Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology/Chapter 5

HEN I set out for Leycaster that morning, I had no idea in my mind as to the reason which had made my old friend, Danthorpe, send for me so suddenly and hurriedly, conveying his message in four single words: “Come here at once.” But Danthorpe was not only town clerk and a solicitor of standing at Leycaster, but a sharp man of the world, who never wasted time or money of his own, and was certainly not likely to waste mine, and so I obeyed his summons and thought no more of it until I reached the quaint old town by the sea, whereat I had sometimes visited him on pleasure. And as soon as I caught sight of his face on the station, I knew that Danthorpe had something in hand to which he thought it worth while to draw my professional attention.

“Come straight to the Castle Hotel, Campenhaye,” he said, taking my arm. “I’ve ordered lunch in a private room. There is a mystery waiting for you here which seems to me about as queer a one as I ever encountered. I say ‘seems’; it may be that you will think little of it. Anyway, it will give the people of this place plenty to talk of for at least the proverbial nine days—perhaps longer.”

I thought as I looked around me at the familiar sights and scenes of Leycaster that it could never require much to stir the folk of so quiet a town. Leycaster, as all people know who have visited it, is one of the most ancient, as it is also one of the most picturesque, boroughs in the country. It is old, and worn, and grey—as grey as the waters of the North Sea which beat against its cliffs and headlands. It is built on a bold promontory; the Norman tower of its ruined castle may be seen for a wide stretch over land and sea; it has an ancient church, and queer streets and alleys; the houses in its market-place are of bygone centuries; there is scarcely anything modern in it; it has a small sea trade; it has a herring-fishery; but the tourist and tripper leave it alone. Every year a few artists set up their easels in its nooks and corners; a few people who love quiet and the smell of the sea visit it, but for all other purposes it is still out of the world. Leycaster is, in short, what the old topographers call a decayed town. But even in such a place things can happen.

Danthorpe is a wise man. He refused to say a word of business until we had luncheon. But as soon as we had come to the coffee and the cigars, he drew his chair closer to mine.

“Now then, Campenhaye,” he said, “we’ll start out on this affair. You are sufficiently acquainted with the geography of Leycaster to remember our castle? Very well. Last night, about dusk, a woman, who lives in one of the cottages in Outer Ward, was passing through the castle grounds and came across the body of a man, which lay at the foot of Siward’s Tower. She immediately fetched assistance from the lodge. The body was warm, but the man was dead. There was no mystery as to how he met his death. You have been up Siward’s Tower with me more than once, and you will no doubt remember that here and there, all the way to the top, there are ancient embrasures, or openings, fenced in by low railings. According to our Castle Committee, these railings are constantly tested, and should be absolutely safe; but it is impossible to deny the fact that the dead man evidently leaned on one of the upper ones, that it gave way with his weight, and that he was precipitated some sixty or seventy feet to the path below.”

“You are sure the railing gave way? You are sure he did not throw himself over?” I asked, mentally making notes of all that Danthorpe told me.

“There is no doubt that the railing gave way. The upper rail was broken completely out of its socket, and the wood was rotten,” replied Danthorpe. “If the man was leaning heavily upon it, as he no doubt was, looking at the view over the bay and the harbour, he would have no chance at all. Our Castle Committee, or their subordinates, will get into hot water over this, I assure you. However, that is another matter. Let us go on. The man was removed to the mortuary. I myself saw him a few minutes later. The doctor said he had been killed instantaneously. He was a good-looking, gentlemanly-appearanced man of, say, forty-five, well but quietly dressed, with good linen, good boots, clean-shaven, slightly grey of hair. He would have passed for a professional man—doctor, lawyer, anything of that sort. But on examining his clothing there was nothing whatever upon him to show who he was.”

Danthorpe paused, and looked at me in a fashion which was significant of his astonishment. I only nodded, and bade him to continue.

