Date: 1913-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Puzzle Stories; Short Fiction; Humor
Description: Puzzle stories from the collection “One Kind and Another” (1914); presented as “From the Notebook of the Late Horace Fish,” a retired gentleman of insatiable curiosity. Horace, an amateur investigator of life’s little puzzles, follows clues to solve mysteries lacking crimes. ~ ~ ~ ~ Barry Eric Odell Pain (28 Sep. 1864 – 05 May 1928) was an English journalist, poet, humorist and writer. During his lifetime, he was perhaps best known as a writer of parody and lightly humorous stories, but now is also noted for his tales touched with fantasy, horror, and the supernatural. He also wrote stories of
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain where copyright is “Life+90” or less, and in the USA

DETECTION WITHOUT CRIME

BARRY PAIN

MobileRead Edition
2022

Puzzle stories from the collection One Kind and Another (1914); presented as “From the Notebook of the Late Horace Fish,” a retired gentleman of insatiable curiosity. Horace, an amateur investigator of life’s little puzzles, follows clues to solve mysteries lacking crimes.

Barry Eric Odell Pain (28 Sep. 1864 – 05 May 1928) was an English journalist, poet, humorist and writer. During his lifetime, he was perhaps best known as a writer of parody and lightly humorous stories, but now is also noted for his tales touched with fantasy, horror, and the supernatural. He also wrote stories of mystery and suspense. His humor has been characterized by some modern critics as “a surreal forerunner to Monty Python.”

This collection, first published in 1914, is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+90” or less, and in the USA.

CONTENTS:

- On Green Paper
- The Face of the Corpse
- The Lady of the Pillar-Box
- In the Marmalade

DETECTION
WITHOUT
CRIME

FROM THE NOTEBOOK
OF THE LATE HORACE FISH

ON GREEN PAPER

Most of my friends are acquainted with my hobby — a solution of those mysteries which are to be found in everyday life. Some of them put this differently, and say that I have a disgusting tendency to poke my curious nose into other people’s affairs. Some make fun of me. I am not in the least affected either by their ridicule or their condemnation. I am an old man, and one of the few gifts of old age is independent judgement. I have indeed been pleased to find a hobby which provides me with some occupation. It may be that in some cases I have shown a certain amount of ingenuity in obtaining the correct solution of what at first sight seemed extremely puzzling: indeed my worst enemies would admit that this is so. It is also my belief that if they came upon anything which bothered and mystified them, they would bring it to me and see what I could make of it.

The Reverend Septimus Erde has never ridiculed me. He has never ridiculed anybody or anything. He has a serious profession, and he is by nature a very serious man. I am told that his views are slightly narrow and fanatical, but that is a point upon which I am in no position to speak. I have known Erde for many years, and I knew his father before him. When at eleven o’clock one morning my servant told me that Mr. Erde wished to see me, I did not at once connect it with my peculiar hobby. To tell the truth, I thought he had probably called for a subscription — a thing that he has done before, perhaps too frequently. I therefore crossed the passage into the drawing room in rather an irritated frame of mind. And when I asked Mr. Erde what I could do for him, it was without the slightest intention of doing it. He is not a bad-looking young man, obviously sincere and straightforward.“

I have called, Mr. Fish,” he said, “to ask for your kind assistance.”

“Alas,” I said. “I have so many calls upon me nowadays, that—”

“You misunderstand me. It is true that many charitable enterprises in which I am interested are at present crippled from want of funds, but I had not intended this morning to make any further demands on your generosity in that respect. The fact of the case is that I have come upon a problem which has a peculiar interest for me. You perhaps can help me to solve it.”

This put an entirely different complexion on matters. I was ready and even eager to hear what he had to say.

“For the last few days I have been staying at Aldeburgh. I have been overworked lately, and my medical man strongly advised a short rest and change. Yesterday morning I strolled out beyond the town. A fresh wind was blowing, and a torn scrap of green paper was blown along to my feet. Some words on it caught my eye, and I picked it up. Here it is.”

He produced from his notebook a scrap of green notepaper. The words written on it were: “You must take the veil.”

It was easy to see that it was the handwriting of a man, and moreover of an educated man.

“Well,” I said. “And what else did you find?”

“I was returning to town that day, and I had very little time before me. I could only find one other scrap of the green paper, and that was some yards away in a furze bush.”

He produced it and handed it to me. The second scrap ran: “Disregarding their anger entirely.”

“Now, Mr. Fish,” said Erde, “I need not insult your intelligence by telling you what this means. Some poor girl is being forced into the convent life, contrary to the wishes of her parents, who are naturally angry about it. It is amazing that these things should happen at the present day, but we know they do happen. I feel it to be my duty to prevent this, if possible. But I do not know the name of the girl or the priest who wrote that letter. I do not know where she lives. Can you help me to find out these things, Mr. Fish? For once you have a chance of turning your undoubted abilities to real account.”

“I will see what can be done,” I said, and rang the bell. In reply to my enquiries I found that the wind on the previous day had been from the north-east, and was still blowing from the same quarter.

“That at any rate is satisfactory,” I said.

“Why?” asked Mr. Erde.

“Because any other scraps of this letter will have been carried inland, and not out to sea. As they are carried inland, they are probably re coverable It is only a question of a little time and patience. I shall go down to Aldeburgh at once, and within a week I have no doubt that I shall be able to give you information upon which you can act.”

Erde had done one very sensible thing. He had made a careful and exact note of the point at which he had found those two scraps of green paper, and had also drawn a rough plan.

“You really mean,” he said, “that you will go down to Aldeburgh and stay there perhaps for days, simply in order to help a poor deluded girl, whose very name you do not know? It does you great credit, Mr. Fish.”

“I’m afraid,” I said, “that I must put it that I am going down there in order to solve a mystery which fascinates me. My time hangs heavily on my hands, Mr. Erde, and I can assure you that I am very much obliged to you for having provided me with my favourite occupation.”

On arriving at Aldeburgh late that afternoon, I left my luggage at the hotel, engaged a room there, and proceeded at once to the point which Mr. Erde had indicated. I found his plan of great use. I could see no scrap of green paper anywhere, but I found something else, which I thought might be of use to me — a boy Scout diligently engaged in making a sketch map.

“Hullo,” I said. “Are you a scout?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy distrustfully. The distrust was natural. There was no obvious reason why I should have spoken to him.

“Oh,” I said. “I have heard about you boy scouts. You are supposed to keep your eyes peeled, aren’t you? to keep a sharp lookout for things.”

He admitted grudgingly that this was part of the idea.

“Well now,” I said, “just for fun let me give you a little test. When did you last see some scraps of green paper?”

“Just about where I am now, on the day before yesterday at three in the afternoon.”

“That’s right,” I said. “You’re a smart boy Now then, as a test for memory, what did you find written on those scraps of paper?”

“It was a letter torn up. I don’t want to read other people’s letters, do I?”

That was rather awkward. “Certainly not,” I said. “No more do I. But this is an exceptional case. On the recovery of those scraps of green paper depends in all probability the safety or ruin of a girl.”

“I don’t like sells,” said the boy.

