Chapter 1

There are, I suppose, few places even on the East Coast of England more
lonely and remote than the village of Little Sundersley and the country
that surrounds it. Far from any railway, and some miles distant from any
considerable town, it remains an outpost of civilization, in which
primitive manners and customs and old-world tradition linger on into an
age that has elsewhere forgotten them. In the summer, it is true, a
small contingent of visitors, adventurous in spirit, though mostly of
sedate and solitary habits, make their appearance to swell its meagre
population, and impart to the wide stretches of smooth sand that fringe
its shores a fleeting air of life and sober gaiety; but in late
September--the season of the year in which I made its acquaintance--its
pasture-lands lie desolate, the rugged paths along the cliffs are seldom
trodden by human foot, and the sands are a desert waste on which, for
days together, no footprint appears save that left by some passing
sea-bird.

I had been assured by my medical agent, Mr. Turcival, that I should find
the practice of which I was now taking charge "an exceedingly soft
billet, and suitable for a studious man;" and certainly he had not
misled me, for the patients were, in fact, so few that I was quite
concerned for my principal, and rather dull for want of work. Hence,
when my friend John Thorndyke, the well-known medico-legal expert,
proposed to come down and stay with me for a weekend and perhaps a few
days beyond, I hailed the proposal with delight, and welcomed him with
open arms.

"You certainly don't seem to be overworked, Jervis," he remarked, as we
turned out of the gate after tea, on the day of his arrival, for a
stroll on the shore. "Is this a new practice, or an old one in a state
of senile decay?"

"Why, the fact is," I answered, "there is virtually no practice.
Cooper--my principal--has been here about six years, and as he has
private means he has never made any serious effort to build one up; and
the other man, Dr. Burrows, being uncommonly keen, and the people very
conservative, Cooper has never really got his foot in. However, it
doesn't seem to trouble him."

"Well, if he is satisfied, I suppose you are," said Thorndyke, with a
smile. "You are getting a seaside holiday, and being paid for it. But I
didn't know you were as near to the sea as this."

We were entering, as he spoke, an artificial gap-way cut through the low
cliff, forming a steep cart-track down to the shore. It was locally
known as Sundersley Gap, and was used principally, when used at all, by
the farmers' carts which came down to gather seaweed after a gale.

"What a magnificent stretch of sand!" continued Thorndyke, as we reached
the bottom, and stood looking out seaward across the deserted beach.
"There is something very majestic and solemn in a great expanse of
sandy shore when the tide is out, and I know of nothing which is capable
of conveying the impression of solitude so completely. The smooth,
unbroken surface not only displays itself untenanted for the moment, but
it offers convincing testimony that it has lain thus undisturbed through
a considerable lapse of time. Here, for instance, we have clear evidence
that for several days only two pairs of feet besides our own have
trodden this gap."

"How do you arrive at the 'several days'?" I asked.

"In the simplest manner possible," he replied. "The moon is now in the
third quarter, and the tides are consequently neap-tides. You can see
quite plainly the two lines of seaweed and jetsam which indicate the
high-water marks of the spring-tides and the neap-tides respectively.
The strip of comparatively dry sand between them, over which the water
has not risen for several days, is, as you see, marked by only two sets
of footprints, and those footprints will not be completely obliterated
by the sea until the next spring-tide--nearly a week from to-day."

"Yes, I see now, and the thing appears obvious enough when one has heard
the explanation. But it is really rather odd that no one should have
passed through this gap for days, and then that four persons should have
come here within quite a short interval of one another."

"What makes you think they have done so?" Thorndyke asked.

"Well," I replied, "both of these sets of footprints appear to be quite
fresh, and to have been made about the same time."

"Not at the same time, Jervis," rejoined Thorndyke. "There is certainly
an interval of several hours between them, though precisely how many
hours we cannot judge, since there has been so little wind lately to
disturb them; but the fisherman unquestionably passed here not more than
three hours ago, and I should say probably within an hour; whereas the
other man--who seems to have come up from a boat to fetch something of
considerable weight--returned through the gap certainly not less, and
probably more, than four hours ago."

I gazed at my friend in blank astonishment, for these events befell in
the days before I had joined him as his assistant, and his special
knowledge and powers of inference were not then fully appreciated by me.

"It is clear, Thorndyke," I said, "that footprints have a very different
meaning to you from what they have for me. I don't see in the least how
you have reached any of these conclusions."

"I suppose not," was the reply; "but, you see, special knowledge of this
kind is the stock-in-trade of the medical jurist, and has to be acquired
by special study, though the present example is one of the greatest
simplicity. But let us consider it point by point; and first we will
take this set of footprints which I have inferred to be a fisherman's.
Note their enormous size. They should be the footprints of a giant. But
the length of the stride shows that they were made by a rather short
man. Then observe the massiveness of the soles, and the fact that there
are no nails in them. Note also the peculiar clumsy tread--the deep toe
and heel marks, as if the walker had wooden legs, or fixed ankles and
knees. From that character we can safely infer high boots of thick,
rigid leather, so that we can diagnose high boots, massive and stiff,
with nailless soles, and many sizes too large for the wearer. But the
only boot that answers this description is the fisherman's
thigh-boot--made of enormous size to enable him to wear in the winter
two or three pairs of thick knitted stockings, one over the other. Now
look at the other footprints; there is a double track, you see, one set
coming from the sea and one going towards it. As the man (who was
bow-legged and turned his toes in) has trodden in his own footprints, it
is obvious that he came from the sea, and returned to it. But observe
the difference in the two sets of prints; the returning ones are much
deeper than the others, and the stride much shorter. Evidently he was
carrying something when he returned, and that something was very heavy.
Moreover, we can see, by the greater depth of the toe impressions, that
he was stooping forward as he walked, and so probably carried the weight
on his back. Is that quite clear?"

"Perfectly," I replied. "But how do you arrive at the interval of time
between the visits of the two men?"