“Nothing whatever upon him!” he repeated. “Not a But I’ll tell you exactly what there was on him. There was a pocket-handkerchief, unmarked. There was a cigar-case, containing six or seven cigars of very good quality. There was a silver matchbox. There was a pocket-knife. There was a gold watch, with a gold chain attached. In one pocket of the trousers there was a leather purse, containing twenty-three pounds in gold; in the other, some loose silver. There was not a mark upon linen or clothing to show to whom they belonged, or where they had been bought or made. The only other thing upon the body was—this.”

Here Danthorpe produced something wrapped in tissue paper, and, laying it on the table, placed his hand on it.

“I’ll tell you about this later,” he said. “It’s this that I’ve really brought you down to see, Campenhaye. But first let me finish about the dead man. Of course, we wanted to find out who he was. In a little place like this that was easily done. We soon discovered that he arrived here—from London, remember, though it seems of no importance—at half-past five yesterday afternoon. He carried a small suit-case, and walked straight to his hotel and booked a room in the name of John Smith. He had some dinner prepared for him at once, and as soon as he had eaten it, he strolled out. The lodge-keeper admitted him to the castle, and saw him wandering about. After that he was never seen until the woman found him dead. Now, upon finding this out, we examined the suit-case, and an overcoat which had been taken up to his room. This search was as unproductive of result as the first. We found no papers, letters or visiting-cards. None of the linen was marked; there was absolutely nothing to reveal the man’s identity. Who he is, why he came here, is a mystery. But there is something here, Campenhaye, which I want you to look at.”

He slowly tore away the wrappings of tissue paper from the object which he had produced, and at last revealed an old silver tobacco-box, rounded to comfortably fit into a pocket, and evidently of considerable age, being worn and of great smoothness all over its surface.

“You see what this is?” said Danthorpe. “An old tobacco-box of solid silver. Now open it, and look inside the lid.”

The lid of the box opened by the pressure of a spring. The interior was as brightly polished as the exterior. And on the lid, scratched into the silver by some sharp instrument, was a sort of drawing or diagram, the meaning of which it was at first sight impossible to understand. It was nothing but a series or collection of tiny lines, mere scratches, but they were deeply indented in the silver, and they appeared to have some sequence or order, and therefore possibly some significance. And without remark, I took out my notebook and made an accurate reproduction of them.

“Now, what on earth do you make those scratches out to be?” said Danthorpe. “Are they signs, symbols, hieroglyphics, or what are they? Are they accidental, are they a mere whim, or are they there of set purpose? Does a man make marks in a good silver tobacco-box like that for nothing? And there’s another thing. Does a man”

“My dear fellow,” I exclaimed, interrupting him, “don’t tax my brains too much. Although I have some fame as a specialist in crime investigation, I am not able to answer more than one question at a time. Now, I have only attempted to solve one question so far, about these mysterious remarks, which may be signs, symbols, hieroglyphics; but I have solved it to my own satisfaction, and I don’t think I am wrong.”

“Well, and what’s that?” asked Danthorpe.

“Merely that these were scratched or cut into the inside of this tobacco-box lid a good many years ago,” I said. “I can see that with the naked eye. Perhaps you can’t. Now you will see what I mean. The edge, the lip, of every scratch is quite smooth.”

“Yes, I see that,” he said, having examined the inside of the lid. “But—what do you think they mean?”

“Ah, that’s a big question! Perhaps nothing, perhaps a great deal,” said I. “However, leave that matter for a moment. Tell me, what are the police doing towards getting this man identified?”

“The usual thing,” answered Danthorpe. “A complete description, of course, and a photograph. We had him photographed this morning, and we are sending copies out to the principal papers and police headquarters.”

“Very good. Now, let us take this box to the photographer’s and have copies made of these markings,” I said. “These copies shall be sent out in the same way, with a note appended, in which we will ask any person who can explain them or throw any light upon them to communicate with you, Danthorpe. And after that you can take me to see the dead man, on the mere chance of my recognising him—a very, very mere chance, I’m afraid.”

