The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

the marks on the paper, and now he answered, “I’m not so sure of that, though, Plummer. I think at least that it gives us another conjecture. I should guess that the man you want, as well as being acquainted with the use of the tourniquet, has at some time travelled in, or to, China.”

      “Why?”

      “Unless I am wider of the mark than usual, this is the pigment used on Chinese seals. A Chinaman’s seal acts for his signature on all sorts of documents; it is impressed or printed by hand pressure from a little engraved stone die, precisely as this triangle seems to have been, and the ink or colour is almost always red, compounded of vermilion, wax, and oil of sesamum.”

      Plummer sat up with a whistle. “Phew! Then it may have been done by a Chinaman!”

      Hewitt shrugged his shoulders. “It’s possible,” he said; “of course, though, the sign, the triangle, is not a Chinese character. As a character, of course it is the Greek Delta. But it may be no character at all. In the signs of the ancient Cabala, the triangle, apex upward as it was in this case, was the symbol of fire; apex downward, it signified water.”

      Plummer patted the side of his head distractedly. “Heavens!” he said, “don’t tell me I’m to search all China, and Greece, and—wherever the cabalistic pundits come from!”

      “Well, no,” Hewitt answered with a smile. “I think I should, at any rate, begin in this country. I rather think you might make a beginning at Denson. That is what I should do if the case were mine. See if anything can be ascertained of his previous life—probably under another name or names. He may have been in China. Yes, certainly, as we stand at present, I should begin at Denson.”

      “I think I will,” the inspector replied, “though there’s precious little to begin on there. I’d like to have you with me on this job, but, of course, that’s impossible, since it’s purely a police matter. But something, some information, may come your way, and in that case you’ll let me know at once, of course.”

      “Of course I shall—it’s a serious matter, as well as a strange one. I wish you all luck!”

      Plummer departed to grapple with his difficulties, but in fact it was Hewitt who first heard fresh news of the Red Triangle, and that from a wholly unexpected quarter.

      It was, indeed, only two days after Plummer’s visit that Kerrett brought into Hewitt’s private room the card of the Rev. James Potswood, with a request for a consultation. Mr. Potswood’s name was known to Hewitt, as, indeed, it was to many people, as that of a most devoted clergyman, rector of a large parish in north-west London, who devoted not only all his time and personal strength to his work, but also spent every penny of his private income on his parish. It was not a small income that Mr. Potswood spent in this unselfish way, for he came of a wealthy family, and though a good part of his parish was inhabited by well-to-do people, there was quite enough poverty and distress in the poorer quarters to cause this excellent man often to regret that his resources were not even larger. He was a spare active grey-whiskered man of nearly sixty, with prominent and not very handsome features, though his face was full of frank and simple kindliness.

      “My errand, Mr. Hewitt,” he said, “is of a rather vague, not to say visionary, character, and I doubt if you can help me. But at any rate I will explain the trouble as well as I can. In the first place, am I right in supposing that you were in some way professionally engaged in connection with that extraordinary case of murder a week or so ago—the case in which a man named Denson was found dead on the steps by the Duke of York’s column?”

      “Yes—and no,” Hewitt answered. “I was professionally engaged on a certain matter about which you will not wish me to particularise—since it is the business of a client—and in course of it I came upon the other affair.”

      “Then before I ask what you know of that mysterious event, Mr. Hewitt, I will tell you my story, so that you may judge whether you are able to reveal anything, or to do anything. Of course, what I say is in the strictest confidence.”

      “Of course.”

      “I have a parishioner, a Mr. Jacob Mason, of whom I have seen very little of late years—scarcely anything at all, in fact, till a few days ago. He is fairly well to do, I believe, living a somewhat retired life in a house not far from my rectory. For many years he has laboured at natural science—chemistry in particular—and he has a very excellently fitted laboratory attached to his house. He is a widower, with no children of his own, but his orphan niece, a Miss Creswick, lives under his guardianship. Mr. Mason was never a very regular church-goer, but years ago I saw much more of him than I have of late. I must be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Hewitt, if you are to help me, and therefore I must tell you that we disagreed on points of religion, in such a way that I found it difficult to maintain my former regard for Mr. Mason. He had a curiously fantastic mind, and he was constantly being led to tamper with things that I think are best left alone—what is called spiritualism, for instance, and that horrible form of modern superstition which we hear whispers of at times from the Continent—the alleged devil-propitiation or worship. It was not that he did anything I thought morally wrong, you understand—except that he dabbled. And he was always running after some new thing—animal magnetism, or telepathy, or crystal-gazing, or theosophy, or some one of the score of such things that have an attraction for a mind of that sort. And it was a characteristic of each new enthusiasm with him that it prompted him to try to convert me; and that in such terms—terms often applied to the doctrines of that religion of which I am a humble minister—as I could in nowise permit in my presence. So that our friendly intercourse, though not interrupted by any definite breaking off, fell away to almost nothing. For which reason I was a little surprised to receive a visit from Mr. Mason on the afternoon of the day on which the newspapers printed the report of the finding of the body of Denson. You may remember that only one morning paper mentioned the matter, and that very briefly; but there were full reports in all the evening papers.”

      “Yes, the discovery was made very late the previous night.”

      “So I gathered. Well, I was told that Mr. Mason had been shown into my study, and there I found him. He was in an extremely nervous and agitated state, and he had an evening paper in his hand. With scarcely a preliminary word he burst out, ‘Have you seen this in the paper? This—this murder? There—there’s the report.’ And he thrust the paper into my hands.

      “I had not seen or heard anything of the matter, in fact, till that moment, and now he gave me little leisure to read the report. He walked up and down the room, nervously clasping his hands, sometimes together, sometimes at his sides, sometimes before him, shaking his head in a shuddering sort of way, and bursting out once or twice as though the words were uncontrollable, ‘What ought I to do? What can I do?’

      “I looked up from the paper, and he went on, ‘Have you read it? It’s a murder—a horrid murder. The poor wretched fellow was trying to escape, but he couldn’t. It’s a murder!’

      “‘It certainly seems so,’ I said. ‘But what—did you know this man, Denson?’

      “‘No, of course not,’ Mason replied, ‘but there it is, plain enough, and here’s another paper with just the same report, but a little shorter.’ He pulled the second paper from his pocket. ‘I got what different papers I could, but these are the two fullest. It’s plain enough it’s a brutal murder, isn’t it? And the man was a merchant, or an agent, or something, in Portsmouth Street, but he was found in labourer’s clothes—proof that he feared it and was trying to escape it; but he couldn’t—he couldn’t—no! nor anybody. It’s awful, awful!’

      “‘But I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ For Mason continued to pace distractedly about the room. ‘What is it you think this unfortunate man was trying to escape? And what am I to do in the matter?’

      “He stopped, pressed both hands to his head, and seemed to control himself by a great effort. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit run down lately, and my nerves are all wrong. I’m talking rather wildly, I’m afraid. I really