of the family has to be thought of. Peers do not always go to the
stage for their wives."

"Sir, you overstep the limits of our short acquaintance," said Marsh
with some dignity.

"Let me tell you, sir, that you treat the affair far too cavalierly.
It looks as if Mr. Seligmann had been killed by a man rather than by a
woman. You couldn't have read of the murder till this afternoon, yet
you went to River Mansions this morning."

"What are you attempting to suggest?" Marsh asked, his face pale,
either with fear or anger.

"I suggest that you know why Miss Wickham went to Mr. Seligmann and
that it was upon some matter which concerned yourself."

"Do you know Seligmann?" Marsh asked.

"I know a great deal about him."

"Then you know that he was a different man, according to his company.
You may only have seen the decent side of him, but he was a
blood-sucker of the worst description."

"So he had you in his money-lending hands, had he?"

"He had. Morally, I had paid my debt, but a legal quibble kept me in
his power, and he refused to give up certain papers of mine."

"Which you had no right to part with, I presume," said Quarles.

"Miss Wickham said she had some influence with Seligmann," Marsh went
on, taking no notice of the professor's remark, "and said she would
try and get the papers back."

"What price was she to pay for them?"

"Price!"

"You didn't expect Seligmann to give them up for nothing?"

"He wanted her to go on tour, I believe, instead of bringing her out
in town, as he had half promised to do."

"It was natural perhaps that your future wife should be willing to
make a sacrifice for your sake."

"It was hardly a sacrifice. She is not good enough for the London
stage. Besides, I am not engaged to her. Friendship is----"

"I warrant she considers herself engaged to you."

"I cannot help that."

"Of course not," said the professor, "but you were glad enough to get
the papers. May I look at the envelope they came in?"

"I destroyed it," Marsh replied to my utter astonishment.

"That is a pity. If Miss Wickham says she did not get those papers,
it will be awkward for you. Could you swear the writing on the
envelope was hers?"

"They could have come from no one else."

"And you think she murdered Seligmann to get them?"

"I am not to be trapped into admitting anything of the sort."

"As you will, Mr. Marsh. For my part, I expect this affair will open
Miss Wickham's eyes to your--your true worth."

And Quarles took up his hat and walked out of the room. I followed
him. In the street he took off his glasses and put them in his pocket.
They were the same he had worn that morning--a pair he did not often
use.

"The Honorable Percival Marsh is a worm," he remarked.

"Now for Miss Wickham," said I.

"There is no necessity to see her," said Quarles. "I dare say it is
true what this worm says. She went to offer her talent cheap to
Seligmann on condition that he would give her the papers. I can guess
what happened. They talked over the bargain, but Seligmann refused to
do what she wanted, and was able, probably, to show her that Marsh was
a worthless scoundrel. Unless something of this sort had happened she
would have written to Marsh to tell him she had been unsuccessful. I
have little doubt Seligmann treated her in a fatherly manner, and then
let her out through the garden, perhaps because he found the light in
the hall was out. He returned to find--I am not sure yet what it was
he found in his study, but nothing to alarm him, I am sure. To-morrow
we will go to Maidenhead, Wigan, and see what servants are at the
cottage."

At noon next day we were in Maidenhead.

There was a yard and coach house somewhat removed from the house, and
a chauffeur was cleaning a car. In the corner of the yard lay a large
dog of the boar-hound type, but I have never seen one quite like it
before.

"Is that dog savage?" Quarles asked.

"He doesn't like strangers, as a rule," said the man, "but he's ill."

"Foreign breed of dog, eh?" said Quarles, entering the yard.

"Came from Russia."

The professor looked puzzled. It was evident that something interfered
with his theory.

"Sorry to disturb you," he went on, "but we've come to ask a few
questions about the awful circumstances of your master's death."

"You're right, it is awful," said the man. "The mistress will go mad,
that's what she'll do. I shouldn't have been surprised if she'd
chucked herself out of the car as we came down this morning."

"She has returned to the cottage, then? I suppose it was you who drove
her up yesterday?"

"Yes, and on Saturday I drove them both up as far as Colnbrook, and
then something went wrong with the car. They had to go on by train."

"How did she arrive home on Sunday morning, then?"

"In a taxi."

"And what did she do on Sunday?"

"Had out the punt and went up to Boulter's, where she would be certain
to meet a lot of friends. I dare say you know the mistress is a famous
dancer. That kind of people are a bit unconventional."

"Do you happen to know the Honorable Percival Marsh?" asked Quarles.

"Yes. He's been here, but not lately. The mistress lunches with him in
town sometimes. She seems to think more of him than I do. There's
nothing in it. I've heard her laugh at him with the master."

"Is that the only dog about the place?" said Quarles.

"Yes. He's a pet; usually goes up to the opera with the mistress. He
went on Saturday, and came back like that on Sunday. He snapped at her
in a frightened way when she came in here in the morning and got a
hiding for it. I was afraid he'd go for her."

Quarles gave a short exclamation underneath his breath, and then he
said in rather an agitated way: "Well go in and see Mrs. Seligmann,
Wigan." And as we left the yard he went on: "You must make the servant
show us in to her mistress without announcing us. We must take Mrs.
Seligmann unawares."

The servant proved difficult to persuade, and I had to explain who I
was before she yielded. Mrs. Seligmann sprang from the sofa as we
entered. She looked wild, almost mad, as the chauffeur had said, but
she recognized us and forced herself to welcome us.

"What are you here for?" she said, and I started. There was the
suggestion of a snarl in her voice.

"We believe your husband was murdered by Percival Marsh," said Quarles
quietly.

"It's a lie!" she shrieked.

"How comes it, then, that he has those papers which were in your
husband's possession?"

In a moment she had hurled herself upon the professor, and had snapped
at the hand which he threw out to protect himself. Her strength was
awful, and all the time we were struggling with her she fought with
her nails and teeth, and growled like an infuriated animal. Her
clothes were partly torn from her in the struggle, and--but it was too
ghastly to enlarge upon. She was an animal in the form of a beautiful
woman. The house was quickly roused, and we had to have the
chauffeur's help before we could bind her securely. Then I telephoned
to Maidenhead for the police.

"I thought a dog had helped, Wigan; that was my theory," said Quarles
as we went back to town. "I noted that a dog had trodden on the
polished skirting near the study sofa. Miss Wickham might have had a
dog, that is why I questioned the housemaid so closely to make sure
she entered the house quite alone. When we were brought in contact
with Marsh I suspected Mrs. Seligmann. Those glasses I wear sometimes
are curious, acting like opera-glasses, and they enabled me to see a
portrait of Mrs. Seligmann standing back on a corner table, and,
moreover, that it was signed. Marsh evidently knew her well; was in
love with her, perhaps, and she with him. My saying that he had first
been to River Mansions in the morning was guesswork, but by his not
denying it, the fact was established that the papers must have come
into his possession, or why should he have gone there? He must have
known that Miss Wickham usually went away on Saturday or Sunday and
did not return till late on Monday. I argued that Mrs. Seligmann might
have sent them, and that Marsh suspected this, hence his visit to Miss
Wickham to make certain. It may be true that he did not know she was
going to Seligmann on Saturday night, and if he heard from the porter
that she had left town on Saturday afternoon he would know that the
papers could not have come from her. He would hear from the porter
that she had returned in the small hours of Sunday morning, and when,
later in the day, he read of the murder he would not know what to
think. It is also possible, Wigan, that Seligmann expected his wife to
call for him that night. That their motor had broken down on the way
up to town makes it even probable. I went to Maidenhead to see if Mrs.
Seligmann had a dog, a savage brute who would attack at her command,
savage but small. The great brute in the yard did not fit my theory.
God knows I didn't suspect the real truth. Strange that I should have
felt that I was in a forest, stranger still that Zena should speak of
Pan. I don't explain, Wigan, I can't, but it has happened--a return of
the human to wild and awful atavism. She meant to kill, to rid herself
of the man who was in her way. The human in her used the stiletto or
hatpin, the animal in her used claws. She will be called mad, and so
she is in one sense, but not in another; nor was it murder in the true
sense of the word. The wild wolf does not murder; he kills because he
must. Even the dog recognized an enemy of whom he was afraid. The
beast was not ill, but cowed, and snapped at her as you heard the
chauffeur say. Had she had her way with me to-day, I should have
looked like poor Seligmann."