“I suppose somebody will recognise him,” said Danthorpe. “It seems a most extraordinary thing that a man should come to a strange town without so much as a letter in his pocket.”

That was precisely why I thought there might be the veriest off-chance of my knowing the man. He might be one of the better sort of the criminal class, who, bent on some enterprise or other, had taken care that in the event of arrest no immediate means of identification should be found upon him. It was certainly unusual that a well-dressed man, with money in his pockets, should be devoid of even a visiting-card; it looked as if everything of that sort had been purposely got rid of. And as I, in my professional capacity, had come across a vast number of strange characters, there was the possibility that I might recognise this mysterious stranger.

But when I came to see the dead man I did not know him at all—I knew that I had never seen him. And so there was nothing to be done until the circulation of the description and the photographs produced some result. It was impossible that they should produce none—the man was sure to be known by somebody. When that somebody came forward, we should no doubt learn the object of his visit to Leycaster.

Danthorpe and I were sitting in his study that night, smoking a final cigar before going to bed, when his parlourmaid came in to say that a Mr. Pentiman particularly desired a few minutes’ conversation with him. He bade the girl show Mr. Pentiman in at once.

“An old and much respected tradesman of the town—a jeweller,” said Danthorpe, turning to me as he rose and moved towards the door. “I wonder what he wants at this hour? Ah, come in, Mr. Pentiman! Glad to see you,” he continued, meeting and welcoming an old-fashioned, elderly-looking man, who entered bowing and smiling. “This is my friend, Mr. Campenhaye, of London, Mr. Pentiman. Mr. Campenhaye, one of our most honoured townsmen.”

The old gentleman bowed and smiled again, and dropped into the easy-chair which Danthorpe pushed forward.

“You’ll think it strange that I should call at this hour, Mr. Danthorpe,” he said; “but the fact is I have had my curiosity aroused. I’ve been talking to the police superintendent at the club, sir, and he has been telling me about the silver tobacco-box which was found on the poor man who fell out of Siward’s Tower yesterday.” Danthorpe glanced sharply at me.

“Oh,” he said, “what about it, Mr. Pentiman?”

“Well, little except that he described it, Mr. Danthorpe, and said that it was in your possession,” replied the old gentleman. “And—the fact is, sir, I dropped in on my way home to ask if you would allow me to look at that tobacco-box.”

Danthorpe turned to a locked drawer in the desk by which he was standing.

“Why, certainly, Mr. Pentiman,” he replied. “Here it is.”

He handed the small parcel over to the old man, and we both watched him curiously as he took off the tissue-paper wrappings. His wrinkled old face lighted up, and his eyes twinkled as he examined the silver box, and finally pressed the spring which released the inset lid, and looked inside.

“Ay, ay!” he said, more to himself than to us. “Ay, I thought it might be so—I thought it might!”

“What is it that you thought might be so, Mr. Pentiman?” asked Danthorpe. “You are referring to that box, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” replied the old gentleman. “When the superintendent described it to me, I began to wonder if it might be a silver tobacco-box of which I know something. It seemed to be a thousand to one—ay, a million to one—against its being so. But—it is.”

“You mean to say that you know that box?” exclaimed Danthorpe half incredulously.

“I know it, sir. It was once mine. The truth is, Mr. Danthorpe,” continued Mr. Pentiman, looking at the Town Clerk with a smile, “the truth is, I gave this box, as a little acknowledgment of a service rendered, to James Meadows.”

Danthorpe’s face showed his astonishment.

“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Are—are you certain?”

“I’m as absolutely certain as I am of my own existence, sir,” replied the old man. “I’ve no doubt of it. See, there’s my private mark and number, just inside the curved rim. Oh, yes, that’s the box. But” He paused and looked critically at the markings within the lid, and he shook his head. “When I gave this box to James Meadows,” he went on, “those queer marks were not there. I wonder what they mean?”

“When did you give that box to Meadows?” asked Danthorpe, who was evidently much impressed.

