Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology/Chapter 2

S the little local train wound slowly along the narrow and tortuous valley to which I had hastily travelled down from London in response to an urgent summons received that day at noon, I thought, looking around and above me from the carriage window, that I had rarely found myself amidst wilder surroundings. I was aware that I was penetrating into the heart of the Penine Range at its highest and bleakest point, but I had never until then realised that we possess scenery in England which, under certain circumstances, can justly be termed savage. Although it was yet early autumn, the evening was cold and gloomy; overhead the sky was dull and grey; the treeless, verdureless sides of the hills loomed black and forbidding. Blackness and greyness, indeed, were the note of the scenery through which I was passing; in the valley itself was nothing but grey houses and the high, grey walls of factories and mills; here and there rushed down from the heights above foaming cataracts of water that did their work in some mill dam and emerged, having done it, turgid and discoloured, into the black river whose curves the railway follows. And as we followed it further the valley narrowed until it seemed that we must be presently swallowed up in some cavernous opening of the rocky and mountainous mass which loomed in front.

The train suddenly slackened its slow speed; we rounded a sharp curve and ran into a small station on the smoke-blackened railings of which appeared a board bearing the name Wolverdale. Beyond the railings and across the black river, I saw grey roofs and grey walls and amongst them tall chimneys which poured out thick clouds of dun-coloured smoke as if in tribute to the hills which looked down on them. This, then, was the place to which I had been peremptorily summoned; to me it suggested not crime, perhaps, but certainly the idea of an atmosphere in which the more sordid things of life might well happen.

I had scarcely opened the carriage door before a tall man, slender, slightly-bearded, very well attired in black, appeared before me and extended a hand. Behind him followed a man who seemed from his dress to be a groom, and at a sign from the other took charge of my baggage.

“Mr. Harthwaite?” I said, as I took the offered hand.

“Mr. John Harthwaite,” he responded, as if there were some reason for giving his Christian name. “I am much obliged to you for responding so promptly to my telegram. My motor-car is outside, let my man see to your things. And,” he added, giving me a side-glance as we walked along the narrow, wood-paved platform, “as to why I brought you down I will tell you in a few minutes—when we are alone.”

We made our way through the greyness of the little town in silence; the people were going home from the mills and factories, and the clatter of their wooden clogs made weird noises on the pavements. Then the road turned sharply, running along the side of the great overhanging hills until houses and mills were left behind and before us there was nothing but the hills to be seen. Then came another curve, and high above us, on the hillside, I saw a house, perched on a series of terraces. My companion said a word to his chauffeur; the car stopped.

“If you have no objection, Mr. Campenhaye,” said Mr. Harthwaite, “we will walk up to my house through the gardens—the car will have to go some distance round—we have little level ground in this corner of the world.”

I made no reply to this but left the car and followed my guide through a wicket-gate which led to a winding path. He ascended this until we came to the first of the terraces; then he paused and turned as if to contemplate the view in the valley beneath us. And he stretched out his hand and pointed to two objects—one, the great mass of a manufactory immediately below; the other, a house on the opposite hillside which, so far as I could see in the dusk, appeared to be the counterpart of the one we were approaching.

“You see that mill, Mr. Campenhaye,” he said suddenly. “That is the works of John and James Harthwaite, cotton spinners. And you see the house over there—that is where James Harthwaite lived. I say lived—at present he is lying dead within it. Dead—murdered!”

There was some curious feeling in his voice, and my own sounded strangely commonplace when I spoke.

“I suppose that is why you have brought me here, Mr. Harthwaite?” I said.

“That is why I have brought you here, Mr. Campenhaye,” he replied. “I have heard of your abilities, and I have no great faith in the police, however well they are trained. And I want to know who killed my brother.”

“Naturally, you do,” I said. “I hope I shall be of some use.”

He was still staring fixedly at the house on the opposite side of the valley, and for a moment he remained silent, but suddenly he spoke again.

“Will you hear of it now?” he said. “There is still time before dinner, and perhaps I can tell you about it more clearly outside four walls. And it is not a long story.”

“Now, by all means,” I answered, for I saw that he was wanting to unbosom himself. “I am eager to hear everything and at once.”