Arriving in town I found that Miss Wickham had communicated with the
police and had given an account of her visit to Hampstead, which
closely corresponded with Quarles's idea. She had gone at that hour
because she was anxious on Marsh's account, and it was the only time
Seligmann could see her unless she waited another week. He was very
kind, and had told her that Marsh was a scoundrel. He was attempting
to make love to his wife, he declared, who laughed at him, and was
quite in agreement with her husband when he said he would presently
punish him by using the papers he held. He was expecting his wife to
call for him that night in a taxi. She came, and killed him.

I am thankful to say that a fortnight after her arrest Mrs. Seligmann
died.

CHAPTER XV

THE STRANGE AFFAIR OF THE FLORENTINE CHEST

Only the other day, in a turning off Finsbury Pavement, there was
demolished one of those anachronisms which used to be met with more
frequently in London, an old house sandwiched in between immense
blocks of buildings, a relic of the past holding its own against the
commercial necessities and rush of modern civilization. It was
connected with a very strange case Quarles and I had to deal with not
long after the Seligmann affair.

The house looked absurdly small in the midst of its surroundings, but
had once been a desirable residence, probably standing in its own
gardens. Now it was almost flush with the street, dingy to look at,
yet substantial. The door, set back in a porch, had two windows on
either side of it, and there were four windows in the story above it.
A brass plate on the door had engraved upon it "Mr. Portman," and it
would appear that the bare fact of such a gentleman's existence was
considered sufficient information to give to the world, since there
was nothing to show what was his calling in life, nor what hours he
was prepared to transact business.

As a matter of fact, he not only did his business in the old house,
but lived there.

The room on the right of the hall was the living room. On the left was
a small apartment, with windows of frosted glass, which was occupied
during certain hours of the day by his only clerk, a cadaverous and
unintellectual looking youth, whose chief work in life seemed to be
the cutting of his initials into various parts of the cheap furniture
which the room contained. Behind this office, but not connected with
it, was Mr. Portman's business room, to which no one penetrated unless
conducted thither by the cadaverous youth. Behind the living room,
down a passage, was the kitchen, where Mrs. Eccles, the housekeeper,
passed her days. A girl occasionally came in to help her, otherwise
she was solely responsible for her master's comfort.

One November afternoon Mr. Portman returned to his house shortly after
four o'clock. He stood in the doorway of the small room for a few
moments, giving instructions to his clerk, and then went to his own
room, closing the door after him. A little later Mrs. Eccles took him
some tea on a tray, which she did every afternoon when he was at home.
He talked to her for some minutes about a friend who was coming to
dinner with him on the following evening, giving her such particular
orders that he evidently wished to entertain this friend particularly
well. Soon after five Mrs. Eccles returned to fetch the tray. The door
was locked then, and Mr. Portman called out to her that he was busy,
but was going out shortly, when she could have the tray.

It was nearly six when she went to the room again. Mr. Portman had
gone out, but evidently did not expect to be long, as he had left the
gas burning, only turning it low. She had not heard him go, but the
clerk said Mr. Portman had come out of his room at a quarter to six,
had paused in the passage outside to say, "I shall not be long, but
you needn't wait, good night," and had then gone out, closing the
front door quietly behind him.

He did not return that night. For five days Mrs. Eccles waited, and
then, growing alarmed, gave information to the police.

These were the bare facts of the case when it came into my hands, but
I was told that my investigations might possibly throw some light on
two or three cases which had puzzled the authorities in recent years.

Mr. Portman was a money-lender, and had so long called himself Portman
for business purposes that possibly he had almost forgotten his real
name himself. Since for years he had transacted his business
unmolested, it was probable that the evil reports which had been
circulated concerning him from time to time were grossly exaggerated;
but the fact remained that the police authorities had taken
considerable trouble to collect items concerning Portman's career, and
had kept an eye upon him. Complaints about him had reached them, but
those who borrow money are easily critical of those who lend, and
there had never been sufficient warrant for taking any action. If, as
happened at intervals, Portman had to appear in the witness-box, he
came through the ordeal fairly well. He might show that he was bent on
getting his pound of flesh, but he was always careful to have the law
on his side. He was legally honest--that was his attitude; he could
not afford to be generous when a large percentage of his clients would
certainly cheat him if they had the chance.

Portman's business room at the back of the house was large, but dark
and depressing, its two windows, which were heavily barred, looking on
to the blank wall of a warehouse. A large desk and a safe gave it a
business aspect, but the room was crowded with costly furniture which
fancy might suppose had once belonged to some unfortunate debtor who
had been unable to satisfy Mr. Portman's demands. Some good pictures
hung upon the walls, and in a recess opposite the door stood an old
chest heavily clamped with iron. The key, which might have hung at the
waist of a medieval jailer, so huge was it, was in the lock, which was
evidently out of order. When I turned the key the lid would not open.
Looking through the drawers in the desk, I found several letters which
showed that Mr. Portman's business was often with well-known
people--men one would not expect to find associated with him in any
way--and the sums involved were often so large that only a rich man
could deal with them.

Mrs. Eccles answered my questions without any hesitation. Whatever the
world might think of Mr. Portman, she appeared to have a genuine
affection for him. She had noticed no change in him recently; he had
appeared to her to be in his usual health and spirits.

"When you went for the tray and found the door locked, did you think
he had anyone with him?" I asked.

"I didn't hear anyone, but I can't say I listened. It was not the
first time I had found the door locked and been told to go back
presently for the tray."

"A friend was to dine with him on the following night. Did the friend
come?"

"No."

"What was his name?"

"Mr. Portman did not mention it."

"Did you prepare the dinner?"

"No."

"Why not?" I asked. "You did not communicate with the police until
five days later, so you must have been expecting your master to
return."

"It's difficult to say exactly what I expected," Mrs. Eccles answered,
"but I never thought about preparing the dinner. When he didn't return
I began to think something was wrong, because I've never known him to
be away even for a night without letting me know."

"Why didn't you give information sooner?"

"Sooner? Why, I keep on asking myself whether I've done right in
giving it at all. The master might walk in at any moment, and I don't
know what he'd say if he did."

The clerk seemed to think that Mr. Portman had been worried recently.
He had had several pieces of business which the youth said had not
progressed too smoothly. He knew practically nothing about these
various items of business, but he gave me the names of half a dozen
people who had called upon Mr. Portman during the past week or two.

"He was close, you know," the youth went on; "didn't give much away
about his doings."

"Then why do you think he has been worried recently?" I asked.

"He's been snappy with me," was the answer; "but by the way he spoke
the other night when he went out I thought everything must have come
right."

A further investigation of Mr. Portman's room resulted in a curious
find. Under a bookcase, which was raised a few inches from the floor,
I discovered a key--the key of the safe. How it had come there,
whether it was a duplicate or the one Mr. Portman carried, it was
impossible to decide.

Apparently the safe had not been opened, for a drawer therein
contained a large sum in gold and notes, and there was not the
slightest indication that any of the papers had been touched. It was
quite evident, however, that a number of people would profit by
Portman's death, especially if he should die suddenly and leave no one
to carry on his business; and this was precisely what had happened.
Not a relative or friend had come forward to lay claim to anything,
and many of his debtors were likely to go free. Among these was Lord
Stanford, one of the names the clerk had given me as recent visitors,
and I went to see him, only to find that he had left England the day
after Portman's disappearance. He had gone to Africa, and that was all
I could discover.

