you had better take Ms. Bellingham out into the gallery, where there is more air. This has been a tremendous climax to all the trials she has borne so bravely. Go out with Berkeley, he said gently, laying his hand on her shoulder, and sit down while we develop the other negatives. You mustn't break down now, you know. When the storm has passed and the sun is beginning to shine, he held the door open, and as we passed out his face softened into a smile of infinite kindness.  This is a photographic dark room at present. The key graded in the lock, and we turned away into the dim gallery. It was not quite dark, for a beam of moonlight filtered in here and there through the blinds that covered the skylights. We walked on slowly, her arm linked in mine, and for a while neither of us spoke. The great rooms were very silent and peaceful and solemn. The hush and the stillness, the mystery of the half-seen forms in the cases around, were all in harmony, with the deeply felt sense of a great deliverance that filled our hearts. We had passed through into the next room, before either of us broke the silence. Insensibly our hands had crept together, and as they met and clasped with mutual pressure, Ruth exclaimed, How dreadful and tragic it is! Poor, poor Uncle John! It seems as if he had come back from the world of shadows to tell us of this awful thing.  She caught her breath in one or two quick sobs and pressed my hand passionately. It is over, dearest, I said. It is gone forever. Nothing remains but the memory of your sorrow and your noble courage and patience. I can't realize it yet, she murmured. It has been like a frightful interminable dream. Let us put it away, said I, and think only of the happy life that is opening. She made no reply, and only a quick catch in her breath, now and again, told of the long agony that she had endured with such heroic calm. We walked on slowly, scarcely disturbing the silence with our soft footfalls, through the wide doorway into the second room. The vague shapes of mummy cases standing erect in the wall cases, loomed out dim and gigantic, silent watchers keeping their vigil with the memories of untold centuries locked in their shadowy breaths. They were an awesome company. Reverent survivors from a vanished world, they looked out from the gloom of their abiding place, but with no shade of menace or of malice in their silent presence, rather with a solemn venison on the fleeting creatures of today. Halfway along the room a ghostly figure, somewhat aloof from its companions, showed a dim, pallid blotch where its face would have been, with one accord we halted before it. Do you know who this is, Ruth? I asked. Of course I do, she answered. It is Artemidorus. We stood, hand in hand, facing the mummy, letting our memories fill in the vague silhouette with its well-remembered details. Presently I drew her nearer to me and whispered, Ruth, do you remember when we last stood here? As if I could ever forget, she answered passionately, Oh, Paul, the sorrow of it, the misery, how it wrung my heart to tell you. Were you very unhappy when I left you? Unhappy. I never knew until then what real heartbreaking sorrow was. It seemed as if the light had gone out of my life forever, but there was just one little spot of brightness left. What was that? You made me a promise, dear, a solemn promise, and I felt, at least I hoped, that the day would come, if I only waited patiently, when you would be able to redeem it. She crept closer to me, and yet closer, until her head nestled on my shoulder and her soft cheek lay against mine. Dear heart, I whispered, is it now? Is the time fulfilled? Yes, dearest, she murmured softly, it is now and forever. Reverently I folded her in my arms, gathered her to the heart that worshipped her utterly. Henceforth no sorrows could hurt us, no misfortune vex, for we should walk hand in hand on our earthly pilgrimage and find the way all too short. Time whose sands run out with such unequal swiftness for the just and the unjust, the happy and the wretched, lagged no doubt with the toilers in the room that we had left. But for us its golden grains trickled out apace, and left the glass empty before we had begun to mark their passage. The turning of a key and the opening of a door aroused us from our dream of perfect happiness. Ruth raised her head to listen, and our lips met for one brief moment. Then, with a silent greeting, to the friend who had looked on our grief and witnessed our final happiness, we turned and retraced our steps quickly, filling the great empty rooms with chattering echoes. We would go back into the dark room, which isn't dark now, said Ruth. Why not? I asked. Because when I came out I was very pale, and I'm—well, I don't think I am very pale now. Besides, poor Uncle John is in there, and I should be ashamed to look at him, with my selfish heart overflowing with happiness. You needed me, said I. It is the day of our lives, and we have a right to be happy. But you shan't go in, if you don't wish to. And I accordingly steered her adroitly past the beam of light that streamed from the open door. We have developed four negatives, said Thorndike, as he emerged with the others, and I am leaving them in the custody of Dr. Norbury, who will sign each when they are dry, as they may have to be put in evidence. What are you going to do? I looked at Ruth to see what she wished. If you won't think me ungrateful, said she, I should rather be alone with my father tonight. He is very weak, and— Yes, I understand, I said hastily, and I did. Mr. Bellingham was a man of strong emotions, and would probably be somewhat overcome by the sudden change of fortune and the news of his brother's tragic death. In that case, said Thorndike, I will bespeak your services. Will you go on and wait for me at my chambers, when you have seen Ms. Bellingham home? I agreed to this, and we set forth under the guidance of Dr. Norbury, who carried an electric lamp, to return by the way we had come—two of us, at least, in a vastly different frame of mind. The party broke up at the entrance gates, and as Thorndike wished my companion, good night, she held his hand and looked up in his face with swimming eyes. I haven't thanked you, Dr. Thorndike, she said, and I don't feel that I ever can. What you have done for me and my father is beyond all thanks.  