"That also is quite simple. The tide is now about halfway out; it is
thus about three hours since high water. Now, the fisherman walked just
about the neap-tide, high-water mark, sometimes above it and sometimes
below. But none of his footprints have been obliterated; therefore he
passed after high water--that is, less than three hours ago; and since
his footprints are all equally distinct, he could not have passed when
the sand was very wet. Therefore he probably passed less than an hour
ago. The other man's footprints, on the other hand, reach only to the
neap-tide, high-water mark, where they end abruptly. The sea has washed
over the remainder of the tracks and obliterated them. Therefore he
passed not less than three hours and not more than four days
ago--probably within twenty-four hours."

As Thorndyke concluded his demonstration the sound of voices was borne
to us from above, mingled with the tramping of feet, and immediately
afterwards a very singular party appeared at the head of the gap
descending towards the shore. First came a short burly fisherman clad in
oilskins and sou'-wester, clumping along awkwardly in his great
sea-boots, then the local police-sergeant in company with my
professional rival Dr. Burrows, while the rear of the procession was
brought up by two constables carrying a stretcher. As he reached the
bottom of the gap the fisherman, who was evidently acting as guide,
turned along the shore, retracing his own tracks, and the procession
followed in his wake.

"A surgeon, a stretcher, two constables, and a police-sergeant,"
observed Thorndyke. "What does that suggest to your mind, Jervis?"

"A fall from the cliff," I replied, "or a body washed up on the shore."

"Probably," he rejoined; "but we may as well walk in that direction."

We turned to follow the retreating procession, and as we strode along
the smooth surface left by the retiring tide Thorndyke resumed:

"The subject of footprints has always interested me deeply for two
reasons. First, the evidence furnished by footprints is constantly being
brought forward, and is often of cardinal importance; and, secondly, the
whole subject is capable of really systematic and scientific treatment.
In the main the data are anatomical, but age, sex, occupation, health,
and disease all give their various indications. Clearly, for instance,
the footprints of an old man will differ from those of a young man of
the same height, and I need not point out to you that those of a person
suffering from locomotor ataxia or paralysis agitans would be quite
unmistakable."

"Yes, I see that plainly enough," I said.

"Here, now," he continued, "is a case in point." He halted to point with
his stick at a row of footprints that appeared suddenly above high-water
mark, and having proceeded a short distance, crossed the line again, and
vanished where the waves had washed over them. They were easily
distinguished from any of the others by the clear impressions of
circular rubber heels.

"Do you see anything remarkable about them?" he asked.

"I notice that they are considerably deeper than our own," I answered.

"Yes, and the boots are about the same size as ours, whereas the stride
is considerably shorter--quite a short stride, in fact. Now there is a
pretty constant ratio between the length of the foot and the length of
the leg, between the length of leg and the height of the person, and
between the stature and the length of stride. A long foot means a long
leg, a tall man, and a long stride. But here we have a long foot and a
short stride. What do you make of that?" He laid down his stick--a
smooth partridge cane, one side of which was marked by small lines into
inches and feet--beside the footprints to demonstrate the discrepancy.

"The depth of the footprints shows that he was a much heavier man than
either of us," I suggested; "perhaps he was unusually fat."

"Yes," said Thorndyke, "that seems to be the explanation. The carrying
of a dead weight shortens the stride, and fat is practically a dead
weight. The conclusion is that he was about five feet ten inches high,
and excessively fat." He picked up his cane, and we resumed our walk,
keeping an eye on the procession ahead until it had disappeared round a
curve in the coast-line, when we mended our pace somewhat. Presently we
reached a small headland, and, turning the shoulder of cliff, came full
upon the party which had preceded us. The men had halted in a narrow
bay, and now stood looking down at a prostrate figure beside which the
surgeon was kneeling.

"We were wrong, you see," observed Thorndyke. "He has not fallen over
the cliff, nor has he been washed up by the sea. He is lying above
high-water mark, and those footprints that we have been examining appear
to be his."

As we approached, the sergeant turned and held up his hand.

"I'll ask you not to walk round the body just now, gentlemen," he said.
"There seems to have been foul play here, and I want to be clear about
the tracks before anyone crosses them."

Acknowledging this caution, we advanced to where the constables were
standing, and looked down with some curiosity at the dead man. He was a
tall, frail-looking man, thin to the point of emaciation, and appeared
to be about thirty-five years of age. He lay in an easy posture, with
half-closed eyes and a placid expression that contrasted strangely
enough with the tragic circumstances of his death.

"It is a clear case of murder," said Dr. Burrows, dusting the sand from
his knees as he stood up. "There is a deep knife-wound above the heart,
which must have caused death almost instantaneously."

"How long should you say he has been dead, Doctor?" asked the sergeant.

"Twelve hours at least," was the reply. "He is quite cold and stiff."

"Twelve hours, eh?" repeated the officer. "That would bring it to about
six o'clock this morning."

"I won't commit myself to a definite time," said Dr. Burrows hastily. "I
only say not _less_ than twelve hours. It might have been considerably
more."

"Ah!" said the sergeant. "Well, he made a pretty good fight for his
life, to all appearances." He nodded at the sand, which for some feet
around the body bore the deeply indented marks of feet, as though a
furious struggle had taken place. "It's a mighty queer affair," pursued
the sergeant, addressing Dr. Burrows. "There seems to have been only one
man in it--there is only one set of footprints besides those of the
deceased--and we've got to find out who he is; and I reckon there won't
be much trouble about that, seeing the kind of trade-marks he has left
behind him."

"No," agreed the surgeon; "there ought not to be much trouble in
identifying those boots. He would seem to be a labourer, judging by the
hob-nails."

