that morning hewitt was at the surgeon’s house early. the surgeon was in, and saw him at once. his own immediate business being transacted, hewitt learned particulars of the arrest of foster. “the man actually came back of his own accord in the afternoon,” the surgeon said. “certainly he was drunk, but that seems a very reckless sort of thing, even for a drunken man. one rather curious thing was that he asked for pullin as soon as he arrived, and insisted on going to him to borrow half a sovereign. of course he was taken into custody at once, and charged, and that seemed to sober him very quickly. he seemed dazed for a bit, and then, when he realised the position he was in, refused to say a word. i saw him at the station. he had certainly been drinking a good deal; but a curious thing was that he hadn’t a cent of money on him. he’d soon got rid of it all, anyhow.”

“did you say anything to the inspector as to the things i mentioned to you?”

“yes, but he didn’t seem to think a great deal of them. he took a look at the charred paper, and saw that one piece had evidently been a cheque on the eastern consolidated bank, but the other he couldn’t see any sort of sign upon. as to the hook, he seemed to take it that that was used to fasten in the knot of the bundle, to carry it the more easily.”

“well,” hewitt said, “i think i told you yesterday that i should make an inquiry or two myself? yes, i did. i’ve made those inquiries, and now i think i can give the inspector some help. what is his name, by the way?”

“truscott. he’s a very good sort of fellow, really.”

“very well. shall i find him at the station?”

“probably, unless he’s off duty; that i don’t know about. but i should call at the house first, i think, if i were you. that is much nearer than the station, and he might possibly be there. even if he isn’t, there will be a constable, and he can tell you where to find truscott.”

hewitt accordingly made for the house, and had the good fortune to overtake truscott on his way there. “good-morning, inspector,” he called cheerily. “i’ve got some information for you, i think.”

“oh, good-morning. what is it?”

“it’s in regard to that business,” hewitt replied, indicating by a nod the row of houses a hundred yards ahead. “but it will be clearer if we go over the whole thing together and take what i have found out in its proper place. you’re not altogether satisfied with your capture of foster, are you?”

“well, i mustn’t say, of course. perhaps not. we’ve traced his doings yesterday after he left the house, and perhaps it doesn’t help us much. but what do you know?”

“i’ll tell you. but first can you get hold of such a thing as a boat-hook? any long pole with a hook on the end will do.”

“i don’t know that there’s one handy. perhaps they’ll have a garden rake at the house, if that’ll do?”

“excellently, i should think, if it’s fairly long. we will ask.”

the garden rake was forthcoming at once, and with it hewitt and the inspector made their way along the path that led towards the railway station and stopped where it came by the ditch.

“i’ve brought you here purely on a matter of conjecture,” hewitt said, “and there may be nothing in it; but if there is it will help us. this is a very muddy ditch, with a soft bottom many feet deep probably, judging from the wet nature of the soil hereabout.”

he took the rake and plunged it deep into the ditch, dragging it slowly back up the side. it brought up a tangle of duckweed and rushes and slimy mud, with a stick or two among it.

“do you think the knife’s been thrown here?” asked the inspector.

“possibly, and possibly something else. we’ll see.” and hewitt made another dive. they went along thus very thoroughly and laboriously, dragging every part of the ditch as they went, it being frequently necessary for both to pull together to get the rake through the tangle of weed and rubbish. they had worked through seven or eight yards from the angle of the path where it approached the ditch, when hewitt stopped, with the rake at the bottom.

“here is something that feels a little different,” he said. “i’ll get as good a hold as i can, and then we’ll drag it up slowly and steadily together.”

he gave the rake a slight twist, and then the two pulled steadily. presently the sunken object came away suddenly, as though mud-suction had kept it under, and rose easily to the surface. it was a muddy mass, and they had to swill it to and fro a few times in the clearer upper water before it was seen to be a linen bundle. they drew it ashore and untied the thick knot at the top. inside was an indian shawl, also knotted, and this they opened also. there within, wet and dirty, lay a sextant, a chronometer in a case, a gold watch and chain, a handful of coins, a thick gold ring, a ship carved in ivory, with much of the delicate work broken, a sealskin waistcoat, a door key, a seaman’s knife, and an iron hook screwed into a wooden stock.