“About a year, sir, before the—the unfortunate affair,” answered Mr. Pentiman.

“Did you ever see it afterwards?”

“No, sir, I can’t say that I did. As I say, I wanted to give Meadows a little acknowledgment, and I had this box in hand—it’s an old eighteenth-century box, Mr. Danthorpe.”

“I wonder how it came into this unknown man’s possession?” said Danthorpe.

“That seems strange, sir,” said the old man. “But I’ve known many strange things. We don’t know who this man is. Meadows may have given it to him. Meadows may have sold it, and the man picked it up in some second-hand shop. But there’s one thing certain, Mr. Danthorpe—that’s the box I gave James Meadows ten years ago.”

Then Mr. Pentiman went away, and Danthorpe saw him out, and came back to me with a greatly puzzled countenance.

“Campenhaye,” he said, pulling his chair towards mine, “that’s one of the most extraordinary things I have ever known. The mystery of this affair, Campenhaye, is in this box. You heard the old gentleman speak of James Meadows?”

“I did. Who is, or was, James Meadows?”

“A man who made history in this town before you knew it. He was manager of the Leycaster Bank. And just about ten years ago—not quite so much—he got ten years’ penal servitude for embezzlement. That’s who James Meadows was!”

“Then in that case,” I said, “James Meadows is at large again.”

Danthorpe considered matters.

“Yes, that’s so,” he replied. “I can’t remember the exact dates off-hand, but, of course, I have the full details at the office. But Meadows would certainly be released some little time ago.”

“Is there no one in the town who knows anything of him?” I asked. “Has he no friends or relations here?”

“No,” replied Danthorpe. “He wasn’t a Leycaster man. He came here from somewhere in the Midlands. He was then about thirty, and he had been here fifteen years when what old Pentiman calls the unfortunate affair happened. Meadows was one of those men who steadily build up a character for probity and then suddenly rob the very people who trust him implicitly. There wasn’t a man in the town who had a higher reputation. Yet he robbed the bank of over fifty thousand pounds. And what’s more, the bank recovered nothing, and Meadows obstinately refused to give any information as to what he had done with the missing funds. It was commonly believed at the time that he had been hard hit on the Stock Exchange, but it was impossible to get a word out of him. It was by mere chance that he was detected, and if that mere chance hadn’t come off, Meadows would probably have got clean away with more of the bank’s property. And the bank was not the only loser.”

“Townspeople, eh?” I suggested.

“Only to a slight extent; he had certainly realised on some securities which had been entrusted to him,” answered Danthorpe. “No; a very queer matter happened, Campenhaye. I think I’ve shown you the Earl of Lowthorpe’s place, haven’t I?”

“Oh, yes, I remember it very well,” I answered.

“Seven or eight miles out. Yes; but I’m sure I never told you about the affair of the diamonds,” said Danthorpe. “It was this—some little time before Meadows was found out, there was the annual County Ball held there, and Lord and Lady Lowthorpe were to be present. Now, the Lowthorpes belong to the poorer order of the peerage; but there are some very fine heirlooms in the family, including diamonds which are worth at least twenty thousand pounds. These diamonds were usually kept at a London bank. Lady Lowthorpe wanted to wear them at our ball. Lord Lowthorpe, who was then getting old and fidgety, had them brought down from London; but he was so nervous about them that on their arrival he deposited them with Meadows, at the bank, here, and insisted on Lady Lowthorpe’s putting them on before the ball, and taking them off, after the ball, at the Castle Hotel. He said it was not safe to drive to and from Lowthorpe on a winter night with such valuable property. And when Lady Lowthorpe divested herself of the diamonds at the hotel when the ball was over, the old earl carried them off himself, to hand over to Meadows at the bank, Meadows having specially arranged to sit up for his lordship. And, very unfortunately, the earl was allowed to go alone.”

“Why unfortunately?”

“As events turned out, it was very unfortunate. The countess got into her furs, and waited his return. He had only to go across the market place and round the corner; but he was so long away that at last she sent the footman to find him. He was found a little time after, lying in the street, unconscious.”

