LITMIR.BIZ

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on his bare statement.

      But the thumb-mark? Well, it was possible (though un­likely)—still possible—that the mark might have been made accidentally on some previous occasion and forgotten by Reuben, or even unnoticed. Mr. Hornby had seen the “Thumbograph,” in fact his own mark was in it, and so would have had his attention directed to the importance of fingerprints in identification. He might have kept the marked paper for future use, and, on the occasion of the robbery, pencilled a dated inscription on it, and slipped it into the safe as a sure means of diverting suspicion. All this was improbable in the highest degree, but then so was every other explanation of the crime; and as to the unspeakable baseness of the deed, what action is too base for a gambler in difficulties?

      I was so much excited and elated by my own ingenuity in having formed an intelligible and practicable theory of the crime, that I was now impatient to reach home that I might impart my news to Thorndyke and see how they affected him. But as I approached the centre of the town the fog grew so dense that all my attention was needed to enable me to thread my way safely through the traffic; while the strange, deceptive aspect that it lent to familiar objects and the obliteration of landmarks made my progress so slow that it was already past six o’clock when I felt my way down Middle Temple Lane and crept through Crown Office Row towards my colleague’s chambers.

      On the doorstep I found Polton peering with anxious face into the blank expanse of yellow vapour.

      “The Doctor’s late, sir,” said he. “Detained by the fog, I expect. It must be pretty thick in the Borough.”

      (I may mention that, to Polton, Thorndyke was The Doctor. Other inferior creatures there were, indeed, to whom the title of “doctor” in a way, appertained; but they were of no account in Polton’s eyes. Surnames were good enough for them.)

      “Yes, it must be,” I replied, “judging by the condition of the Strand.”

      I entered and ascended the stairs, glad enough of the prospect of a warm and well-lighted room after my comfortless groping in the murky streets, and Polton, with a final glance up and down the walk reluctantly followed.

      “You would like some tea, sir, I expect?” said he, as he let me in (though I had a key of my own now).

      I thought I should, and he accordingly set about the preparations in his deft methodical way, but with an air of abstraction that was unusual with him.

      “The Doctor said he should be home by five,” he remarked, as he laid the tea-pot on the tray.

      “Then he is a defaulter,” I answered. “We shall have to water his tea.”

      “A wonderful punctual man, sir, is the Doctor,” pursued Polton. “Keeps his time to the minute, as a rule, he does.”

      “You can’t keep your time to a minute in a ‘London Particular,’” I said a little impatiently, for I wished to be alone that I might think over matters, and Polton’s nervous flutterings irritated me somewhat. He was almost as bad as a female housekeeper.

      The little man evidently perceived my state of mind, for he stole away silently, leaving me rather penitent and ashamed, and, as I presently discovered on looking out of the window, resumed his vigil on the doorstep. From this point of vantage he returned after a time to take away the tea-things; and thereafter, though it was now dark as well as foggy, I could hear him softly flitting up and down the stairs with a gloomy stealthiness that at length reduced me to a condition as nervously apprehensive as his own.

      CHAPTER VIII

      A SUSPICIOUS ACCIDENT

      The Temple clock had announced in soft and confidential tones that it was a quarter to seven, in which statement it was stoutly supported by its colleague on our mantelpiece, and still there was no sign of Thorndyke. It was really a little strange, for he was the soul of punctuality, and moreover, his engagements were of such a kind as rendered punctuality possible. I was burning with impatience to impart my news to him, and this fact, together with the ghostly proceedings of Polton, worked me up to a state of nervous tension that rendered either rest or thought equally im­possible. I looked out of the window at the lamp below, glaring redly through the fog, and then, opening the door, went out on to the landing to listen.

      At this moment Polton made a silent appearance on the stairs leading from the laboratory, giving me quite a start; and I was about to retire into the room when my ear caught the tinkle of a hansom approaching from Paper Buildings.

      The vehicle drew nearer, and at length stopped opposite the house, on which Polton slid down the stairs with the agility of a harlequin. A few moments later I heard his voice ascending from the hall—

      “I do hope, sir, you’re not much hurt?”

      I ran down the stairs and met Thorndyke coming up slowly with his right hand on Polton’s shoulder. His clothes were muddy, his left arm was in a sling, and a black handkerchief under his hat evidently concealed a bandage.

      “I am not really hurt at all,” Thorndyke replied cheerily, “though very disreputable to look at. Just came a cropper in the mud, Jervis,” he added, as he noted my dismayed expression. “Dinner and a clothes-brush are what I chiefly need.” Nevertheless, he looked very pale and shaken when he came into the light on the landing, and he sank into his easy-chair in the limp manner of a man either very weak or very fatigued.

      “How did it happen?” I asked when Polton had crept away on tiptoe to make ready for dinner.

      Thorndyke looked round to make sure that his henchman had departed, and said—

      “A queer affair, Jervis; a very odd affair indeed. I was coming up from the Borough, picking my way mighty carefully across the road on account of the greasy, slippery mud, and had just reached the foot of London Bridge when I heard a heavy lorry coming down the slope a good deal too fast, considering that it was impossible to see more than a dozen yards ahead, and I stopped on the kerb to see it safely past. Just as the horses emerged from the fog, a man came up behind and lurched violently against me and, strangely enough, at the same moment passed his foot in front of mine. Of course I went sprawling into the road right in front of the lorry. The horses came stamping and sliding straight on to me, and, before I could wriggle out of the way, the hoof of one of them smashed in my hat—that was a new one that I came home in—and half-stunned me. Then the near wheel struck my head, mak­ing a dirty little scalp wound, and pinned down my sleeve so that I couldn’t pull away my arm, which is consequently barked all the way down. It was a mighty near thing, Jervis; another inch or two and I should have been rolled out as flat as a starfish.”

      “What became of the man?” I asked, wishing I could have had a brief interview with him.

      “Lost to sight though to memory dear: he was off like a lamplighter. An alcoholic apple-woman picked me up and escorted me back to the hospital. It must have been a touching spectacle,” he added, with a dry smile at the recollection.

      “And I suppose they kept you there for a time to recover?”

      “Yes; I went into dry dock in the O. P. room, and then old Langdale insisted on my lying down for an hour or so in case any symptoms of concussion should appear. But I was only a trifle shaken and confused. Still, it was a queer affair.”

      “You mean the man pushing you down in that way?”

      “Yes; I can’t make out how his foot got in front of mine.”

      “You don’t think it was intentional, surely?” I said.

      “No, of course not,” he replied, but without much conviction, as it seemed to me; and I was about to pursue the matter when Polton reappeared, and my friend abruptly changed the subject.

      After dinner I recounted my conversation with Walter Horn­by, watching my colleague’s face with some eagerness to see what effect this new information would produce on him. The result was, on the whole, disappointing. He was interested, keenly interested, but showed no symptoms of excitement.

      “So John Hornby has been plunging in mines, eh?” he said, when I had finished.

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