2-3

“they had to swill it before it was seen to be a

linen bundle”

“lord!” exclaimed inspector truscott, “what’s this? it’s a queer place to hide swag of this sort. why, that watch and those instruments must be ruined.”

“yes, i’m afraid so,” hewitt answered. “you see, the things are wrapped in the sheets, just as you expected. but those sheets mean something more. there are two, you notice.”

“yes, of course; but i don’t see what it points to. the whole thing’s most odd. foster certainly would have been a fool to hide the things here; he’s a sailor himself, and knows better than to put away chronometers and sextants in a wet ditch—unless he got frightened, and put the things there out of sight because the murder was discovered.”

“but you say you have traced his movements after he left. if he had come near here while the police were about, he would have been seen from the house. no, you’ve got the wrong prisoner. the person who put those things there didn’t want them again.”

“then do you think robbery wasn’t the motive, after all?”

“yes, it was; but not this robbery. come, we’ll talk it over in the house. let us take these things with us.”

arrived at the house, hewitt immediately locked, bolted, and barred the front door. then he very carefully and gently unfastened each lock, bolt, and bar in order, pressing the door with his hand and taking every precaution to avoid noise. nevertheless the noise was considerable. there was a sad lack of oil everywhere, and all the bolts creaked; the lock in particular made a deal of noise, and when the key was half turned its bolt shot back with a loud thump.

“anybody who had once heard that door fastened or unfastened,” said hewitt, “would hesitate about opening it in the dead of night after committing murder. he would remember the noise. do you mind taking the things up to the room—the room—upstairs? i will go and ask mrs. beckle a question.”

truscott went upstairs, and presently hewitt followed. “i have just asked mrs. beckle,” he said, “whether or not the captain went to the front door for any purpose on the evening before his death. she says he stood there for some half an hour or so smoking his pipe before he went to bed. we shall see what that means presently, i think. now we will go into the thing in the light of what i have found out.”

2-4

“‘he stood there for some half an hour or so smoking

his pipe before he went to bed.’”

“yes, tell me that.”

“very well. i think it will make the thing plainer if i summarise separately all my conclusions from the evidence as a whole, from the beginning. perhaps the same ideas struck you, but i’m sure you’ll excuse my going over them. now here was a man undoubtedly murdered, and the murderer was gone from the room. there were two ways by which he could have gone—the door and the window. if he went by the window, then he was somebody who did not live in the place, since nobody seemed to have been missing when the girl came down, though, mind you, it was necessary to avoid relying on all she said, in view of her manner, and her almost acknowledged determination not to incriminate foster. it seemed at first sight probable that the murderer had gone out by the door, because the key was gone entirely, and if he had left by the window he would probably have left the key in the lock to hinder anybody who attempted to get in with another key, or to peep. but then the blind was up, and was found so in the morning. it would probably be pulled down at dark, and the murderer would be unlikely to raise it except to go out that way. but then the casement was shut and fastened. just so; but can’t it be as easily shut and fastened from the outside as from the in? the catch is very loose, and swings by itself. true, this prevents the casement shutting when it is just carelessly banged to, but see here.” he rose and went to the window. “anybody from outside who cared to hold the catch back with his finger till the casement was shut as far as the frame could then shut the window completely, and the catch would simply swing into its appointed groove.

2-5

“‘the catch would simply swing into its

appointed groove.’”

“and now see something more. you and i both looked at the sill outside. it is a smooth new sill—the house itself is almost new; but probably you saw in one place a sharply marked pit or depression. look, it seems to have been drilled with a sharp steel point. it was absolutely new, for there was the powder of the stone about the mark. the wind has since blown the powder away. now if a man had descended from that sill by means of a rope with a hook at the end, that was just the sort of mark i should expect him to leave behind. so that at any rate the balance of probability was that the murderer had left by the window. but there is another thing which confirms this. you will remember that when mrs. beckle mentioned that the sheets were gone from the bed you concluded that they had been taken to carry the swag.”