"No, sir; not a labourer," dissented the sergeant. "The foot is too
small, for one thing; and then the nails are not regular hob-nails.
They're a good deal smaller; and a labourer's boots would have the nails
all round the edges, and there would be iron tips on the heels, and
probably on the toes too. Now these have got no tips, and the nails are
arranged in a pattern on the soles and heels. They are probably
shooting-boots or sporting shoes of some kind." He strode to and fro
with his notebook in his hand, writing down hasty memoranda, and
stooping to scrutinize the impressions in the sand. The surgeon also
busied himself in noting down the facts concerning which he would have
to give evidence, while Thorndyke regarded in silence and with an air of
intense preoccupation the footprints around the body which remained to
testify to the circumstances of the crime.

"It is pretty clear, up to a certain point," the sergeant observed, as
he concluded his investigations, "how the affair happened, and it is
pretty clear, too, that the murder was premeditated. You see, Doctor,
the deceased gentleman, Mr. Hearn, was apparently walking home from Port
Marston; we saw his footprints along the shore--those rubber heels make
them easy to identify--and he didn't go down Sundersley Gap. He
probably meant to climb up the cliff by that little track that you see
there, which the people about here call the Shepherd's Path. Now the
murderer must have known that he was coming, and waited upon the cliff
to keep a lookout. When he saw Mr. Hearn enter the bay, he came down the
path and attacked him, and, after a tough struggle, succeeded in
stabbing him. Then he turned and went back up the path. You can see the
double track between the path and the place where the struggle took
place, and the footprints going to the path are on top of those coming
from it."

"If you follow the tracks," said Dr. Burrows, "you ought to be able to
see where the murderer went to."

"I'm afraid not," replied the sergeant. "There are no marks on the path
itself--the rock is too hard, and so is the ground above, I fear. But
I'll go over it carefully all the same."

The investigations being so far concluded, the body was lifted on to the
stretcher, and the cortège, consisting of the bearers, the Doctor, and
the fisherman, moved off towards the Gap, while the sergeant, having
civilly wished us "Good-evening," scrambled up the Shepherd's Path, and
vanished above.

"A very smart officer that," said Thorndyke. "I should like to know what
he wrote in his notebook."

"His account of the circumstances of the murder seemed a very reasonable
one," I said.

"Very. He noted the plain and essential facts, and drew the natural
conclusions from them. But there are some very singular features in this
case; so singular that I am disposed to make a few notes for my own
information."

He stooped over the place where the body had lain, and having narrowly
examined the sand there and in the place where the dead man's feet had
rested, drew out his notebook and made a memorandum. He next made a
rapid sketch-plan of the bay, marking the position of the body and the
various impressions in the sand, and then, following the double track
leading from and to the Shepherd's Path, scrutinized the footprints with
the deepest attention, making copious notes and sketches in his book.

"We may as well go up by the Shepherd's Path," said Thorndyke. "I think
we are equal to the climb, and there may be visible traces of the
murderer after all. The rock is only a sandstone, and not a very hard
one either."

We approached the foot of the little rugged track which zigzagged up the
face of the cliff, and, stooping down among the stiff, dry herbage,
examined the surface. Here, at the bottom of the path, where the rock
was softened by the weather, there were several distinct impressions on
the crumbling surface of the murderer's nailed boots, though they were
somewhat confused by the tracks of the sergeant, whose boots were
heavily nailed. But as we ascended the marks became rather less
distinct, and at quite a short distance from the foot of the cliff we
lost them altogether, though we had no difficulty in following the more
recent traces of the sergeant's passage up the path.

When we reached the top of the cliff we paused to scan the path that ran
along its edge, but here, too, although the sergeant's heavy boots had
left quite visible impressions on the ground, there were no signs of any
other feet. At a little distance the sagacious officer himself was
pursuing his investigations, walking backwards and forwards with his
body bent double, and his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Not a trace of him anywhere," said he, straightening himself up as we
approached. "I was afraid there wouldn't be after all this dry weather.
I shall have to try a different tack. This is a small place, and if
those boots belong to anyone living here they'll be sure to be known."

"The deceased gentleman--Mr. Hearn, I think you called him," said
Thorndyke as we turned towards the village--"is he a native of the
locality?"

"Oh no, sir," replied the officer. "He is almost a stranger. He has only
been here about three weeks; but, you know, in a little place like this
a man soon gets to be known--and his business, too, for that matter," he
added, with a smile.

"What was his business, then?" asked Thorndyke.

"Pleasure, I believe. He was down here for a holiday, though it's a good
way past the season; but, then, he had a friend living here, and that
makes a difference. Mr. Draper up at the Poplars was an old friend of
his, I understand. I am going to call on him now."

We walked on along the footpath that led towards the village, but had
only proceeded two or three hundred yards when a loud hail drew our
attention to a man running across a field towards us from the direction
of the cliff.

"Why, here is Mr. Draper himself," exclaimed the sergeant, stopping
short and waving his hand. "I expect he has heard the news already."

Thorndyke and I also halted, and with some curiosity watched the
approach of this new party to the tragedy. As the stranger drew near we
saw that he was a tall, athletic-looking man of about forty, dressed in
a Norfolk knickerbocker suit, and having the appearance of an ordinary
country gentleman, excepting that he carried in his hand, in place of a
walking-stick, the staff of a butterfly-net, the folding ring and bag of
which partly projected from his pocket.

"Is it true, Sergeant?" he exclaimed as he came up to us, panting from
his exertions. "About Mr. Hearn, I mean. There is a rumour that he has
been found dead on the beach."

"It's quite true, sir, I am sorry to say; and, what is worse, he has
been murdered."

"My God! you don't say so!"

He turned towards us a face that must ordinarily have been jovial
enough, but was now white and scared and, after a brief pause, he
exclaimed:

"Murdered! Good God! Poor old Hearn! How did it happen, Sergeant? and
when? and is there any clue to the murderer?"

"We can't say for certain when it happened," replied the sergeant, "and
as to the question of clues, I was just coming up to call on you."

"On me!" exclaimed Draper, with a startled glance at the officer. "What
for?"