Another man who had called upon Portman recently, and whom I went to
see, was a Mr. Isaacson. From him I obtained an interesting piece of
information. He had seen Portman in Finsbury Pavement on the evening
of his disappearance. He must have met him some ten minutes after he
had left his house.

"I stopped to speak to him, but he was in a hurry, and did not stop,"
said Isaacson.

"I suppose you were not due to dine with him on the following
evening?" I said.

"Dine with him? No, I have never had that honor. I do not think you
quite appreciate Mr. Portman's position. I lend money in a small way,
there are many like me, and if, as occasionally happens, business
comes to us which is too large for us to deal with, we go to Mr.
Portman. The business is carried through in our names, but Mr. Portman
is the real creditor."

In his own way Mr. Portman was a man of importance, and a man of
mystery. There was nothing to suggest he was dead, and it was quite
possible that some crooked business had kept him from home
unexpectedly.

I chanced to go and see Christopher Quarles one evening when I got to
this point in my investigations, and he at once began to ask questions
about the Finsbury affair. I had not intended to enlist his help. I
was quite satisfied with the progress I had made, but he was so keen
about the mystery that I told the whole story to him and Zena.

"You seem very interested," I said, when I had finished.

"I am. Mr. Portman has been talked about before now, and I remember I
once had a theory about him."

"Does the present affair help to confirm that theory?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"It might be interesting to know why Lord Stanford has gone abroad,"
he said.

"That is exactly the line I am following," I returned.

"I should like to know something about the man who was coming to
dinner and did not come," said Zena. "It is curious that he should
have heard so quickly of Mr. Portman's death, and more curious still
that he should make no inquiries."

"Lord Stanford may be able to tell us something about him," I said.

"Zena makes a point, Wigan," said Quarles. "It is rather a complicated
puzzle. Of course, Portman may not be dead, but if he is alive why
should he run the risk of a police search among his papers? He would
know that such an investigation would be likely to do him harm. He
would hardly run such a risk. Since Mr. Isaacson saw him in Finsbury
Pavement he has vanished completely. He left the gas burning in his
room, therefore he did not expect to be out long. He was hurrying,
according to Mr. Isaacson, presumably to keep an appointment. Now, if
he is dead, it looks like a premeditated thing, because there is no
body. It is easy enough to murder; it is the most difficult thing in
the world to hide the victim successfully. If a sudden crime is
committed, and the murderer has his wits about him, the body will
probably be found under circumstances likely to throw suspicion on
anyone but the right man; but a premeditated crime usually means the
disappearance of the body if in any way it can be managed. So we get a
kind of theory which may carry us a long way, and the further we go we
shall be the more convinced, I fancy, that many other theories are
just as likely to be right."

"Portman may not be dead," I said.

"For the reasons I have given I think we may presume that he is,"
Quarles answered. "The difficulty of the case arises from the fact
that so many people stand to profit by his death."

"Stanford, for instance," said I.

"And Isaacson, perhaps," he returned, "and a score of others. As far
as Stanford is concerned, he is a young man with expectations, but
with little money at present. He is probably in the hands of other
money-lenders besides Portman; he is a fool no doubt, but one would
not expect him to be a murderer."

"Given certain conditions, you cannot tell what a man will do."

"True, Wigan, but I do not find the required conditions. Don't let me
influence you. Something may be learned from Stanford, but that would
not be my line of attack."

"What would yours be?"

"I should like to talk to Mrs. Eccles and the clerk."

When Quarles solved a case his explanation was usually so clear that
one could only marvel that the salient points had not been apparent to
everybody from the first; when he was considering the difficulties it
seemed impossible that the mystery could ever be solved. As I listened
to him I felt that his help was necessary in this affair.

"Why not come with me to Finsbury?" I said.

"I will to-morrow," he answered. "By the way, Wigan, wasn't it foggy
on the night of Portman's disappearance?"

"It was, dear," said Zena. "Don't you remember, I went to see some
people at Highgate that day and was late for dinner?"

Quarles nodded and changed the conversation; he had done with the
affair until to-morrow.

When I met him next morning, wrapped in a heavy cloak, for it was
cold, I could not help thinking that he looked the very last man in
the world to solve an intricate mystery. He was the kind of old
gentleman who would annoy everybody by asking foolish questions and
telling stories which had grown hoary with age.

"I'm a simple old fool, Wigan, that's my character," he said, guessing
my thoughts; "and, if you can look annoyed with me and show
irritability, so much the better. Where does Isaacson live? I should
like to see him first."

I found it quite easy to be irritable. When we called on Isaacson,
Quarles asked him the most ridiculous questions which certainly had
nothing whatever to do with Portman, but in a vague way concerned the
theory and honesty of money-lending.

"Was Mr. Portman a Jew?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes."

"I seem to remember seeing him without glasses," said Quarles. "I
thought Jews always wore glasses."

"We are usually short-sighted," said Isaacson, touching his
spectacles, "I am myself. Mr. Portman worked in glasses always, but if
you met him in the street you would probably see him without them."

"Ah, you are remembering that he did not wear them the night you met
him in Finsbury Pavement," said Quarles, "that is probably why he did
not see you."

"He happened to be wearing them that night," Isaacson returned. "I
believe he did see me, but was in too much of a hurry to stop."

"Rude, very rude," remarked Quarles.

"Small men have to put up with many things from big ones," said
Isaacson humbly.

The professor treated him to a short dissertation on the equality of
man, and then we left.

"Honest, I think, so far as he goes," said Quarles, "but he is
desperately afraid of being drawn too deeply into this affair. He
couldn't afford to be questioned too closely about his business,
Wigan."

It had been thought advisable to keep the clerk at his post for the
present, and he was quite ignorant of the fact that he was watched
both during his business and leisure hours. His own importance rather
impressed him at this time, and Quarles soon succeeded in making him
talkative, but, as far as I could see, very little of what he said was
worth particular note.

"I think Mr. Portman would have been wise if he had confided more in
you," said Quarles, after talking to him for some time.

"I think so, too," the youth answered.

"He never did, I suppose?"

"No--no, I cannot say he ever did."

"When he came in that afternoon he stood in the doorway there and
talked to you?"

"He was telling me about some papers he would want in the morning.
Very snappy he was, I can tell you."

"The weather, possibly. It was foggy and unpleasant."

"He was usually unpleasant, no matter what the weather was. He paid me
fairly well, or I shouldn't have stayed with him as I have done."

"Yet, when he went out later that evening, he stopped in the doorway
to say good night."

"He did, and you might have knocked me down with a feather," said the
youth. "I don't remember his ever doing such a thing before. I'd put
some letters which had come during the afternoon on his table, and the
news in them must have been good. He'd had some worrying business on
hand, I know."

"That would certainly account for his cordiality," said Quarles.
"Really, I sympathize with you. Practically, I suppose, you have
little to do but answer the door when the bell rings."

"If the office bell rings I pull this catch," the youth said, "and the
client walks in. The front door has a spring on it and closes itself.
Sometimes a fool will ring the office bell when it's Mrs. Eccles he
wants, and that's annoying."

"Very," laughed the professor. "Did any clients call that day?"

"No. A chap wanting to sell some patent office files came and wasted
my time for a quarter of an hour; swore that the governor had seen him
two or three months ago and told him to call. A rotten patent it was,
too."

"He showed them to you?"

"Had a bag full of them. Wanted me to buy the beastly things. I had to
be rude to him to get rid of him."

"Did you go to the door with him?"

"Not much!" the youth answered. "I just pulled this catch and told him
he would find the door open, and the sooner he got out of it the
better. He would have liked to borrow a bob or two, I fancy, but I
wasn't parting."

"Did you tell Mr. Portman he had called?"

"I never worried him with callers of that sort."

Then Quarles became impressive.