“yes, and so they were, as we have seen here in the bundle.”

“just so; but why both sheets? one would be ample. and since you allude to the bundle, why both sheets as well as the indian shawl? this last, by the way, is a thing mrs. beckle seems not to have missed in the confusion, or perhaps she didn’t know that pullin possessed it. why all these wrappings, and moreover, why the hook? the presumption is clear. the bundle was already made up in the indian shawl, and required no more wrapping. the two sheets were wanted to tie together to enable the criminal to descend from the window, and the hook was the very thing to hold this rope with at the top. it was not necessary to tie it to anything, and it would not prevent the shutting of the window behind. moreover, when the descent had been made, a mere shake of the rope of sheets would dislodge the hook and bring it down, thus leaving no evidence of the escape—except the mark on the sill, which was very small.

“then again, there was no noise or struggle heard. pullin, as you could see, was a powerful, hard-set man, not likely to allow his throat to be cut without a lot of trouble, therefore the murderer must either have entered the room unknown to him—an unlikely thing, for he had not gone to bed—or else must have been there with his permission, and must have taken him by sudden surprise. and now we come to the heart of the thing. of the two papers burnt in the grate—you have kept them under the shade, i see—one bore no trace of the writing that had been on it (many inks and papers do not after having been burnt), but the other bore plain signs of having been a cheque. now just let us look at it. the main body of the paper has burnt to a deep gray ash, nearly black, but the printed parts of the cheque—those printed in coloured inks, that is—are of a much paler gray, quite a light ash colour. that is the colour to which most of the pink ink used in printing cheques burns, as you may easily test for yourself with an old cheque of the sort that is printed from a fine plate with water-solution pink ink. the black ink, on the other hand, such as the number of the cheque is printed in, has charred black, and by sharp eyes is quite distinguishable against the general dark gray of the paper. the cinder is unfortunately broken rather badly, and the part containing the signature is missing altogether. but one can plainly see in large script letters part of the boldest line of print, the name of the bank. the letters are e r n c o n s o, and this must mean the eastern consolidated bank. of course you saw that for yourself.”

“yes, of course i did.”

“fortunately the whole of the cheque number is unbroken. it is b/k63777. of course i took a note of that, as well as of the other particulars distinguishable. it is payable to pullin, clearly, for here is the latter half of his christian name, abel, and the first few letters of pullin. then on the line where the amount is written at length there are the letters u s a n d and p. plainly it was a large cheque, for thousands. at the bottom, where the amount is placed in figures, there is a bad break, but the first figure is a 2. the cheque, then, was one for ￡2000 at least. and there is one more thing. the cinder is perfect and unbroken nearly all along the top edge, and there is no sign of crossing, so that here is an open cheque which any thief might cash with a little care. that is all we can see; but it is enough, i think. now would a thief, committing murder for the sake of plunder, burn this cheque? would pullin, to whom the money was to be paid, burn it? i think not. then who in the whole world would have any interest in burning it? not a soul, with one single exception—the man who drew it.”

“yes, yes. what! do you mean that the man who drew that cheque must have murdered pullin in order to get it back and destroy it?”

“that is my opinion. now who would draw pullin a cheque for ￡2,000? anybody in this house? is it at all likely? of course not. again, we are pointed to a stranger. and now remember pullin’s antecedents. on his last voyage but one his ship, the egret, from valparaiso for wellington, new zealand, was cast away on the paumotu islands, far out of her proper course. there was but a small crew, and, as it happened, all were lost except pullin and one kanaka boy. the egret was heavily insured, and there were nasty rumours at lloyd’s that captain pullin had made sure of his whereabouts, taken care of himself, and destroyed the ship in collusion with the owners, and that the kanaka boy had only escaped because he happened to be well acquainted with the islands. but there was nothing positive in the way of proof, and the underwriters paid, with no more than covert grumblings. and, as you remember, mrs. heckle told us yesterday pullin on his return had no money. now suppose the story of the intentional wreck were true, and for some reason pullin’s payment was put off till after his next voyage, would the people who sent their men to death in the pacific hesitate at a single murder to save ￡2,000? i think not.