"Well, we should like to know something about Mr. Hearn--who he was, and
whether he had any enemies, and so forth; anything, in fact, that would
give as a hint where to look for the murderer. And you are the only
person in the place who knew him at all intimately."

Mr Draper's pallid face turned a shade paler, and he glanced about him
with an obviously embarrassed air.

"I'm afraid," he began in a hesitating manner, "I'm afraid I shan't be
able to help you much. I didn't know much about his affairs. You see he
was--well--only a casual acquaintance--"

"Well," interrupted the sergeant, "you can tell us who and what he was,
and where he lived, and so forth. We'll find out the rest if you give us
the start."

"I see," said Draper. "Yes, I expect you will." His eyes glanced
restlessly to and fro, and he added presently: "You must come up
to-morrow, and have a talk with me about him, and I'll see what I can
remember."

"I'd rather come this evening," said the sergeant firmly.

"Not this evening," pleaded Draper. "I'm feeling rather--this affair,
you know, has upset me. I couldn't give proper attention--"

His sentence petered out into a hesitating mumble, and the officer
looked at him in evident surprise at his nervous, embarrassed manner.
His own attitude, however, was perfectly firm, though polite.

"I don't like pressing you, sir," said he, "but time is precious--we'll
have to go single file here; this pond is a public nuisance. They ought
to bank it up at this end. After you, sir."

The pond to which the sergeant alluded had evidently extended at one
time right across the path, but now, thanks to the dry weather, a narrow
isthmus of half-dried mud traversed the morass, and along this Mr.
Draper proceeded to pick his way. The sergeant was about to follow, when
suddenly he stopped short with his eyes riveted upon the muddy track. A
single glance showed me the cause of his surprise, for on the stiff,
putty-like surface, standing out with the sharp distinctness of a wax
mould, were the fresh footprints of the man who had just passed, each
footprint displaying on its sole the impression of stud-nails arranged
in a diamond-shaped pattern, and on its heel a group of similar nails
arranged in a cross.

The sergeant hesitated for only a moment, in which he turned a quick
startled glance upon us; then he followed, walking gingerly along the
edge of the path as if to avoid treading in his predecessor's
footprints. Instinctively we did the same, following closely, and
anxiously awaiting the next development of the tragedy. For a minute or
two we all proceeded in silence, the sergeant being evidently at a loss
how to act, and Mr. Draper busy with his own thoughts. At length the
former spoke.

"You think, Mr. Draper, you would rather that I looked in on you
to-morrow about this affair?"

"Much rather, if you wouldn't mind," was the eager reply.

"Then, in that case," said the sergeant, looking at his watch, "as I've
got a good deal to see to this evening, I'll leave you here, and make my
way to the station."

With a farewell flourish of his hand he climbed over a stile, and when,
a few moments later, I caught a glimpse of him through an opening in the
hedge, he was running across the meadow like a hare.

The departure of the police-officer was apparently a great relief to Mr.
Draper, who at once fell back and began to talk with us.

"You are Dr. Jervis, I think," said he. "I saw you coming out of Dr.
Cooper's house yesterday. We know everything that is happening in the
village, you see." He laughed nervously, and added: "But I don't know
your friend."

I introduced Thorndyke, at the mention of whose name our new
acquaintance knitted his brows, and glanced inquisitively at my friend.

"Thorndyke," he repeated; "the name seems familiar to me. Are you in the
Law, sir?"

Thorndyke admitted the impeachment, and our companion, having again
bestowed on him a look full of curiosity, continued: "This horrible
affair will interest you, no doubt, from a professional point of view.
You were present when my poor friend's body was found, I think?"

"No," replied Thorndyke; "we came up afterwards, when they were removing
it."

Our companion then proceeded to question us about the murder, but
received from Thorndyke only the most general and ambiguous replies. Nor
was there time to go into the matter at length, for the footpath
presently emerged on to the road close to Mr. Draper's house.

"You will excuse my not asking you in to-night," said he, "but you will
understand that I am not in much form for visitors just now."

We assured him that we fully understood, and, having wished him
"Good-evening," pursued our way towards the village.

"The sergeant is off to get a warrant, I suppose," I observed.

"Yes; and mighty anxious lest his man should be off before he can
execute it. But he is fishing in deeper waters than he thinks, Jervis.
This is a very singular and complicated case; one of the strangest, in
fact, that I have ever met. I shall follow its development with deep
interest."

"The sergeant seems pretty cocksure, all the same," I said.

"He is not to blame for that," replied Thorndyke. "He is acting on the
obvious appearances, which is the proper thing to do in the first place.
Perhaps his notebook contains more than I think it does. But we shall
see."

When we entered the village I stopped to settle some business with the
chemist, who acted as Dr. Cooper's dispenser, suggesting to Thorndyke
that he should walk on to the house; but when I emerged from the shop
some ten minutes later he was waiting outside, with a smallish
brown-paper parcel under each arm. Of one of these parcels I insisted on
relieving him, in spite of his protests, but when he at length handed it
to me its weight completely took me by surprise.

"I should have let them send this home on a barrow," I remarked.

"So I should have done," he replied, "only I did not wish to draw
attention to my purchase, or give my address."

Accepting this hint I refrained from making any inquiries as to the
nature of the contents (although I must confess to considerable
curiosity on the subject), and on arriving home I assisted him to
deposit the two mysterious parcels in his room.

When I came downstairs a disagreeable surprise awaited me. Hitherto the
long evenings had been spent by me in solitary and undisturbed enjoyment
of Dr. Cooper's excellent library, but to-night a perverse fate decreed
that I must wander abroad, because, forsooth, a preposterous farmer, who
resided in a hamlet five miles distant, had chosen the evening of my
guest's arrival to dislocate his bucolic elbow. I half hoped that
Thorndyke would offer to accompany me, but he made no such suggestion,
and in fact seemed by no means afflicted at the prospect of my absence.