“Sit down there,” he said, pointing to a rustic seat, “and smoke a cigar. I will smoke one myself—it will be the first since yesterday. Now,” he continued, when he had produced a cigar-case and we had begun to smoke. “I will try to be concise and plain. You must know, Mr. Campenhaye, that my brother James and myself were twins. We were thirty-seven a few days ago, and we never married, and had no intention of marrying. These facts may make it strange to you that we did not live together. But we had different tastes, and when we succeeded to the business on my father’s death, each built himself a house—this is mine; yonder is his. We each had our own hobbies; but we were good and affectionate brothers.”

He paused a moment as if reflecting on his next words.

“One of James’s great hobbies,” he continued, “was exploring these hills and moors which you see about us. He was never tired of them—I suppose he knew them better than any man living. He knew all their ins and outs, their wildest and loneliest places. He knew all the Druidical remains on them, of which there are many; all the burrows, the rocking-stones—everything. He spent as much time as he could spare on these heights—and up there he was killed. Somehow, I always had an idea that he might meet his death in that way. But your main object is to know how he met it. Very well. Four days ago, James set out on a week’s exploration of his favourite country. He was going to wander about after his usual fashion, between here and the Peak district; he knew lonely places, inns, farmsteads, where he could spend his nights. He left his house yonder, as was his custom, before daybreak—to be precise, at half-past two in the morning. I never heard of him again until yesterday—late in the afternoon.”

Again he paused, seeming to reflect.

“And to make things clear,” he resumed, “this is how I heard. About four o’clock yesterday afternoon, a young man, a respectable person, who is a bank clerk in Hallaton, the big town over yonder, walked into our police-office here and said that in crossing High Gap, at the head of the range, across which he had come in returning from a holiday walking tour, he had found the dead body of a gentleman lying in a very lonely place, into which he himself had turned to light his pipe, there being, as usual, a strong wind blowing there. He conducted the police back to the spot. They immediately recognised the body as that of my brother. He had quite evidently been killed by a terrible blow on the back of the head—killed, the doctor says, instantaneously. There were no signs of any struggle. There were no footprints. His watch and chain—valuable—were gone; his purse—in which he always carried some twenty or thirty pounds in gold—was also gone. And, naturally, the police believe that he was murdered for the sake of robbery by some of the rough folk who now and then make their way across this range of hills in summer. But—I don’t.”

He uttered the last two words with such conviction that I started. To me the police theory seemed the correct one; it was one that I myself should have adopted on the prima facie evidence.

“You do not?” I said.

“I do not!” he responded, with renewed emphasis. “My brother has wandered about these moors and hills for twenty years and had never known molestation. What is more, he was a strong man, and he always carried a stout stick with him, and if any tramp had assailed him, that tramp would have had the worst of it. No, Mr. Campenhaye, my brother was not murdered for what he had in his pockets—there was some design in his murder. Of that I’m certain.”

“Do you suspect anyone?” I asked.

He rose, and motioned me towards the house above us, in which lights were now twinkling.

“I suspect no one,” he answered. “I wish I did—I should have more peace of mind. But come, you know the main facts now, and it is time you dined.”

Mr. Harthwaite led the way into a house which it was easy to see had been built, equipped and furnished in accordance with the very latest ideas of modern architects and apostles of health and comfort. It was one of those places in which it is impossible for dust to accumulate, wherein labour is saved by ingenious device, and to which air and sunlight have every possible access. Such houses, it is true, lack something of the cosiness and comfort of the old-fashioned ones, yet this was by no means cold with the coldness which so often accompanies the latest developments of scientific housing. There were books and pictures and other matters which made me conclude that whatever James Harthwaite’s hobbies other than pedestrianism had been, his brother was certainly of a literary and artistic nature.

Nothing was said during dinner of the terrible catastrophe which had brought me to Wolverdale; my host talked easily and pleasantly of many matters of interest, and though no other person was present, and I should have excused anything that came from him because of his sorrow, he behaved as if he had no trouble in the world, and as though he was doing his utmost to entertain an expected guest. And when we had gone into his study, where coffee was awaiting us, he turned to me with a meaning look.

“I am expecting the local superintendent of police any minute,” he said, “and I have a pretty good idea that he will bring a certain detective with him whom he spoke of bringing over from Arthford—a man in whom he has great faith. Now, I do not want either of these men to know who you are, Mr. Campenhaye, so I propose to merely mention you as an old friend who is staying with me. Therefore, suppose you sit still while they are here, listen, and say nothing?”