“Violence?”

“There was no violence. It was a seizure—a fit of some sort. He was carried back to the Castle Hotel, and doctors were sent for. While they were busied with the patient, nobody, of course, thought of anything else. Before morning the earl died, never having recovered consciousness. And the news of his death quickly spreading about the town, Meadows came hurrying to the Castle Hotel to ask for the countess. He wanted to know if the diamonds were safe. Because, said he, although he had sat up until four o’clock for him, the earl had never come, and he had formed the conclusion that the earl and countess were staying the night at the hotel, and had the diamonds in their own keeping. On rising, Meadows said, he had been informed of the events of the night, and so he had hastened to her ladyship.”

Danthorpe paused for a moment, and looked at me as if he wondered what I thought. I motioned him to continue.

“Well, of course, there was a fine to-do,” he said. “Meadows did no rowing, swearing, nor protesting; he merely said quietly and positively that the old earl had most certainly not brought the diamonds back to him; if he had done so, he said, he should have given him a receipt for them. And there was no receipt upon the earl’s body. And as nobody at that time doubted the probity of Meadows, the theory gained ground that some one had seen the earl fall in a fit, and had robbed him. And this theory was all the more strengthened by the fact that, a day or two later, the case in which the diamonds had been kept was found—empty, and the patent lock forced—on the side of the railway, about a mile out of the town. From that day to this, Campenhaye, those diamonds have never been heard of.”

“Just so,” I said. “Now, what about the people who suspected Meadows? Some people must have suspected him.”

Danthorpe shook his head.

“I don’t think a soul suspected him at the time,” he answered. “You see, he hadn’t been found out. But when the embezzlement came to light, people began to talk. It suddenly struck some of us that it was a strange thing that Meadows didn’t step across to the hotel when the earl was so late in calling. Then it came out that before Meadows saw the countess he had heard all about the events of the night from one of the doctors, and knew that the earl had never recovered consciousness from the moment of his seizure. How does the thing strike you, Campenhaye?”

“The thing strikes me as being very simple,” I said. “The earl gave the diamonds to Meadows. He took no receipt for them. When Meadows heard the news from the doctor he saw that nothing could prove that the diamonds had been handed to him. He had nothing to do but to appropriate them. He threw the case away. That’s how it strikes me, Danthorpe.”

“Well, and I daresay that’s correct. But,” continued Danthorpe, as we both rose, “those diamonds have never been heard of since. Meadows got his ten years for the other affair, and wherever he may be now”

He finished with an expressive shrug of the shoulders, implying that Meadows had probably taken himself off to the Antipodes, or to some inaccessible island in the Pacific.

“Nobody’ll ever hear of Jim Meadows again,” he added, as we lighted our candles.

“But we’ll find out to-morrow when he was discharged from Portland, at any rate,” I said.

That, of course, was easily done. After looking over certain records at Danthorpe’s office, I wired to Portland, and within two hours received the news I wanted. James Meadows had earned the full amount of remission. He had been discharged from Portland just five weeks since. Of course, the convict prison authorities knew nothing as to his whereabouts; all they knew was that he had left them for London.

We progressed no further in the elucidation of the mystery of the dead man on that, the second day after my summons to Leycaster. The inquest was opened at the Coroner’s Court that day, and was adjourned after the available evidence had been taken. That evening, photographs of the deceased began to appear in some of the London and provincial evening newspapers; next morning they appeared all over England, and side by side with these were printed reproductions of the extraordinary marks which had been discovered within the lid of the tobacco-box. And by breakfast time on that morning, Danthorpe received a wire from Portland saying that a warder was just setting off for Leycaster and would see the body of the unknown man, requesting that it might not be interred until he had seen it. The telegram added that the photograph printed in the papers was believed at Portland to be that of a man recently discharged from there.