"I have plenty to occupy me while you are away," he said cheerfully; and
with this assurance to comfort me I mounted my bicycle and rode off
somewhat sulkily along the dark road.

My visit occupied in all a trifle under two hours, and when I reached
home, ravenously hungry and heated by my ride, half-past nine had
struck, and the village had begun to settle down for the night.

"Sergeant Payne is a-waiting in the surgery, sir," the housemaid
announced as I entered the hall.

"Confound Sergeant Payne!" I exclaimed. "Is Dr. Thorndyke with him?"

"No, sir," replied the grinning damsel. "Dr. Thorndyke is hout."

"Hout!" I repeated (my surprise leading to unintentional mimicry).

"Yes, sir. He went hout soon after you, sir, on his bicycle. He had a
basket strapped on to it--leastways a hamper--and he borrowed a basin
and a kitchen-spoon from the cook."

I stared at the girl in astonishment. The ways of John Thorndyke were,
indeed, beyond all understanding.

"Well, let me have some dinner or supper at once," I said, "and I will
see what the sergeant wants."

The officer rose as I entered the surgery, and, laying his helmet on the
table, approached me with an air of secrecy and importance.

"Well, sir," said he, "the fat's in the fire. I've arrested Mr. Draper,
and I've got him locked up in the court-house. But I wish it had been
someone else."

"So does he, I expect," I remarked.

"You see, sir," continued the sergeant, "we all like Mr. Draper. He's
been among us a matter of seven years, and he's like one of ourselves.
However, what I've come about is this; it seems the gentleman who was
with you this evening is Dr. Thorndyke, the great expert. Now Mr. Draper
seems to have heard about him, as most of us have, and he is very
anxious for him to take up the defence. Do you think he would consent?"

"I expect so," I answered, remembering Thorndyke's keen interest in the
case; "but I will ask him when he comes in."

"Thank you, sir," said the sergeant. "And perhaps you wouldn't mind
stepping round to the court-house presently yourself. He looks uncommon
queer, does Mr. Draper, and no wonder, so I'd like you to take a look at
him, and if you could bring Dr. Thorndyke with you, he'd like it, and so
should I, for, I assure you, sir, that although a conviction would mean
a step up the ladder for me, I'd be glad enough to find that I'd made a
mistake."

I was just showing my visitor out when a bicycle swept in through the
open gate, and Thorndyke dismounted at the door, revealing a square
hamper--evidently abstracted from the surgery--strapped on to a carrier
at the back. I conveyed the sergeant's request to him at once, and asked
if he was willing to take up the case.

"As to taking up the defence," he replied, "I will consider the matter;
but in any case I will come up and see the prisoner."

With this the sergeant departed, and Thorndyke, having unstrapped the
hamper with as much care as if it contained a collection of priceless
porcelain, bore it tenderly up to his bedroom; whence he appeared, after
a considerable interval, smilingly apologetic for the delay.

"I thought you were dressing for dinner," I grumbled as he took his seat
at the table.

"No," he replied. "I have been considering this murder. Really it is a
most singular case, and promises to be uncommonly complicated, too."

"Then I assume that you will undertake the defence?"

"I shall if Draper gives a reasonably straightforward account of
himself."

It appeared that this condition was likely to be fulfilled, for when we
arrived at the court-house (where the prisoner was accommodated in a
spare office, under rather free-and-easy conditions considering the
nature of the charge) we found Mr. Draper in an eminently communicative
frame of mind.

"I want you, Dr. Thorndyke, to undertake my defence in this terrible
affair, because I feel confident that you will be able to clear me. And
I promise you that there shall be no reservation or concealment on my
part of anything that you ought to know."

"Very well," said Thorndyke. "By the way, I see you have changed your
shoes."

"Yes, the sergeant took possession of those I was wearing. He said
something about comparing them with some footprints, but there can't be
any footprints like those shoes here in Sundersley. The nails are fixed
in the soles in quite a peculiar pattern. I had them made in Edinburgh."

"Have you more than one pair?"

"No. I have no other nailed boots."

"That is important," said Thorndyke. "And now I judge that you have
something to tell us that bears on this crime. Am I right?"

"Yes. There is something that I am afraid it is necessary for you to
know, although it is very painful to me to revive memories of my past
that I had hoped were buried for ever. But perhaps, after all, it may
not be necessary for these confidences to be revealed to anyone but
yourself."

"I hope not," said Thorndyke; "and if it is not necessary you may rely
upon me not to allow any of your secrets to leak out. But you are wise
to tell me everything that may in any way bear upon the case."

At this juncture, seeing that confidential matters were about to be
discussed, I rose and prepared to withdraw; but Draper waved me back
into my chair.

"You need not go away, Dr. Jervis," he said. "It is through you that I
have the benefit of Dr. Thorndyke's help, and I know that you doctors
can be trusted to keep your own counsel and your clients' secrets. And
now for some confessions of mine. In the first place, it is my painful
duty to tell you that I am a discharged convict--an 'old lag,' as the
cant phrase has it."

He coloured a dusky red as he made this statement, and glanced furtively
at Thorndyke to observe its effect. But he might as well have looked at
a wooden figure-head or a stone mask as at my friend's immovable visage;
and when his communication had been acknowledged by a slight nod, he
proceeded:

"The history of my wrong-doing is the history of hundreds of others. I
was a clerk in a bank, and getting on as well as I could expect in that
not very progressive avocation, when I had the misfortune to make four
very undesirable acquaintances. They were all young men, though rather
older than myself, and were close friends, forming a sort of little
community or club. They were not what is usually described as 'fast.'
They were quite sober and decently-behaved young follows, but they were
very decidedly addicted to gambling in a small way, and they soon
infected me. Before long I was the keenest gambler of them all. Cards,
billiards, pool, and various forms of betting began to be the chief
pleasures of my life, and not only was the bulk of my scanty salary
often consumed in the inevitable losses, but presently I found myself
considerably in debt, without any visible means of discharging my
liabilities. It is true that my four friends were my chief--in fact,
almost my only--creditors, but still, the debts existed, and had to be
paid.

