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

And, naturally, I began with Mr. Hollis’s premises—though the forgery of the seals seemed to put him outside the field of inquiry.”

      “Yes; he would hardly have needed to forge his own seal.”

      “No. But I examined his premises thoroughly, with an entirely negative result. There was no one on them with a moustache of any kind; the dust from his floors showed not a particle of the wood-dust, and I could find no piece of furniture in his house which could have yielded such dust.

      “I then proceeded to Woodstock’s office, and there I obtained abundant samples both of hairs and wood-dust. I found Osmond’s hair-brushes in his desk, and from them obtained a number of moustache hairs which, on careful comparison, appear to be identically similar to those found in the boxes.”

      “Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Penfield in what sounded like a tone of disapproval. “And as to the wood-dust?”

      “I obtained traces of it from every part of the floor. But it was very unequally distributed; so unequally as to associate it quite distinctly with a particular individual. I obtained abundant traces of it from the floor round that individual’s desk, and even more from the inside of the desk; whereas, from the interiors of the other desks I recovered hardly a particle.”

      “You refer to ‘a particular individual.’ Do you mean John Osmond?”

      “No,” replied Thorndyke. “Osmond’s desk contained no wood-dust.”

      “Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Penfield in what sounded very like a tone of satisfaction.

      “As to the individual referred to,” said Thorndyke, “I think that, for the present, it might be better—”

      “Certainly,” Mr. Penfield interrupted emphatically, “certainly. It will be much better to mention no names. After all, it is but a coincidence, though undoubtedly a striking one. But we must keep an open mind.”

      “That is what I feel,” said Thorndyke. “It is an impressive fact, but there is the possibility of some fallacy. Nevertheless it is the most promising clue that offers, and I shall endeavour to follow it up.”

      “Undoubtedly,” Mr. Penfield agreed, warmly. “It indicates a new line of inquiry adapted to your peculiar gifts, though to me I must confess it only adds a new complication to this mystery. And I do really find this a most perplexing case. Perhaps you do not?”

      “I do, indeed,” replied Thorndyke. “It bristles with contradictions and inconsistencies. Take the case against Osmond. On the one hand it is in the highest degree convincing. The robberies coincide in time with his presence in the office. His disappearance coincides with the discovery of the robbery; and then in the rifled boxes we find a number of hairs from his moustache.”

      “Can you prove that they are actually his?” Mr. Penfield asked.

      “No,” Thorndyke replied. “But I have not the slightest doubt that they are, and I think they would be accepted by a jury—in conjunction with the other circumstances—as good evidence. These facts seem to point quite clearly to his guilt. On the other hand, the wood-dust is not connected with him at all. None was found in his desk or near it; and when I examined his rooms—which by a fortunate chance I was able to do—I not only found no trace whatever of wood-dust, but from the appearance of the place I was convinced that the boxes had not been opened there. And furthermore, so far as I could ascertain, the man’s personality was singularly out of character with a subtle, cunning, avaricious crime of this type; not that I would lay great stress on that point.”

      “No,” agreed Mr. Penfield; “the information is too scanty. But tell me: you inferred that the boxes were not opened in Woodstock’s office, but were taken away and opened in some other place. How did you arrive at that?”

      “By means of the wood-dust. The place in which those boxes were opened and refilled must have contained some worm-eaten wooden object which yielded that very distinctive dust, and yielded it in large quantities. But there was no such object on Woodstock’s premises. I searched the house from top to bottom and could not find a single piece of worm-eaten wood work.”

      “And may I inquire—mind, I am not asking for details—but may I inquire whether you have any idea as to the whereabouts of that piece of furniture?”

      “I have a suspicion,” replied Thorndyke. “But there is my dilemma. I have a strong suspicion as to the place where it might be found; but, unfortunately, that place is not accessible for exploration. So, at present, I am unable either to confirm or disprove my theory.”

      “But supposing you were able to ascertain definitely that the piece of furniture is where you believe it to be? What then?”

      “In that case,” Thorndyke replied, “provided that this worm-eaten object turned out to be the kind of object that I believe it to be, I should be disposed to apply for a search-warrant.”

      “To search for what?” demanded Mr. Penfield.

      “The stolen property—and certain other things.”

      “But surely the stolen property has been disposed of long ago.”

      “I think,” replied Thorndyke, “that there are reasons for believing that it has not. But I would rather not go into that question at present.”

      “No,” said Mr. Penfield. “We agreed to avoid speculative questions. And now, as I think I have exhausted your supply of information, it is my turn to contribute. I have a rather startling piece of news to communicate. John Osmond is dead.”

      Thorndyke regarded Mr. Penfield with raised eyebrows. “Have you heard any particulars?” he asked.

      “Woodstock sent me a copy of the police report, of which I will send you a duplicate if you would like one. Briefly, it amounts to this: Osmond was traced to Bristol, and it was suspected that he had embarked on a ship which traded from that port to the west coast of Africa. That ship was seen, some weeks later, at anchor off the coast at a considerable distance from her usual trading-ground, and on her arrival at her station—a place called Half-Jack on the Grain Coast—was boarded by an inspector of constabulary who had been sent up from the Gold Coast to make inquiries. To him the captain admitted that he had landed a passenger from Bristol at a place called Adaffia in the Bight of Benin. The passenger was a man named Walker whose description agreed completely with that of Osmond. Thereupon, the inspector returned to Accra to report; and from thence was sent down to Adaffia with an armed party to find the man and arrest him.

      “But he was too late. He arrived only in time to find a trader named Larkom setting up a wooden cross over the grave. Walker had died early that morning or the night before.”

      “Is it quite clear that this man was really John Osmond?”

      “Quite,” replied Mr. Penfield. “Larkom had just painted the name John Osmond on the cross. It appeared that Osmond, when he realized that he was dying, had disclosed his real name and asked to have it written above his grave—naturally enough. One doesn’t want to be buried under an assumed name.”

      “No,” Thorndyke agreed. “The grave is a sufficiently secure sanctuary. Does the report say what was the cause of death?”

      “Yes, though it doesn’t seem very material. He is stated to have died from blackwater fever—whatever that may be.”

      “It is a peculiarly malignant type of malaria,” Thorndyke explained; and he added after a pause: “Well, ‘the White Man’s Grave’ is a pestilential region, but poor Osmond certainly wasted no time in dying. How does his death affect our inquiry?”

      Mr. Penfield took snuff viciously. “Woodstock’s view is—I can hardly speak of it with patience—that as the thief is dead, the inquiry comes automatically to an end.”

      “And Hollis, I take it, does not agree?”

      “Indeed he does not. He wants his property traced and recovered.”

      “And