“It is quite natural that you should think it a sell, but it is not. I am acting in this case for a clergyman, the Reverend Septimus Erde. Here is his card. Here is a rough plan showing exactly where those scraps of paper were to be found. I cannot tell you anything more, but I have shown you enough to show you that the thing is genuine.”

“Let’s have a look at the plan,” said the boy He looked at it carefully. “Yes,” he said, “that’s right. If those scraps of paper are to be found, I’ll get them for you.”

“Good boy,” I said. “Now the direction of the wind—”

“Oh, I know all about that. I shall allow for that. It has been dry weather, and the grass is short. Those scraps of paper may have gone a long way. Still, I’ll do what I can. Where shall I bring them?”

I gave him my name and told him at which hotel I was staying. “I shall be there for two or three days.”

“I can’t be here tomorrow morning,” said the boy. “But I’ll have a look now, and another look tomorrow afternoon. Then if I have not got it, I’ll give up.”

“Don’t give up, my boy,” I said. “Try, try, try again. You remember Bruce of Scotland.”

“Yes,” said the boy. “But I’ve got lots of other things to do. If I can’t find them, there’s nothing to stop you going on trying yourself, is there?”

His manner was outwardly polite, but he was a disconcerting boy. However, I felt that he was on his mettle. I had aroused the tracking instinct in him. I felt sure that if he could find any scrap of that letter on green paper, he would bring it to me in triumph.

The next morning I took a look on my own account, and found nothing. In the evening, just after I had finished dinner, I was told that a boy wished to see me. I found my young friend in the hall.

“I’ve found three bits of the green paper, sir,” said the boy. “They were three hundred and forty-one yards away from the place where you were looking, and not in the direction you would have thought the wind would have taken them. The wind is a queer thing on broken ground like that. There are eddies and back currents, and—”

“Yes,” I said, “quite so. Let’s have a look.”

He handed me the scraps of paper one by one. On the first were the words: “You must depend,” which fitted in with what had gone before, but gave no further information. The second scrap was very small, and contained only two words: “The smoke.” The use of incense at once occurred to my mind. The third scrap was larger and contained one short sentence. For nearly a minute I read it over and over, and then light broke in on me. Somewhat to the boy’s astonishment I burst out laughing.

“That’s all right,” I said. “You need not hunt for any more. The mystery is cleared up.”

I gave him ginger-beer, which he accepted gladly, and while he was drinking it I told him the whole story. I then gave him half a sovereign, which he accepted reluctantly, saying that he had not done the thing for money.

“No,” I said. “But what you have found is worth a good deal more than half a sovereign to me, it gives me that feeling of solid satisfaction which is almost priceless.”

I telegraphed to Erde to meet my train next morning, and told him that the mystery was solved. I found him pacing the platform in a state of great perturbation.“Now then, Mr. Fish,” he said. “First and foremost give me the name of the girl.”

“There is no girl in the case at all.”

“There must be. You have forgotten the reference to the veil, you know.”

“Not in the least. I have found three scraps of paper, and I will show you the first two.” I did so.

“I must say,” he said, “they only tend to confirm one’s suspicions. Look at that repeated use of the word ‘must.’ The girl must disregard the anger of her parents. She must depend entirely upon the priest. Those words ‘the smoke ’ refer clearly to a part of the Romish ceremony. Let me see the third scrap.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Erde. I’m going to tell you a story. There was a man once who took a house where there was a bee-hive. In course of time he wished to take the honey, but he did not know how to set about it. He therefore wrote to a friend who had experience of these matters. The friend replied that he must take the lid off the hive, disregarding the anger of the bees, and that he must then take the veil and wrap it carefully round his head. He must depend, however, far more on the smoke, provided, as you know, by a little bellows arrangement that the bee-keeper uses. If you want further proof, here is the third scrap, on which is written: ‘Tie your trousers tightly round the ankles with a bit of string.’ A very excellent precaution if you do not want your legs stung.”

“You are a wonderful man, Mr. Fish,” said Erde.

But I could not help thinking that he looked rather disappointed,

THE FACE OF THE CORPSE

I was sitting in the club one morning, working out the solution of a cypher advertisement, when old Paget, looking like a discontented chimpanzee, came shuffling up to me.

“Mornin’,” he said. “You’re always a good deal interested in other people’s business, Fish, ain’t you?”

“Not always. Seldom, in fact Only when it happens to be interesting.”

“Well, I’ve got something in your line. I had a chat with Brook, my solicitor, yesterday — wanting to know about a fellow that’s taking a house of mine. Brook said he’d make an inquiry and let me know on the telephone. Sure enough, soon after I got home, I was rung up. Voice that I took to be my solicitor’s said: ‘I’ve made that inquiry for you.’ So I said: ‘Thanks very much. What’s the result?’ And then came the extraordinary thing, Fish. The same voice went on: ‘The face of the corpse has turned a pinkish colour — much the same as in life.’”

“Yes,” I said. “That promises fairly well. And you led him on, I hope.”

“Sorry to say I didn’t. Thing staggered me. I asked what on earth he was talking about. Then he wanted to know to whom he was speaking, and I told him. ‘Sorry,’ says the fellow. ‘Wrong number,’ and cut himself off.”

“I see,” I said. “And did you ask the Exchange who had rung you up?”“Well,” said old Paget, “I didn’t think of it at the moment. Doubt if they could have told me. Besides, it might have been somebody speaking from a public call-office. All I know is that it wasn’t my solicitor.”

“There’s nothing to go on,” I said.

“Nothing whatever that I can see. Thought it would fox you, Lots of things happening every day, Fish, that you’ll never be able to explain. Tragedy somewhere though — you may depend on it.” And he moved away, shaking his head solemnly.

Not being a detective in a storybook, my methods are so simple as to be almost childish. When I don’t know, I ask — a thing apparently that no good detective would ever stoop to. On this occasion there was my authority ready to hand. Dr. Boden was sitting in one corner of the room, reading the Times. He is a dapper little man, with an eyeglass, able enough but a little too superior for my taste.

I went over to him and said, with an apology for the queerness of the question: “I wonder, doctor, if you could tell me why the face of a corpse turned pink.”

“It didn’t,” said Dr. Boden. “It couldn’t. The thing’s a physiological impossibility. The face might change colour somewhat from decomposition, but certainly it would not turn pink. Somebody’s been having a game with you, Mr. Fish.”

I knew better. Old Paget is a solid, dreary man, without one spark of humour in him. Compared with Paget, Bradshaw’s timetables are fanciful. There was the possibility that somebody had been having a game with old Paget, but I did not think it at all likely; in that case the joke would have been carried further and there would have been more details.

So I felt as if I had gone down a blind alley and bumped my head against the wall at the further end. For the time I put old Paget’s problem aside, and went back to the advertisement in cypher. The cyphers used in what is sometimes called the agony column, have not as a rule been invented by experts, and are quite easy to read for anyone who has studied the subject. It may be added that they are seldom worth reading. They consist generally of the ecstatic rubbish of separated lovers. It took me ten minutes to read the advertisement on which I was engaged. I transcribed it as follows, in my notebook:

“Thousand from H. L. Joy. Give month’s notice, and rejoin the squatter of Mardel. Boys must try cycling again.”