"Now these four friends of mine--named respectively Leach, Pitford,
Hearn, and Jezzard--were uncommonly clever men, though the full extent
of their cleverness was not appreciated by me until too late. And I,
too, was clever in my way, and a most undesirable way it was, for I
possessed the fatal gift of imitating handwriting and signatures with
the most remarkable accuracy. So perfect were my copies that the writers
themselves were frequently unable to distinguish their own signatures
from my imitations, and many a time was my skill invoked by some of my
companions to play off practical jokes upon the others. But these jests
were strictly confined to our own little set, for my four friends were
most careful and anxious that my dangerous accomplishment should not
become known to outsiders.

"And now follows the consequence which you have no doubt foreseen. My
debts, though small, were accumulating, and I saw no prospect of being
able to pay them. Then, one night, Jezzard made a proposition. We had
been playing bridge at his rooms, and once more my ill luck had caused
me to increase my debt. I scribbled out an IOU, and pushed it across the
table to Jezzard, who picked it up with a very wry face, and pocketed
it.

"'Look here, Ted,' he said presently, 'this paper is all very well, but,
you know, I can't pay my debts with it. My creditors demand hard cash.'

"'I'm very sorry,' I replied, 'but I can't help it.'

"'Yes, you can,' said he, 'and I'll tell you how.' He then propounded a
scheme which I at first rejected with indignation, but which, when the
others backed him up, I at last allowed myself to be talked into, and
actually put into execution. I contrived, by taking advantage of the
carelessness of some of my superiors at the bank, to get possession of
some blank cheque forms, which I filled up with small amounts--not more
than two or three pounds--and signed with careful imitations of the
signatures of some of our clients. Jezzard got some stamps made for
stamping on the account numbers, and when this had been done I handed
over to him the whole collection of forged cheques in settlement of my
debts to all of my four companions.

"The cheques were duly presented--by whom I do not know; and although,
to my dismay, the modest sums for which I had drawn them had been
skilfully altered into quite considerable amounts, they were all paid
without demur excepting one. That one, which had been altered from three
pounds to thirty-nine, was drawn upon an account which was already
slightly overdrawn. The cashier became suspicious; the cheque was
impounded, and the client communicated with. Then, of course, the mine
exploded. Not only was this particular forgery detected, but inquiries
were set afoot which soon brought to light the others. Presently
circumstances, which I need not describe, threw some suspicion on me. I
at once lost my nerve, and finally made a full confession.

"The inevitable prosecution followed. It was not conducted vindictively.
Still, I had actually committed the forgeries, and though I endeavoured
to cast a part of the blame on to the shoulders of my treacherous
confederates, I did not succeed. Jezzard, it is true, was arrested, but
was discharged for lack of evidence, and, consequently, the whole burden
of the forgery fell upon me. The jury, of course, convicted me, and I
was sentenced to seven years' penal servitude.

"During the time that I was in prison an uncle of mine died in Canada,
and by the provisions of his will I inherited the whole of his very
considerable property, so that when the time arrived for my release, I
came out of prison, not only free, but comparatively rich. I at once
dropped my own name, and, assuming that of Alfred Draper, began to look
about for some quiet spot in which I might spend the rest of my days in
peace, and with little chance of my identity being discovered. Such a
place I found in Sundersley, and here I have lived for the last seven
years, liked and respected, I think, by my neighbours, who have little
suspected that they were harbouring in their midst a convicted felon.

"All this time I had neither seen nor heard anything of my four
confederates, and I hoped and believed that they had passed completely
out of my life. But they had not. Only a month ago I met them once more,
to my sorrow, and from the day of that meeting all the peace and
security of my quiet existence at Sundersley have vanished. Like evil
spirits they have stolen into my life, changing my happiness into bitter
misery, filling my days with dark forebodings and my nights with
terror."

Here Mr. Draper paused, and seemed to sink into a gloomy reverie.

"Under what circumstances did you meet these men?" Thorndyke asked.

"Ah!" exclaimed Draper, arousing with sudden excitement, "the
circumstances were very singular and suspicious. I had gone over to
Eastwich for the day to do some shopping. About eleven o'clock in the
forenoon I was making some purchases in a shop when I noticed two men
looking in the window, or rather pretending to do so, whilst they
conversed earnestly. They were smartly dressed, in a horsy fashion, and
looked like well-to-do farmers, as they might very naturally have been
since it was market-day. But it seemed to me that their faces were
familiar to me. I looked at them more attentively, and then it suddenly
dawned upon me, most unpleasantly, that they resembled Leach and
Jezzard. And yet they were not quite like. The resemblance was there,
but the differences were greater than the lapse of time would account
for. Moreover, the man who resembled Jezzard had a rather large mole on
the left cheek just under the eye, while the other man had an eyeglass
stuck in one eye, and wore a waxed moustache, whereas Leach had always
been clean-shaven, and had never used an eyeglass.

"As I was speculating upon the resemblance they looked up, and caught my
intent and inquisitive eye, whereupon they moved away from the window;
and when, having completed my purchases, I came out into the street,
they were nowhere to be seen.

"That evening, as I was walking by the river outside the town before
returning to the station, I overtook a yacht which was being towed
down-stream. Three men were walking ahead on the bank with a long
tow-line, and one man stood in the cockpit steering. As I approached,
and was reading the name _Otter_ on the stern, the man at the helm
looked round, and with a start of surprise I recognized my old
acquaintance Hearn. The recognition, however, was not mutual, for I had
grown a beard in the interval, and I passed on without appearing to
notice him; but when I overtook the other three men, and recognized, as
I had feared, the other three members of the gang, I must have looked
rather hard at Jezzard, for he suddenly halted, and exclaimed: 'Why,
it's our old friend Ted! Our long-lost and lamented brother!' He held
out his hand with effusive cordiality, and began to make inquiries as to
my welfare; but I cut him short with the remark that I was not proposing
to renew the acquaintance, and, turning off on to a footpath that led
away from the river, strode off without looking back.