"I suppose you have no idea where Mr. Portman is? To your knowledge
nothing has happened which would account for his absence?"

"Nothing. If you want my opinion--I should say he's dead, had an
accident, most likely, and no papers on him to say who he was."

"One more question," said Quarles, "in strict confidence, mind. Is
Mrs. Eccles honest?"

"As daylight," was the prompt reply. "Would she have put the police on
this business if she hadn't been?"

"I never thought of that," said Quarles humbly. "Your brain is young
and mine is old."

"Makes a difference, no doubt," said the youth.

"And my memory is like a sieve," the professor went on. "I've already
forgotten whether this file seller was a clean-shaven chap or wore a
beard."

"Don't worry about that," said the youth, "because I didn't describe
him. He was an old chap with a gray beard, and had lost most of his
teeth, I should think, by the way he talked."

"Poor fellow. Poor fellow! I expect I should have been fool enough to
give him a bob."

"I expect you would," laughed the youth, in his superior wisdom.

With Mrs. Eccles Quarles's method was still foolish. For some time he
did not mention Mr. Portman, and so silly was he that I should not
have been surprised had the woman been less respectful in her manner.
But he set her talking as he had set the clerk talking, and she was
presently explaining that the guest her master was expecting to dine
with him must have been of considerable importance, because the
preparations were elaborate.

"He's never given such a dinner before," said Mrs. Eccles, "and I
suggested that with such preparation he might have asked other
guests."

"And the wine?" asked Quarles.

"He said he would look after that himself."

"Very natural," answered the professor. "You've been with Mr. Portman
many years, haven't you?"

"Fourteen or more."

"So long! I wonder if you remember a young friend of mine who used to
come here, I think. Ten or eleven years ago it must be. He squinted
and had red hair."

"I do remember him," said Mrs. Eccles. "He came here to dine once, I
recollect. I believe Mr. Portman said he was going abroad. I know he
dined here, and I do not think I saw him again."

Quarles nodded.

"I believe he did leave the country; some said in disgrace. I wonder
who it was that was going to dine with Mr. Portman that night."

"The master didn't say. All he said was an old friend."

"A young man might be called an old friend," said Quarles.

"Oh, he couldn't be young," said Mrs. Eccles, "because the master said
he had known him when he was a young man."

"That is interesting," said Quarles. "Shall we go and look at Mr.
Portman's room, Wigan?"

When we closed the door Quarles stood in the center of the room and
looked slowly round it.

"Was that screen standing there when you first entered the room,
Wigan?"

"Yes."

"Where did you find the safe key?"

"Under that bookshelf."

He went to the safe and walked slowly from it to the door, flicking
his hand as he went. Then he looked out of the windows.

"No exit or entrance that way," he said. "There is only the door. Is
that the chest that won't open?"

He turned the key and tried the lid. He could not lift it. He locked
the chest, then unlocked it again, and hammered upon the lid with his
fist.

"The bolts sound as if they worked properly," he said. "I think it's
only that the lid has caught somehow."

We tackled it together, and, after several efforts, we succeeded in
raising the lid. The chest was empty. Quarles examined it very closely
without and within. We could not move it, it was too heavy, but the
professor produced a magnifying glass and studied the marks on the
wood. He measured the length and depth of the chest, and shut it and
opened it several times.

"Opens quite easily now, Wigan," he remarked.

Very carefully he had put two newspapers into it, and some odd bits of
paper, which he took from his pocket.

"You see how I have placed them, Wigan, which way up the newspapers
are, and the scraps of writing on this piece of paper? We'll set a
trap," and he closed the chest and locked it. "This is an old house,
and there may be a way into this room which we know nothing about. We
shall see."

We left the room, but Quarles told me not to lock the door. He
beckoned me to follow him to the kitchen.

"Mrs. Eccles, how long has your master had that oaken chest in his
room?" he asked the housekeeper.

"It's been there all my time, sir."

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised if it is connected with your master's
disappearance."

Mrs. Eccles's mouth slowly opened in astonishment.

"We shall be back in two hours, and then--then we shall know."

We left her and went to the office. The youth was cutting an initial
on the corner of the table.

"Busy, I see," said Quarles. "I fancy Mr. Portman's disappearance has
something to do with that old chest in his room."

"How can that be?"

"I don't know yet. We are going to make an important inquiry and shall
be back in a couple of hours. We'll be careful to ring the office
bell, not the house one."

As we turned to the front door Quarles caught my arm. He opened the
door, letting it go so that it would close itself. For a few moments
we remained motionless, then, creeping toward the office door,
watched until the clerk's back was turned, and went quickly to
Portman's room.

"It is very easy, Wigan," whispered the professor; "if for us, then
also for others. You see why I did not want you to lock the door of
this room? Now we are in, we will lock it on the inside, and that
screen will hide us."

"There is no question that Mr. Portman left the house," I said.

"Oh, no. Isaacson was quite definite, but I am trying to fit facts to
my theory. I said we should be back in two hours, so we have about two
hours to wait."

There was plenty of room behind the screen, but those two hours went
slowly. I could not decide what theory the professor had got in his
mind, but concluded that he was not so satisfied with the honesty of
Mrs. Eccles and the cadaverous youth as I was. He had looked at his
watch when we went behind the screen, and he allowed a full two hours
to elapse before he would leave our hiding-place.

He walked straight to the chest and opened it. It was empty. All the
papers had gone.

"Well, Wigan?"

I stared into the chest and did not answer.

"It looks like another way into this room, doesn't it"--and then he
started--"or out of it. I hadn't thought of that. Wait."

He took an old envelope from his pocket, dropped it into the chest,
and locked it. He waited a moment, then opened the chest again. The
envelope had gone.

"I confess, Wigan, that this is a surprise," said Quarles. "I must go
home and think. I believe--yes, I believe we have the clew. You must
search Portman's papers for some reference to a business
acquaintance, probably a foreigner. Perhaps Portman knows
Italy--Florence. It might very likely be Florence. I fancy this chest
had its home there. If you find any reference to a friend who is a
Florentine, and can lay hands on him, you might question him closely
about his movements on the day of Portman's disappearance."

"The first thing is to get this chest moved," I said.

"Let that wait for forty-eight hours," said Quarles. "We may have a
more complete story by then. Give me until to-morrow night, then come
and see me."

When I went to Chelsea the following night I was taken at once to the
empty room. Zena was there. Quarles was standing by his table, on
which was a rough plan, evidently a production of his own, and quite
unintelligible without an explanation.

"Of course you have not discovered anything yet, Wigan?"

"There has not been time," I answered.

"No, quite so," he said, motioning me to a seat. "But we have a fairly
clear story, I think. Zena said, you remember, that she would like to
know something about the man who was coming to dine with Portman that
night. It was an important point, particularly so since the guest did
not put in an appearance. You saw the importance of it, Wigan, because
you asked Isaacson whether he was the expected guest. Now, Isaacson
had seen Portman after he had left his house that night, but had not
spoken to him. This fact suggested a question to my mind: was Isaacson
telling the truth? There were two possibilities. Isaacson might have
seen him, gone with him, and be responsible for his disappearance; or
he might have been mistaken. The man he saw might not have been
Portman. The second possibility was the one which appealed to me. The
fact remained, however, that Isaacson knew him well, therefore the man
he took to be Portman must have wished to be taken for Portman, I
argued. This would account for his hurrying on without speaking, since
a closer investigation might have betrayed him. I looked for some fact
to support this theory. I found it in Isaacson's statement that
Portman wore glasses in the street on this occasion, which was
unusual, so unusual, mark you, that Isaacson noticed it. Now, if my
theory were right, it seemed possible that after Mr. Portman entered
his room that afternoon he never left it. That he was there when Mrs.
Eccles took in the tea-tray there could be no doubt; but that it was
Mr. Portman who answered through the locked door was another matter.