It seemed that the advertiser had received a thousand pounds, and in consequence somebody was to give up present employment — presumably, from the length of notice, of a menial character — and rejoin a person described as the squatter of Mardel, who might perhaps be the advertiser. But what boys were to begin cycling, and why?

I could make nothing of it, and I went back to old Paget’s problem. As I turned it over in my mind, I thought I saw now a faint gleam of hope. I could not find out who it was that had unintentionally rung Paget up, but there was just a possibility that I might discover the man for whose telephone number Paget’s had been mistaken. The figures of Paget’s number were 1409. Five and nine have a slight similarity of sound, and if the mistake had been made in the Exchange, it was possible that the man who had been given 1409 had really asked for 1405. I determined to take the chance of it, at any rate, and to find out who was the holder of 1405 at that Exchange.

I rang up 1405 and began speaking as if I had been a business firm: “We find that your order was despatched this morning, and you should have received it by now.”

A weary voice answered me: “Who’s speaking?”

“Lancing and Co., Victoria Street,” I said glibly, taking the first name and address that occurred to my imagination.

“Don’t remember order.”

“Surely,” I said. “To whom are we speaking?”

“To the secretary of the late Mr. Holmes Larrival.”

“Indeed? Then I fear we have the wrong number. So sorry to have troubled you.”

I hung up the receiver. I found from the directory that 1405 was the number for Holmes Larrival’s private address, not for his business office. I knew something of the man, for he had died but three days before, and I had read his obituary notice. He was a millionaire, an Australian by birth who had been settled in this country for the last twenty years. That obituary notice had come as near to an unfavourable criticism as it very well could. “Strong in his domestic affections, but merciless in his business dealings,” was a phrase that came back to my mind. There had been a reference, too, to his eccentricity.

Now Holmes-Larrival died in his bed in his own house. Therefore a message relating to the colour of the dead man’s face might conceivably have been sent from his address, but could hardly have been sent to it. This bothered me.

On the other hand it looked to me as if in searching for one thing I had stumbled on another. I had been reminded of Holmes-Larrival, and it seemed likely that the cypher advertisement referred to him. There were his initials. The thousand would be a legacy. It is true the legacies are not generally announced on the day following the death of the testator, but in this case there might have been some special reason. The word “squatter” is specially Australian, and Holmes Larrival was of Australian origin. Probably the advertiser had been a friend of the dead man in his youth; and this would account for the legacy.

Following where the light led me, I looked up Mardel in the big atlas in the reading-room. I could find no place of that name, but I did find that there was a village called Mardel Boys within twenty miles of London–Boys being an obvious corruption of the French bois. Here was another step. It showed me that I had transcribed that advertisement wrongly. It should have run: “Rejoin the squatter of Mardel Boys. Must try cycling again.” I now determined to go to Mardel Boys, and to continue my investigations there.

I ordered sandwiches, a whisky and soda, and the A B C. I lunched hurriedly, and by three that afternoon I was in Mardel Boys.

Mardel Boys must at one time have been as picturesque a village as you would find in Hertford shire. It is still quite charming, but it is waking up and the builder is busy there. I sought out the house-agent; house-agents have always a large fund of information, and are willing to impart it — the sunnier part of it at least — to prospective tenants or purchasers. I told the agent that I was Mr. C. N. M. Buckley, and that I was anxious to purchase a little place in the neighbourhood. I wanted a good house and a matured garden, and I did not wish to go beyond twelve thousand. I must admit that the only one of these statements which was at all true was that I did not wish to go beyond twelve thousand.

I went very thoroughly into the question of the house itself. Then I had something to say about other points. The services at the parish church were not too ritualistic, I hoped. Were the residents desirable from the social point of view I had heard of an Australian who had settled there — for the moment the name had escaped my memory.

The agent thought very hard, but he could not remember any Australian living in the locality. This was disappointing, though he hastened to assure me that there were quite a number of residents who were up to the motorcar standard. But I persevered. Was the local doctor satisfactory?

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the agent. “A very clever man — Dr. Cogswell. He’s attended me and my family many a year.”

“I should have thought there was room for a second man in a growing place like this.”

“Well, as a matter of fact we have a second man — Dr. Orbright, fully qualified. He came and squatted here about two years ago. A very pleasant gentleman, I believe; but, of course, he has very little practice so far.”

At the word “squatted ” I pricked up my ears. “Squatted?” I said. “What does that mean? ”

“Well, sir, that’s a word I had from Dr. Cogswell. It seems that in the medical professional, when a doctor comes to a place and does not buy a practice, but just puts up his plate and takes his chance, then he is known as a squatter.”

“I see,” I said. And after that my interview with the house-agent very soon came to an end. I felt that I had struck the right track. Dr. Orbright then was “the squatter of Mardel Boys,” and it was to Dr. Orbright that I next went.

Dr. Orbright lived in a tiny house in a newly erected row. The house was well enough kept, but it was rather poorly and sparsely furnished, and did not suggest opulence. The doctor was a very cheery young man of twenty-six. There was no assumption of professional dignity about him.

I explained that I was Mr. C. N. M. Buckley, and that as a prospective resident in the neighbour hood I wished to know something of its sanitary character. It was a point, I said, on which I would sooner trust a doctor than a house-agent.

He said he would be very happy to tell me any. thing he could. So he went into questions of soil and subsoil, water-supply, drainage systems, and the death-rate. I displayed the greatest interest in these subjects, and bored myself profoundly. The doctor accepted my proffered guinea under protest, saying it would never have occurred to him to make a charge for that kind of thing.

“Then, doctor,” I said, “I’m afraid you’ll never be a millionaire like your friend Holmes-Larrival.”

The young man looked surprised. “My friend?” he said. “I can assure you I always regarded Holmes-Larrival as my enemy.”

“You attended him, I think.”

“I attended Holmes-Larrival only once,” said Dr. Orbright. “And that was the day after his death.”

It was my turn to be surprised. “I don’t understand,” I said.

“No? I dare say it sounds queer, but it is the case. Yesterday for the first time I attended Holmes-Larrival professionally, and he died the day before.”

As he offered no explanation, I thought I would push the thing a little further. “Well,” I said, “stranger though I am to you, I hope you will at any rate let me congratulate you on the nice little legacy you receive from your dead patient.”

“Thank you,” he said, and I fancy he was beginning to be rather annoyed. “You might possibly have heard of a connection between Holmes Larrival and myself from local gossip, but I do not see how you come to know about the legacy. Holmes-Larrival’s solicitors, carrying out his instructions, told me of it, but I have mentioned it to nobody.”

“Pardon me,” I said. “You advertised it in a newspaper this morning.”

“But that was a cypher advertisement. I should have thought it impossible for anyone to read it without the key.”

“As a man who has made some study of cyphers, I must tell you that your own production was so easy as to be almost childish.”

“At any rate,” he said, “it was no business of yours. It was a private message to my wife.”

“My dear sir,” I said, “nothing is any business of mine. I have no business. If you want to send a private message to your wife, it would cost you less and the privacy would be better secured, if you used the penny post.”

“I had my own reasons. However, I know now how you have found out everything. There’s nothing more to be said.”