The warder arrived at Leycaster at five o’clock that afternoon. Danthorpe and myself were present, together with the police superintendent and an inspector, when he was shown the body. Not a little to our surprise he identified it at once.

“Yes,” he said, “this is the man we thought of. And if you have examined him carefully, you will know that he has a brown birth-mark just above his right elbow and has lost the first and second joints of the third finger of his left hand.”

That was correct. And when we had left the mortuary the warder told us who the man was, or, at any rate, all they knew of him at Portland. Charles Lewes, forty-five; sentenced at the Criminal Court to five years’ penal servitude for some offence in connection with a forged cheque; had been released from Portland a month ago.

“Which means,” observed Danthorpe, “that he got his liberty just about the same time that Meadows got his?”

“Yes, that would be so,” said the warder; “there would not be a week’s difference between the release of one and that of the other, anyway.”

Did he know whether Meadows—whom he knew quite well—and Lewes were acquainted while at Portland? Well, he had no particular remembrance that they were, but it was more than likely. It was also quite likely that they knew they were to be released about the same time, and could make arrangements to meet in London or elsewhere.

Danthorpe and I left the warder to be entertained by the police, and went home. In the hall we were met by the parlourmaid, who presented her master with a card.

“The gentleman is in the library, sir,” she said.

Danthorpe passed the card to me. I gave one glance at it: Professor Craig-Johnstone, St. Fridolin’s College, Cambridge.

The same thought instantly occurred to Danthorpe and myself: this visit had to do with the queer marks on the lid of the tobacco-box. I, in fact, was sure of it, for though I had never met him, I knew Professor Craig-Johnstone by name and reputation. I drew Danthorpe aside as we walked towards the door of the library.

“I know who this man is,” I said. “He’s the greatest living authority on palæography and epigraphy. And he’s come to tell you what those marks mean.”

Danthorpe looked his astonishment.

“By George!” he exclaimed. “Well, come along, let’s hear what he’s got to say.”

Professor Craig-Johnstone sat in an easy-chair in a thoughtful attitude. In appearance he was not exactly what one would expect a very learned man to be—that is to say, he was neither old nor snuffy, nor careless of his dress. On the contrary, he was a good-looking person, with a clean-shaven face, clad in an irreproachably cut suit of grey tweed; he looked, in short, a country gentleman, or a well-to-do tourist, and his manners were pleasant and easy. And when the preliminary introduction had been gone through, he sat down and chattered to us in quite a friendly and informal fashion.

“I came down to see you, Mr. Danthorpe,” he said, “because of the diagram which you caused to be published in this morning’s newspapers. Now, before I say anything further, will you let me see the tobacco-box on which these marks are cut, or scratched?”

Danthorpe at once produced the box, and Professor Craig-Johnstone examined it with evident interest.

“Yes,” he said. “Now, you, gentlemen, do not know what this marking is?”

We shook our heads.

“Very well; I am here to tell you. It is a rude, but I should say, a quite accurate drawing of an inscription written on some stone or slab in Ogham. If you do not know what Ogham is, I must explain. It is one of the earliest known forms of writing upon stone. Without troubling you with details, I may point out that it has as its basis a main, or medial line; the characters you see, branch off from, or transect, that line. Now, this Ogham writing was practised in these islands more than two thousand years ago; there are many examples of it in Ireland, there are a few—very few—in England, and they are on this coast. Without doubt, gentlemen, this diagram, incised roughly on the lid of this silver box, is a drawing of an Ogham inscription on some stone. I will stake my professional reputation upon it.”

Danthorpe and I looked at each other. I think the same notion, or ghost of a notion, rose up within our minds at that moment. And Danthorpe turned to his visitor.

“You say, professor, that the known stones on which this writing is found in England are all on this East Coast?” he said.