"Such a fantastic theory required strong support," the professor went
on. "The clerk helped me. When he came into the house that afternoon
and gave his clerk instructions about certain papers Mr. Portman was
snappy, his usual self, in fact, and, incidentally, he proved that he
had no intention of being away from the office on the following day;
when he left the house he was quite different, genially wishing the
clerk good night. Wigan, a man slightly overplaying his part would be
likely to do that, especially as he wanted the clerk to be in a
position to say that his master had gone out at a certain hour. He was
bound to draw the clerk's attention to himself, so he did it with a
cordial good night. Knowing that Mr. Portman wore glasses, he would
also wear them, even in the street."

"But the clerk would have seen it was not Mr. Portman," I objected.

"That was a difficulty," said Quarles. "It was a foggy afternoon, we
know, and would be dark in the passage, but hardly dark enough to
deceive the clerk. Another difficulty was how a stranger could get
into the house without being seen. Both difficulties vanished when the
clerk told us of the man who called selling patent files. He had a
bag, Wigan, containing more than samples of files, I warrant--means of
disguise as well. We know how easy it is to let the front door slam
and remain in the house. I think the file seller practiced the same
trick we did. Even to going to Portman's room and hiding behind the
screen. You see, the office windows are frosted, so the clerk cannot
see whether anyone leaving the office passes into the street or not.
If there is something fantastic in this theory, let me pursue it to
the end. If I am right, one thing is certain: this file seller knew
Portman well. He must have come prepared to make himself up like him.
He was able to answer Mrs. Eccles when she knocked at the door and
deceive her. Granted that he knew Mr. Portman well, we may assume that
he was in some way associated with him in business. Only one man left
that room, therefore, as things stand, we may assume that these two
men were enemies who had once been friends. Here let me be imaginative
for a moment. Mr. Portman was expecting a friend to dine with him on
the following night, an important person, since the feast to be
prepared was, according to Mrs. Eccles, somewhat elaborate. The
sumptuousness of a feast may mean great friendship, but it may be used
to hide intense enmity. You read such things in the history of the
Medici of Florence. I believe, Wigan, that the feast was prepared for
this same file seller, that the wine, which Mr. Portman was looking
after himself, remember, would have proved unwholesome for the guest,
who, distrusting Portman, came a day earlier and removed his enemy."

"A little imaginative," I said.

"Imagination bridges the intervals between facts," Quarles answered.
"We get again to a fact--the iron-bound chest. It links the two men
together. I have no doubt the file seller knew of its peculiar
mechanism as well as Portman did. You could not open it, and, since
the key was in the lock, no mystery about it, you naturally did not
think it of much importance. When together we succeeded in opening it
I found on the floor of it a tiny stain. I thought it was a blood
stain, but I was not sure. At any rate, the measurements of the chest
were such that a body might be pressed in it. Frankly, I admit I
expected to see Portman's body when we raised the lid. For the sake of
some documents--it is impossible to say what they were--I believed
this file seller had murdered Portman, taken his key, opened the safe,
taken the papers he wanted, thrust the body into the chest, and had
then departed in the character of his victim, flinging the safe key
under the bookcase as he went. As there was no body I wondered whether
Mrs. Eccles or the clerk, or both, were accomplices of the murderer;
whether that chest might not conceal a secret entrance to the room.
The idea did not fit my theory very well, but I laid a trap, and you
know the result, Wigan. The action of shutting that chest opens the
bottom of it, so that whatever is placed in it falls out as soon as
the lid is closed and locked. I believe the body of Portman was in it
and had got caught somehow--that was why you could not open it, why we
could not open it until we had hammered it about, and by constant
working upon the lid had released the body. I feel certain that chest
had its home in Florence; that is why I suggest an Italian may be the
criminal. He may have been long resident in England, of course;
certainly he is a man who speaks English perfectly, or the clerk would
have described him as a foreigner."

"But the body--where is it?" I asked.

"I've been to the British Museum to-day," said Quarles, taking up the
rough sketch from his desk. "This is a copy of an old map of the
Finsbury district, and here I find was one of the old plague pits. I
believe Portman's house stands on this plot."

It was a very rough sketch, but, as I compared the place the professor
had indicated with the old landmarks and their modern equivalents
which he had marked, there could be little doubt that Quarles was
right.

"I do not suppose that Portman's is the first body that has passed
through that chest and slid down into some hole which was once a part
of this pit," he went on. "I asked Mrs. Eccles about a squinting
youth. He was a young fool with expectations, just such another as
Lord Stanford. He was robbed right and left, and it is quite certain
Portman, among others, made money out of him. He disappeared suddenly.
It is possible Lord Stanford might have disappeared in a similar way
had not his friends got him out of the country. Portman didn't have
that chest fixed to the floor of his room for nothing. You may find
the solution to more than one mystery, Wigan, when you move that
chest."

Portman's body and the remains of at least three other bodies were
found in the deep hole under the old house in Finsbury. How the hole
had come there, or how Portman had discovered it, it was impossible
to guess, but there could be little doubt that he had only been
treated as he had treated others. And some six months afterward a man
named Postini was knifed in Milan, and the inquiry into his murder
brought to light the fact that he had been closely connected with
Portman. They had worked together in London, in Paris, and in Rome. At
the time of Portman's death they had quarreled, and at that time
Postini was in London. Among Portman's papers I found none relating to
Postini; no doubt the Italian had taken them, for Portman's letter,
asking him to dine and to become true friends again, was found among
the Italian's papers.

There can be little doubt, I think, that Quarles was right. Portman
intended to rid himself of the Italian after giving him a sumptuous
feast, but Postini, wholly distrusting his former comrade, had come a
day before his time, and been the murderer instead of the victim.

CHAPTER XVI

THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING FORTUNE

Whenever he had solved a case, if not to the world's satisfaction, to
his own, Quarles seldom mentioned it again. He professed to think
little of his achievement, a pose which I have no doubt concealed a
considerable amount of satisfaction and self-complacency. Of the
curious case connected with the Bryants, he was, however, rather
proud; and, since it resulted in making things easier for Zena and me,
I have every reason to be satisfied.

It began in a strange way. A simple looking old man, his clothes a
size too large for him, walked into a large pawnbroker's one day, and,
handing him a scarf-pin, asked how much could be given for it. The pin
was no use to him. He didn't want to pawn it, but to sell it. The
customer was requested to put a price upon his property, and, after
some hesitation, he asked whether twenty pounds would be too much. The
man in the shop went into a back room ostensibly to consult his
superior, in reality to send for the police. It happened that a
quantity of jewelry had been stolen from a well-known society lady a
few weeks before, and pawnbrokers had had special notice of the fact;
hence the firm's precaution. The simple old man had offered for twenty
pounds a diamond that was worth at least twenty times that amount.

Being interested in the jewel robbery, I was naturally keen to know
all that could be discovered about this simple old man, and I will
give the story as I told it to Christopher Quarles after I had made
the most minute inquiries.

The old man's name was Sims--James Sims--and for the last year he had
resided with a niece, who was married and living at Fulham. Until
twelve months ago he had been manservant to an old gentleman named
Ottershaw, living at Norbiton, who he said had given him the pin. Mr.
Ottershaw was a retired Indian servant, who chose to live a lonely
life, and was evidently an erratic individual.

Although there was no direct evidence on the point, nothing to show
that he had any income beyond his pension, nor any property beyond the
old house at Norbiton which he had bought, the idea got abroad that he
was an exceedingly wealthy man. Sims declared that he had never seen
any evidence of great wealth. His master was aware of what was said,
and used to chuckle about it, but he never in any way endorsed the
story. At the same time he didn't deny it, and, indeed, fostered the
idea to some extent by saying that he hoped to keep his anxious
relatives waiting until he was a hundred.