“But I have found out practically nothing. I do not know why somebody has to try cycling again.”

“Nor am I going to tell you,” said the doctor angrily.

“Nor do I know why the face of the dead man turned pink.”

“That was not mentioned in the advertisement. How you come to know anything about that beats me altogether. But you may be quite certain you will learn nothing about it from me. May I suggest that perhaps you have a train to catch?”

This was really rather rude of him. However, I had a screw to turn, and I now proceeded to turn it. “Certainly you may. Good-bye, doctor. I won’t fail to send you my little book on newspaper cyphers when it comes out, in gratitude for your interesting contribution to it.”

That did it. Before I left, I had promised that his advertisement should not appear in my book, which, by the way, I had never had any intention of writing, and Dr. Orbright had explained everything to me. And when I got the explanation, it was all so simple and obvious that I could have kicked myself for never having thought of it.

I got back to town by six, dressed, and returned to the club to dine. I found old Paget discussing with Dr. Boden the future of the Empire — as to which they did not appear to be hopeful.

“Boden and I dining here,” said Paget gloomily. “Care to join us?”

I said, of course, that I should be charmed. It was half-way through dinner that Paget mentioned the incident of the morning.

“Fish is fond of ferreting out things,” he said to Boden. “But this morning I foxed him. An astonishing thing it was — and, as Fish had to admit, nothing whatever to go on.” He told Boden about the telephone message.

“Yes, Paget,” I said, “I was quite wrong. As soon as I came to think it over, I saw that there was plenty to go on. I’ve got the whole thing explained now, though Boden here did mislead me at the start.”

“How? ” said Boden sharply, putting up his eyeglass.

“You told me that the face of a corpse could not be turned pink.”

“I did not,” snapped Boden. “I told you the face of a corpse could not turn pink — a vastly different thing. The one implies natural process, and the other artificial intervention. Left to itself the face of a corpse could not turn pink. But I am not imbecile enough to tell you or anybody else that a surface cannot be painted. I have myself been asked to rouge the face of a corpse; I refused.”

“Well,” said Paget, “don’t get so quarrelsome. I want the story. Go on, Fish.”

“Pure theory, of course,” said Boden.

“No theory at all,” I said. “It’s a simple record of facts — rather long and dull, I am afraid. About a year and a half ago Dr. Orbright, a young practitioner living at Mardel Boys in Hertfordshire, was out bicycling. At a right-angled corner another bicyclist, who was on the wrong side of the road, ran into him. The doctor had one hand a good deal cut about, and his machine was badly damaged. The other bicyclist, who turned out to be the Australian millionaire, Holmes-Larrival, got off scot-free. The doctor put in a moderate claim for the damage to his machine, and Holmes Larrival refused to pay a penny of it. He admitted that he was on the wrong side of the road at the corner, but said that the doctor was equally in the wrong for not ringing his bell. He also intimated that if the claim was pressed he should fight it, and should make it a deucedly expensive business for the doctor. Now, the doctor was a poor man. He had started practice in Mardel Boys speculatively. He had recently married. He could not afford to fight a millionaire, and he dropped the claim. You can hardly blame him. He had not even enough to buy himself another bicycle; and the girl he had married had to go out and earn money as a companion. Holmes-Larrival died three days ago. As soon as he was dead, his solicitor went out to Mardel Boys and saw Dr. Orbright, in accordance with instructions he had had from his client. The doctor was told that Holmes-Larrival was to be buried in his native country. It was therefore necessary that his body should be embalmed or preserved, and by the terms of his will Dr. Orbright was to be asked to undertake this work. The will said that the testator hoped that the doctor would show as much zeal in preserving his body as he had on a former occasion in attempting to destroy it. His first impulse was to refuse; then he reflected that he had not so much work that he could afford to throw any away, especially as there would probably be a good fee hanging to it. It was just as well for him that he did, for Holmes-Larrival had left him a legacy of a thousand pounds conditional on that acceptance, a fact that was not to be disclosed to him until he had either accepted or refused.”

“Seems to have been a nasty-natured man, this Holmes-thingamy,” said old Paget.

“Fairly so. Well, Orbright went up to town next morning to the undertaker’s, where the body had been removed for the purpose, and did what was necessary. I believe it’s a simple matter nowadays, isn’t it, Boden?”

“Oh, yes. They open the radial artery, tie in a vulcanite tube, and inject a solution of formalin. It is generally slightly coloured with carmine, and would have the effect about which you asked me.”

“Not often wanted, I should think,” said Paget.

“Frequently,” said Boden. “Most of the principal undertakers have a man who can do it.”

“Well,” I said, “the rest of the story is obvious. Mrs. Holmes-Larrival was anxious that there should be no defacement of the corpse, and inquired as to that through the secretary. He rang up the solicitors. They inquired of Orbright, and telephoned the information — as they thought to the secretary. But a mistake was made in the Exchange, and they got 1409, which is Paget’s number, instead of 1405, which was Holmes Larrival’s ”

I said nothing about the cypher advertisement. I did not want them to know what a very simple business it had really been. It pleased me to see even Dr. Boden utterly at a loss to say how I had got at the facts.

But a word of further explanation about that advertisement may be given here. Mrs. Orbright had taken a place as companion to an eccentric old lady, a Mrs. Axmund, whose house stood on the top of a Herefordshire hill and was six miles from the nearest village. By arrangement with a railway company, and also with a boy with a bicycle, Mrs. Axmund managed to get the London morning papers on her breakfast table, three hours before the only post in the day reached her house. By using an advertisement in the paper, Dr. Orbright gained time in conveying his good news. It appeared that there were objections to the sending of a telegram. There would be porterage to pay. Mrs. Axmund always insisted on paying this herself, always grumbled at it, and always expected to be shown the telegram in order that she might demonstrate that it need never have been sent. The joking reference to the cycling explains itself.

THE LADY OF THE PILLAR-BOX

Travelling one day on a Tube railway, I happened to find myself seated opposite to a well-dressed lady of middle age. Her expression was one of timidity and benevolence, and I judged her to be of low mental calibre. The nose was Roman, the forehead receded, and the chin was lamentable. The eyes showed nervousness.

In one hand this lady held a small box wrapped in paper. On one side of the box were the words “DEATH TO ALL,” printed in black capitals. I noticed that she was wearing one black shoe and one of bronze green.

These points interested me. I had intended to travel as far as Edgware Road, but when the lady got out at Baker Street, I followed her. On reaching the lift, she increased my interest and my perplexity.

She said plaintively to the lift-man who took her ticket: “Do you still refuse?”

The man looked slightly sheepish. “Yessum,” he said. “I shouldn’t know what to do with ‘em.”

“I suppose it hasn’t been found?” she said, after a pause.

“Not that I know of,” said the man. “But it wouldn’t be — that kind of thing never is. Afraid you had your journey for nothing, too.”

“Yes,” said the lady wearily, “the tree turned out to be a sycamore.”

The man smiled and said “Good morning ” as he swung the gates open. The lady was too cryptic to be lost sight of, and I followed her down the street.