“after i left you yesterday i made some particular inquiries at lloyd’s through a friend of mine, an underwriter himself. i find that the sole owner of the egret was one herbert roofe, trading as herbert roofe & co. the firm is a very small one, as shipping concerns go, and has had the reputation for a long time of being very ‘rocky’ financially; indeed, it was the common talk at lloyd’s that nothing but the wreck of the egret saved roofe from the bankruptcy court, and he is supposed now to be ‘hanging on by his eyelashes,’ as my friend expresses it, with very little margin to keep him going, and in a continual state of touch-and-go between his debit and credit sides. as to the rumours of the wilful casting away of the egret, my friend assured me that the thing was as certain as anything could be, short of legal proof. there was something tricky about the cargo, and altogether it was a black sort of business. and to complete things he told me that the bankers of herbert roofe & co. were the eastern consolidated.”

“phew! this is getting pretty warm, i must say, mr. hewitt.”

“wait a minute; my friend aided me a little further still. i told him the whole story—in confidence, of course—and he agreed to help. at my suggestion he went to the manager of the eastern consolidated bank, whom he knew personally, and represented that among a heap of cheques one had got torn, and the missing piece destroyed. this was true entirely, except in regard to the heap—a little fiction which i trust my friend may be forgiven. the cheque, he said, was on the eastern consolidated, and its number was b/k63777. would the manager mind telling him which of his customers had the cheque book from which that had been taken? trace of where the cheque had come from had been quite lost, and it would save a lot of trouble if the bank could let him know. ‘certainly,’ said the manager; ‘i’ll inquire.’ he did, and presently a clerk entered the room with the information that cheque no. b/k63777 was from a book in the possession of messrs. herbert roofe & co.”

the inspector rose excitedly from his chair. “come,” he said, “this must be followed up. we mustn’t waste time; there’s no knowing where roofe may have got to by this.”

“just a little more patience,” hewitt said. “i don’t think there will be much difficulty in finding him. he believes himself safe. as soon as my friend told me what the bank manager had said, i went round to roofe’s office to ascertain his whereabouts, prepared with an excuse for the interview in case i should find him in. it was a small office rather, over a shop in leadenhall street. when i asked for mr. roofe, the clerk informed me that he was at home confined to his room by a bad cold, and had not been at the office since tuesday—the next day but one before the body was discovered. i appeared to be disappointed, and asked if i could send him a message. yes, i could, the clerk told me. all letters were being sent to him, and he was sending business instructions daily to the office from chadwell heath. i saw that the address had slipped inadvertently from the clerk’s mouth, for it is a general rule, i know, in city offices to keep the principals’ addresses from casual callers. so i said no more, but contented myself with the information i had got. i took the first opportunity of looking at a suburban directory, and then i found the name of mr. roofe’s house at chadwell heath. it is scarby lodge.”

“i must be off, then, at once,” truscott said, “and make careful inquiries as to his movements. and those cinders—bless my soul, they’re as precious as diamonds now! how shall we keep them from damage?”

