The Chronicles of Addington Peace/Mr. Coran's Election

o'clock! Big Ben left no doubt about it; for the giant clock in the tower of the Houses of Parliament is a noisy neighbour. The last stroke thundered out as I climbed the stairs that led to the modest lodging of Inspector Addington Peace, and silence had fallen as I knocked at his door. I was alone that night and in the mood when a man escapes from himself to seek a friend.

I found the little detective at his open window, staring across the tumbled roofs to where the Abbey towers rose under the summer moon. The evening breeze that came creeping up with the tide blew gratefully after the heat of the July day. He glanced at me over his shoulder with a short nod of welcome.

“Even the police grow sentimental on such a night,” I suggested.

“Or philosophic.”

“'The reflections of Diogenes the detective, or the Aristotle of Scotland Yard,'” I laughed. “May I inquire as to the cause of such profound thought?”

He held out a slip of paper, which I took and carried to the central lamp. It was an old newspaper clipping, stained and blurred, relating in six lines how James Coran, described as a student, had been charged at the Bow Street Police-court with drunkenness, followed by an aggravated assault on the constable who arrested him. He was fined three pounds or seven days. That was all.

“Not a subject of earth-shaking importance,” I said.

“No; but it has proved a sufficient excuse for blackmail.”

“Then the victim is a fool,” I answered hotly. “Why, from the look of the paper, the affair must have taken place a dozen years ago.”

“Thirty-two years this month.”

“Which means that the riotous student is now a man of over fifty. If James Coran has gone down the hill, the past can't hurt him now; if he has led a respectable life, surely he can afford to neglect the scamp who threatens to rake up so mild a scandal. Blackmail for a spree back in the seventies—it's ridiculous, Inspector.”

The little man stood with his hands behind him and his head on one side, watching me with benevolent amusement. When he spoke it was in the ponderous manner which he sometimes assumed, a manner that always reminded me of a university professor explaining their deplorable errors to his class.

“Mr. James Coran is a respectable middle-class widower who lives with his sister Rebecca and two daughters in the little town of Brendon, twenty-four miles from London. He arrives at the 'Fashionable Clothing Company'—his London establishment in Oxford Street—at ten o'clock in the morning, leaving for home by the 5.18. In his spare time he performs a variety of public duties at Brendon. He is a recognized authority on drains, and has produced a pamphlet on dust-carts. As a temperance orator his local reputation is great, and his labours in the cause of various benevolent associations have been suitably commemorated by a presentation clock, three inkstands, and a silver salver. His interests are limited to Brendon and Oxford Street; of world movements he thinks no more than the caterpillar on a leaf considers the general welfare of the cabbage patch. Please remember these facts, Mr. Phillips, in consideration of his case.

“Six months ago an envelope arrived at his house with two inclosures. One was the newspaper clipping you hold; the other a letter denouncing him as a hypocrite, and warning him that unless the sum of twenty pounds was placed in the locker of a little summer-house at the end of his garden, the writer would expose him to all Brendon in his true character as a convicted drunkard.

“Coran was in despair. He had imagined his unfortunate spree long forgotten. Not even his own relatives were aware of it. He was trying for a seat on the County Council; the election was due in a month, and he relied for his success on the support of the temperance party. As an election weapon the old scandal could be used with striking effect. So he paid—as many a better man has been fool enough to do under like circumstances.

“In three days—on Saturday, that is—the election takes place. This morning he received a letter similar to the first, save that the demand was for a hundred pounds. He had just sense enough to see that if he allowed himself to be blackmailed again it would merely encourage further attempt at extortion. So when he arrived in town, he took a cab to Scotland Yard. I heard his story, and caught the next train down to Brendon. I did not call at the house, but gathered a few details concerning him and his family. In all particulars he seems to have spoken the truth.”

“Must the hundred pounds be placed in the summer-house to-night?”

“No. The blackmailer gave him a day to collect the money. It must be in the locker to-morrow night by eleven o'clock.”