"Naturally this meeting exercised my mind a good deal, and when I
thought of the two men whom I had seen in the town, I could hardly
believe that their likeness to my quondam friends was a mere
coincidence. And yet when I had met Leach and Jezzard by the river, I
had found them little altered, and had particularly noticed that
Jezzard had no mole on his face, and that Leach was clean-shaven as of
old.

"But a day or two later all my doubts were resolved by a paragraph in
the local paper. It appeared that on the day of my visit to Eastwich a
number of forged cheques had been cashed at the three banks. They had
been presented by three well-dressed, horsy-looking men who looked like
well-to-do farmers. One of them had a mole on the left cheek, another
was distinguished by a waxed moustache and a single eyeglass, while the
description of the third I did not recognize. None of the cheques had
been drawn for large amounts, though the total sum obtained by the
forgers was nearly four hundred pounds; but the most interesting point
was that the cheque-forms had been manufactured by photographic process,
and the water-mark skilfully, though not quite perfectly, imitated.
Evidently the swindlers were clever and careful men, and willing to take
a good deal of trouble for the sake of security, and the result of their
precautions was that the police could make no guess as to their
identity.

"The very next day, happening to walk over to Port Marston, I came upon
the _Otter_ lying moored alongside the quay in the harbour. As soon as I
recognized the yacht, I turned quickly and walked away, but a minute
later I ran into Leach and Jezzard, who were returning to their craft.
Jezzard greeted me with an air of surprise. 'What! Still hanging about
here, Ted?' he exclaimed. 'That is not discreet of you, dear boy. I
should earnestly advise you to clear out.'

"'What do you mean?' I asked.

"'Tut, tut!' said he. 'We read the papers like other people, and we know
now what business took you to Eastwich. But it's foolish of you to hang
about the neighbourhood where you might be spotted at any moment.'

"The implied accusation took me aback so completely that I stood staring
at him in speechless astonishment, and at that unlucky moment a
tradesman, from whom I had ordered some house-linen, passed along the
quay. Seeing me, he stopped and touched his hat.

"'Beg pardon, Mr. Draper,' said he, 'but I shall be sending my cart up
to Sundersley to-morrow morning if that will do for you.'

"I said that it would, and as the man turned away, Jezzard's face broke
out into a cunning smile.

"So you are Mr. Draper, of Sundersley, now, are you?' said he. 'Well, I
hope you won't be too proud to come and look in on your old friends. We
shall be staying here for some time.'

"That same night Hearn made his appearance at my house. He had come as
an emissary from the gang, to ask me to do some work for them--to
execute some forgeries, in fact. Of course I refused, and pretty
bluntly, too, whereupon Hearn began to throw out vague hints as to what
might happen if I made enemies of the gang, and to utter veiled, but
quite intelligible, threats. You will say that I was an idiot not to
send him packing, and threaten to hand over the whole gang to the
police; but I was never a man of strong nerve, and I don't mind
admitting that I was mortally afraid of that cunning devil, Jezzard.

"The next thing that happened was that Hearn came and took lodgings in
Sundersley, and, in spite of my efforts to avoid him, he haunted me
continually. The yacht, too, had evidently settled down for some time at
a berth in the harbour, for I heard that a local smack-boy had been
engaged as a deck-hand; and I frequently encountered Jezzard and the
other members of the gang, who all professed to believe that I had
committed the Eastwich forgeries. One day I was foolish enough to allow
myself to be lured on to the yacht for a few minutes, and when I would
have gone ashore, I found that the shore ropes had been cast off, and
that the vessel was already moving out of the harbour. At first I was
furious, but the three scoundrels were so jovial and good-natured, and
so delighted with the joke of taking me for a sail against my will, that
I presently cooled down, and having changed into a pair of rubber-soled
shoes (so that I should not make dents in the smooth deck with my
hobnails), bore a hand at sailing the yacht, and spent quite a pleasant
day.

"From that time I found myself gradually drifting back into a state of
intimacy with these agreeable scoundrels, and daily becoming more and
more afraid of them. In a moment of imbecility I mentioned what I had
seen from the shop-window at Eastwich, and, though they passed the
matter off with a joke, I could see that they were mightily disturbed by
it. Their efforts to induce me to join them were redoubled, and Hearn
took to calling almost daily at my house--usually with documents and
signatures which he tried to persuade me to copy.

"A few evenings ago he made a new and startling proposition. We were
walking in my garden, and he had been urging me once more to rejoin the
gang--unsuccessfully, I need not say. Presently he sat down on a seat
against a yew-hedge at the bottom of the garden, and, after an interval
of silence, said suddenly:

"'Then you absolutely refuse to go in with us?'

"'Of course I do,' I replied. 'Why should I mix myself up with a gang of
crooks when I have ample means and a decent position?'

"'Of course,' he agreed, 'you'd be a fool if you did. But, you see, you
know all about this Eastwich job, to say nothing of our other little
exploits, and you gave us away once before. Consequently, you can take
it from me that, now Jezzard has run you to earth, he won't leave you in
peace until you have given us some kind of a hold on you. You know too
much, you see, and as long as you have a clean sheet you are a standing
menace to us. That is the position. You know it, and Jezzard knows it,
and he is a desperate man, and as cunning as the devil.'

"'I know that,' I said gloomily.

"'Very well,' continued Hearn. 'Now I'm going to make you an offer.
Promise me a small annuity--you can easily afford it--or pay me a
substantial sum down, and I will set you free for ever from Jezzard and
the others.'

"'How will you do that?' I asked.