Goodbye, and God bless you. The handsome that bowled away eastward at most unnecessary speed bore two of the happiest human beings within the wide boundaries of the town. I looked at my companion as the lights of the street shone into the cab and was astonished at the transformation. The pallor of her cheek had given place to a rosy pink, the hardness, the tension, the haggard self-repression that had aged her face were all gone, and the girlish sweetness that had so bewitched me in the early days of our love had stolen back. Even the dimple was there, when the sweeping lashes lifted and her eyes met mine in a smile of infinite tenderness. Little was said on that brief journey. It was happiness enough to sit, hand clasped in hand, and know that our time of trial was past, that no cross of fate could ever part us now. The astonished cab men set us down according to instructions at the entrance to Neville's court, and watched us with open mouth as we vanished into the narrow passage. The court had settled down for the night, and no one marked our return. No curious eye looked down on us from the dark house front, as we said good-bye, just inside the gate. You will come and see us tomorrow, dear, won't you? she asked. Do you think it possible that I could stay away, then? I hope not, but come as early as you can. My father will be positively frantic to see you, because I shall have told him, you know. And remember that it is you who have brought us this great deliverance. Good night, Paul. Good night, sweetheart.  The shabby gate in the wall closed behind me, and hit her from my sight. But the light of her love went with me, and turned the dull street into a path of glory. By R. Austin Freeman Chapter 19 A Strange Symposium It came upon me with something of a shock of surprise, to find the scrap of paper still tacked to the oak of Thorndyke's chambers. So much had happened, since I had less looked on it, that it seemed to belong to another epoch of my life. I removed it thoughtfully, and picked out the tack before entering, and then, closing the inner door, but leaving the oak open, I lit the gas and fell to pacing the room. What a wonderful episode it had been, how the whole aspect of the world had been changed in a moment by Thorndyke's revelation. At another time curiosity would have led me to endeavor to trace back the train of reasoning, by which the subtle brain of my teacher had attained this astonishing conclusion. But now my own happiness held exclusive possession of my thoughts. The image of Ruth filled the field of my mental vision. I saw her again as I had seen her in the cab, with her sweet pensive face and downcast eyes. I felt again the touch of her soft cheek, and the parting kiss by the gate, so frank and simple, so intimate and final. I must have waited quite a long time, though the golden minutes sped unreckoned, for when my two colleagues arrived they tendered needless apologies. And I suppose, said Thorndyke, you have been wondering what I wanted you for. I had not, as a matter of fact, given the matter a moment's consideration. We are going to call on Mr. Jellicoe, Thorndyke explained. There is something behind this affair, and until I have ascertained what it is, the case is not complete from my point of view. Wouldn't it have done as well tomorrow, I asked? It might, and then it might not. There is an old saying as to catching a weasel asleep. Mr. Jellicoe is a somewhat wide awake person, and I think it best to introduce him to Inspector Badger at the earliest possible moment. The meeting of a weasel and a Badger suggests a sporting interview, remarked Jervis. But you don't expect Jellicoe to give himself away, do you? He can hardly do that, seeing that there is nothing to give away. But I think he may make a statement. There were some exceptional circumstances, I feel sure. How long have you known that the body was in the museum? I asked. About thirty or forty seconds longer than you have, I should say. Do you mean, I exclaimed, that you did not know until the negative was developed? My dear fellow, he replied. Do you suppose that, if I had had certain knowledge where the body was, I should have allowed that noble girl to go on, dragging on a lingering agony of suspense that I could have cut short in a moment, or that I should have made these humbugging pretenses of scientific experiments if a more dignified course had been open to me? Those to the experiments, said Jervis. Norbury could hardly have refused if you had taken him into your confidence. Indeed, he could, and probably would. My confidence would have involved a charge of murder against a highly respectable gentleman who was well known to him. He would probably have referred me to the police, and then what could I have done? I had plenty of suspicions, but not a single solid fact. Our discussion was here interrupted by hurried footsteps on the stairs and a thundering rat-tat on our knocker. As Jervis opened the door, Inspector Badger burst into the room in a highly excited state. What is this all about, Dr. Thorndike? He asked. I see you've sworn in information against Mr. Jellico, and I have a warrant to arrest him. But before anything else is done, I think it right to tell you that we have more evidence than is generally known, pointing to quite a different quarter. Derived from Mr. Jellico's information, said Thorndike, but the fact is that I have just examined and identified the body at the British Museum, where it was deposited by Mr. Jellico. I don't say that he murdered John Bellingham, though that is what appearances suggest, but I do say that he will have to account for his secret disposal of the body. Inspector Badger was thunderstruck. Also, he was visibly annoyed. The salt which Mr. Jellico had so adroitly sprinkled on the constabulary tail, appeared to develop irritating properties, for when Thorndike had given him a brief outline of the facts, he stuck his hands in his pockets and exclaimed gloomily. Well, I'm hanged. And to think of all the time and trouble I've spent on those damned bones. I suppose they were just a plant. Don't let us disparage them, said Thorndike. They have played a useful part. They represent the inevitable mistake that every criminal makes sooner or later. The murderer will always do a little too much. If he would only lie low and let well alone, the detectives might whistle for a clue, but it is time we are starting. Are we all going? asked the Inspector, looking at me in particular, with no very gracious recognition. We will all come with you, said Thorndike, but you will, naturally, make the arrest in the way that seems best to you. It's a regular procession, rumbled the Inspector, but he made no more definite objection, and we started forth on our quest. The distance from the temple to Lincoln's Inn is not great. In five minutes we were at the gateway in Chancery Lane, and a couple of minutes later saw us gathered round the threshold of the stately old house in New Square. Seems to be a light in the first floor front, said Badger. You'd