“Which means that you will watch the place and pull out the fish as he takes the bait. It seems simple enough, anyhow.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “But it is the faulty sense of proportion in Coran which provides the interest in the case. Even at the time the scandal was no very serious matter. What must be his frame of mind that it should terrorise him after all these years?”

When I left him half an hour later it was with the promise that I should have first news of the comedy's conclusion—for a tragedy it certainly was not, save for the blackmailer, if Peace should catch him.

The following afternoon I was sitting in my studio with the cigarette—that comes so pleasantly after tea and buttered toast—between my lips, when my servant, Jacob Hendry, thrust in his head to announce visitors. They came hard upon his heels—a long, grey-whiskered man in the lead, and the Inspector trotting behind. As they cleared the door, the little detective twisted round his companion and waived an introductory hand.

“This is Mr. James Coran,” he said. “We want your assistance, Mr. Phillips.”

The long man stood staring at me and screwing his hands together in evident agitation. He had a hollow, melancholy face, a weak mouth, and eyes of an indecisive grey. From his square-toed shoes to the bald patch on the top of his head he was extremely, almost flagrantly, respectable.

“I am taking a great liberty, sir,” he said humbly, “but you are, as it were, a straw to one who is sinking beneath the waters of affliction. Do you, by chance, know the town of Brendon?”

“I have never been so fortunate as to visit it,” I told him.

“I understand from the police-officer here that you have travelled abroad. Accustomed, therefore, to the corruption that taints the municipal life of other cities, you can scarcely comprehend the whole-souled enthusiasm with which we of Brendon approach the duties, may I say the sacred trust, of administering to the sanitary and moral welfare of our county. Those whom we select must be of unstained reputation. From a place on the sports committee of the flower show I myself have risen through successive grades until even the Houses of Parliament seemed within the limit of legitimate ambition. But now, sir, now it seems that, through a boyish indiscretion when a student at the Regent's Street Polytechnic, I may be denounced in my advancing years as a roysterer, a tippler, almost a convicted criminal. They would not hesitate. Mark my words, sir, if Horledge and Panton—my opponent's chief supporters in Saturday's election—are informed of these facts, they will mention them on platforms, they may even display them on hoardings.”

He paused, sighed deeply, and wiped his face with a large silk pocket-handkerchief. The situation was ridiculous enough, yet not without a certain pathos underlying the humour; for the man was sincerely in earnest.

“If I can help you, Mr. Coran, I am at your disposal,” I told him.

“It is a matter of considerable delicacy,” he said. “My younger daughter, Emily, has formed an attachment which is most disagreeable to me.”

“Indeed,” I murmured.

“The young man, Thomas Appleton by name, is of more than doubtful character. Miss Rebecca, my sister, has seen him boating on the Thames in the company of ladies whose appearance was—er—distinctly theatrical.”

“You surprise me.”

“He has been known to visit music-halls.”

“Did Miss Rebecca see him there, too?”

“Certainly not, sir; but she has it from a sure source. It was obviously my duty to forbid him the house. I performed that duty, and extorted a promise from my daughter that she would cease to communicate with him. In my belief, it is he who has discovered the scandal to which I need not again refer, and, in revenge, is levying this blackmail. The law shall strike him, if there is justice left in England.”

“And where do I come in?” I asked, for he had paused in a flurry of indignation.

“Perhaps I had better explain,” Peace interposed. “Owing to this unfortunate love-affair, it is plain that no member of Mr. Coran's family must learn that this young man is suspected or that steps are being taken for his arrest. It would not be unreasonable to fear that he might be warned. I am staying with Mr. Coran to-night, but I do not want to go alone. I might take an assistant from the Yard, but it is hard to pick a man who has not 'Criminal Investigation Department' stamped upon him. You look innocent enough, Mr. Phillips. Will you come with us, and lend me a hand?”