She went straight to the nearest pillar-box and dropped into it the small box which she was carrying. Then she went off as fast as she could walk. Now, I had observed that box carefully. It bore no stamp and no address — no inscription of any kind except that mysterious “DEATH TO ALL.”

Women are universally suspicious of those who ask favours of them. But many of them submit readily to dictation, and it had struck me that this lady was of the number. If I had besought her, with many apologies, to give me the solution of the problem, and spare me nights of sleepless puzzling, she would probably have threatened to appeal to the policeman. So I took the other line.

I overtook her and tapped her on the shoulder. “This kind of thing cannot be allowed,” I said sharply.

She was obviously much flustered and confused. “Oh, what do you mean, sir?” she said.

“You know very well what I mean. I have had you under observation for some time — in the train and in the lift.”

“Yes — oh, yes. I remember. I didn’t know I was doing anything actually wrong.”

“Absolutely illegal. I’m afraid I must do my duty.”

“Oh, please don’t!” she said. “I can explain everything if you’ll listen. If you took me to a police-station, you’d only find you’d made a mistake. And the publicity of it would kill me; I’ve been fighting against publicity all my life.”

I saw, of course, that she had mistaken me for a detective acting in the interests of the Post Office. I had thought she might make that mistake. It would have broken my tailor’s heart, but for the moment I did not correct it.

“Very well,” I said. “We’ll step aside into the park. But I must have the whole truth, and the explanation must be satisfactory to me.”

“I’m sure you will find it so. And I’m very much obliged to you. I will tell you the whole thing from beginning to end.”

As we crossed the grass to the chairs under the trees, she said: “I’ve only done it twice before, and I didn’t know there was any real harm in it, but I’ll never, never do it again.”

As I was not quite sure what she was talking about, I said that I hoped she wouldn’t. We sat down, and I lit a cigarette. She was clearly relieved that I was dealing so leniently with her.

“Now, then, madam,” I said. “From the beginning, please.”

“I am a widow,” she said. “I do not know whether the name will suggest anything to you, but I am Mrs. Sumple.”

I had seen the name frequently in shops and in advertisements. “Yes,” I said, “it does suggest something to me; it suggests a disinfectant.”

“I expected it,” she said, with a sigh. “Sumple’s Liquid Safety is but too well known. My poor husband invented it.”

“Surely,” I said, “the more it is known, the better, from a commercial point of view, it must be for you, then.”

“That, unfortunately, is not so. When I married Arbuthnot Sumple, he held an honourable salaried post as analyst to an important manufacturing firm — Shadwell and Joy, the soapmakers. The disinfectant was invented by him in his leisure time, and it was he, I regret to say, who thought of the name for it. But he had no means other than his salary, and was in consequence unable to place the thing on the market. Somebody had to be found who, for a small share in the profits, would provide the money for manufacturing the disinfectant and for advertising it and pushing it with the trade. So naturally I thought of Mr. Magwhit.”

“Magwhit,” I observed, “is a name known and respected in the lesser financial world. But why was it specially natural that you should select him?”

“Simply and solely because he married my cousin Clara. She was a Miss Bone before marriage, and, of course, everybody says that she has a very charming manner. That may be, but she is not always sincere and she can also be very unpleasant. Well, I said to poor dear Arbuthnot: ‘There is only one thing to be done — we must get at Percy Magwhit through Clara.’ I am sorry to say that my husband took my advice. Arbuthnot was not a business man; Magwhit was. You can imagine the result.”

“I can, Mrs. Sumple. The financier swallowed the inventor. That generally happens.”

“Precisely. Sumple’s Liquid Safety did not do very well the first six months, and not much better the next six. Arbuthnot was weak and got discouraged. Mr. Magwhit made him an offer, and he accepted it. He sold all his rights in Sumple’s Liquid Safety for an annuity — four hundred a year for his life and mine. And at the time I really thought Mr. Magwhit was treating him generously. That was only four years ago. Yet last year Mr. Magwhit made no less than thirty thousand pounds out of the disinfectant, and this year, as Clara admits, he will make still more.”

“It seems hard,” I said.

“It is very hard, sir. My income from my husband’s salary vanished, of course, at his death, and he was not insured. I have only the four hundred a year, and I have all the odium from the disinfectant. The Magwhits have thirty thousand a year from it, and no odium at all. I shall never get used to the horrible publicity of the thing. My name stares at me from a hoarding, and it is a shock. A newspaper advertisement tells me to be sure it is Sumple’s, and I shudder. I go into a chemist’s shop, and some young man enters and demands Sumple in the eighteenpenny size, and I blush to the roots of my hair. My name serves as a mudguard to protect the Magwhits. I doubt if any of the smart people that Clara entertains in Hill Street or at Tufmore know that; the Magwhits have ever dabbled in disinfectants at all.”

“Well,” I said, “if you don’t like it, it is a very simple matter to change your name.”

“Never!” she said, and the jet trimming on her frontage trembled with emotion. “That is a piece of treachery to Arbuthnot’s memory that I can never commit. I would sooner suffer as I do. The Magwhits might change the name of the disinfectant, but when I suggest it, they smile and change the subject.”

“That is quite likely. But, Mrs. Sumple, you promised me an explanation of certain curious facts that I have observed. What bearing has all this on—”

“Everything can be traced to it, as you will see, and you asked me to begin at the beginning. I have this reduced income of four hundred a year. Fortunately, I have no children and nobody dependent on me. Even as it is, I have the greatest difficulty in keeping up the very modest style to which I am accustomed, without getting into debt. My little flat in Upper Gloucester Place is expensive. I think it a fairly good address myself, though Clara lets me see that she considers it contemptible, and pretended, when I took it, that she did not know where it was.”

“One moment. You have not quarrelled with Mrs. Magwhit, then? You are still on good terms with her?”

“We are quite intimate, yet we dislike one another. That may surprise you.”

“On the contrary, it is one of the commonest combinations.”

“We played together as children, and have known each other all our lives. So, though I considered her husband cheated mine, I have not dropped her. To be candid, I have always had hopes that he might, in consequence of the great prosperity of the disinfectant, suggest something in the way of a bonus. I have already given hints in that direction. As Clara always, until her marriage, had to help in the housework in the morning, it was perfectly absurd of her to pretend that she had never heard of Upper Gloucester Place. But she can be kind when she likes. She has occasionally asked me to receptions in Hill Street, and although I never know anybody there, and cannot afford the dress expenditure and the cab fares, I should be sorry to miss them. She has frequently invited me to luncheon, when only she and the governess have been present. And she did once ask me down to Tufmore. I had to be postponed, as my room was wanted for Lady Rochester’s maid; but that I quite understood, and no doubt at some other time—”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Sumple, but is this really explanatory?”

“In a way it is. It shows that I have expensive friends, and that explains why I have had to look about me for methods of making money. I had thought about home-made pickles, but people in the other flats would have objected to the smell of vinegar. And Clara refused to push them with her friends, and said that nobody but the servants ever eat pickles. I am earning a commission for recommending Gimlong Tea, or, at any rate, I shall be as soon as I get some orders. I wrote a testimonial for the Bestwear Boot and Shoe Company in Orchard Street the other day, but there was no agreement, and all I received was one complimentary pair of — walking shoes. And then I turned my attention to silkworms.”