“Admirable!” I replied. “And exactly what I should wish. Let them talk as much as they please. I should prefer to make my investigations in my own way.”

The two police officers, on their arrival, were quite prepared to talk. They agreed in the original theory—that Mr. James Harthwaite had been murdered by some person or persons, who had slept out all night on the moors and had taken him unawares; but so far such persons seemed to have vanished into thin air. The police and the public had been notified of the murder throughout a wide area, but nobody had so far reported anything of any suspicious character; nobody had been spoken of as having displayed money not likely to be theirs; no attempt to pawn or sell the dead man’s watch had been heard of.

“But then, you know, Mr. Harthwaite,” said the local superintendent, “we’ve got to remember that, according to the doctor’s reckoning, a good four days elapsed between the actual murder and the finding of the body. That may seem strange—but it isn’t strange—those rocks, where your poor brother was found, sir, are just off, and only just off, the beaten track, but nobody would turn aside to them. If the young man that found him hadn’t wanted to light his pipe just there, and had seen a chance of shelter from the wind, the body might have been there now, Mr. Harthwaite, undiscovered. And as you know, sir, a man could make off across the moors in a dozen different directions, and reach any one of from twelve to twenty good-sized towns, and—vanish.”

The detective cleared his throat.

“If there was only the least bit of a clue now!” he said. “The merest bit of a clue. But I’ve examined the place and the surroundings thoroughly, and I couldn’t find as much as a footprint. You know what a dry season it’s been, gentlemen, and the grass up there is that firm, wiry mountain stuff—a heavy man makes no more impression on it than a child would. And as the superintendent there says, there was four days’ start. Four days!”

They had nothing to tell—nothing, at least, beyond the fact that news of the murder had been spread far and wide, and that the world and his wife had been requested to jog their memories in the endeavour to think of any suspicious character who had been seen coming away from the moor near High Gap on the early morning of a certain day. And from what I heard, there would be nothing more to tell, nothing—just then, at any rate.

My host turned to me when we were alone. His face—a handsome, slightly cynical face—expressed something like boredom.

“You see!” he said, and spread out his hands.

“Well,” I replied, “let us give them their due. I don’t see that they could say or do any more. There is no clue, and there was a start of four days in the criminal’s favour. On the face of things they have done all they could.”

He looked at me keenly.

“But—you?” he said meaningly.

“I may go on different lines,” I answered. “And before I go on any at all, I want to ask you a few questions. First, had your brother any enemies?”

“I would take my oath that he had not one,” he replied with emphasis. “He was universally liked and respected.”

“He had no business quarrels—no business enemies?” I asked.

Mr. Harthwaite shrugged his shoulders.

“His business was mine,” he said. “I can assure you that we have neither quarrels nor enemies in connection with our business.”

“My next question is of a delicate nature,” I said. “Had he any secret affairs—whether of love or of anything else?”

“I do not believe that he had any secrets from me of any nature whatever,” he answered. “As for love affairs, I am positive that he had none. He devoted himself entirely to three things—the business, his love of wandering about, and a passion for inventions; his spare time at home was given up to invention. Only the night before he left home I was talking to him at the works about an invention which he believed would revolutionise the spinning industry. He was full of it, enthusiastic about it.”

“He had no secrets, no enemies, no mysteries?” I said, looking at him keenly in the face.

“None!” he answered.

“Then why,” I asked, “why do you believe that there is some secret, some mystery, about his murder, instead of accepting the commonplace, but eminently reasonable, theory of the police that he was waylaid, murdered and robbed, in a lonely place, by some ruffian who has had ample opportunity to make good his escape? I say, why, Mr. Harthwaite?”

He made no immediate answer; instead, he pulled himself up in his chair, and bit his lip. Eventually, he shook his head.

“I cannot explain,” he replied. “It is—a feeling. I am sure of what I feel. Perhaps it is—shall we say, instinct? At any rate, I am sure of it, I tell you. He was murdered of design. Design!—not for what he had on him. I—you may think me a fool, Mr. Campenhaye, but how do I know that he isn’t impressing this conviction upon me—from—from beyond? Remember—we were twin brothers.” I bowed my head.

“I don’t think you a fool, Mr. Harthwaite,” I answered gravely. “Far from it. I only wanted you to explain. Now do not let us say any more about the matter until I have something to say to you. All I have to say at present is that I wish to see the scene of your brother’s death to-morrow morning as early as possible. And I wish to see it alone—I don’t even want a guide if you will tell me the way.”