I agreed at once. It could not fail to be an amusing adventure. After some discussion, it was arranged that Peace and I should be introduced as business friends of Mr. Coran, who had asked us down to Brendon on a sudden invitation. A telegram was sent off to that effect.

For the first fifteen minutes of the train we shared a crowded compartment. Gradually, however, our companions dropped away until we were left to ourselves. Mr. Coran was in evident hesitation of mind. He

She laid it down with a thump, removed her glasses, and received us with great modesty and decorum. The inspector and a fox terrier, that set up a harking as we entered, were the only members of the party that seemed natural and at ease.

I found the dinner pass pleasantly enough, despite the gloom that radiated from the brother and sister.

Emily, the victim of the “unfortunate attachment,” quite captured my fancy, though I am not a ladies' man. Twice we dared to laugh, though the reproving eyes of the elders were constantly upon us. In the intervals of my talk with her I obtained the keenest enjoyment from listening to the conversation of Peace and Miss Rebecca. The lady cross-examined him very much as if he were a prisoner accused of various grave and monstrous offences. Upon the question of anti-viviseotion she was especially urgent.

“My brother refuses the movement his support,” she said in a loud, firm voice. “My reply to him is torturer, inquisitor. What are your views on the subject?”

“The same, my dear madam, as your own,” said the disgraceful little hypocrite. “How does the cause progress in Brendon?”

“I trust that in a few weeks our local branch will have been placed on such a basis as to be a model to the whole society.”

“Aunt is rather a crank on anti-vivisection,” whispered Miss Emily in my ear. “Do be careful, if she tackles you about it.”

I laughed, and the subject changed between us.

After the ladies left, Coran began a gloomy autobiography. His family, he said, had been living in the North of England at the time of his London escapade. No account of the affair, which appeared in only one paper, had reached them. He had left for Sheffield shortly afterwards, and it was not until ten years later that the death of his father had given him a couple of thousand pounds, with which he bought a share in his present business, which had greatly prospered.

Concerning Thomas Appleton, the young man whom he suspected, he spoke most bitterly. He was, indeed, in the middle of his denunciations when Peace slipped from his chair and moved softly to the window.

With a swift jerk he drew the blind aside and stared out. From where I sat I could see an empty stretch of lawn with shrubs beyond showing darkly in the summer twilight.

“A lovely evening,” he said over his shoulder.

We both watched him in surprise as he dropped the blind and walked back to his seat, stopping on his way to pat the terrier that lay on a mat by the window.

“Is there anything the matter?” asked Coran.

“If we are to keep our business here a secret you must not talk too loud—that is all.”

“I don't understand you.”

“One of your household was listening at the window.”

“Do you mean to tell me that I am spied upon by my own people?” cried Coran, angrily. “What gave you such an idea?”

“The dog there.”

“Absurd!”

“Not at all, Mr. Coran. From where he lay he could look under the lower edge of the blind, which was not drawn completely down. He raised his ears; some one approached; he wagged his tail, it was a friend with whom he was well acquainted. If it had been a stranger he would have run barking to the window. It is simple enough, surely.”

“Did you see who it was?” asked our host, with a sudden change of manner.

“No,” said the little man. “But I think this conversation unwise. Shall we join the ladies in the drawing-room?”

Peace was in his most entertaining mood that night. Poor Emily, who was sitting by the French windows, staring sadly out into the gathering shadows, was led to the piano, where she recalled her forbidden lover in sentimental ditties. He engaged Miss Rebecca in an argument on the local control of licensed premises, which gave that worthy old lady an opportunity for genuine oratory. Even our melancholy host was drawn out of his miseries by a reference to the water supply.

When ten o'clock came, and the ladies were led away under Miss Rebecca's wing—they keep early hours in Brendon—I shook the inspector by the hand in sincere admiration. It had been a really smart performance, and I told him so.

The little man did not respond. Instead, he drew us together in a corner and issued his orders with sharp precision.