better move away before I ring the bell. But the precaution was unnecessary. As the Inspector advanced to the bell-pull, a head was thrust out of the open window immediately above the street door. Who are you? inquired the owner of the head in a voice which I recognized as that of Mr. Jellicoe. I am Inspector Badger of the Criminal Investigation Department. I wish to see Mr. Arthur Jellicoe. Then look at me. I am Mr. Arthur Jellicoe. I hold a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Jellicoe. You are charged with the murder of Mr. John Bellingham, whose body has been discovered in the British Museum. By whom? By Dr. Thorndike. Indeed, said Mr. Jellicoe. Is he here? Yes. Ha! And you wish to arrest me, I presume? Yes. That is what I am here for. Well, I will agree to surrender myself, subject to certain conditions. I can't make any conditions, Mr. Jellicoe. No, I will make them, and you will accept them. Otherwise, you will not arrest me. It's no use for you to talk like that, said Badger. If you don't let me in, I shall have to break in. And I may as well tell you, he added mendaciously, that the house is surrounded. You may accept my assurance, Mr. Jellicoe replied calmly, that you will not arrest me if you do not accept my conditions. Well, what are your conditions? demanded Badger. I desire to make a statement, said Mr. Jellicoe. You can do that, but I must caution you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you. Naturally. But I wish to make the statement in the presence of Dr. Thorndike, and I desire to hear a statement from him of the method of investigation by which he discovered the whereabouts of the body. That is to say, if he is willing. If you mean that we should mutually enlighten one another, I am very willing indeed, said Thorndike. Very well. Then my conditions, Inspector, are that I shall hear Dr. Thorndike's statement, and that I shall be permitted to make a statement myself, and that until those statements are completed, with any necessary interrogation and discussion, I shall remain at liberty, and shall suffer no molestation or interferences of any kind. And I agree that, on the conclusion of said proceedings, I will submit, without resistance, to any course that you may adopt. I can't agree to that, said Badger. Can't you? said Mr. Jellicoe coldly, and after a pause he added, Don't be hasty. I have given you warning. There was something in Mr. Jellicoe's passionless tone that disturbed the Inspector exceedingly, for he turned to Thorndike and said in a low tone. I wonder what his game is. He can't get away, you know. There are several possibilities, said Thorndike. Yes, said Badger, stroking his chin perplexedly. After all, is there any objection? His statement might save trouble, and you'd be on the safe side. It would take you some time to break in. Well, said Mr. Jellicoe, with his hand on the window, Do you agree, yes or no? All right, said Badger, so coldly, I agree. You promise not to molest me in any way, until I have quite finished? I promise. Mr. Jellicoe's head disappeared, and the window closed. After a short pause we heard the jar of massive bolts and the clank of a chain, and as the heavy door swung open, Mr. Jellicoe stood revealed, calm and impassive, with an old-fashioned office candlestick in his hand. Who are the others? he inquired, peering out sharply through his spectacles. Oh, there are nothing to do with me! replied Badger. They are Dr. Berkeley and Dr. Jervis, said Thorndike. Huh! said Mr. Jellicoe. Very kind and attentive of them to call. Pray, come in, gentlemen. I am sure you will be interested to hear our little discussion. He held the door open with a certain stiff courtesy, and we all entered the hall led by Inspector Badger. He closed the door softly, and proceeded us up the stairs and into the apartment from the window of which he had dictated the terms of surrender. It was a fine old room, spacious, lofty and dignified, with paneled walls and a carved mantelpiece, the central, a scutcheon of which bore the initials JWP with the date 1671. A large writing-table stood at the farther end, and behind it was an iron safe. I have been expecting this visit, Mr. Jellicoe remarked tranquilly, as he placed four chairs opposite the table. Since when, asked Thordike, since last Monday evening, when I had the pleasure of seeing you conversing with my friend Dr. Berkeley at the inner temple gate, and then inferred that you were retained in the case. That was a circumstance that had not been fully provided for. May I offer you, gentlemen, a glass of sherry? As he spoke he placed on the table a decanter and a tray of glasses, and looked at us interrogatively with his hand on the stopper. Well, I don't mind if I do, Mr. Jellicoe, said Badger, on whom the lawyer's glance had finally settled. Mr.  Then, with the decanter still in his hand, he said persuasively, Dr. Thordike, pray allow me to fill you a glass. No, thank you, said Thordike. In a tone so decided that the inspector looked round at him quickly, and as Badger caught his eye, the glass which he was about to raise to his lips suddenly became arrested and was slowly returned to the table untasted. I don't want to hurry you, Mr. Jellicoe, said the inspector, but it's rather late, and I should like to get this business settled. What is it that you wish to do? I desire, replied Mr. Jellicoe, to make a detailed statement of the events that have happened, and I wish to hear from Dr. Thordike precisely how he arrived at his very remarkable conclusion. When this has been done, I shall be entirely at your service, and I suggest that it would be more interesting if Dr. Thordike would give us his statement before I furnish you with the actual facts. I am entirely of your opinion, said Thordike. Then, in that case, said Mr. Jellicoe, I suggest that you disregard me and address your remarks to your friends, as if I were not present. Thordike acquiesced with a bow, and Mr. Jellicoe, having seated himself in his elbow chair behind the table, poured himself out a glass of water, selected a cigarette from a neat silver case, lighted it deliberately, and leaned back to listen at his ease. My first acquaintance with this case, Thordike began without preamble, was made through the medium of the daily papers about two years ago, and I may say that, although I had no interest in it beyond the purely academic interest of a specialist in a case that lies in his particular specialty, I considered it with deep attention. The newspaper reports contain no particulars of the relations of the parties that could furnish any hints as to motives on the part of any of them, but merely a bare statement of the events, and