“Yes. And they are very, very few in number; and of those that are known, some are questionable,” replied Professor Craig-Johnstone. “But—there may be others. Wherever there were many ancient settlements, communities, previous to, say, the first Roman occupation, there may be others. Now, this district is a very ancient one. It is one which I have long desired to inspect, but up to now I have never had a chance of coming here. But—this writing. I may tell you, gentlemen, that I have read all the facts relating to the death of the man upon whose body this box was found, and I have formed a theory. Shall I tell you what it is? Remember, I am neither lawyer nor expert in crime. Mine is—a layman’s theory.”

“Tell it, by all means,” said Danthorpe. “I can assure you, we can only be too glad to hear it.”

“Well, it is this. The unknown man came here to find something which is concealed. The key to the place of concealment is in this rude drawing. The place of concealment is in all likelihood beneath, or close to, some stone or slab on which the original of the drawing is sculptured. All he had to do was to find that stone or slab. The probability is that it is one of several stones bearing similar marks. He would know the one he wanted by comparing it with this diagram. And,” continued the professor with enthusiasm, “it seems to me that, if you know of any ancient place hereabouts—the ruins of an old religious house, old churchyard, or similar remnant of antiquity, you had better search thoroughly and see if you cannot find a stone which bears marks corresponding to these.”

Again Danthorpe and I glanced at each other. We were beginning to see things. And from glancing at each other we glanced at the door.

“If you will excuse Mr. Campenhaye and myself for a moment, professor,” said Danthorpe, “we will just consult on a matter which seems, to my mind, to bear on your theory, and on which I am inclined to ask your advice.”

The professor bowed, and Danthorpe and I went out and into the next room.

“Campenhaye,” said Danthorpe, “what do you think of that? It seems to me that this chap has hit the right nail on the head. That diagram shows where Meadows hid the Lowthorpe diamonds.”

“It seems very like it,” I replied. “Uncommonly like it.”

“Very well. The thing is—shall I tell our visitor the story of the diamonds?”

“Why?”

“Because it seems to me that you and I, not being experts, nor archæologists, nor antiquarians, might search these parts for a year and a day without coming across that stone. He is an expert; he knows what he is talking about, and he would be of the greatest help. Come, shall we take him into our confidence?”

I reflected for a moment. A noted professor—a Cambridge man—a man of substance and reputation. Why not?

“Yes,” I said. “I think we may.”

We returned to the library, and found Professor Craig-Johnstone inspecting a map of the town and neighbourhood which hung on the wall. Danthorpe produced cigars, and some of his famous brown sherry, and, sitting down again, we put the visitor in possession of the whole story of Meadows, the Lowthorpe diamonds, and of Charles Lewes.

The Professor was a model listener. He never interrupted with a question or a remark, but his keen eyes showed that he took in every point. And at the end of the story he nodded his head with an expressive gesture.

“Oh, of course, the affair is plain,” he said. “Meadows, when he appropriated the diamonds, was running the chance of detection on the other matter of embezzlement every day. He accordingly ‘planted’ the diamonds as quickly as he could, and, without a doubt, under a stone bearing these marks, and one of many stones similarly marked. Foreseeing that it might be some time before he could recover them, he hastily scratched a rough drawing of the markings of that particular stone on the inside of his silver tobacco-box. Soon afterwards, as you say, he was sent to prison. In prison he made the acquaintance of Lewes. They were released about the same time. Meadows dare not come down here, where he would have been recognised. He sent Lewes. Or Meadows may be dead and have left the secret to Lewes. What is sure, is that Lewes had the tobacco-box in his possession, and that here he came. The matter, gentlemen, is clear. And there is now only one thing to be done.”

“And what is that?” asked Danthorpe eagerly.

“Why, to think of the place in this neighbourhood where such stones as these are likely to be found,” replied the Professor with an indulgent smile. “As I said, I am an absolute stranger, and know nothing of the district. But you”

“I am not much versed in antiquities,” said Danthorpe; “but while you have been talking I have been thinking of the place called Old Leycaster.”

“And what is that?”

Danthorpe took down the map, and pointed to a spit of land which runs out into the sea, about a mile and a half south of the town.