These relatives consisted of two nephews and a niece, the children of
Mr. Ottershaw's sister, who had been some years his senior. Both the
nephews--George and Charles Bryant--were married; the niece was a
spinster whose sole interest in life was foreign missions. The Bryants
had money, just sufficient to obviate the necessity to work, and, so
far as the two brothers were concerned, they were undoubtedly chiefly
concerned in waiting for a dead man's shoes. Miss Bryant hoped to
become rich for the sake of her missionary work. All of them were
convinced of their uncle's wealth.

The old gentleman did not attain his century. He caught a chill,
pneumonia set in, and in three days he was dead. Sims declared that
about a month before his death his master had given him the pin with
the remark: "You've been a good servant, Sims. This is a little gift
in recognition of the fact. It's worth a few pounds, and should you
outlive me and find yourself hard up, you can turn it into money."
Sims had not found himself hard up, he had saved enough to live
quietly upon, but his great-niece, of whom he was very fond, was going
to be married, and he thought he would turn the pin into money as a
nest egg for her.

Mr. Ottershaw's will was a curiosity. It began with a very
straightforward statement that the testator was aware that his
relatives had for long past been hoping for his death. No doubt they
would have come to live with him had he allowed it, to see that his
money did not go to strangers. "They have their reward," the will went
on. "I leave all I am possessed of to George, Charles, and Mary Bryant
in equal shares, without any restrictions whatever. But, since during
my lifetime my nephews and niece have undoubtedly speculated
concerning my wealth, I feel it would be a pity if my death were to
rob them suddenly of so pleasant an occupation. Frankly, I would take
what wealth I have with me if I could. This being impossible, I
suppose, I have placed it in a safe place, so that, in order to find
it, my relatives will still be able to speculate and exercise their
ingenuity. For their guidance I may say that I deposited it in this
place while alone in one of the rooms of my house at Norbiton, that I
did not send it out of the house, yet if the house is burnt down, or
pulled down brick by brick, it will not be found."

The will then went on to provide that the house should not be sold for
five years, nor anything taken out of it. During this period his
nephews and niece were to have free access to it whenever they wished,
or any person they might appoint could visit it. If they chose they
could let it furnished for five years. They could burn it or pull it
down if they liked, but if it were intact at the end of five years, it
was to be sold, and the proceeds equally divided.

"These are the only conditions," the will concluded; "but, as I am
doing so much for my relatives, I may just mention two things which I
should like done, but they are in no way commands. On the finding of
my wealth, if it is found, I should like ten per cent. of it given to
a society or societies for the feeble-minded. And, as I have explained
to my relatives more than once, I should like to be cremated, but I
leave the decision to them. If cremation is considered too expensive,
I must be buried in the usual way."

Although the house at Norbiton was still intact, I was told by George
Bryant that during the last twelve months every nook and cranny had
been searched without avail. He still believed that the wealth was
hidden somewhere, but he had begun to doubt whether it would ever be
found. Naturally, when he heard of Sims's attempt to sell a diamond
pin, his hopes revived. His brother Charles had always thought that
Sims knew something, but he himself had not thought so. Now the affair
was on an entirely different footing.

When I had told my story in the empty room at Chelsea I think we were
all three convinced that this was the toughest problem we had ever
tackled.

"Did the relatives respect the old man's wish and have the body
cremated?" Zena asked.

"No; he was buried in a cemetery at Kingston."

"Then they don't deserve to find the money, and I hope they won't."

"I do not like the relatives," I returned; "but in this matter there
is something to be said for them. They have always been opposed to
cremation, a fact which Mr. Ottershaw knew quite well, and,
recognizing the contemptuous tone of the will, not unreasonably, I
think, they decided that the wish was expressed only to annoy them,
and that their uncle had no real desire to be cremated."

"One of your absurd questions," said Quarles.

"It seems to me I have never asked a more natural or a more sensible
one," said Zena.

"I won't argue, my dear," Quarles returned. "I presume that paper you
have there, Wigan, is a copy of the wording of the will?"

"Yes," and I handed it to him.

"Of course, you do not think Sims has any connection with this jewel
robbery you have been engaged upon?"

"No; he would not be selling so valuable a stone for twenty pounds."

"And you have come to the conclusion that his story is a plain
statement of facts?"

"I think so."

"You are not sure?"

"Well, one cannot close one's eyes to the possibility that he may
dislike the Bryants as much as his master did, and may be keeping his
master's secret," I answered.

"Or he may have learned the secret by chance," said Zena.

"He may," said the professor. "You questioned him upon that point,
Wigan?"

"He says he knows nothing."

"What has become of the pin?"

"It is in the hands of the police at present, but will be handed back
to him. There is no evidence whatever that he is not the rightful
owner. The Bryants wanted to have him arrested."

Quarles spread out the paper, and began reading parts of the will in a
slow, thoughtful manner.

"'Frankly I would take what wealth I have with me if I could.'" And
Quarles repeated the sentence twice. "That might imply that there was
no wealth to speak of; and, following this idea for a moment, the
permission to burn the house or pull it down might suggest a hope in
the old man's mind that the frantic search for what did not exist
would result in the destruction of even that which did--the house and
furniture. The fact that he desires ten per cent. of the wealth, if it
is found, to go to imbeciles rather favors this notion; and his wish
to be cremated may be an attempt to make his relatives spend money
upon him from whom they were destined to receive nothing."

"It would be a grim joke," I said.

"A madman's humor, perhaps," said Zena.

"He goes on: 'This being impossible, I suppose,' and then says he has
hidden his wealth. He did not seem quite certain that he could not
take it with him, did he?"

"You think----"

"No, no," said Quarles, "I haven't got as far as thinking anything
definite yet. The will then explains in a riddle where the treasure
is hidden. He was alone in a room. He didn't send the treasure out of
the house. The statements are so deliberate that I am inclined to
believe in a treasure of some sort."

"So am I," I answered, "because of the valuable pin he gave to his
man."

"When was this will made?" asked Quarles.

"Nine years ago."

"Living as he did, he would hardly spend his pension," the professor
went on. "Money would accumulate in nine years, and, since there is no
evidence that he did anything else with it, we may assume that the
hoard was periodically added to, and, therefore, he must have placed
it where he could get at it without much difficulty."

For a moment Quarles studied the paper.

"I think we may take his statements literally," he went on; "so unless
the treasure was very small, small enough to be concealed inside a
brick, it seems obvious that it was not hidden in the walls of the
house, or it would have been found in the process of pulling down."

"If we are to be quite literal, we must remember that he says brick by
brick," I pointed out. "It might therefore be hidden in a brick."

"I have thought of that," Quarles returned; "but in pulling down
bricks would get broken, especially a hollow brick, as this would be.
I think we may take the words to mean only total demolition, and that
there is no special significance in the expression 'brick by brick.'
Burning does away with the idea that the treasure may be hidden in
woodwork."

"If he put it under a ground floor room or under a cellar neither
pulling down nor a fire would disclose it," said Zena.

"Every flag in the cellars has been taken up," I answered; "and all
the ground underneath the house has been dug up."

"Is there a well?" she asked.

"No; that was the first thing I looked for when I came there."

"He says in a room," Quarles went on. "I don't think that means a
cellar."

"Do you think the treasure was small in bulk and placed in his
coffin?" said Zena eagerly, leaning forward in her chair as she asked
the question.

"Certainly in that case he would be perfectly justified in saying that
he didn't send it out of the house," said Quarles.

"It is most improbable," I said. "To begin with, Mr. Ottershaw wished
to be cremated, so would hardly leave any such instructions. And,
further, Sims saw him placed in his coffin, and says nothing was
buried with the body."

"It is an interesting problem," said the professor; "but one does not
feel very much inclined to help the Bryants."

"Then you have a theory?" I asked.

"I haven't got so far as theory; I am only rather keen to try my wits.
There is a shadowy idea at the back of my brain which may be gone by
morning. If it hasn't, we'll go and see Sims."