this was a distinct advantage in as much as it left one to consider the facts of the case without regard to motive, to balance the prima facia probabilities with an open mind, and it may surprise you to learn that those prima facia probabilities pointed from the very first to that solution which has been put to the test of experiment this evening, hence it will be well for me to begin by giving the conclusions that I reached by reasoning from the facts set forth in the newspapers before any of the further facts came to my knowledge. From the facts stated in the newspaper reports, it is obvious that there were four possible explanations of the disappearance. One, the man might be alive and in hiding. This was highly improbable for the reasons that were stated by Mr. Lorrum at the late hearing for the application, and for a further reason that I shall mention presently. Two, he may have died by accident or disease, and his body failed to be identified. This was even more improbable, seeing that he carried down his person abundant means of identification, including visiting cards. Three, he might have been murdered by some stranger for the sake of his portable property. This was highly improbable for the same reason, his body could hardly have failed to be identified. These three explanations are what we may call the outside explanations. They touched none of the parties mentioned. They were all obviously improbable on general grounds, and to all of them there was one conclusive answer, the scarab which was found in Godfrey Bellingham's garden. Hence I put them aside, and gave my attention to the fourth explanation. This was that the missing man had been made away with by one of the parties mentioned in the report. But since the reports mentioned three parties, it was evident that there was a choice of three hypotheses, namely, a, that John Bellingham had been made away by Hearst, or b, by the Bellingham's, or c, by Mr. Jellicoe. Now I have constantly impressed on my pupils that the indispensable question that must be asked at the outset of such inquiry as this is, when was the missing person last undoubtedly seen or known to be alive? That is the question that I asked myself after reading the newspaper report, and the answer was that he was last certainly seen alive on the 14th of October 1902 at 141 Queens Square Bloomsbury. Of the fact that he was alive at that time and place, there could be no doubt whatever, for he was seen at the same moment by two persons, both of whom were intimately acquainted with him, and one of whom, Dr. Norbury, was apparently a disinterested witness. After that date he was never seen, alive or dead, by any person who knew him and was able to identify him. It was stated that he had been seen on the 23rd of November following by the housemaid of Mr. Hearst, but as this person was unacquainted with him, it was uncertain whether the person whom she saw was or was not John Bellingham. Hence the disappearance dated, not from the 23rd of November, as everyone seems to have assumed, but from the 14th of October, and the question was not what became of John Bellingham after he entered Mr. Hearst's house, but what became of him after his interview in Queens Square. But as soon as I had decided that the interview must form the real starting point of the inquiry, a most striking set of circumstances came into view. It became obvious that if Mr. Jellico had had any reason for wishing to make a way with John Bellingham, he had such an opportunity as seldom falls to the lot of an intending murderer. Just consider the conditions. John Bellingham was known to be setting out alone upon a journey beyond the sea. His exact destination was not stated. He was to be absent for an undetermined period, but at least three weeks. His disappearance would occasion no comment. His absence would lead to no inquiries, at least for several weeks, during which the murderer would have leisure quietly to dispose of the body and conceal all traces of the crime. The conditions were, from a murderer's point of view, ideal. But that was not all. During that very period of John Bellingham's absence, Mr. Jellico was engaged to deliver to the British Museum what was admittedly a dead human body, and that body was to be enclosed in a sealed case. Could any more perfect or secure method of disposing of a body be devised by the most ingenious murderer? The plan would have had only one weak point. The mummy would be known to have left Queen Square after the disappearance of John Bellingham, and suspicion might in the end have arisen. To this point I shall return presently. Meanwhile we will consider the second hypothesis, that the missing man was made away with by Mr. Hurst. Now, there seems to be no doubt that some person, purporting to be John Bellingham, did actually visit Mr. Hurst's house, and he must either have left the house or remained in it. If he left, he did so surreptitiously. If he remained, there could be no reasonable doubt that he had been murdered, and that his body had been concealed. Let us consider the probabilities in each case. Assuming, as everyone seems to have done, that the visitor was really John Bellingham, we are dealing with a responsible middle-aged gentleman, and the idea that such a person would enter a house, announce his intention of staying, and then steal away unobserved, is very difficult to accept. Moreover, he would appear to have come down to Eltham by rail, immediately unlanding in England, leaving his luggage in the cloakroom at Charing Cross. This pointed to a definiteness of purpose, quite inconsistent, with his casual disappearance from the house. On the other hand, the idea that he might have been murdered by Hurst was not inconceivable, the thing was physically possible. If Bellingham had really been in the study when Hurst came home, their murder could have been committed, by appropriate means, and the body temporarily concealed in the cupboard or elsewhere. But although possible, it was not at all probable. There was no real opportunity. The risk and the subsequent difficulties would be very great. There was not a particle of positive evidence that a murder had occurred, and the conduct of Hurst in immediately leaving the house in possession of the servants is quite inconsistent with the supposition that there was a body concealed in it. So that, while it is almost impossible to believe that John Bellingham left the house of his own accord, it is equally difficult to believe that he did not leave it. But there is a third possibility, which, strange to say, no one seems to have suggested, supposing that the visitor was not John Bellingham at all, but someone who was impersonating