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

the gate was opened a few inches and the man whom he had seen within looked out with an air of slightly irritable enquiry.

      “I must apologize for disturbing you,” Thorndyke said with disarming suavity, “but I heard some one within, and there was no one about from whom I could make my enquiry.”

      “You are not disturbing me in the least,” the other replied, not less suavely. “I shall be most happy to give you any information that I can. What was the enquiry that you wished to make?”

      As he asked the question, the stranger stepped out on the path, drawing the gate to after him, and looked inquisitively at Thorndyke.

      “I wanted to know,” the latter replied, “whether this footpath leads to a wood—Potter’s Wood, I think it is called. You see, I am a stranger to this neighbourhood.”

      On this the man seemed to look at him with heightened interest as he replied:

      “Yes, it leads through the wood about half a mile farther on.”

      “And where does it lead to eventually?”

      “It crosses a patch of heath and joins a by-road that runs from the town to the main London road. Was that where you wanted to go?”

      “No,” replied Thorndyke. “It is the path itself that I am concerned with. The fact is, I am making a sort of informal inspection in connection with the case of a man who disappeared a short time ago—the manager of a local branch of Perkins’s Bank. I understand that he was last seen walking along this path.”

      “Ah,” said the other, “I remember the affair. And is he still missing?”

      “Yes. He has never been seen or heard of since he started along this path. What is the wood like? Is it a place in which a man might lose himself?”

      The other shook his head. “No, it is only a small wood. A sound and sober man could not get lost in it. Of course, if a man were taken ill and strayed into the wood, he might die and lie hidden for months. Has the wood been searched?”

      “I really can’t say. It ought to have been.”

      “I thought,” said the stranger, “that you might, perhaps, be connected with the police.”

      “No,” replied Thorndyke. “I am a lawyer and I look after some of the affairs of the bank. One of the directors mentioned this disappearance to me a few days ago, and as I happened to be in the neighbourhood today, I thought I would come and take a look round. Perhaps you could show me where we are on my map. It is a little confusing to a stranger.”

      He drew out the folded map and handed it to his new acquaintance, who took it and pored over it as if he found it difficult to decipher. As he did so, Thorndyke took the opportunity to look him over with the most searching scrutiny; his face, his hair, his spectacles, his hands and his feet; and when he had inspected the left side of the face which was the one presented to him—he crossed as if to took over the man’s right shoulder and examined the face from that side.

      “This dotted line seems to be the footpath,” said the stranger, tracing it with the point of a pencil. “This black dot must be my house, and here is the wood with the dotted line running through it. I think that is quite clear.”

      “Perfectly clear, thank you,” said Thorndyke, as the other handed him back the map. “I am very greatly obliged to you and I must again apologize for having disturbed you.”

      “Not at all,” the stranger returned genially; “and I hope your inspection may be successful.”

      Thorndyke thanked him again, and with mutual bows they separated, the one retiring into his domain, the other setting forth in the direction of the wood.

      For some minutes Thorndyke continued to walk at a rapid pace along the path. Only when a sharp turn carried him out of sight of the walled garden did he halt to jot down in his notebook a brief summary of his observations while they were fresh in his mind. Not that the notes were really necessary, for, even as he had made those observations, the significance of the facts that they supplied became apparent. Now, as he walked, he turned them over again and again.

      What had he observed? Nothing very sensational, to be sure. He had seen a man who had recently set up in his garden a pillar dial on a broad stone base. The dial was old, but the base was new and seemed to have been specially constructed for its present purpose. The garden in which it had been set up was completely enclosed, was extremely secluded, was remote from its own or any other house, and was very thoroughly secured against any possible intrusion by two locked gates. The man himself was a skilled workman, or at least a very handy man; ingenious and resourceful, too, for he could time a sun-dial, a thing that not every handy man could do. Then he appeared to have some kind of workshop of a size suggesting good accommodation and facilities for work, and this workshop was in a secluded situation, very secure from observation. But in these facts there would seem to be nothing remarkable; only they were in singular harmony with certain other facts—very remarkable facts indeed—that Thorndyke had gleaned from an examination of Harold’s absurd photographs.

      And there was the man himself, and especially his spectacles. When Thorndyke had seen those spectacles lying on the chair while their owner drove in the screws, looked at his watch, and scrutinized the shadow on the dial, he had naturally assumed that the man was near-sighted; that he had taken off his “distance” glasses to get the advantage of his near sight for the near work. But when the man appeared at the gate, it was immediately evident that he was not near-sighted. The spectacles were convex bi-focal glasses, with an upper half of nearly plain glass and a lower segment distinctly convex, suited for long sight or “old sight.” A near-sighted man could not have seen through them. But neither did their owner seem to need them, since he had taken them off just when they should have been most useful—for near work. Moreover, when Thorndyke had presented the map, the man had looked at it, not through the lower “reading” segment, but through the weak, upper, “distance” segment. In short, the man did not need those spectacles at all. So far from being a convenience, they were a positive inconvenience. Then, why did he wear them? Why had he put them on to come to the gate? There could be only one answer. People who wear useless and inconvenient spectacles do so in order to alter their appearance; as a species of disguise, in fact. Then it seemed as if this man had some reason for wishing to conceal his identity. But what could that reason be?

      As to his appearance, he was a decidedly good-looking man, with an alert, intelligent face that was in harmony with his speech and bearing. His mouth and chin were concealed by a moustache and a short beard, but his nose was rather handsome and very striking, for it was of that rare type which is seen in the classical Greek sculptures. His ears were both well-shaped, but one of them—the right—was somewhat disfigured by a small “port-wine mark,” which stained the lobule a deep purple. But it was quite small and really inconspicuous.

      This was the sum of Thorndyke’s observations, to which may be added that the man appeared to be prematurely grey and that his face, despite its cheerful geniality, had that indefinable character that may be detected in the faces of men who have passed through long periods of stress and mental suffering. Only one datum remained unascertained, and Thorndyke added it to his collection when, having traversed the wood and the heath, he returned to the town by way of the by-road. Encountering a postman on his round, he stopped him and enquired:

      “I wonder if you can tell me who is living at ‘The Chestnuts’ now? You know the house I mean. It stands at the corner—”

      “Oh, I know ‘The Chestnuts,’ sir. Colonel Barnett used to live there. But he went away nigh upon two years ago, and, after it had been empty for a month or two, it was bought by the gentleman who lives there now, Mr. Pottermack.”

      “That is a queer name,” said Thorndyke. “How does he spell it?”

      “P.o.t.t.e.r.m.a.c.k,” the postman replied. “Marcus Pottermack, Esq. It is a queer name, sir. I’ve never met with it before. But he is a very pleasant gentleman, all the same.”

      Thorndyke thanked the postman for his information, on which he pondered