“The most forlorn and desolate spot in existence,” he said. “You see these marks on this triangular bit of coast? Well, that is Old Leycaster. What it is, is a collection of heaps of ruinous masonry, and that sort of thing. Once there was an old church, or a monk’s cell, or something of that sort there. Now I come to think of it, I have only once been there—for no townsfolk ever go—there are stones within and without the ruins which are very ancient. The whole place is so desolate, so overgrown with bramble and bush and weed that”

The Professor held up a forefinger.

“My dear sir,” he said in a hushed whisper, “this is probably the very place. It was most likely the first landing-place of the folk from overseas who subsequently founded your ancient borough. It should be examined. Now, as the Long Vacation is with us, I am master of my time. Shall I be of any use to you? Say, to-morrow.”

“The greatest,” responded Danthorpe. “And I am infinitely obliged to you. Let’s arrange matters.”

So we arranged that the three of us should go out to Old Leycaster next morning, to make an examination of the ruins. Nothing was to be said to the police; we were to keep the matter to ourselves until we had made a thorough investigation, which it was best to conduct privately.

Danthorpe begged his visitor to stay to dinner, but the Professor declined. He had ordered his dinner at the Castle Hotel; afterwards he was going to drive out to a village a few miles off, where he wished to renew acquaintance with an old college friend whom he had not seen for some years. But he would be in readiness for us at the hotel at precisely eleven o’clock next morning. And on that understanding we parted, and Danthorpe was much excited during the rest of the evening over the prospects of the morrow.

We were both at the Castle Hotel at the appointed hour; Professor Craig-Johnstone, however, was not there. In fact, said Mrs. Cooke, the landlady, he had not been there since dinner-time the previous evening. He had booked a room, it was true, but he had mentioned to her that he was going out to see a friend at the village of which he had spoken to us, and might possibly spend the night there. We concluded that he was a little late, and we waited, but he had not returned at noon, nor at one o’clock. And Danthorpe began to pull a long face, and I began to grow suspicious, and eventually, having swallowed a glass of sherry and a sandwich, we left, and with a mutual understanding, walked off to Old Leycaster.

Danthorpe was very silent. I understood his silence—I myself was silent. It seemed to me that we had been somewhat premature in revealing so many secrets to a complete stranger, even though he was a famous man. And I had an uncomfortable idea that we were going to solve more secrets than one.

Old Leycaster proved to be one of the most desolate spots I have ever seen—a mere collection of grey, time-worn walls and stones, on a spit of forlorn marshland, over which the sea-birds were calling in their most mournful fashion. But amidst the desolation of what was certainly the ruined shell of some old building of the most hoary antiquity, we found several stones and slabs on which were just traceable the outlines of the Ogham writing—and beneath one of them was a small excavation which had been freshly carried out. And in it was a letter addressed to Messrs. Danthorpe and Campenhaye.

It was a letter of the most consummate impertinence: its audacity was colossal. But here it is:


 * “,—I have found what, after our conversation of last night, I felt sure I should find. Accordingly, I am off! You will never see me again. I am obliged to you for your help. When I saw the diagram in the papers, I immediately formed the theory of which I told you, and I set out for Leycaster. But I was wise enough to know that, unaided, I might spend days in searching for a place where Ogham writing was likely to be found, or in getting information as to valuable missing property. And so I boldly called upon you at once, and you did me an inestimable benefit by telling me all you knew. Your information about the diamonds, and your suggestion about Old Leycaster, supplied the missing links in my chain. I always was a good hand at theorising. This theory was—an inspiration!

"“I am not Professor Craig-Johnstone, though I am interested in his subjects. Never mind who I am. I was once an honest man. And I am still, as I have shown to you, a scholar, and

“.”

Danthorpe looked at me long and sadly.

“It strikes me, Campenhaye,” he said at last, “that our visitor of last night was, in his way, a genius. And the question is—what is to be done now?”

But for once in my life I had no answer ready. The Man of Brains had bowled me out first ball!