The First R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK ®. R. Austin Freeman

remains to be seen what kind of boot he can turn out on the legal last,” I retorted.

      “That is so,” he rejoined; “but I hear Mrs. Hornby’s voice in the outer office, and as neither you nor I have any time to waste in idle talk, I suggest that you make your way to the court without delay. I wish you good morning!”

      Acting on this very plain hint, I retired to the clerks’ office, where I found Mrs. Hornby and Juliet, the former undisguisedly tearful and terrified, and the latter calm, though pale and agitated.

      “We had better start at once,” I said, when we had exchanged greetings. “Shall we take a cab, or walk?”

      “I think we will walk, if you don’t mind,” said Juliet. “Mrs. Hornby wants to have a few words with you before we go into court. You see, she is one of the witnesses, and she is terrified lest she should say something damaging to Reuben.”

      “By whom was the subpoena served?” I asked.

      “Mr. Lawley sent it,” replied Mrs. Hornby, “and I went to see him about it the very next day, but he wouldn’t tell me anything—he didn’t seem to know what I was wanted for, and he wasn’t at all nice—not at all.”

      “I expect your evidence will relate to the ‘Thumbograph,’” I said. “There is really nothing else in connection with the case that you have any knowledge of.”

      “That is just what Walter said,” exclaimed Mrs. Hornby. “I went to his rooms to talk the matter over with him. He is very upset about the whole affair, and I am afraid he thinks very badly of poor Reuben’s prospects. I only trust he may be wrong! Oh dear! What a dreadful thing it is, to be sure!” Here the poor lady halted to mop her eyes elaborately, to the surprise and manifest scorn of a passing errand boy.

      “He was very thoughtful and sympathetic—Walter, I mean, you know,” pursued Mrs. Hornby, “and most helpful. He asked me all I knew about that horrid little book, and took down my answers in writing. Then he wrote out the questions I was likely to be asked, with my answers, so that I could read them over and get them well into my head. Wasn’t it good of him! And I made him print them with his machine so that I could read them without my glasses, and he did it beautifully. I have the paper in my pocket now.”

      “I didn’t know Mr. Walter went in for printing,” I said. “Has he a regular printing press?”

      “It isn’t a printing press exactly,” replied Mrs. Hornby; “it is a small thing with a lot of round keys that you press down—Dickensblerfer, I think it is called—ridiculous name, isn’t it? Walter bought it from one of his literary friends about a week ago; but he is getting quite clever with it already, though he does make a few mistakes still, as you can see.”

      She halted again, and began to search for the opening of a pocket which was hidden away in some occult recess of her clothing, all unconscious of the effect that her explanation had produced on me. For, instantly, as she spoke, there flashed into my mind one of the points that Thorndyke had given me for the identification of the mysterious X. “He has probably purchased, quite recently, a second-hand Blickensderfer, fitted with a literary type­wheel.” The coincidence was striking and even startling, though a moment’s reflection convinced me that it was nothing more than a coincidence; for there must be hundreds of second-hand “Blicks” on the market, and, as to Walter Hornby, he certainly could have no quarrel with Thorndyke, but would rather be interested in his preservation on Reuben’s account.

      These thoughts passed through my mind so rapidly that by the time Mrs. Hornby had run her pocket to earth I had quite recovered from the momentary shock.

      “Ah! Here it is,” she exclaimed triumphantly, producing an obese Morocco purse. “I put it in here for safety, knowing how liable one is to get one’s pocket picked in these crowded London streets.” She opened the bulky receptacle and drew it out after the manner of a concertina, exhibiting multitudinous partitions, all stuffed with pieces of paper, coils of tape and sewing silk, buttons, samples of dress materials and miscellaneous rubbish, mingled indiscriminately with gold, silver, and copper coins.

      “Now just run your eye through that, Dr. Jervis,” she said, handing me a folded paper, “and give me your advice on my answers.”

      I opened the paper and read: “The Committee of the Society for the Protection of Paralysed Idiots, in submitting this—”

      “Oh! That isn’t it; I have given you the wrong paper. How silly of me! That is the appeal of—you remember, Juliet, dear, that troublesome person—I had, really, to be quite rude, you know, Dr. Jervis; I had to tell him that charity begins at home, although, thank Heaven! None of us are paralysed, but we must consider our own, mustn’t we? And then—”

      “Do you think this is the one, dear?” interposed Juliet, in whose pale cheek the ghost of a dimple had appeared. “It looks cleaner than most of the others.”

      She selected a folded paper from the purse which Mrs. Horn­by was holding with both hands extended to its utmost, as though she were about to produce a burst of music, and, opening it, glanced at its contents.

      “Yes, this is your evidence,” she said, and passed the paper to me.

      I took the document from her hand and, in spite of the conclusion at which I had arrived, examined it with eager curiosity. And at the very first glance I felt my head swim and my heart throb violently. For the paper was headed: “Evidence respecting the Thumbograph,” and in every one of the five small “e’s” that occurred in that sentence I could see plainly by the strong out-door light a small break or interval in the summit of the loop.

      I was thunderstruck.

      One coincidence was quite possible and even probable; but the two together, and the second one of so remarkable a character, were beyond all reasonable limits of probability. The identification did not seem to admit of a doubt, and yet—

      “Our legal adviser appears to be somewhat preoccupied,” remarked Juliet, with something of her old gaiety of manner; and, in fact, though I held the paper in my hand, my gaze was fixed unmeaningly on an adjacent lamp-post. As she spoke, I pulled myself together, and, scanning the paper hastily, was fortunate enough to find in the first paragraph matter requiring comment.

      “I observe, Mrs. Hornby,” I said, “that in answer to the first question, ‘Whence did you obtain the “Thumbograph”?’ you say, ‘I do not remember clearly; I think I must have bought it at a railway bookstall.’ Now I understood that it was brought home and given to you by Walter himself.”

      “That was what I thought,” replied Mrs. Hornby, “but Walter tells me that it was not so, and, of course, he would remember better than I should.”

      “But, my dear aunt, I am sure he gave it to you,” interposed Juliet. “Don’t you remember? It was the night the Colleys came to dinner, and we were so hard pressed to find amusement for them, when Walter came in and produced the ‘Thumbograph.’”

      “Yes, I remember quite well now,” said Mrs. Hornby. “How fortunate that you reminded me. We must alter that answer at once.”

      “If I were you, Mrs. Hornby,” I said, “I would disregard this paper altogether. It will only confuse you and get you into difficulties. Answer the questions that are put, as well as you can, and if you don’t remember, say so.”

      “Yes, that will be much the wisest plan,” said Juliet. “Let Dr. Jervis take charge of the paper and rely on your own memory.”

      “Very well, my dear,” replied Mrs. Hornby, “I will do what you think best, and you can keep the paper, Dr. Jervis, or throw it away.”

      I slipped the document into my pocket without remark, and we proceeded on our way, Mrs. Hornby babbling inconsequently, with occasional outbursts of emotion, and Juliet silent and ab­stracted. I struggled to concentrate my attention on the elder lady’s conversation, but my thoughts continually reverted to the paper in my pocket, and the startling solution that it seemed to offer of the mystery of the poisoned