“Mr. Coran, at fifteen minutes to eleven you will leave the house by the drawing-room windows and place the envelope you have prepared in the locker of the summer-house. When you return do not fasten the catch, for I may wish to enter during the night. Walk upstairs to your bed and get to sleep if you can. Mr. Phillips, you will go to your room and stay there. The window overlooks the garden. If you want to keep watch—for I do not suppose you can resist that temptation—see that your head is well out of sight. When Mr. Coran leaves the house, listen at your door. If you hear any one moving, go and find out who it may be. You understand?”

“Yes,” I answered. “But what are you going to do?”

“Discover a suitable place from which I can keep an eye on the summer-house. Good night to you.”

When I reached my room, I took off my coat, placed a chair some six feet back from the open window, so that the rising moon should not show my face to any watchers in the laurels, and so waited events.

It was a soft summer night, such as only temperate England knows. There was not a breath of wind; a perfume of flowers crept in from the garden; every leaf stood black and still in the silvery light. I heard the clock chime three-quarters of an hour in some room beneath me. The last stroke had barely shivered into silence when I saw Coran appear upon the lawn, walking towards the summer-house, the outlines of which I could distinguish amongst the heavier shadows of the trees by which it was surrounded. I remembered my orders, and crept softly to the door which I had left ajar. The minutes slip by without a sound, and presently I began to wonder why Coran had not returned. His room was not far from mine. I must have heard his foot upon the stairs. He had disobeyed his orders, that was evident. However, it was not my affair, and I crept back to my point of observation.

Twelve! I heard the clock tap out the news from the room below. I was nodding in my chair, barely awake. After all, it was a trivial matter, this trumpery blackmail. Half an hour more, thought I, pulling out my watch, and I will get to bed.

The affair was becoming extremely monotonous. I dared not light a cigarette, for I felt certain that Peace would notice the glow from outside, and that I should hear of it in the morning. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour—what was that moving under the trees by the edge of the drive? It was a man—two men. I crouched forward with every nerve in me suddenly awakened.

They were a good thirty yards apart, the one following the other with stealthy strides—not the sort of walk with which honest men go about honest business.

When the leader came to the path which led towards the summer-house, he turned down it, leaving the drive to his right. He avoided the gravel, keeping to the silent turf which fringed it. His companion followed him step by step.

It was a curious spectacle, these slow-moving shadows that drifted forward through the night, now almost obscured beneath the branches, now showing in black silhouette against a patch of moonlight.

As the first man melted amongst the trees about the summer-house, the other moved forward swiftly for a score of steps and then halted for a moment, crouching behind a clump of laurel. Suddenly he sprang up again and ran straight forward, cutting a corner across the lower edge of the lawn.

There was no shouting, but I could hear the faint tramping of a scuffle and the thud of falling bodies. Then all was still again.

Peace had told me to remain in the house. But Peace had never expected two men; I was sure of that. I crept down the stairs, out through the French windows of the drawing-room, and so across the lawn to the trees about the summer-house.

As I passed through them I saw a little group standing in whispered conversation. They turned sharply upon me. One was a stranger, but his companions were Peace and, to my vast surprise, old Coran himself.

“Well, Mr. Phillips,” said the detective, “and what do you want?”

“I thought”—I began.

“Oh, you've been thinking, too, have you,” he snapped. “Here is a young man who was thinking he would like to look at this extremely commonplace summer-house; here is Mr. Coran who was thinking he might help me by lurking about his garden instead of going to bed; and here are you with Heaven knows what ideas in your head. Perhaps you and Mr. Coran will do what you are told another time.”

“I saw two men,” I explained humbly. “I was afraid they might get the better of you. How was I to know that it was Mr. Coran who had disobeyed orders?”

“You are both pleased to be humorous,” said our host, and I could see he was trembling with rage. “But the fact remains that I caught this young man entering the summer-house for a purpose we can well imagine. Inspector Addington Peace, I charge this person, Thomas Appleton, with blackmail.”

“Can you explain your presence, Mr. Appleton?” asked the detective, kindly.