Next morning when I went to Chelsea, as I had arranged to do, I found
Quarles waiting for me, and we went to Fulham together. Sims had two
rooms in his niece's house, but took his meals with the family. We
went into his sitting room and he was quite ready to talk about Mr.
Ottershaw. I told him that Quarles was a gentleman who thought he
could find the hidden money.

"I shall be very glad if he does," said Sims. "The Bryants will know
then that I had nothing to do with it. Mr. Charles has been the worst;
but since I tried to sell that pin Mr. George has been as bad."

"I take it you don't like the Bryants," said Quarles.

"I don't dislike them, only when they bother me."

"Your master didn't like them?"

"Didn't he? I never heard him say. He wasn't in the habit of saying
much to anybody, not even to me."

"You were fond of him?"

"Loved him. He wasn't what you would call a lovable character, but I
loved him, and he liked me. You see, him and me were born in the same
neighborhood, five miles out of Worcester; and when he came back from
India he came down there to see an old friend, since dead, and I
happened to be there at the time out of a job. That's how we came
together fifteen years ago."

"You didn't go at once to Norbiton?"

"Not until three years afterward."

"Where were you during those three years?"

"In several places, part of the time in Switzerland, and in Germany."

"Now about this treasure, Mr. Sims?"

"Bless you, sir, I don't believe in it."

"The will very distinctly mentions it."

"I know. I've heard such a lot about that will from the Bryants that I
know it almost by heart. It was a joke, that's what I think. Why, Mr.
Charles has asked me more than once whether I didn't slip it into his
coffin."

"Mr. Ottershaw gave you no such instructions, I suppose," said
Quarles.

"The only instructions he gave was that I was to lay him out, and to
see him put into his coffin if he was buried, and, whatever happened,
to see him decently carried out of the house. There was some talk of
his being cremated, and I suppose the master didn't know how they
would take him away then. No doubt he thought the Bryants would have a
woman to lay him out, so he left a letter for me to show them. The
master always did hate women."

"And you did this for him?"

"Gladly, and I helped the undertaker lift him into the coffin. I was
there when he was screwed down, so were Mr. George and Mr. Charles.
There was nothing but the body buried, nothing."

"The Bryants wouldn't have him cremated, I understand," said Quarles.

"And quite right, too," said Sims. "It's a heathenish custom, that's
what I think."

"And you don't believe there was any large sum of money?"

"No, I don't. I should have seen some sign of it."

"Your master gave you a very valuable pin," said Quarles; "I don't
suppose you had seen that before."

"It's true, I hadn't."

"There may have been other valuables where that came from."

"I don't think it," said Sims. "I don't believe the master himself
knew it was so valuable."

As we walked up the Fulham Road I asked the professor what he thought
of Sims.

"Simple--and honest, I fancy."

"You're not quite sure?"

"Not quite, but then I am not sure of anything in this affair yet. I
suggest we go and see Mr. George Bryant. I want his permission to go
over the house at Norbiton."

George Bryant lived at Wimbledon, and we found him at home. Much of
our conversation went over old ground, and need not be repeated here;
but the professor was evidently not very favorably impressed with
Bryant. Nor did Bryant appear to think much of Quarles. He smiled
contemptuously at some of his questions, and, when asked for
permission to visit the house at Norbiton, he said he must consult his
brother and sister.

"Except that I am keenly interested in the affair as a puzzle, I don't
care one way or the other," said Quarles. "Whether you handle the
money or not is immaterial to me, but I have a strong impression that
I can find it."

"In that case, of course----"

"There are conditions," said Quarles, "and one or two more questions."

"I am willing to answer any questions."

"Did you often visit your uncle?"

"Only twice in ten years, and on each occasion he was not very well--a
touch of gout, which was what made him so ill-tempered, I imagine. My
brother Charles was with me on one occasion; my sister, I believe,
never went there."

"Yet you all expected to profit by his death?"

"His letters certainly gave us to understand that we should, and so
far the will was no surprise to us."

"Has the clause in the will which forbids the removal of anything from
the house been observed?" Quarles asked.

"Most certainly."

"I mean with regard to trifling things."

"Nothing has been taken. Of course the will has been complied with."

"It wasn't with regard to Mr. Ottershaw's cremation."

"We did what we considered to be right, and I refuse to discuss that
question. For my own part, I believe if James Sims could be forced to
speak the mystery would be at an end. I cannot help feeling that the
police have failed in their duty by not having him arrested."

"I daresay that is a question my friend Detective Wigan will refuse to
discuss," said the professor. "Do you care to hear my conditions? You
can talk them over with your brother and sister when you consider
whether I shall be allowed to go over the house or not."

"I shall be glad to know your fee," said Bryant.

For a moment I thought that Quarles was going to lose his temper.

"I charge no fee," he said quietly, after a momentary pause; "but if
the money is found through me, you must give ten per cent. for the
benefit of imbeciles according to the wish of the deceased, and you
must pay me ten per cent. That will leave eighty per cent. for you to
divide."

"Preposterous!" Bryant exclaimed.

"As you like. Those are my conditions, and I must receive with the
permission to visit the house a properly witnessed document, showing
that the three of you agree to my terms."

"I am afraid you will wait in vain."

"It is your affair," said Quarles, with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Remember I can find the money, and I believe I am the only man who
can."

On our way back to town I asked Quarles whether he expected to get the
permission.

"Certainly I do. George Bryant is too greedy for money to miss such a
chance."

"And do you really mean that you can find the money?"

"At any rate, I mean the Bryants to pay heavily for it if I do."

Quarles was right. Three days later the permit and the required
document arrived, and we went to Norbiton.

As I had visited the house already, I was prepared to act as guide to
the professor, but he showed only a feeble interest in the house
itself. The only room he examined with any minuteness was the bedroom
Mr. Ottershaw had used, and he seemed mainly to be proving to his own
satisfaction that certain possibilities which had occurred to him were
not probabilities.

"There's a ten per cent. reward hanging to this, Wigan," he chuckled.
"We're out to make money on this occasion. Bryant seems to have spoken
the truth. The place appears to be much as Mr. Ottershaw left it."

He had opened a cupboard in the bedroom, and took up two or three
pairs of boots to look at.

"Large feet, hadn't he? Went in for comfort rather than elegance. I
never saw uglier boots. But they are well made, nothing cheap about
them."

"You don't expect to find the money in his boots, do you?"

"Never heard of hollow heels, Wigan?" he asked.

"You couldn't hide much money if every boot in the house had a hollow
heel."

"No, true. I wasn't thinking of hollow heels particularly."

Then he took up a stout walking-stick which was standing in the corner
of the cupboard, felt its weight, and walked across the room with it
to try it.

"Nothing hollow about this, at any rate," he said, after examining the
ferrule closely.

When we returned to the hall he was interested in the sticks in the
stand.

"He was fond of stout ones, Wigan," laughed Quarles. "Well, I don't
think there is much to interest us here."

Our inspection of the house had been of the most casual kind. We
hadn't even looked into some of the rooms, and the odd corners and
fireplaces to which I had given considerable attention on my former
visit hardly received a passing glance from Quarles.

"Have you looked at everything you want to see?" I asked in
astonishment.

"I think so. You said the cellars had been dug up, so they are of no
interest, and I warrant the Bryants have already searched in every
likely and unlikely place. What is the use of going over the same
ground, or in examining cabinets and drawers for false backs and false
bottoms, when others have done it for us?"

"What is your next move, then?"

"I think we may as well go back to Chelsea and talk about it."

I must admit that, in spite of my knowledge of Quarles, I thought he
was beaten this time, and that he was using bluff to hide his
disappointment. I thought he had gone to Norbiton with a fixed idea in
his mind, only to discover that he had made a mistake. He would not
discuss the affair on our way back to Chelsea; but when we reached the
house, he called for Zena, and the three of us retired to the empty
room.