him. That would dispose of the difficulties completely. The strange disappearance ceases to be strange, for a personator would necessarily make off before Mr. Hurst should arrive and discover the imposter. But if we accept this supposition, we raise two further questions. Who was the personator, and what was the object of the personation? Now the personator was clearly not Hurst himself, for he would have been recognized by his housemaid. He was therefore either Godfrey Bellingham or Mr. Jellicoe or some other person. And as no other person was mentioned in the newspaper reports, I can find my speculations to these two. And first as to Godfrey Bellingham. It did not appear whether he was or was not known to the housemaid, so I assumed, wrongly, as it turns out, that he was not. Then he might have been the personator, but why should he have impersonated his brother? He could not have already committed the murder. There had not been time enough. He would have had to leave Woodford before John Bellingham had set out for Charing Cross, and even if he had committed the murder, he would have no object in raising this commotion. His queue would have been to remain quiet and know nothing. The probabilities were all against the personator being Godfrey Bellingham. Then could it be Mr. Jellicoe? The answer to this question is contained in the answer to the further question. What could have been the object of the personation? What motive could this unknown person have had in appearing, announcing himself as John Bellingham, and forthwith, vanishing? There could only have been one motive—that, namely, of fixing the date of John Bellingham's disappearance, of furnishing a definite moment at which he was last seen alive. But who was likely to have had such a motive? Let us see. I said just now that if Mr. Jellicoe had murdered John Bellingham and disposed of the body in the mummy case, he would have been absolutely safe for the time being. But there would be a weak spot in his armor. For a month or more, the disappearance of his client would occasion no remark, but presently, when he failed to return, inquiries would be set on foot, and then it would appear that no one had seen him since he left Queen Square. Then it would be noted that the last person with whom he was seen was Mr. Jellicoe. It might further be remembered that the mummy had been delivered to the museum some time after the missing man was last seen alive, and so suspicion might arise and be followed by disastrous investigations. But supposing it should be made to appear that John Bellingham had been seen alive more than a month after his interview with Mr. Jellicoe, and some weeks after the mummy had been deposited in the museum. Then Mr. Jellicoe would cease to be in any way connected with the disappearance, and henceforth would be absolutely safe. Hence, after carefully considering this part of the newspaper report, I came to the conclusion that the mysterious occurrence at Mr. Hearst's house had only one reasonable explanation, namely that the visitor was not John Bellingham, but someone personating him, and that that someone was Mr. Jellicoe. It remains to consider the case of Godfrey Bellingham and his daughter, though I cannot understand how any sane person can have seriously suspected either. Here Inspector Badger smiled a sour smile. The evidence against them was negligible, for there was nothing to connect them with the affair, save the finding of the scarab on their premises, and that event, which might have been highly suspicious under other circumstances, was robbed of any significance by the fact that the scarab was found on a spot which had been passed a few minutes previously by the other suspected party, Hearst. The finding of the scarab did, however, establish two important conclusions, namely that John Bellingham had probably met with foul play, and that of the four persons present when it was found, one at least had had possession of the body. As to which of the four was the one, the circumstances furnished only a hint, which was this. If the scarab had been purposely dropped, the most likely person to find it was the one who dropped it, and the person who discovered it was Mr. Jellicoe. Following up this hint, if we ask ourselves what motive Mr. Jellicoe could have had for dropping it, assuming him to be the murderer, the answer is obvious. It would not be his policy to fix the crime on any particular person, but rather to set up a complication of conflicting evidence that would occupy the attention of investigators and divert it from himself. Of course, if Hearst had been the murderer, he would have had a sufficient motive for dropping this scarab, so that the case against Mr. Jellicoe was not conclusive, but the fact that it was he who found it was highly significant. This completes the analysis of the evidence contained in the original newspaper report, describing the circumstances of the disappearance. The conclusions that followed from it were, as you will have seen. One, that the missing man was almost certainly dead, as proved by the finding of the scarab after his disappearance. Two, that he had probably been murdered by one or more of four persons, as proved by the finding of the scarab on the premises occupied by two of them and accessible to the others. Three, that of those four persons, one, Mr. Jellicoe, was the last person who was known to have been in the company of the missing man, had had an exceptional opportunity for committing the murder, and was known to have delivered a dead body to the museum subsequently to the disappearance. Four, that the supposition that Mr. Jellicoe had committed the murder rendered all the other circumstances of the disappearance clearly intelligible, whereas on any other supposition they were quite inexplicable. The evidence of the newspaper report, therefore, clearly pointed to the probability that John Bellingham had been murdered by Mr. Jellicoe and his body concealed in the mummy case. I do not wish to give you the impression that I, then and there, believed that Mr. Jellicoe was the murderer, I did not. There was no reason to suppose that the report contained all the essential facts, and I merely considered it speculatively as a study in probabilities. But I did decide that it was the only probable conclusion from the facts that were given. Nearly two years had passed before I heard anything more of the case. Then it was brought to my notice by my friend Dr. Berkeley, and I became acquainted with certain new facts, which I will consider in the order in which they became known to me. The first new light on the case came from the will. As soon as I had read the document I felt convinced