He looked at me for a moment, then rose, and silently motioned me to follow him. He led me outside the house to the end of the uppermost of the terraces. It was a brilliantly moon-lighted night; the road which led up the valley wound away to the gloom of the hills like a silver stream. “Follow the road,” he said. “About a mile from here you will come to a gate in a stone wall, close to a ruinous sheep-fold. Pass through the gate and follow a path which is well defined through the heather and the bracken. At the extreme ridge of the hill you will see a mass of grey rock—the path will lead you to within a few yards of it. It was on the side of the rock furthest from you that he was found.”

He went back to the house. In the hall I held out my hand.

“Good-night,” I said. “Tell your people to take no notice if they hear me leave the house in the early hours of the morning. I mean to be up there at sunrise.”

As a matter of fact I was at the heights of High Gap well before the sun rose—to be precise, I was at the mass of rock where James Harthwaite’s body was found at five o’clock. In the grey light of the September morning the place was awful in its wildness and loneliness. On every side the heather-clad moors stretched away in sheer desolation—shrouded here and there in clinging mist, here and there rising sharply to some bluff or eminence. As the light grew stronger I began to make out the contour of far-off mountains to the north and south, and to see far down in the valleys where the great manufacturing towns lay beneath their canopies of smoke. But what most impressed me was the silence and solitude of the place. I could picture to myself the dead man, lover of nature that he evidently was from all that I heard of him, coming up here in the early morning, full of the strange and weird charm of the lonely heights, standing for awhile to gaze round him across the vast stretch of unawakened life, and being struck down to death, unawares. In that loneliness, well known to him, he would suspect nothing. And of one thing I quickly convinced myself—the police were right when they said the miscreant could escape in a dozen different directions without fear of detection.

The sun rose with a sudden burst over a long range of hills which rose on the further edge of the moors, and I began to look around me. But I quickly recognised that even systematic examination of the place would yield little of value. The entire surface of the ridge was covered with strong, sturdy heather, and with bracken of an unusual height. The path by which I had come, by which, too, James Harthwaite had come to his death, was a mere sheep-track through the vegetation; it passed the mass of high rocks at about ten yards distance. I saw no sign that the body had been dragged from the path to the rocks, and I at once came to the conclusion that the dead man had been in the habit of resting at these rocks after the stiff climb from the valley and that he was struck down as he rested. And that argued a further conclusion—that the murderer was some one familiar with his habits.

I was turning away with a casual look round when I suddenly espied at a little distance some object which was shining brightly in the glancing sunlight—not one of the myriad beads of dew on the heather hills and the leaves of the bracken, but something that shone like gold. I had no other thought in my mind as I walked towards it than that it was a scrap of quartz, a fragment of mica lying in the dark soil beneath the fronds of the bracken. But what I found was a small case of leather, oval in shape, the sort of thing in which jewellers place rings between pads of satin; what I had seen shining in the sun’s rays was certain gilt lettering on the lid—“Armstead, Optician, Hallaton.”

I pressed open the snap lid of the tiny case. Within, packed in a layer of wool padding, lay an artificial eye. It stared at me with an expression that was almost human.

I was as sure as I was that the sun had risen that in the object which I held in the palm of my hand, I had a clue to the true facts of the murder of James Harthwaite. I blessed the sense of advertisement which had made the oculist put his name and address on the little leather case. And then, putting the case in my pocket, I glanced across the moors and the valley to where in the distance I could see the smoke rising from Hallaton’s great chimneys, and, without more ado, I hastened down the hillside to Wolverdale.

John Harthwaite was pacing up and down the terrace outside his house when I reached it. He came to me with an air of anxious expectancy.

“Well?” he said. “You have been up there?”

“I have been up there,” I answered. “But don’t ask me any questions about it at present. What I want just now are two things—first, breakfast; second, the loan of your motor-car and its driver for an hour or two. After that, we can talk.”

He turned aside—a little disappointedly, I thought—and led the way to the house. “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” he said. “What time would you like this car?”

“How long,” I said, “will it take to run into Hallaton?”

“Three-quarters of an hour,” he replied, looking very much as if he wished to know why I wished to go to Hallaton.

“Then, half an hour after breakfast is over,” I said. “And, by the by, if we have a few minutes to spare before breakfast there is something I want you to do for me. It is to write a letter—which I will dictate.”