"Well, dear, is the ten per cent. reward to make us rich beyond the
dreams of avarice?" asked Zena.

"It is impossible to say."

"Then you haven't found the money?"

"We haven't counted it yet," was the answer. "Let as consider the
points. The first is this: Nine years before his death Mr. Ottershaw
made his will, frankly expressing a wish that he could take his money
with him. Therefore, I think we may assume that he was not in love
with his relatives, and was not delighted that his death should profit
them. The next sentence in the will seems to express a doubt as to
whether the treasure could be taken or not, and I suggest that
something occurred about that time to make it appear feasible. So we
get a riddle, and if it is to be read literally, as I believe it is
meant to be, there can apparently be only one possible
hiding-place--somewhere in the ground underneath the house. This is so
obvious that one would hardly expect it to be the solution, and so
there is particular significance in his statement that he didn't send
it out of the house. He hid it, he says, when he was alone in one of
the rooms. Let us suppose it was his bedroom. From there he certainly
could not bury his treasure in the ground. We have decided that the
hiding-place could not be in any part of the brickwork or in the
woodwork, therefore we are driven to the conclusion that it was placed
in some piece of furniture or some receptacle made for the purpose.
Since I believe he thought it possible to take his wealth with him,
the latter supposition seems to me the more probable."

"In banknotes a large sum would only occupy a small space," I said.

"I don't think the treasure was in money," said Quarles. "The fact
that a diamond was given to Sims and not money suggests that the
treasure was in precious stones. If he spent everything he could in
this way, giving hard cash for a gem, and thus doing away with the
necessity for inquiry and references, the lack of evidence regarding
his wealth is partly explained. Great wealth can be sunk in a very
small parcel of gems, and if he hoped to take his wealth with him it
must be small in bulk."

"So that it could be placed in his coffin, you mean," said Zena.

"Sims declares nothing was placed in his coffin," said Quarles; "he is
most definite upon the point."

"And I have already pointed out that since he wished to be cremated
Mr. Ottershaw would hardly make any such arrangement," I said.

"He may have wished to be cremated, but he may not have expected to
be," said Quarles. "As a matter of fact, he left certain instructions
which point to a doubt. Sims was to lay him out and see that he was
decently cared for. So anxious was Mr. Ottershaw about this that he
left a letter for Sims to show to the Bryants. This is a most
significant fact."

"Then you suspect the man Sims," said Zena.

"We will go a step further before I answer that question. To-day,
Wigan, we have made a curious discovery. All Mr. Ottershaw's
walking-sticks were very stout ones, and that he really used them, not
merely carried them, the condition of the ferrules proves. Moreover,
there was a curious fact about his boots. They were large, the right
one being a little larger than the other, and the right boot in every
pair was the least trodden down--indeed, showed little wear either
inside or out. I wonder if Sims could explain this?"

Zena was leaning forward, her eyes fixed upon the professor, and I was
thinking of a boot with a hollow heel.

"Let's go back to the will for a moment," said Quarles. "Although Mr.
Ottershaw desired to be cremated, he did not put it in the form of a
condition, as he might reasonably have done. He even mentions the
expense, and, in fact, gives his relatives quite a good excuse for not
doing as he desires. It seems to me he didn't care much one way or the
other, and that his object was to make the relatives suffer for their
greed, and suffer all the more because he didn't actually leave the
money away from them. It was Zena's absurd question, Wigan, and her
anger that the Bryants had not carried out the old man's wish, which
gave me the germ of a theory. I believe if they had had him cremated
they would have found the treasure. He gave them a chance which they
lost by burying him."

"Then you believe Sims carried out his master's wishes?" I said.

"I do."

"And managed to have the treasure buried with him?"

"I do not believe Sims knows anything about a treasure," said Quarles;
"and I think he speaks the truth when he says that nothing but the
body was buried. But Sims knew more about his master than anyone else.
He could tell us something about their doings in Switzerland and
Germany, for instance. He was very fond of his master, and was trusted
by him."

"We want to know what happened just after Mr. Ottershaw's death," I
said. "To know what occurred abroad will not help us much."

"I think it will," Quarles returned. "Supposing Mr. Ottershaw had an
accident abroad which necessitated the amputation of his right leg,
and supposing, in Germany perhaps, he got the very best artificial
limb money could purchase?"

"A wooden leg!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, not of the old sort, but the very best the instrument makers
could devise. Mr. Ottershaw became proud of that leg and told no one
about it. Only his man knew. His right boot showed less sign of wear,
because he helped that leg with a stout stick. The wooden foot would
not stain the inside of a boot with moisture as a real foot does. When
the Bryants went to see him he complained of gout, an excuse for not
walking, and so giving them a chance of discovering the leg. Then came
the idea of secreting the treasure, and I suggest that it consists of
gems concealed in that wooden leg. He didn't want the leg removed
after his death, so Sims laid him out. Probably the leg is fitted with
a steel, fire-resisting receptacle which would have been found among
the débris had the body been cremated."

"Then the treasure is buried with him," said Zena. "Will they open the
grave?"

"I am not sure whether the old man succeeded in carrying his wealth
with him after all," said Quarles. "Sims was fond of and sentimental
about his master, and as we talked to him, Wigan, it seemed to me
there was something he had no intention of telling us. He was
particularly insistent that nothing but the body had been buried, and
appeared almost morbidly anxious to tell nothing but the exact truth.
To-morrow we will go to Fulham and ask him whether he removed the
wooden leg before the coffin was screwed down."

Quarles's conjecture proved to be right. Sims had been sentimental
about the leg because his master was so proud of it, and the night
before the coffin was fastened down had crept silently into the room
and taken it off, placing a thick shawl rolled up under the shroud, so
that the corpse would appear as it was before. It had not occurred to
him at the time that his master was so anxious that the leg should be
buried with him, but since that night he had wondered whether he had
done wrong. The wooden leg was hidden in his bedroom. When he was told
that it probably contained the treasure, his fear and amazement were
almost painful to witness. He was evidently quite innocent of any idea
of robbery.

Ingeniously concealed in the top part of the leg we found a steel
cylinder, full of gems. Mr. Ottershaw must have made a lot of money
while he was in India, for Quarles's ten per cent. of the value
obtained for the jewels came to over twelve thousand pounds.

"Half of it goes to Zena as a wedding present," he said on the day he
banked the money. "I shouldn't wait long if I were you, Wigan."

"But, grandfather, I----"

"My dear, I'm not always thinking only of myself. You have your life
before you and I want you to be happy. My only condition is that there
shall always be a place at your fireside for me."

The tears were in Zena's eyes as she kissed him, but she looked at me
and I knew my waiting time was nearly over.

"Now I shall rest on my laurels, Wigan, and trouble no more about
mysteries," said Quarles.

He meant it, but I very much doubt whether a ruling passion is so
easily controlled. We shall see.

THE END

Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors present in the
original edition have been corrected.

In Chapter I, "It is obvivious that a man who possessed such stones"
was changed to "It is obvious that a man who possessed such stones",
and a period was changed to a comma after "several boarding-houses in
Ossery Road".

In Chapter VI, quotation marks were deleted after "far more of a lover
than a detective" and "I could swear to it".

In Chapter VII, a quotation mark was removed after "so much the
better".

In Chapter XII, "a disposition to suspect Couldson" was changed to "a
disposition to suspect Coulsdon".

In Chapter XIII, a quotation mark was added after "whether he was in
Boston, Wigan", and "I had seen Oglethorp move his" was changed to "I
had seen Oglethorpe move his".

In Chapter XIV, a period was added after "little significance in
that".

In Chapter XVI, a single quote (') was changed to a double quote (")
before "Well, one cannot close one's eyes", and "I haven't got as for
as thinking anything definite yet" was changed to "I haven't got as
far as thinking anything definite yet".

End of Project Gutenberg's Christopher Quarles, by Percy James Brebner