“Silkworms?”

“Yes, I’ll tell you how it happened. My charwoman brought them to me in a little box. She said her son had got them from another boy, and he would sell them for sixpence. She had been told that the silk they made fetched fabulous prices. Naturally, I bought them. There were a hundred and eight of them originally, and it seemed a good bargain. Where I was wrong was in not inquiring about their food.”

“You had trouble about it?”

“I did. I tried them with lettuce, which rabbits and almost all animals like. Nineteen of them died that night. Despair drove me to experiment with bread-crumbs, and fifty-three more of the poor creatures perished in the next twenty-four hours. This morning the charwoman came again, and said that I ought to feed them on mulberry leaves. Now, I have no mulberry tree in my flat, and so I thought the best thing I could do was to cut my loss and give the silkworms to one of the lift-men at Baker Street Station. He was a man who had been most civil and obliging, and I had always wanted to make him some little present. I went from Baker Street Station. I was wearing, only for the second time, the complimentary shoes that the Bestwear Company had sent me. There was the lift just on the point of starting, and the particular lift-man I wanted was in it. I made a rush for it, and I suppose I caught the heel of one of my shoes in something. At any rate, the heel came clean off and went spinning across the floor of the booking-office. I did not wait to pick it up, or I should have missed the lift. But I told the lift-man about it, and asked him, if anybody found the heel, to have it reserved for me. I then offered him the silkworms, but he said he did not understand their habits and couldn’t take them. I was explaining to him my difficulty, when suddenly something which Clara once said to me flashed across my mind. ‘Wait,’ I said; ‘I know a lady who has a mulberry tree. I will take the silkworms to her.’ Do you see?”

“I am beginning to see.”

“The hats in the shops were most extraordinary. There was one at Pigwell’s which it is no exaggeration to say—”

“Pardon,” I said, “you can leave out the part about the hats. If I surmise correctly, you went on to Mrs. Magwhit’s, in Hill Street.”

“I did. I had to. Silkworms apart, it was quite imperative. The strain on my ankles! You, perhaps, do not know what it is to walk with a high heel on one shoe and none at all on the other. It gives one a curious gait, which is remarked and quite misunderstood by boys in the street, and it is painful as well. Uncertain though I was of the way Clara would take it, I felt I must borrow a pair of shoes from her. Otherwise, I should have been driven to take a cab, and that is an expense which I always try to avoid. I found Clara at home — you can imagine her, perhaps.”

“Not in the least.”

“No? Then I must tell you. She has a beautiful and graceful figure — I will say that for her — and she dresses like an Egyptian serpent and is rather languid. As a matter of fact, she is quite keen in matters of business. She writes all the advertisements of Sumple’s Liquid Safety, and had proofs of some new handbills on the table in her boudoir when I went in. Her manner this morning was what might be called medium. I have known her to be more affectionate, and I have known her to be nastier. She said that of course I could have a pair of her shoes if I could get into them — her foot is a half-size larger than mine, and she is sensitive about it — but she couldn’t think why I bought rotten shoes that dropped to pieces in the street. She showed me the new hand-bills. There was a blank space where there was to be a picture, and underneath was printed ‘Sumple’s Liquid Safety is Death to all Disease Germs.’ So I said I had something to show her, too — something that she might like to buy from me — and I handed her the box of silkworms. She opened it, screamed, and lost her temper. She said it was disgusting of me to bring a box of dead maggots and mess into her house. What was I thinking of? Had I gone mad? Well, I did my best to appease her. I told her I was sorry, but they were not maggots; they were silkworms — pretty, playful little things — and some of them were still alive. However, I would take them away as soon as I got my shoes on. She seemed pacified, and said I could have one of the handbills to wrap the box in.”

“I see,” I said. “You wrapped the box in the handbill. That accounts for the legend on the box. But what about your shoes? They are of different colours.”

“Really, you notice everything!”

“Everything which is unusual and nothing which is not.”

“Well, I will tell you. All Clara’s shoes are bronze green and so are all her stockings, and they have to match exactly; it is one of her fads and affectations. As I was putting on the right-hand shoe, I told Clara that the real reason why I had brought the silkworms to her was because I remembered her saying that there was a mulberry tree on the front lawn at Tufmore, and this would have made it quite easy for her to feed them. Clara sighed and said I had got the most unaccountable delusions. The tree was a sycamore, and she had never told me that it was anything else, if she had ever mentioned it at all, which she did not believe. Of course, that may have been so. All I can say is that, if it was not Clara who said she had a mulberry tree, then it must have been somebody else. However, to change the subject, I asked her what she was going to have for the picture on the new handbill. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I don’t know. Some funny old face, I think. We might have the widow of the inventor!’ Well, that was enough for me. There are things which I permit and things which I do not permit. Clara had passed the limit. I simply got up and walked out. She told me not to be a fool and take offence at a joke, but, as I said to her, there are jokes and jokes. When I got into the street, I remembered that I had changed only one of my shoes, but I would not go back. And now, sir, I have told you everything fully and frankly.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Sumple. I understand now why you are wearing odd shoes. Your curious conversation with the lift-man is also explained — by the way, I am sorry that you did not get the heel of your shoe back — but why did you post the silkworms?”

“Well, sir, I had to get rid of them, and what else was I to do? There was nowhere else to put them. If I had dropped them in the street, somebody would have picked them up and brought them back to me, and very likely a reward would have been expected. Seeing all I have gone through, I am sure, sir, you must admit that I have been sufficiently punished.”

“But I think you said that on two previous occasions you have used a pillar-box in the same reprehensible way — in fact, as a dust-bin?”

“Yes, but it will never happen again. In one case I had bought something from the fishmonger and was taking it home myself. I had practically told him that it must be fresh, and I never dealt with him again. In the other case it was — well, it was a mistake of my dentist’s. I wished to get rid of it, and I was anxious from delicate motives that it should not be traced to me. I could not burn it, but I could and did post it. Of course, I did not know that the Post Office employed detectives to watch the pillar-boxes.”

“Nor did I.”

“But you are a detective yourself? You said so.”

“There, Mrs. Sumple, you are mistaken. I said that I had had you under observation for some time, and it was true. I pointed out that you could not be allowed to throw refuse into pillar-boxes, nor can you. I did say that I must do my duty, and England expects every man to do as much, but I never said I was a detective, and I never should say it. Why, it’s illegal!”

“Then, if you are not a detective, what are you?”

“Merely,” I said, “an old gentleman who employs an ample leisure in the satisfaction of an inquiring and curious disposition. Thank you very much indeed, Mrs. Sumple, and good morning.”

I left her still searching for words to express her feelings. But she quickly recovered herself and came panting after me.

“Gimlong Tea,” she said breathlessly. “Splendid tea. Under the circumstances, I think you must give me an order.”

IN THE MARMALADE

I took the eleven o’clock Pullman for Brighton one Sunday morning, and entered the train twenty minutes before it started.

