LITMIR.BIZ

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own impression?”

      “Why I still think that he gave it to me, though, of course, seeing that my memory is not what it was—”

      “You think that Walter gave it to you?”

      “Yes, in fact I feel sure he did, and so does my niece.”

      “Walter is your nephew, Walter Hornby?”

      “Yes, of course. I thought you knew.”

      “Can you recall the occasion on which the ‘Thumbograph’ was given to you?”

      “Oh yes, quite distinctly. We had some people to dinner—some people named Colley—not the Dorsetshire Colleys, you know, although they are exceedingly nice people, as I have no doubt the other Colleys are, too, when you know them, but we don’t. Well, after dinner we were a little dull and rather at a loss, because Juliet, my niece, you know, had cut her finger and couldn’t play the piano excepting with the left hand, and that is so monotonous as well as fatiguing, and the Colleys are not musical, excepting Adolphus, who plays the trombone, but he hadn’t got it with him, and then, fortunately, Walter came in and brought the ‘Thumbograph’ and took all our thumb-prints and his own as well, and we were very much amused, and Matilda Colley—that is the eldest daughter but one—said that Reuben jogged her elbow, but that was only an excuse—”

      “Exactly,” interrupted Anstey. “And you recollect quite clearly that your nephew Walter gave you the ‘Thumbograph’ on that occasion?”

      “Oh, distinctly; though, you know, he is really my husband’s nephew—”

      “Yes. And you are sure that he took the thumb-prints?”

      “Quite sure.”

      “And you are sure that you never saw the ‘Thumbograph’ before that?”

      “Never. How could I? He hadn’t brought it.”

      “Have you ever lent the ‘Thumbograph’ to anyone?”

      “No, never. No one has ever wanted to borrow it, because, you see—”

      “Has it never, at any time, gone out of your possession?”

      “Oh, I wouldn’t say that; in fact, I have often thought, though I hate suspecting people, and I really don’t suspect anybody in particular, you know, but it certainly was very peculiar and I can’t explain it in any other way. You see, I kept the ‘Thumbograph’ in a drawer in my writing table, and in the same drawer I used to keep my handkerchief-bag—in fact I do still, and it is there at this very moment, for in my hurry and agitation, I forgot about it until we were in the cab, and then it was too late, because Mr. Lawley—”

      “Yes. You kept it in a drawer with your handkerchief-bag.”

      “That was what I said. Well, when Mr. Hornby was staying at Brighton he wrote to ask me to go down for a week and bring Juliet—Miss Gibson, you know—with me. So we went, and, just as we were starting, I sent Juliet to fetch my handkerchief-bag from the drawer, and I said to her, ‘Perhaps we might take the thumb-book with us; it might come in useful on a wet day.’ So she went, and presently she came back and said that the ‘Thumbo­graph’ was not in the drawer. Well, I was so surprised that I went back with her and looked myself, and sure enough the drawer was empty. Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time, but when we came home again, as soon as we got out of the cab, I gave Juliet my handkerchief-bag to put away, and presently she came running to me in a great state of excitement. ‘Why, Auntie,’ she said,’ the “Thumbograph” is in the drawer; somebody must have been meddling with your writing table.’ I went with her to the drawer, and there, sure enough, was the ‘Thumbograph.’ Somebody must have taken it out and put it back while we were away.”

      “Who could have had access to your writing table?”

      “Oh, anybody, because, you see, the drawers were never locked. We thought it must have been one of the servants.”

      “Had anyone been to the house during your absence?”

      “No. Nobody, except, of course, my two nephews; and neither of them had touched it, because we asked them, and they both said they had not.”

      “Thank you.” Anstey sat down, and Mrs. Hornby having given another correcting twist to her bonnet, was about to step down from the box when Sir Hector rose and bestowed upon her an intimidating stare.

      “You made some reference,” said he, “to a society—the So­ciety of Paralysed Idiots, I think, whatever that may be. Now what caused you to make that reference?”

      “It was a mistake; I was thinking of something else.”

      “I know it was a mistake. You referred to a paper that was in your hand.”

      “I did not refer to it, I merely looked at it. It is a letter from the Society of Paralysed Idiots. It is nothing to do with me really, you know; I don’t belong to the society, or anything of that sort.”

      “Did you mistake that paper for some other paper?”

      “Yes, I took it for a paper with some notes on it to assist my memory.”

      “What kind of notes?”

      “Oh, just the questions I was likely to be asked.”

      “Were the answers that you were to give to those questions also written on the paper?”

      “Of course they were. The questions would not have been any use without the answers.”

      “Have you been asked the questions that were written on the paper?”

      “Yes; at least, some of them.”

      “Have you given the answers that were written down?”

      “I don’t think I have—in fact, I am sure I haven’t, because, you see—”

      “Ah! You don’t think you have.” Sir Hector Trumpler smiled significantly at the jury, and continued—

      “Now who wrote down those questions and answers?”

      “My nephew, Walter Hornby. He thought, you know—”

      “Never mind what he thought. Who advised or instructed him to write them down?”

      “Nobody. It was entirely his own idea, and very thoughtful of him, too, though Dr. Jervis took the paper away from me and said I must rely on my memory.”

      Sir Hector was evidently rather taken aback by this answer, and sat down suddenly, with a distinctly chapfallen air.

      “Where is this paper on which the questions and answers are written?” asked the judge. In anticipation of this inquiry I had already handed it to Thorndyke, and had noted by the significant glance that he bestowed on me that he had not failed to observe the peculiarity in the type. Indeed the matter was presently put beyond all doubt, for he hastily passed to me a scrap of paper, on which I found, when I opened it out, that he had written “X = W.H.”

      As Anstey handed the rather questionable document up to the judge, I glanced at Walter Hornby and observed him to flush angrily, though he strove to appear calm and unconcerned, and the look that he directed at his aunt was very much the reverse of benevolent.

      “Is this the paper?” asked the judge, passing it down to the witness.

      “Yes, your worship,” answered Mrs. Hornby, in a tremulous voice; whereupon the document was returned to the judge, who proceeded to compare it with his notes.

      “I shall order this document to be impounded,” said he stern­ly, after making a brief comparison. “There has been a distinct attempt to tamper with witnesses. Proceed with your case, Mr. Anstey.”

      There was a brief pause, during which Mrs. Hornby tottered across the court and resumed her seat, gasping with excitement and relief; then the usher called out—

      “John Evelyn Thorndyke!”

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