He did not look a criminal, for he stood very straight and square, regarding the three of us with an amused smile.

“Of course, I had no right to be here,” he said. “Though why I should find a detective waiting to arrest me for blackmail, or why Mr. Coran should spring upon my back and roll me over, I cannot imagine.”

“This is much as I expected,” snarled his accuser. “Effrontery and impudence are ever the associates of crime. Inspector, you will oblige me by producing the handcuffs.”

“I should like a word in private, Mr. Coran.”

They walked off together, leaving me alone with Mr. Thomas Appleton, who offered a cigarette.

“Has there been an epidemic of lunacy in the neighbourhood?” he inquired politely.

“No,” I said, laughing in spite of myself. “But how, in Heaven's name, do you explain your visit to the summer-house at this hour of the night?”

“I am afraid I must decline to answer you,” he said, and quietly turned the subject.

Coran returned, with a face of vindictive indecision. Under his veil of austerity there had smouldered a dangerous temper, which was close upon bursting into flame. But, after all, he had excuse enough. Heaven alone knew what baulked ambition, what treacherous insults, he had come to associate with this young man. The same passions actuate humanity whether they view the world from one end of the telescope or the other.

“I have decided to waive your arrest for the present,” he growled.

“It would certainly create a great scandal in Brendon,” said Appleton, firmly.

“You count on that, do you?” cried the elder man. “You think you have a hold upon me, that I am afraid of you. Take care, sir, take care.”

“You choose to be mysterious, Mr. Coran. I have no hold upon you. But I should think twice if I were you before arresting an innocent man.”

“Innocent! What were you doing here?”

“That is my business.”

Coran turned away, wringing his hands together in his odd manner when greatly excited.

“Go,” he snarled over his shoulder. “Go, before I strangle you.”

As I dropped off to sleep half an hour later I was still wondering why Peace had refused a bed, remaining for the night in the garden. Could he expect more visits to the summer-house? Why had young Appleton come sneaking up at so late an hour if he were not guilty? The problem that had seemed so simple was changed into a maze of strange complications. I was too sleepy to trace them further.

I was awakened by a touch on my shoulder. It was Coran who stood by my bedside.

“We breakfast in half an hour,” he said uneasily.

“I will be punctual.”

“Forgive my importunity, Mr. Phillips; but promise me that you will be careful before Miss Rebecca. She is so very acute. I never knew a woman with a keener instinct for scandal. And, as a father, I cannot forget the future of my poor girls. If she knew the truth she would not leave them a penny; also, her heart is affected.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“Thank you. It is very necessary that you should be discreet.”

He stalked out of the room and left me wondering at him with an amused cynicism.

I started for London with my host by the 9.5. To avoid suspicion, Peace accompanied us to the station; but there he left us. He had, he said, work to do in the town.

Coran was cheerful with the limited cheerfulness that Nature allowed him. Doubtless he felt that he had his enemy in his power. He was very talkative concerning the final address which he was advertised to deliver that evening at eight o'clock. It was to be the completion, the coping-stone to his campaign, and was calculated to ensure his election next day. I expressed regret that I should not be privileged to hear it.

I lunched at my club, and, shortly after three, returned to my rooms. There, in my easiest chair, reading an evening paper, who should I discover but Inspector Peace.

“Hello,” I said. “I didn't expect you back so soon.”

“This is a very comfortable chair of yours, Mr. Phillips,” he smiled. “I was glad of a rest.”

“And how goes Brendon?”

“So well that I am going to take you down there by the 4.10 train.”

I tried to draw his discoveries out of him, but he would tell me nothing. Something was going to happen which might interest me if I came along—that was the beginning and end of his news. It was sufficient to make me promise to join him, however, as he very well knew.

The local was just steaming into the station when a fat, red-faced man came panting out of the booking-office. Peace gave my arm a squeeze as he passed.

“That is Horledge, the chief supporter of Coran's opponent in to-morrow's election,” he whispered.

“So you have been making some new friends since I saw you last?”

