The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman

a coil of insulated wire, a stamp-album, a cardboard tray full of military buttons, cap-badges, and old civilian coat buttons, and a smaller tray containing one or two old copper and silver coins.

      “I see you are a stamp collector,” remarked Thorndyke, opening the album and casting a glance of lukewarm interest over its variegated pages.

      “Yes,” was the reply, “in a small way. It is a poor man’s hobby, unless one seeks to acquire costly rarities, which I do not. As a matter of fact, I seldom buy specimens at all. This album has been filled principally from our foreign correspondence. And the same is true of the coins. I don’t regularly collect them; I just keep any odd specimens that come my way.”

      “And the buttons? You have a better opportunity there, for you have practically no competitors. And yet it seems to me that they are of more interest than the things that the conventional collectors seek so eagerly.”

      “I entirely agree with you, sir,” Mr. Wampole replied, warmly. “It is the common things that are best worth collecting—the things that are common now and will be rare in a few years’ time. But the collector who has no imagination neglects things until they have become rare and precious. Then he buys at a high price what he could have got a few years previously for nothing. Look at these old gilt coat-buttons. I got them from an old-established tailor who was clearing out his obsolete stock. Unfortunately, he had thrown away most of them and nearly all the steel button-dies. I just managed to rescue these few and one or two dies, which I have at home. They are of no value now, but when the collectors discover the interest of old buttons, they will be worth their weight in gold. I am collecting all the buttons I can get hold of.”

      “I think you are wise, from a collector’s point of view. By the way, did you ever meet with any of those leather-bound sample wallets that the old button-makers used to supply to tailors?”

      “Never,” replied Mr. Wampole. “I have never even heard of them.”

      “I have seen one or two,” said Thorndyke, “and each was a collection in itself, for it contained some two or three hundred buttons, fixed in sheets of mill-board, forming a sort of album; and, of course, every button was different from every other.”

      Mr. Wampole’s eyes sparkled. “What an opportunity you had, sir!” he exclaimed. “But probably you are not a collector. It was a pity, though, for, as you say, one of those wallets was a museum in itself. If you should ever chance to meet with another, would it be too great a liberty for me to beg you to secure an option for me, at a price within my slender means?”

      “It is no liberty at all,” Thorndyke replied. “It is not likely that I shall ever come across one again, but if I should, I will certainly secure it for you.”

      “That is most kind of you, sir,” exclaimed Mr. Wampole. “And now, as Mr. Polton seems to have completed the cleansing of my desk—the first that it has had, I am afraid, for a year or two—we may continue our exploration. Did you wish to examine the waiting-room?”

      “I think not. I have just looked into it, but its associations are too ambiguous for the dust to be of any interest. But I should like to glance at the rooms upstairs.”

      To the upstairs rooms they accordingly proceeded, but the inspection was little more than a formality. They walked slowly through each room, awakening the echoes as they trod the bare floors, and as they went, Thorndyke’s eye travelled searchingly over the shelves and rough tables, stacked with documents and obsolete account-books, and the few rickety Windsor chairs. There was certainly an abundance of dust, as Mr. Wampole pointed out, but it did not appear to be of the brand in which Thorndyke was interested.

      “Well,” said Mr. Wampole, as they descended to the ground-floor, “you have now seen the whole of our premises. I think you said that you would like to inspect Mr. Osmond’s rooms. If you will wait a few moments, I will get the keys.”

      He disappeared into the principal’s office, and meanwhile Polton rapidly packed his apparatus in the suit case, so that by the time Mr. Wampole reappeared, he was ready to start.

      “Mr. Osmond’s rooms,” said Mr. Wampole, as they set forth, “are over a bookseller’s shop. This is the place. If you will wait for a moment at the private door, I will notify the landlord of our visit.” He entered the shop and after a short interval emerged briskly and stepped round to the side-door, into which he inserted a latch-key. He led the way along the narrow hall, past a partially open door, in the opening of which a portion of a human face was visible, to the staircase, up which the little procession advanced until the second-floor landing was reached. Here Mr. Wampole halted and, selecting a key from the small bunch, unlocked and opened a door, and preceded his visitors into the room.

      “It is just as well that you came today,” he remarked, “for I understand that Mrs. Hepburn is going to take charge of these rooms. A day or two later and she would have been beforehand with you in the matter of dust. As it is, you ought to get quite a good haul.”

      “Quite,” Thorndyke agreed. “There is plenty of dust; but in spite of that, the place has a very neat, orderly appearance. Do you happen to know whether the rooms have been tidied up since Mr. Osmond left?”

      “They are just as he left them,” was the reply, “excepting that the Chief Constable and Mr. Woodstock came and looked over them. But I don’t think they disturbed them to any extent. There isn’t much to disturb, as you see.”

      Mr. Wampole was right. The furnishing of the room did not go beyond the barest necessities, and when Thorndyke opened the door of communication and looked into the bedroom, it was seen to be characterized by a like austere simplicity. Whatever might be the moral short-comings of the vanished tenant, softness or effeminate luxuriousness did not appear to be among them.

      As his assistant refixed the ‘extractor,’ Thorndyke stood thoughtfully surveying the room, trying to assess the personality of its late occupant by the light of his belongings. And those belongings and the room which held them were highly characteristic. The late tenant was clearly an active man, a man whose interests lay out-of-doors; an orderly man, too, with something of a sailor’s tidiness. He had the sailor’s knack of keeping the floor clear by slinging things aloft out of the way. Not only small articles such as rules, dividers, marlinspike, and sheath-knife, but a gun-case, fishing-rods, cricket-bats, and a bulky roll of charts were disposed of on the walls by means of picture-hooks and properly-made slings—the height of which gave a clue to the occupant’s stature and length of arm. And the nautical flavour was accentuated by the contents of a set of rough shelves in a recess, which included a boat compass, a nautical almanack, a volume of sailing directions, and a manual of naval architecture. The only touch of ornament was given by a set of four photographs in silver frames, which occupied the mantelpiece in company with a pipe-rack, a tobacco-jar, an ash-bowl, and a box of matches.

      Thorndyke stepped across to the fireplace to look at them more closely. They were portraits of five persons: a grave-looking, elderly clergyman; a woman of about the same age with a strong, alert, resolute face and markedly aquiline features; and a younger woman, recognizably like the clergyman; and two boys of about seven and eight, photographed together.

      “Those,” said Mr. Wampole, indicating the older persons, “are Mr. Osmond’s parents, both, I regret to say, deceased. The younger lady is Mrs. Hepburn, Mr. Osmond’s sister, and those little boys are her sons. Mr. Osmond was very devoted to them, as I believe they were to him.”

      Thorndyke nodded. “They are fine little fellows,” he remarked. “Indeed it is a good-looking family. I gather from your description that Mr. Osmond must have taken rather strongly after his mother.”

      “You are quite right, sir,” replied Mr. Wampole. “From that portrait of his mother you would recognize Mr. Osmond without the slightest difficulty. The likeness is quite remarkable.”

      Thorndyke nodded again as he considered long and earnestly the striking face that looked out of the frame so keenly under its bold, straight brows. Strength, courage, determination, were written in every line of it; and as he stood with his eyes bent upon those of the portrait and thought of this woman’s