He led me into his study and sat down at his desk in silence, drawing paper and pen towards him.

“You are, of course, well known in Hallaton, Mr. Harthwaite?” I said. “Everybody, I suppose, knows you?”

“I suppose so,” he answered laconically. “They ought to.”

“Begin then,” I said. “Private and confidential. ,—The bearer of this letter is Mr. Paul Campenhaye, the famous specialist in criminology, who, at my request, is investigating the circumstances of my late brother’s death. Be good enough to give him any information he asks of you and to treat the matter as one of strict secrecy. That is all, except for your signature.”

“But to whom is this to be delivered?” he asked.

“That, for the present, I won’t tell you,” I replied. “It is to form my credentials. No one in Hallaton knows me, you know.”

He folded the letter into an envelope and handed it to me in silence. We went to breakfast; neither of us talked much as we ate and drank; when the meal was over, I made ready for my ride. Mr. Harthwaite was in the hall when I came down, lounging restlessly about. I motioned him into the study.

“There was a question I thought of this morning,” I said. “I ought to have asked it last night. Who was the last person who saw your brother alive? As he rose so early that morning, it would be some servant, I suppose?”

“No,” he answered, “he never troubled his servants with his early rising. He carried a Thermos flask, made ready the night before, and some food in his knapsack, and he used to get breakfast at one of the moorland farmhouses. The last person who saw him alive was our chief mechanician, Ollershaw, who went up that night to my brother’s house to discuss some drawings of machinery with him, and was with him until midnight.”

“I should like to have some conversation with Mr. Ollershaw when I return,” I said. “By the by, what was there actually left on your brother’s body—I mean personal effects—when he was found?”

“Nothing,” he said. “His watch and chain, purse, ring, and pocket-book were all gone. The knapsack was still strapped to his shoulder.”

I nodded, and went out to the motor-car which had just run up to the hall door. Mr. Harthwaite followed me out.

“Where shall he drive you?” he asked.

“To the best hotel in Hallaton,” I answered.

He gave the driver an order. A moment later we were speeding around the spiral curves which led down to the road in the valley. And then I put the Harthwaite matter out of my mind and gave myself up to contemplating the strange scenes through which we passed until we ran into the grime and greyness of the great manufacturing town and pulled up in the courtyard of an old-fashioned hotel.

“I want you to wait here until I return,” I said to the driver. “I may be half an hour. I may be an hour.”

Then I went out into the unfamiliar streets, making for a principal thoroughfare which the car had crossed a few minutes previously. I had a sure prescience that the firm I wanted would be found somewhere about the heart of the town, and without troubling to ask anyone for help, I speedily discovered the place—evidently, from its exterior, the shop of a first-rate optician.

An elderly, grave-faced man was behind the counter when I entered, and gave me a courteous bow and an enquiring look.

“Mr. Armstead?” I said.

“The same, sir,” he answered, again bowing. “What can I do for you, sir?”

I drew out my own card, and the letter which John Harthwaite had written, and handed them to him in silence. I saw his face change and his eyebrows go up as he read the letter, and he came round the counter and waved me to the half-open door at the back of the shop, at the same time saying a word to an assistant who stood near. The next moment we were closeted together in a small room.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Campenhaye?” he asked, with a little tremor as of anxiety in his voice. “It’s not—not, I hope, about poor Mr. James?”

“That, Mr. Armstead, is precisely what it is,” I answered. “Now, remember, we speak together in the strictest secrecy?”

“Oh, yes, yes, sir—of course!” he exclaimed. “I understand. But—what can I tell you, Mr. Campenhaye?”

I drew out the little leather-covered case, and held it out to him, open.

“This,” I said. “For whom did you make, or to whom did you supply, this artificial eye?”

I thought for an instant that he was going to fall, for he swayed visibly, and his face became very pale. But he steadied himself and took the case from me, his hand trembling visibly.

“My God!” he muttered. “It—it can’t be possible! You don’t suspect, sir”

“Never mind what or whom I suspect, Mr. Armstead,” I said. “Answer my question.”