“One or two,” he said, stepping into a carriage.

When we arrived at Brendon, the inspector led me off to an inn in the centre of the town. It was a pleasant, old-fashioned place, with black rafters peering through the plaster of the ceiling and oak panelling high on the walls. The modern Brendon had wrapped it about, but it had not changed for three centuries. You may find many such ancient inns about London, which watch the march of the red-brick suburbs with a dignified surprise, until one day the builder steps in, and the old Coach and Horses or White Hart comes tumbling down, and a cheap chop and tea house reigns in its stead. We dined early. At half-past seven, by the grandfather's clock in the corner, Peace rose.

“Mr. Coran's meeting does not begin until eight; but I want to be there early—come along.”

The platform was empty when we arrived, but a score of people were already on the front benches. We did not join them, seating ourselves near the door. Brendon, or the graver part of it, moved by us in a tiny stream. A few elders walked up to the platform with the air of those who realize that they are something in the world. The clock above them was pointing to the hour when, with a thumping of feet and a clapping of hands, Coran appeared, and shook hands with the white-whiskered old chairman.

It was while the chairman was introducing “the popular and venerated townsman who had come to address them,” that the red face of Mr. Horledge came peering in at the door. He stood there for a minute, and then modestly sat down on the bench before us. Peace touched my arm, and we moved along until we were just behind him.

The chairman ended at last, and, amid fresh applause, Coran rose and stood gazing down at the little crowd with a benevolent satisfaction. Their respect and admiration was the breath of life to the man. You could see it in his eyes, in his gesture as he begged for silence.

“My friends.”

He had got no farther when Horledge sprang to his feet with a raised hand.

“Mr. Chairman,” he shouted. “I have a question to ask the candidate.”

There was a slight outcry, a few hisses and groans; but the tide of local politics did not run strongly in Brendon. Besides, everyone knew Horledge. He had the largest grocer's shop in the town.

“It would be better to question him after his speech, Mr. Horledge,” protested the old chairman.

“I should prefer to answer this gentleman at once,” Coran interposed.

He stood with his hands, clasping and unclasping, before him, but never moved his eyes from his opponent. There was grit in the fellow, after all.

“It would be simpler if you withdrew,” said the red-faced man, shuffling his feet uneasily.

“That your party's candidate might be returned unopposed?”

“Don't force me to explain,” cried Horledge. “Why not withdraw?”

“You waste the time of the meeting.”

“Very well, gentlemen, I say that Mr. Coran there is no fit candidate, because”

There is something unsettling in the official tap on the shoulder which the police of all countries cultivate, something which it does not take previous experience to recognize. Horledge's face turned a shade paler as he glanced over his shoulder at the little man who has thus demanded his attention.

“And what do you want?” he growled.

“I am Inspector Addington Peace, of the Criminal Investigation Department. I warn you, Mr. Horledge, that you are lending yourself to an attempt at blackmail.”

The detective spoke in so soft a voice that I, who was standing by his side, could barely catch the words.

“Bless my soul, you don't say so?” cried the other.

“I should like a five minutes' talk with Mr. Coran and yourself. After that you may take your own course. Will you suggest it?”

Mr. Horledge did not take long to make up his mind. He told the meeting that he might have been misinformed. If they would permit it, he asked for a five minutes' private conversation with the candidate.

The meeting received the suggestion with cheers. It was something unusual in the monotony of such functions. We walked up the central aisle between a couple of hundred pairs of curious eyes, mounted the platform, and followed Coran into a small ante-room, the door of which Peace closed behind him.

“On June 15 the Brendon Anti-Vivisection Society, of which you, Mr. Horledge, are president, received the sum of twenty pounds from an anonymous source,” said the little detective.

“Certainly.”

“That sum was extorted from Mr. Coran by the threat of revealing the secret which Miss Rebecca Coran told you this morning, and which you verified this afternoon by a reference to the old newspaper files in the British Museum.”