“oh, the glass shade will do, i fancy. but wait a moment; let us review things thoroughly. i will run rapidly over what i suggest has happened between roofe and pullin, and you shall stop me if you see any flaw in the argument. it’s best to make our impressions clear and definite. now we will suppose that the egret has been lost, and pullin has come home to claim the reward of his infamy. we will suppose it is ￡2,000. he goes to roofe and demands it. roofe says he can’t possibly pay just then; he is very hard up, and the insurance money of the egret has only just saved him from bankruptcy. pullin insists on having his money. but, says roofe, that is impossible, because he hasn’t got it. a cheque for the amount would be dishonoured. the plunder of the underwriters has all been used to keep things going. roofe says plainly that pullin must wait for the money. pullin can’t reveal the conspiracy without implicating himself, and roofe knows it. he promises to pay in a certain time, and gives pullin an acknowledgment of the debt, an i o u, perhaps, or something of that kind, and with that pullin has to be contented, and, having no money, he has to go away on another voyage, this time in a ship belonging to somebody else, because it would look worse than ever if roofe gave him another berth at once. he makes his voyage and he returns, and asks for his money again. but roofe is as hard up as ever. he cannot pay, and he cannot refuse to pay. it is ruin either way. he knows that pullin will stand no more delay, and may do something desperate, so roofe does something desperate himself. he tells pullin that he must not call at his office, nor must anybody see them together anywhere for fear of suspicion. he suggests that he, roofe, should call at pullin’s lodgings late one night, and bring the money. pullin is to let him in himself, so that nobody may see him. pullin consents, and thus assists in the concealment of his own murder. he stands at the front door smoking his pipe (you remember that mrs. beckle told me so), waiting for roofe. when roofe comes, pullin takes him very quietly up to his room without attracting attention. roofe, on his part, has prepared things by feigning a bad cold and going to bed early, going out—perhaps through the window—when all his household is quiet. there are plenty of late trains from chadwell heath that would bring him to stratford.

“well, when they are safely in pullin’s room, roofe hears the front door shut and bolted, with all its squeaks and thumps, and decides that it won’t be safe to go out that way after he has committed his crime. the men sit and talk, and pullin drinks. roofe doesn’t. you will remember the bottle on the table, with only one glass. roofe produces and writes a cheque for the ￡2,000, and pullin hands back the i o u, which roofe burns. that would be the lower of the two charred pieces of paper, which we have there with the other, but can’t read.

“then the crime takes place. perhaps pullin drinks a little too much, perhaps he dozes—we shall never know, unless roofe confesses circumstantially. at any rate, roofe gets behind him, uses the sharp seaman’s knife he has brought for the purpose, and straightway the skipper is dead at his feet. then roofe gets back the cheque and burns that. after that he ransacks the whole room. he fears there may be some documentary evidence, unguarded letters or something of the sort, which, being examined, may throw some light on the egret affair. there are none. then he sets about his escape. he has the whole night before him, and to make the thing look like a murder for ordinary plunder, and at the same time account for the upset room, he takes away all the dead man’s valuables, tied in that shawl. he sees the hook—just the thing he wants—and of course the sheets are an obvious substitute for a rope. he takes away the door-key, to make it seem likely that somebody inside the house had been the criminal, and then he simply goes away through the window, as i have already explained. at 5.45 there would be a train to chadwell heath, and that would land him home early enough to enable him to regain his bedroom unobserved. after that he wisely maintains the pretence of illness for a day or two.

“i guessed that the things carried off would be in that ditch, for very simple reasons. i looked about the house, and the ditch seemed the only available hiding-place near. more, it was on the way to the station, the direction roofe would naturally take. he would seize the very first opportunity of getting rid of his burden, for every possible reason. it was a nuisance to carry; he could not account for it if he were asked; and the further he carried it before getting rid of it, the more distinct the clue to the direction he had taken, supposing it ever were found. as i quite expected, my guess was right. the behaviour of some of the people in the house might have been suspicious, if i hadn’t had so strong a clue in my hand, leading in another direction. foster, poor fellow, has probably pawned all his clothes, one after another, and put those bricks in his boxes to conceal the fact, so that mrs. beckle might not turn him away. he owed her so much that at last he hadn’t the face to go and eat her breakfast when he had no money to pay for it. he went out early, met friends, got ‘stood’ drinks and came back drunk. the girl taffs very naturally ran from the horrible sight in this room, and probably foster had been kind to her at some time or another, so that when she found he was suspected she refused to give any information.”

“yes,” the inspector said, “it certainly seems to fit together to the smallest bit as you put it. there’s a future before you, mr. hewitt. you ought to be in the force. but now i must go to chadwell heath. are you coming?”