that there was something wrong. The testator's evident intention was that his brother should inherit the property, whereas the construction of the will was such as almost certainly to defeat that intention. The devolution of the property depended on the burial clause, clause two, but the burial arrangement would ordinarily be decided by the executor, who happened to be Mr. Jellicoe. Thus the will left the disposition of the party under the control of Mr. Jellicoe, though his action could have been contested. Now this will, although drawn up by John Bellingham, was executed in Mr. Jellicoe's office, as is proved by the fact that it was witnessed by two of his clerks. He was the testator's lawyer, and it was his duty to insist on the will being properly drawn. Evidently he did nothing of the kind, and this fact strongly suggested some kind of collusion on his part with Hearst, who stood to benefit by the miscarriage of the will. And this was the odd feature in the case, for whereas the party responsible for the defective provisions was Mr. Jellicoe, the party who benefited was Hearst. But the most startling peculiarity of the will was the way in which it fitted the circumstances of the disappearance. It looked as if Clause 2 had been drawn up with those very circumstances in view. Since, however, the will was ten years old, this was impossible. But if Clause 2 could not have been devised to fit the disappearance, could the disappearance not have been devised to fit Clause 2? That was by no means impossible. Under the circumstances it looked rather probable. And if it had been so contrived, who was the agent in that contrivance? Hearst stood to benefit, but there was no evidence that he even knew the contents of the will. There only remained Mr. Jellicoe, who had certainly connived at the misdrawing of the will for some purpose of his own, some dishonest purpose. The evidence of the will then pointed to Mr. Jellicoe as the agent in the disappearance, and after reading it I definitely suspected him of the crime. Suspicion, however, is one thing and proof is another. I had not nearly enough evidence to justify me in laying in information, and I could not approach the museum officials without making a definite accusation. The great difficulty of the case was that I could discover no motive. I could not see any way in which Mr. Jellicoe would benefit by the disappearance. His own legacy was secure, whenever and however the Tessitor died. The murder and concealment apparently benefited Hearst alone, and in the absence of any plausible motive the facts required to be much more conclusive than they were. Did you form absolutely no opinion as to motive? Asked Mr. Jellicoe. He put the question in a quiet, passionless tone, as if he were discussing some cause celebrate, in which he had nothing more than a professional interest. Indeed, the calm and personal interest that he displayed in Thorndike's analysis, his unmoved attention punctuated by little nods of approval at each telling point in the argument were the most surprising features of this astounding interview. I did form an opinion, replied Thorndike, but it was merely speculative and I was never able to confirm it. I discovered that about ten years ago Mr. Hearst had been in difficulties and that he had suddenly raised a considerable sum of money. No one knew how or on what security. I observed that this even coincided with the execution of the will, and I surmised that there might be some connection between them.  I could prove nothing, so I never discovered Mr. Gellicoe's motive and I don't know it now. Don't you, really? said Mr. Gellicoe, in something approaching a tone of animation. He laid down the end of his cigarette and as he selected another from the silver case he continued, I think that it is the most interesting feature of your really remarkable analysis. It does you great credit. The absence of motive would have appeared to most persons a fatal objection to the theory of what I may call the prosecution. Permit me to congratulate you on the consistency and tenacity with which you have pursued the actual, visible facts. He bowed stiffly to Thorndike who returned his bow with equal stiffness, lighted a fresh cigarette, and once more leaned back in his chair with the calm, attentive manner of a man who is listening to a lecture or a musical performance. The evidence then being insufficient to act on, Thorndike resumed, there was nothing for it but to wait for some new facts. Now the study of a large series of carefully conducted murders brings into view an almost invariable phenomenon. The cautious murderer in his anxiety to make himself secure does too much, and it is this excess of precaution that leads to detection. It happens constantly. Indeed, I may say that it always happens. In those murders that are detected, of those that are not, we say nothing, and I had strong hopes that it would happen in this case, and it did. At the very moment when my client's case seemed almost hopeless, some human moraines were discovered at Sidcup. I read the account of the discovery in the evening paper, and scanty as the report was, it recorded enough facts to convince me that the inevitable mistake had been made. Did it, indeed, said Mr. Jellicoe. A mere, inexpert, hearsay report. I should have supposed it would be quite valueless from a scientific point of view. So it was, said Thorndike, but it gave the date of the discovery and the locality, and it also mentioned what bones had been found, which were all vital facts. Take the question of time. These remains, after lying perdu for two years, suddenly come to light just as the parties, who have also been lying perdu, have begun to take action in respect of the will. In fact, within a week or two of the hearing of the application, it was certainly a remarkable coincidence, and when the circumstances that occasioned the discovery were considered, the coincidence becomes more remarkable still, for these remains were found on land, actually belonging to John Bellingham, and their discovery resulted from certain operations, the clearing of the watercress beds, carried out on behalf of the absent landlord. But by whose orders were those works undertaken? Clearly by the orders of the landlord's agent, but the landlord's agent was known to be Mr. Jellico, therefore these remains were brought to light at this peculiarly opportune moment by the action of Mr. Jellico, the coincidence, I say again, was very remarkable. But what instantly arrested my attention on reading the newspaper report was the unusual manner in which the arm had been separated, for besides the bones of the arm proper, there were those of what anatomists