“I had no idea—this is most surprising. I—is it illegal?” he stuttered.

“Blackmail for whatever purpose is illegal. Further attempts have been made to extort money. It is because they failed that you were placed in possession of the facts to-day.”

“It seemed a mean trick, any way,” said Horledge, penitently. “I wish I had never listened to the old cat. But, Squaretoes—I beg your pardon, Mr. Coran—I mean our friend here has always been such a model that I thought it rather fun. On my word, his secret is safe with me. He can win the election, and welcome, after this.”

“That is all, then. I want a word in private with these two gentlemen. Good night to you, and many thanks.”

“Great Scot! Inspector, but you gave me a fright. I hope, Mr. Coran, you don't bear malice? That's all right, then. Good night all.”

As he disappeared through the door the elder man dropped into a chair, covering his face with his hands.

“This is shocking!” he groaned. “Oh, Mr. Peace, are you sure it was my sister?”

“There is no doubt at all.”

“But what am I to do now?” he asked, looking from one to the other of us, with a pitiable expression. “Shall I withdraw?”

“Nonsense,” said the little detective, firmly. “Fight your election and win it, sir; and the best way to begin is to go back and tell them all about it.”

“Go and tell them? Go and tell the meeting?” he cried.

“Yes. They'll like you all the better for it. Do you suppose there is no human nature in Brendon? Are you going to keep this miserable scandal hanging over your head all your life? If you stick to politics some one is sure to rake it up. Be a man, Mr. Coran, and get it over now.”

“I will.”

He had got to his feet, his eyes set with a sudden determination. He stretched out his hand to each of us, turned about, and marched out of the room like a soldier leading a forlorn hope against a fortress. As the door slammed behind him, Peace looked at me with an expression in which sympathy and humour were oddly mingled.

“Take my word for it, Mr. Phillips,” he said, “many a reputation for desperate valour has been won by a less sacrifice.”

It was not until after two days that I heard the arguments by which the inspector had worked his way to a conclusion. They form a good example of his methods.

“It was evident,” he said, “that the blackmailer knew Coran's character, his position as regards the election, and the details of his house and grounds. Those facts suggested a relative or close personal friend. The theory that it was a relative was strengthened by the newspaper cutting. It was not a thing a casual acquaintance would be likely to keep by him all these years.

“From Coran I learnt that he had had differences of opinion with Miss Rebecca. In my conversation with her she spoke bitterly of his refusal to subscribe to her society for the prevention of vivisection. She returned to the subject several times, mentioning the financial difficulties in which the local branch, of which she is the secretary, was placed. Those facts impressed me.

“Before Appleton arrived last night I had carefully searched the summer-house. In a corner of the woodwork I discovered a note from Miss Emily. The place was the lover's letter-box. Indeed, I had been expecting that young gentleman's appearance long before he came. I did not, however, tell this to Mr. Coran when he pressed for an arrest. It would hardly have been fair on the girl. I do not imagine that they will find the old gentleman so stony-hearted after to-night. As for the young man, in the inquiries I made concerning him, I found nothing that was not straight and honest. I put him out of the list at an early date.

“Who the person may have been that listened at the window I cannot say; but I conclude it was Miss Rebecca. She certainly did not attempt to carry off the parcel.

“This morning I discovered that an anonymous donation of twenty pounds was sent to Miss Rebecca's society the day after the first successful attempt at blackmail. I kept an eye on the house, and shortly after midday she walked down to Horledge's shop. He is the president of her society. They remained for some time together, and then Horledge took a train to London. I followed him to the newspaper room in the British Museum. Things were becoming plainer.

“I have now no doubt that Miss Rebecca guessed who we were from the first. She told the secret to Horledge, who was, you remember, one of her brother's chief opponents in the election, out of sheer feminine spite. I suspected the man would attempt something at the meeting on Friday night. My suspicion was correct, as you saw.”

“And the election?”

“He won his seat on the Council. I think he deserved it, Mr. Phillips.”