MARTIN HEWITT Complete Series: 25 Mysteries in One Volume (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

give you your thief presently.”

      “What! Have you a clue? Who do you think? I began to believe you were hopelessly stumped.”

      “Well, yes. I have rather a good clue, although I can’t tell you much about it just yet. But it is so good a clue that I should like to know now whether you are determined to prosecute when you have the criminal?”

      “Why, bless me, of course,” Sir James replied, with surprise. “It doesn’t rest with me, you know—the property belongs to my friends. And even if they were disposed to let the thing slide, I shouldn’t allow it—I couldn’t, after they had been robbed in my house.”

      “Of course, of course! Then, if I can, I should like to send a message to Twyford by somebody perfectly trustworthy—not a servant. Could anybody go?”

      “Well, there’s Lloyd, although he’s only just back from his journey. But, if it’s important, he’ll go.”

      “It is important. The fact is we must have a policeman or two here this evening, and I’d like Mr. Lloyd to fetch them without telling anybody else.”

      Sir James rang, and, in response to his message, Mr. Lloyd appeared. While Sir James gave his secretary his instructions, Hewitt strolled to the door of the smoking-room, and intercepted the latter as he came out.

      “I’m sorry to give you this trouble, Mr. Lloyd,” he said, “but I must stay here myself for a little, and somebody who can be trusted must go. Will you just bring back a police-constable with you? or rather two—two would be better. That is all that is wanted. You won’t let the servants know, will you? Of course there will be a female searcher at the Twyford police-station? Ah—of course. Well, you needn’t bring her, you know. That sort of thing is done at the station.” And, chatting thus confidentially, Martin Hewitt saw him off.

      When Hewitt returned to the smoking-room, Sir James said, suddenly: “Why, bless my soul, Mr. Hewitt, we haven’t fed you! I’m awfully sorry. We came in rather late for lunch, you know, and this business has bothered me so I clean forgot everything else. There’s no dinner till seven, so you’d better let me give you something now. I’m really sorry. Come along.”

      “Thank you, Sir James,” Hewitt replied; “I won’t take much. A few biscuits, perhaps, or something of that sort. And, by the by, if you don’t mind, I rather think I should like to take it alone. The fact is I want to go over this case thoroughly by myself. Can you put me in a room?”

      “Any room you like. Where will you go? The dining-room’s rather large, but there’s my study, that’s pretty snug, or—”

      “Perhaps I can go into Mr. Lloyd’s room for half an hour or so; I don’t think he’ll mind, and it’s pretty comfortable.”

      “Certainly, if you’d like. I’ll tell them to send you whatever they’ve got.”

      “Thank you very much. Perhaps they’ll also send me a lump of sugar and a walnut; it’s—it’s a little fad of mine.”

      “A—what? A lump of sugar and a walnut?” Sir James stopped for a moment, with his hand on the bell-rope. “Oh, certainly, if you’d like it; certainly,” he added, and stared after this detective with curious tastes as he left the room.

      When the vehicle, bringing back the secretary and the policeman, drew up on the drive, Martin Hewitt left the room on the first floor and proceeded down-stairs. On the landing he met Sir James Norris and Mrs. Cazenove, who stared with astonishment on perceiving that the detective carried in his hand the parrot-cage.

      “I think our business is about brought to a head now,” Hewitt remarked, on the stairs. “Here are the police officers from Twyford.” The men were standing in the hall with Mr. Lloyd, who, on catching sight of the cage in Hewitt’s hand, paled suddenly.

      “This is the person who will be charged, I think,” Hewitt pursued, addressing the officers, and indicating Lloyd with his finger.

      “What, Lloyd?” gasped Sir James, aghast. “No—not Lloyd—nonsense!”

      “He doesn’t seem to think it nonsense himself, does he?” Hewitt placidly observed. Lloyd had sank on a chair, and, gray of face, was staring blindly at the man he had run against at the office door that morning. His lips moved in spasms, but there was no sound. The wilted flower fell from his button-hole to the floor, but he did not move.

      “This is his accomplice,” Hewitt went on, placing the parrot and cage on the hall table, “though I doubt whether there will be any use in charging him. Eh, Polly?”

      The parrot put his head aside and chuckled. “Hullo, Polly!” it quietly gurgled. “Come along!”

      Sir James Norris was hopelessly bewildered. “Lloyd—Lloyd,” he said, under his breath. “Lloyd—and that!”

      “This was his little messenger, his useful Mercury,” Hewitt explained, tapping the cage complacently; “in fact, the actual lifter. Hold him up!”

      The last remark referred to the wretched Lloyd, who had fallen forward with something between a sob and a loud sigh. The policemen took him by the arms and propped him in his chair.

      “System?” said Hewitt, with a shrug of the shoulders, an hour or two after in Sir James’ study. “I can’t say I have a system. I call it nothing but common-sense and a sharp pair of eyes. Nobody using these could help taking the right road in this case. I began at the match, just as the Scotland Yard man did, but I had the advantage of taking a line through three cases. To begin with, it was plain that that match, being left there in daylight, in Mrs. Cazenove’s room, could not have been used to light the table-top, in the full glare of the window; therefore it had been used for some other purpose—What purpose I could not, at the moment, guess. Habitual thieves, you know, often have curious superstitions, and some will never take anything without leaving something behind—a pebble or a piece of coal, or something like that—in the premises they have been robbing. It seemed at first extremely likely that this was a case of that kind. The match had clearly been brought in, because, when I asked for matches, there were none in the stand, not even an empty box, and the room had not been disturbed. Also the match probably had not been struck there, nothing having been heard, although, of course, a mistake in this matter was just possible. This match, then, it was fair to assume, had been lit somewhere else and blown out immediately—I remarked at the time that it was very little burned. Plainly it could not have been treated thus for nothing, and the only possible object would have been to prevent it igniting accidentally. Following on this, it became obvious that the match was used, for whatever purpose, not as a match, but merely as a convenient splinter of wood.

      “So far so good. But on examining the match very closely I observed, as you can see for yourself, certain rather sharp indentations in the wood. They are very small, you see, and scarcely visible, except upon narrow inspection; but there they are, and their positions are regular. See, there are two on each side, each opposite the corresponding mark of the other pair. The match, in fact, would seem to have been gripped in some fairly sharp instrument, holding it at two points above and two below—an instrument, as it may at once strike you, not unlike the beak of a bird.

      “Now here was an idea. What living creature but a bird could possibly have entered Mrs. Heath’s window without a ladder—supposing no ladder to have been used—or could have got into Mrs. Armitage’s window without lifting the sash higher than the eight or ten inches it was already open? Plainly, nothing. Further, it is significant that only one article was stolen at a time, although others were about. A human being could have carried any reasonable number, but a bird could only take one at a time. But why should a bird carry a match in its beak? Certainly it must have been trained to do that for a purpose, and a little consideration made that purpose pretty clear. A noisy, chattering bird would probably betray itself at once. Therefore