call the shoulder girdle, the shoulder blade and collarbone. This was very remarkable, it seemed to suggest a knowledge of anatomy, and yet no murderer, even if he possessed such knowledge, would make a display of it on such an occasion. It seemed to me that there must be some other explanation. Accordingly, when other remains had come to light, and all had been collected at Woodford, I asked my friend Berkeley to go down there and inspect them, he did so, and this is what he found. Both arms had been detached in the same peculiar manner, both were complete, and all the bones were from the same body, the bones were quite clean, of soft structures, I mean. There were no cuts, scratches, or marks on them. There was not a trace of adipocere, the peculiar waxy soap that forms in bodies that decay in water or in a damp situation. The right hand had been detached at the time the arm was thrown into the pond, and the left ring finger had been separated and had vanished. This latter fact had attracted my attention from the first, but I will leave its consideration for the moment and return to it later. How did you discover that the hand had been detached? Mr. Jellicoe asked. By the submersion marks, replied Thorndike, it was lying on the bottom of the pond in a position which would have been impossible if it had been attached to the arm. You interest me exceedingly, said Mr. Jellicoe. It appears that a medical legal expert finds books in the running brooks, sermons in bones, and evidence in everything, but don't let me interrupt you. Dr. Berkeley's observations, Thorndike resumed, together with the medical evidence at the inquest, led me to certain conclusions. Let me state the facts which were disclosed. The remains which had been assembled formed a complete human skeleton, with the exception of the skull, one finger, and the legs from the knee to the ankle, including both kneecaps. This was a very impressive fact, for the bones that were missing included all those which could have been identified as belonging or not belonging to John Bellingham, and the bones that were present were the unidentifiable remainder. It had a suspicious appearance of selection, but the parts that were present were also curiously suggestive. In all cases the mode of dismemberment was peculiar, for an ordinary person would have divided the knee joint, leaving the kneecap attached to the thigh, whereas it had evidently been left attached to the shin bone, and the head would most probably have been removed by cutting through the neck instead of being neatly detached from the spine. And all these bones were almost entirely free from marks or scratches, such as would naturally occur in an ordinary dismemberment, and all were quite free from adipocere. And now as to the conclusions which I drew from these facts. First, there was the peculiar grouping of the bones. What was the meaning of that? Well, the idea of a punctilious anatomist was obviously absurd, and I put it aside. But was there any other explanation? Yes, there was. The bones had appeared in the natural groups that are held together by ligaments, and they had separated at points where they were attached principally by muscles. The kneecap, for instance, which really belongs to the thigh, is attached to it by muscle, but to the shin bone by a stout ligament, and so with the bones of the arm they are connected to one another by ligaments, but to the trunk only by muscle, accepting at one end of the collarbone. But this was a very significant fact. Ligament decays much more slowly than muscle, so that in a body of which the muscles had largely decayed, the bones might still be held together by ligament. The peculiar grouping, therefore, suggested that the body had been partly reduced to a skeleton before it was dismembered, that it had been merely pulled apart and not divided with a knife. This suggestion was remarkably confirmed by the total absence of knife cuts or scratches. Then there was the fact that all the bones were quite free from adipocere. Now, if an arm or a thigh should be deposited in water and left undisturbed to decay, it is certain that large masses of adipocere would be formed. Probably more than half of the flesh would be converted into this substance. The absence of adipocere, therefore, proved that the bulk of the flesh had disappeared or had been removed from the bones before they were deposited in the pond. That, in fact, it was not a body but a skeleton that had been deposited. But what kind of skeleton? If it was the recent skeleton of a murdered man, then the bones had been carefully stripped of flesh so as to leave the ligaments intact. But this was highly improbable, for there could be no object in preserving the ligaments, and the absence of scratches was also against this view. Then they did not appear to be graveyard bones. The collection was too complete. It is very rare to find a graveyard skeleton of which many of the small bones are not missing, and such bones are usually more or less weathered and friable. They did not appear to be bones, such as may be bought at an osteological dealers, for these usually have perforations to admit the macerating fluid to the marrow cavities. Dealer's bones, too, are very seldom all from the same body, and the small bones of the hand are drilled with holes to enable them to be strung on cat-gut. They were not dissecting room bones, as there was no trace of red lead in the openings for the nutrient arteries. What the appearances did suggest was that these were parts of a body which had decayed in a very dry atmosphere in which no adipocere would be formed and which had been pulled or broken apart. Also, that the ligaments which held the body, or rather skeleton, together were brittle and friable as suggested by the detached hand, which had probably broken off accidentally. But the only kind of body that completely answered this description is an Egyptian mummy. A mummy, it is true, has been more or less preserved, but on exposure to the air of such a climate as ours, it perishes rapidly, the ligaments being the last of the soft parts to disappear. The hypothesis that these bones were parts of a mummy naturally suggested Mr. Jellicoe. If he had murdered John Bellingham and concealed his body in the mummy case, he would have had a spare mummy on his hands and that mummy would have been exposed to the air and to somewhat rough handling. A very interesting circumstance connected with these remains was that the ring finger was missing. Now fingers have on sundry occasions been detached from dead hands for the sake of the rings on them, but in such cases the object has been to secure a valuable ring uninjured. If this hand