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

in this room, and, meanwhile, he was the last person known to have been here, and the only visitor, and he was not heard to go out, unless we heard him go when we were outside the study door. More, it was plainly some one familiar with the place who was able to get away so quickly by the window and the garden.”

      “And his interest in getting rid of Mason, too—the girl of age in a few months, and all obstacles to getting hold of her, and her money, removed. And—and the surgical tourniquet, the Chinese colour and everything!”

      “Quite right, you must make sure of him, as you say. You will get his address from the rector. Meanwhile I’ll try to begin my little contribution to the case—to begin it as best I can, after all the chances have made it useless.”

      III

      It was after nine when Plummer returned. The rector had just rejoined Hewitt in the study, having left poor Miss Creswick, utterly broken down, in her room, in charge of a scarcely less terrified servant. Plummer tapped, and pushed the study door open.

      “That’s done clean and sure enough,” he said, with professional calmness. “And he’s a cool hand, is that Dr. Lawson. But have you found anything more? We shall want all we can get.”

      “We shall,” Hewitt assented, “and we shall find more than we’ve got now, or I’m grievously mistaken. But tell me first what you’ve done.”

      He removed the blotting pad, on which the paper ashes still lay, and very carefully shut it away in a wide drawer where no draught could disturb it; he also shut another drawer which stood open.

      “We had no difficulty in finding Dr. Lawson,” Plummer began. “We met him, in fact, leaving his surgery. I went back with him into the gas-light, and there put it to him plump. Well, he was staggered, badly. Any man would be, of course. But he pulled himself together wonderfully soon, and the first thing he said was that he was just on his way to Mason’s house. I thought at first, of course, that he meant to deny that he had been there already, and I gave him the usual warning about what he said being used in evidence. But he went on, and I’ve got it all safely noted. He admitted that he had been here, at about seven o’clock or just before, and he said he came because Mr. Mason sent for him. That doesn’t seem likely, does it, on the facts as we know them?”

      “Why, no,” said the rector. “The last time he was here he was ordered out, and I know of no reason why he should have been asked to come to-day. We must ask if anybody was sent.”

      “I have asked,” replied Plummer, “just now, and none of the servants was sent. But Lawson’s story is that he was sent for and came, though he said he shouldn’t say what Mason wanted to see him about till he knew more of the case. Looks as though he hadn’t quite got his story ready yet, doesn’t it? He had thought over the point about not being seen to go away, though; he said he had let himself out at about half-past seven, being familiar with the ways of the house. And he said that Mason was rather unwell—nervously upset—when he left him, but that was all.”

      “It’s terrible,” said the rector, “terrible. It seems impossible to believe it of young Lawson; and yet—and yet!” And then after a pause—“Good heavens!” he burst out again. “Why, I only realise it now! There is the other crime, too! Denson! Two murders! Two—and most certainly by the same hand! Mr. Plummer, I can’t believe it! Oh, there’s more behind, more behind, Mr. Hewitt.”

      “There is more,” said Hewitt, “as you will see when I tell you the little I have been able to ascertain. There is more behind, though I see little of it yet. First——”

      There was a sharp knock at the front door, followed by a ring, muffled in the distant kitchen. Hewitt started up. “Who is this late visitor at this unvisited house?” he said. “If it is the police, well enough. But if anybody else—anybody—you may call me Doctor, or anything you please, except Martin Hewitt. Don’t forget that!”

      There were hurried steps in the hall, a question or two, and the study door was pushed open. Two servants—they would not venture from the kitchen singly this dreadful night—made a confused announcement of “Mr. Myatt,” and were instantly pushed aside by Mr. Myatt himself, anxious and agitated.

      The late Mr. Mason’s closest scientific friend was a palish, black-bearded man, of above middle height, with stooping shoulders and a very quick pair of eyes. There was something about his face that somehow reminded Hewitt of portraits he had seen of John Knox, and yet it was not such a face as his; it seemed oddly unlike in its very likeness.

      “What is this dreadful news, Mr. Potswood?” he cried. “I heard people talking in the next street on my way home. Is it true? But the servants have told me so. They say our poor friend—but there has been an arrest, hasn’t there?”

      The rector nodded gravely.

      “And who? Tell me about it, Mr. Potswood—tell me!”

      “I think I must see how Miss Creswick is doing,” said Hewitt, speaking across to Plummer and making for the door.

      “Certainly, doctor, certainly!” answered Plummer with a nod.

      Hewitt closed the door behind him, leaving the rector in the full tide of his account of the day’s events; but Hewitt’s way took him to the kitchen, where the servants were cowering and whispering together, frightened and bewildered.

      “Is there any paint or varnish of any sort in the place?” he asked sharply. “Give me anything there is—black, if possible—and a brush, quickly.”

      “There’s—there’s Brunswick black, sir, for the stove,” said the cook.

      “That will do; be quick. Oh, there’s Gipps, the gardener! You’re just the man I want, Gipps. Come and find me a board or a plank, quick as you please!” And Hewitt pushed the old gardener before him into the garden by the kitchen door.

      A quarter of an hour later, Mr. Everard Myatt, having heard all that was to be told of his friend’s terrible death and the arrest of Mr. Lawson, turned to go, meeting Hewitt at the study door on his way.

      “And how is poor Miss Creswick by now, doctor?” he asked anxiously.

      Hewitt shook his head. “No better than you could expect,” he said, “but, on the whole, no worse. She mustn’t be seen to-night, of course, but, perhaps, if you could call round in the morning with the rector——”

      “Of course—of course! Poor girl—and Dr. Lawson suspected, too—what a terrible blow for her! Anything I can do, doctor, of course, as I said to Mr. Potswood—anything I can do I will do as gladly as such sad circumstances permit.”

      The rector had been coming to the door with Mr. Myatt, but Plummer, catching a sign from Hewitt, restrained him unseen, and Hewitt and the visitor walked into the hall together.

      “They have put out the light, it seems,” Hewitt said. “I wonder why—unless people from the crowd have been coming into the garden and staring in through the glass panels. I wonder if we can find the door-handle. Yes, here it is. Dark outside, too! Good-night—mind how you go on the steps!”

      Mr. Myatt checked and stumbled in the dark porch, and reached quickly downward.

      “There’s a board standing across the porch,” he said.

      “A board?” replied Hewitt. “So there is. Let me move it, or it’ll upset somebody. Good-night!”

      Mr. Myatt strode off into the dark night, and Hewitt, noiselessly lifting the board he had himself placed in position, hastened back to the study.

      He swung up the board, all sticky and shiny with Brunswick black, and laid it across a spread newspaper, on the table. There on the top, in the midst of the black varnish, were the prints of all five finger-tips of a hand,