On the opposite side of the car to myself two men were seated. One of them was an elderly gentleman, with a neatly trimmed white beard, and from his face I judged him to be both wise and kind. I gathered that he was not going on in the train, and had merely entered it for a few minutes’ chat with his companion. This latter was a much younger man, not more than twenty-five. He was a good-looking boy, and he seemed worried and even slightly excited. It was evident that he employed a first-rate tailor and bootmaker, and I think he gave fifteen shillings for his ordinary straw hat. His taste in clothes was quiet and correct, and I was a little surprised that he spoiled the set of a well-cut coat — he was wearing a dark blue lounge suit — by carrying a heavy pocket-book or something of that kind in the inner side-pocket.

“I’ve made up my mind,” he said, a little irritably, “and it’s no good to worry any more about it. I’m going to put it in her marmalade.”

“Don’t do it,” said the older man anxiously. “I beg you not to do it. The consequences—”

“There won’t be any consequences — at least, there won’t be any of the kind you mean. I tell you, Parton did the same thing, and he swears there’s no risk whatever. Discovery is practically impossible.”

“I don’t like it,” said the old gentleman. “And I wish you had never told me about it, for it haunts me. You haven’t even got the excuse of poverty.”

“Perhaps not; but I’m not going to chuck money away, all the same.”

“It might, I believe, lead to your arrest and—”

“Hush!” said the young man in a low voice. He had, I think, noticed that the conversation was being overheard by me.

They talked for a minute or two, and then the old gentleman shook bands and left the train. The only other phrase which I could catch was “probably in the Lusitania.”

I have frequently been called a curious and interfering old man. It is certainly true that I take an interest in anything which interests me, and that I have the strongest dislike to being left with only part of a story. I meant, if I could, to get at the rest of the story in this case.

I changed my seat, after complaining of a draught to the attendant, and took the seat opposite the young man. There was a small table in between us, and we were now within conversational range. But I did not hurry matters; for a time I read my paper sedulously, and appeared to take no notice of my young friend.

Presently he told the attendant to bring him a whisky and soda, and, in paying for his drink, he dropped a florin, which finally came to rest under my seat. I rescued it and handed it back to him. He thanked me politely, and said he was sorry to have given me the trouble.

“Oh, it was no trouble,” I said. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes, pretty good.”

“I wonder if it’s impertinent for a stranger to say it — but I’m an old man, and old men notice such things — but I couldn’t help being struck just now with the likeness between your father and yourself.”

“Really? My father died about sixteen years ago.”

“Ah, then it was not your father! My mistake. Stupid of me! I suppose one doesn’t observe correctly when one is mentally preoccupied. And all the time I was puzzling over another point connected with you.”

“Well?” said the young man grudgingly.

“Speaking frankly,” I said, “and with my assurance on my word of honour that it shall go no further, what is it that you intend to put in her marmalade?”

His face showed how angry he was. “I think, sir,” he said, “that you would do better to mind your own business!” He snatched up a newspaper from the table and opened it out between us.

“Funny you should tell me to mind my own business,” I said placidly. “So many people have told me that And as a matter of fact, I have no business — no profession or occupation of any kind.”

He made no answer whatever. Rather rude, I thought, seeing how very much younger he was than myself. I waited a few minutes, and then said—

“I don’t want to hurry you, but you’ll let me have my newspaper back when you’ve quite finished with it, won’t you?” I had noticed that inadvertently he had picked up my newspaper.

He flung the newspaper down on the table, said a wicked word, finished his whisky and soda hurriedly, and went out. I think he found a seat in the next car; he did not return. I caught a glimpse of him at Brighton station as he drove away in a cab. And then I strolled up to the Metropole to lunch with friends of mine who were stopping there.

For the moment I did not see anything further to be done. I put the problem by for further consideration, with not much hope that I should ever be able to work it out.

Shortly after three that afternoon, it seemed to me wicked to keep my friends awake any longer — they had, I knew, the after-luncheon-snooze habit — and I left the hotel, and started on to the West Pier. And there, seated in a deck-chair, with his back towards me, I found the young man who had been so unpardonably rude to me that morning. As I was looking at his back, he got up and strolled off. Something may be learned by the student of human backs. This young man had a dejected back. I followed him, but without any intention of overtaking him and tackling him again.

As I passed the chair where he had sat, I noticed on the seat of it a green leather case which might very well have caused that bulge in his pocket which I had noticed in the train. I sat down in that chair and opened the case.

The case contained a large diamond star. They were good white diamonds, and the thing would have cost a hundred pounds or very little less. Having satisfied myself as to its contents, I put it in my pocket, and, leaning back in the chair, closed my eyes in thought.

How could I piece the clues together? I went over them in my mind — diamonds, marmalade, a making or saving of money, a possibility of arrest, the Lusitania, And suddenly the whole explanation seemed to flash out at me. I take no credit for any peculiar cleverness about it, for I had heard of a similar fraud on the American Customs before.

All I had to do now was to wait in the neighbourhood of that deck-chair for my man to come back. I imagined — correctly, as the event showed — that he had taken the case from his pocket to look at the diamonds, and in replacing it had missed the pocket, and allowed the case to slip down between his coat and waistcoat. He would probably feel for those diamonds again in a few minutes, would find they were missing, and would return to see if he had dropped the case where he was sitting.

I now stood a few yards away from the deck-chair, with my back to it, looking out over the sea. I heard that the deck-chair was being moved, and steps going to and fro and round and round just behind me, but I did not turn my head until I heard the young man speaking to me. He was very polite this time.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I’m extremely sorry to trouble you, but while I was sitting here a few minutes ago I most carelessly allowed a green leather case to slip out of my pocket. The contents were valuable. I suppose you don’t happen to have seen it?”

“You were extremely rude to me in the train this morning, sir. I am not disposed to help you in any way.”

“Sorry if I seemed rude. I was a bit out of temper at the time. That old bore who came to see me off had been bothering me with a lot of good advice on my private affairs, and I didn’t want to discuss them any further. If you have seen my case—”

“But how am I to know that it was your case? The person who took — But I’d better say nothing about it.”

The young man had hurriedly pulled a paper from his pocket. “If you’ll just look at that — it is the receipt from the shop where I bought the thing — it proves my ownership.”

I glanced over the paper perfunctorily. “This tells me that, if you are the Reginald Wing, Esquire, here mentioned, you bought a diamond star. Nothing is said about the green leather case. And the person who took it did so very deliberately — no sign of nervousness, not the appearance of a thief at all.”

“I am Mr. Wing,” he said, and he was beautifully patient, “and the case is never mentioned in the bill. It contained the diamond star described there. I’ve already apologised for my abruptness this morning, and in a business like this every moment is of importance. If you’ll give me a description of the man who picked up that case—”

“Pardon me, I never said it was a man. I said a person.”

“What? Was it a woman? Young? Red hair? Rather—”

“You are asking me a great many questions. This morning you refused to answer one of mine.”

“Well, tell me all you know about my diamonds, and I’ll tell you everything about the marmalade.”

That was the sentence I had been waiting for. “You are very good,” I said, “but I already know about the marmalade.”

“That,” he said, “is absolutely impossible.”

“It may appear so to you.”

“If you’ll first tell me who took my diamonds, and give me the time to see the police about recovering them, I’ll hear your explanation and bet you a sovereign it is wrong. And if it is wrong, I will put you right. Will that suit you?”