was the hand of John Bellingham, there was no such object. The purpose was to prevent identification and that purpose would have been more easily and much more completely achieved by sacrificing the ring, by filing through it or breaking it off the finger. The appearances, therefore, did not quite agree with the apparent purpose. Then could there be any other purpose with which they agreed better? Yes, there could. If it had happened that John Bellingham were known to have worn a ring on that finger and especially if that ring fitted tightly, the removal of the finger would serve a very useful purpose. It would create an impression that the finger had been removed on account of a ring to prevent identification, which impression would, in turn, produce a suspicion that the hand was that of John Bellingham. And yet it would not be evidence that could be used to establish identity. Now if Mr. Jelica were the murderer and had the body hidden elsewhere, vague suspicion would be precisely what he would desire and positive evidence what he would wish to avoid. It transpired later that John Bellingham did wear a ring on that finger and that the ring fitted very tightly, whence it followed that the absence of the finger was an additional point tending to implicate Mr. Jelica. And now let us briefly review this mass of evidence. You will see that it consists of a multitude of items, each either trivial or speculative. Up to the time of the actual discovery I had not a single crucial fact nor any clue as to motive. But, slight as the individual points of evidence were, they pointed with impressive unanimity to one person, Mr. Jelica. Thus, the person who had the opportunity to commit murder and dispose of the body was Mr. Jelica. The deceased was last certainly seen alive with Mr. Jelica. An unidentified human body was delivered to the museum by Mr. Jelica. The only person who could have a motive for personating the deceased was Mr. Jelica. The only person who could possibly have done so was Mr. Jelica. One of the two persons who could have had a motive for dropping the scarab was Mr. Jelica. The person who found that scarab was Mr. Jelica, although owing to his defective eyesight and his spectacles, he was the most unlikely person of those present to find it. The person who was responsible for the execution of the defective will was Mr. Jelica. Then, as to the remains, they were apparently not those of John Bellingham, but parts of a particular kind of body, but the only person who was known to have had such a body in his possession was Mr. Jelica. The only person who could have had any motive for substituting those remains for the remains of the deceased was Mr. Jelica. Finally, the person who caused the discovery of those remains at that singularly opportune moment was Mr. Jelica. This was the sum of the evidence that was in my possession up to the time of the hearing, and indeed, for some time after, and it was not enough to act upon. But when the case had been heard in court, it was evident either that the proceedings would be abandoned, which was unlikely, or that there would be new developments. I watched the progress of events with profound interest. An attempt had been made by Mr. Jelica or some other person to get the will administered without producing the body of John Bellingham, and that attempt had failed. The coroner's jury had refused to identify the remains. The probate court had refused to presume the death of the testitor. As a fair stood, the will could not be administered. What would be the next move? It was virtually certain that it would consist in the production of something that would identify the unrecognized remains as those of the testitor. But what would that something be? The answer to that question would contain the answer to another question. Was my solution of the mystery the true solution? If I was wrong, it was possible that some of the undoubtedly genuine bones of John Bellingham might presently be discovered. For instance, the skull, the kneecap, or the left fibula, by any of which the remains would be positively identified. If I was right, only one thing could possibly happen. Mr. Jellico would have to play the trump card that he had been holding back in case the court should refuse the application, a card that he was evidently reluctant to play. He would have to produce the bones of the mummy's finger, together with John Bellingham's ring. No other course was possible. But not only would the bones and the ring have to be found together, they would have to be found in a place which was accessible to Mr. Jellico, and so far under his control that he could determine the exact time when the discovery should be made. I waited patiently for the answer to my question. Was I right, or was I wrong? And, in due course, the answer came. The bones and the ring were discovered in the well in the grounds of Gottfried Bellingham's late house. That house was the property of John Bellingham. Mr. Jellico was John Bellingham's agent, hence it was practically certain that the date on which the well was emptied was settled by Mr. Jellico. The oracle had spoken. The discovery proved conclusively that the bones were not those of John Bellingham, for if they had been, the ring would have been unnecessary for identification. But if the bones were not John Bellingham's, the ring was, from which followed the important corollary that whoever had deposited those bones in the well had had possession of the body of John Bellingham, and there could be no doubt that that person was Mr. Jellico. On receiving this final confirmation of my conclusions, I applied forthwith to Dr. Norbury for permission to examine the mummy of Cepicotep, with the result that you are already acquainted with. As Thorndyke concluded, Mr. Jellico regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then said, You have given us a most complete and lucid exposition of your method of investigation, sir. I have enjoyed it exceedingly, and should have profited by it hereafter, under other circumstances.  He touched the stopper of the decanter, and Inspector Badger ostentatiously consulted his watch. Time is running on, I fear, said Mr. Jellico. It is, indeed, Badger assented emphatically. Well, I need not detain you long, said the lawyer. My statement is a narration of events, but I desire to make it, and you, no doubt, will be interested to hear it. He opened the silver case and selected a fresh cigarette, which, however, he did not light. Inspector Badger produced a funerial notebook, which he laid open on his knee, and the rest of us settled ourselves in our chairs with no little curiosity to hear Mr. Jellico's statement. End of Chapter 19