He put the case down on the table and stared at it in wonder. I knew that he already suspected somebody.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “I’ll answer your question. I supplied this artificial eye—this, and a duplicate one for use in case this one was lost, or vice versa, as the case might be, you know—to Mr. Ollershaw, who has some important post at Harthwaites’. He lost an eye some years ago, and I had two made for him—one to wear, the other in case, as I have just said. He—oh, my God!—you surely don’t suspect”

I put the case and its contents back in my pocket and held up my hand.

“Remember what we said about secrecy, Mr. Armstead,” I said. “And—pull yourself together. Now, just tell me what you know of this Ollershaw—what sort of man is he?”

The optician made a strong effort to be calm.

“I know little, sir, except that I supplied him with this, and with his spectacles—he wears tinted glasses—and that he sometimes comes in to buy little matters,” he said. “He’s a quiet, queer sort of fellow—morose, I should say, and with little to say for himself—an inventive genius, Mr. Campenhaye—he’s once or twice done things for me.”

“Ah! an inventor?” I said. “Very well. Now, good morning, Mr. Armstead, and thank you. You will see me again—and in the meantime—silence!”

I hurried back to the hotel, hurried into the car, bade the driver go back as quickly as he could. But by the time we reached John Harthwaite’s house I had assumed as cool and as nonchalant an air as I was capable of at that moment.

“There!” I exclaimed, as Mr. Harthwaite came out to the terrace. “We were not so long, you see, after all. By the by, wouldn’t it be well, now that the car is here, if I went to see the man you spoke of—Ollershaw?”

“I was just going down to the mill myself,” he said. “Get in again, and we’ll ride down. We shall find him there.”

But when we came to the office at the big mill in the valley, Ollershaw was not there—he had gone up to the cottage at which he lodged to fetch something, somebody said.

“We’ll ride up,” said Mr. Harthwaite. “It’s not far out of the village, and if you want to talk to him, you’ll be quieter there. I don’t see that he can tell you anything, though, that I couldn’t. He told me all he knew yesterday.”

I made no answer to that, and we rode on in silence until the car was clear of the village. Then, on the hillside, near the place where the footpath turned up the hillside towards High Gap I saw a desolate cottage. As we neared it, a man came out into the road before us. He made as if to cross it to another footpath which led to the mill.

“There’s Ollershaw!” exclaimed my companion. “Hi! Ollershaw!”

The man turned, stared, and then came slowly towards us. He was a fellow of about thirty, dressed in a much-worn, much-stained, tweed suit, which he seemed to have thrown upon himself. His chin and mouth were hidden by a curly, unkempt, black beard; his eyes were concealed by smoked spectacles. Above them was a high, white forehead which bulged far too much; above it dense, black hair protruded from beneath an old cricket cap, worn far back on the back of his head. Something in the set of his shoulders, the turn of the lips, suggested a sullen defiance, an indefinable dislike of—what?

“A queer-looking chap, but wonderfully clever,” whispered Mr. Harthwaite. “Ollershaw, I want to speak to you. This gentleman is investigating the circumstances of my brother’s death, and as you were the last to see him alive, he wants to ask you a question or two.”

I got out of the car; the figure before us betrayed in every line a sullen dislike and indifference.

“Just step aside with me a moment, Mr. Ollershaw,” I said, leading him to the side of the road. “I only want to ask you a question or two. You were the last person to see Mr. James Harthwaite alive, weren’t you?”

“So it seems,” he answered gruffly. “We haven’t heard of anybody who saw him after I did.”

“Just so,” I said. “And when did you last see him alive? Was it,” I continued, getting very close to him and putting my fingers in my pocket for a certain object, “was it at his house, or was it on High Gap, where you lost—this?”

And I held out before him his artificial eye.

I knew I had hit the right nail on the head, then. The man made one strange, inarticulate sound, clapped his hand to a certain pocket in his waistcoat, lurched, and collapsed, fainting, in my arms.

“Good God! what’s this?” exclaimed Harthwaite, as he and the driver sprang from the car. “What is it, Campenhaye?”

“It’s only that this is the man who killed your brother,” I answered, as I laid Ollershaw down, and slipped my hand into the inner pocket of his coat. “And here,” I added, as I drew out a tight wad of thin papers, “here’s what he killed him for—the secret of the invention of which you said your brother had spoken the night before his murder. Now, then, let’s bring him round—and let’s be thankful, too, Mr. Harthwaite, that the fellow was so careless about his clothing that he went about with this hole in his waistcoat pocket. For if it hadn’t been for that, he’d have gone as free as the wind!”