“Perfectly. We might sit down, I think. It was I who took your diamonds.”

“Great Scot, why didn’t you say so?”

“Why didn’t you ask me? Delicacy, perhaps. However, here they are, quite safe, as you will see, please.”

He was fall of gratitude, and mighty glad to get that diamond star back again.

“And now, Mr. Wing,” I said, “I’ll proceed to win that sovereign from you. My name’s Fish — Horace Fish — and as I have nothing else to do, I devote a good deal of time to solving the Chinese puzzles that the lives and private affairs of other people present to me. And with much practice I have gained a certain facility. That is why I have succeeded in doing what you thought impossible.”

“I still think it impossible, Mr. Fish.”

“We shall see. The clues in my possession, mostly derived from scraps of conversation overheard, were these — marmalade, in which something was to be put, diamonds, the Lusitania, an attempt to save money, and a possibility of serious consequences, perhaps arrest. Does not the order in which I have put these things already suggest to you that I have hit the right nail on the head?”

“No,” said Mr. Wing.

“Well, you shall hear the whole story. You wish to send a diamond star to a lady at present resident in America. You wish to avoid the very high tariff on articles of this kind, and therefore you are going to use a dodge which a friend of yours, Parton by name, has already employed with success. You intend to conceal the star in a tin or jar of marmalade. You may send this in the ordinary way, but it seems to me more probable that you mean to entrust it to a friend who is crossing on the Lusitania. It is quite true that you will save money if your fraud is not detected. But I think the old gentleman who was with you in the train was quite right in warning you. Customs officers occasionally employ an investigatory skewer. If they used it on that marmalade, you would lose a great deal more money than the sum you propose to save.”

“That,” said Reginald Wing, “is about the most ingenious thing I ever heard. I could never have worked it out like that. I congratulate you, sir.”

“And, if I remember correctly, you pay me a sovereign.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Fish — not at all! You pay me the sovereign. Your story is most ingenious, and if ever I want to send precious stones to America, I may be able to make some practical use of it. But it’s not right — in fact, it’s all wrong from beginning to end. Now, the right story—”

“Yes,” I said, feeling for my sovereign case, “what is it?”

“Quite simple. Miss Judd, who was housekeeper to my Uncle Ambrose during his lifetime, is, and always has been, one of the kindest and best-natured of women. As a boy of fourteen I owed much to her. Ever since, I have liked her and she has liked me. She is about fifteen years older than myself, and I have always regarded her as a kind of supernumerary aunt. Mark you, even in my boyhood’s days she frequently bought sweets with the intention of presenting them to me, but was unable to resist the temptation to eat them herself.”

“I don’t quite see what this has to do with it.”

“It has everything to do with it. When my Uncle Ambrose died — a little more than a year ago — no mention was made of me in his will. We had never quarrelled. He had told me definitely that I should get between seven and eight thousand when he was gone, and that my three cousins would get the same. Only a few days before his death he told Miss Judd that this was what he had done, and spoke of me with affection. The will was not very well drawn, and I am convinced that the omission of my name was either a queer error of memory or a clerical oversight. That also was Miss Judd’s view. He provided for my three cousins just as he had told me. To Miss Judd herself he left six hundred pounds a year for life, the money to go to his favourite hospital after her death. You have grasped these points, Mr. Fish? They are important.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Very well. As soon as she knew the terms of the will, Miss Judd came to me in the greatest distress. Either I was to take half her income of six hundred pounds, or she would renounce the whole thing. She had no one dependent on her, and her tastes and habits would not require even three hundred pounds a year. She was convinced that my omission had been inadvertent, and that she would be carrying out the real wishes of my uncle. Under the pressure she brought to bear, I consented to receive three hundred pounds a year from her. Now, this income will cease when her life ceases. Also, as she puts by money every year, and will leave the whole of it to me, the longer she lives, the more I shall receive. Quite apart from ordinary humanity and the great affection I have for her, I have the most solid reasons for wishing Miss Judd to live as long as possible. But a most deplorable thing has happened. Good-natured people are generally lazy, and Miss Judd is no exception. Since my uncle’s death she has refused to take up with any definite occupation. Her fatal passion for sweets has increased, and she has been mad enough to take a suite of rooms immediately over a high-class confectioner’s shop. She never cared about exercise, and never walked a step further than she could help. The change has come with alarming rapidity. I saw her last week for the first time for six months, and she has become enormous. She breathes with difficulty; her heart is giving her trouble. She has consulted a doctor, who allows her to take no specific for obesity, but has put her on a strict diet. I believe she does make some attempt to adhere to that diet, but the attempt is, and will continue to be, a hopeless failure. With the confectioner’s shop at hand, what else could you expect? She has faith in her doctor, and, except in the matter of diet, would not dream of disobeying his orders. Am I to let that woman die? Polden’s Emaciatory Powders are colourless, harmless, almost tasteless. If I conceal them in the marmalade which she eats to excess every morning for breakfast, she will recover in spite of herself. You see?”

“I do. You risk a great deal.”

“No risk at all. Parton and his two sisters have used them without ill effects of any kind — on the contrary, with great benefit to their health.”

“That proves nothing. You have, it seems to me, an insurable interest in this lady’s life. Why did you not insure it?”

“Do young men ever think of insurance? I did not until it was too late. No insurance company would accept Miss Judd now on any terms.”

“And the diamonds — the mention of the Lusitania?”

“Had nothing whatever to do with it. I had intended to present these diamonds today to a young lady. For reasons which do not concern you, I have not given them to her.”

“But, my dear Mr. Wing, everything concerns me.”

“Very well, then. If you were lunching with a girl at a restaurant, and you found a dish so bad that you called up the manager and had it changed, and the girl in the manager’s presence called you a silly idiot, and asked for a second helping of the same dish, would you think that she showed the kind of temper that promised happiness in the married life?”

“I should not.”

“Nor did I. The reference to the Lusitania was quite accidental — a brother of mine is going out there on business. I think that’s all.”

I handed him the sovereign. “And,” I said, “would you, as a favour, let me have two lines to say the result of your experiment with Miss Judd.”

“Certainly. But I have not your address.”

I gave him my card, and we parted. I thought that this would be a lesson to me in future not to decide too hurriedly that any particular thing amounted to a clue.

Next day I received the following letter:

Dear Sir, — In return for the service you rendered me, I premised to tell you the true explanation of the conversation which you overheard. I did not say when I would do it, but I choose to do it now. Observing in the train that you were making the utmost effort to overhear what my uncle and myself were saying, I thought I would give you something for your trouble. An almost imperceptible wink to my uncle accompanied my remark that I would put it in her marmalade, and my dear old uncle is fairly quick at the up-take. You followed up beautifully.

Briefly, you have been spoofed. Miss Judd and Uncle Ambrose and the Emaciatory Powder are but parts of a myth. My story about the diamonds and the girl was also spoof. So sorry, but you deserved it.

“Faithfully yours,

Reginald Wing

People seem to think that if you deserve a thing, you must like to get it. This is not invariably the case. I tell the story because it shows that even the cleverest may occasionally fail.