"'Very simply,' he replied. 'I am sick of them all, and sick of this
risky, uncertain mode of life. Now I am ready to clean off my own slate
and set you free at the same time; but I must have some means of
livelihood in view.'

"'You mean that you will turn King's evidence?' I asked.

"'Yes, if you will pay me a couple of hundred a year, or, say, two
thousand down on the conviction of the gang.'

"I was so taken aback that for some time I made no reply, and as I sat
considering this amazing proposition, the silence was suddenly broken
by a suppressed sneeze from the other side of the hedge.

"Hearn and I started to our feet. Immediately hurried footsteps were
heard in the lane outside the hedge. We raced up the garden to the gate
and out through a side alley, but when we reached the lane there was not
a soul in sight. We made a brief and fruitless search in the immediate
neighbourhood, and then turned back to the house. Hearn was deathly pale
and very agitated, and I must confess that I was a good deal upset by
the incident.

"'This is devilish awkward,' said Hearn.

"'It is rather,' I admitted; 'but I expect it was only some inquisitive
yokel.'

"'I don't feel so sure of that,' said he. 'At any rate, we were stark
lunatics to sit up against a hedge to talk secrets.'

"He paced the garden with me for some time in gloomy silence, and
presently, after a brief request that I would think over his proposal,
took himself off.

"I did not see him again until I met him last night on the yacht.
Pitford called on me in the morning, and invited me to come and dine
with them. I at first declined, for my housekeeper was going to spend
the evening with her sister at Eastwich, and stay there for the night,
and I did not much like leaving the house empty. However, I agreed
eventually, stipulating that I should be allowed to come home early, and
I accordingly went. Hearn and Pitford were waiting in the boat by the
steps--for the yacht had been moved out to a buoy--and we went on board
and spent a very pleasant and lively evening. Pitford put me ashore at
ten o'clock, and I walked straight home, and went to bed. Hearn would
have come with me, but the others insisted on his remaining, saying
that they had some matters of business to discuss."

"Which way did you walk home?" asked Thorndyke.

"I came through the town, and along the main road."

"And that is all you know about this affair?"

"Absolutely all," replied Draper. "I have now admitted you to secrets of
my past life that I had hoped never to have to reveal to any human
creature, and I still have some faint hope that it may not be necessary
for you to divulge what I have told you."

"Your secrets shall not be revealed unless it is absolutely
indispensable that they should be," said Thorndyke; "but you are placing
your life in my hands, and you must leave me perfectly free to act as I
think best."

With this he gathered his notes together, and we took our departure.

"A very singular history, this, Jervis," he said, when, having wished
the sergeant "Good-night," we stepped out on to the dark road. "What do
you think of it?"

"I hardly know what to think," I answered, "but, on the whole, it seems
rather against Draper than otherwise. He admits that he is an old
criminal, and it appears that he was being persecuted and blackmailed by
the man Hearn. It is true that he represents Jezzard as being the
leading spirit and prime mover in the persecution, but we have only his
word for that. Hearn was in lodgings near him, and was undoubtedly
taking the most active part in the business, and it is quite possible,
and indeed probable, that Hearn was the actual _deus ex machina_."

Thorndyke nodded. "Yes," he said, "that is certainly the line the
prosecution will take if we allow the story to become known. Ha! what
is this? We are going to have some rain."

"Yes, and wind too. We are in for an autumn gale, I think."

"And that," said Thorndyke, "may turn out to be an important factor in
our case."

"How can the weather affect your case?" I asked in some surprise. But,
as the rain suddenly descended in a pelting shower, my companion broke
into a run, leaving my question unanswered.

On the following morning, which was fair and sunny after the stormy
night, Dr. Burrows called for my friend. He was on his way to the
extemporized mortuary to make the _post-mortem_ examination of the
murdered man's body. Thorndyke, having notified the coroner that he was
watching the case on behalf of the accused, had been authorized to be
present at the autopsy; but the authorization did not include me, and,
as Dr. Burrows did not issue any invitation, I was not able to be
present. I met them, however, as they were returning, and it seemed to
me that Dr. Burrows appeared a little huffy.

"Your friend," said he, in a rather injured tone, "is really the most
outrageous stickler for forms and ceremonies that I have ever met."

Thorndyke looked at him with an amused twinkle, and chuckled
indulgently.

"Here was a body," Dr. Burrows continued irritably, "found under
circumstances clearly indicative of murder, and bearing a knife-wound
that nearly divided the arch of the aorta; in spite of which, I assure
you that Dr. Thorndyke insisted on weighing the body, and examining
every organ--lungs, liver, stomach, and brain--yes, actually the
brain!--as if there had been no clue whatever to the cause of death.
And then, as a climax, he insisted on sending the contents of the
stomach in a jar, sealed with our respective seals, in charge of a
special messenger, to Professor Copland, for analysis and report. I
thought he was going to demand an examination for the tubercle bacillus,
but he didn't; which," concluded Dr. Burrows, suddenly becoming sourly
facetious, "was an oversight, for, after all, the fellow may have died
of consumption."

Thorndyke chuckled again, and I murmured that the precautions appeared
to have been somewhat excessive.

"Not at all," was the smiling response. "You are losing sight of our
function. We are the expert and impartial umpires, and it is our
business to ascertain, with scientific accuracy, the cause of death. The
_prima facie_ appearances in this case suggest that the deceased was
murdered by Draper, and that is the hypothesis advanced. But that is no
concern of ours. It is not our function to confirm an hypothesis
suggested by outside circumstances, but rather, on the contrary, to make
certain that no other explanation is possible. And that is my invariable
practice. No matter how glaringly obvious the appearances may be, I
refuse to take anything for granted."

Dr. Burrows received this statement with a grunt of dissent, but the
arrival of his dogcart put a stop to further discussion.

Thorndyke was not subpoenaed for the inquest. Dr. Burrows and the
sergeant having been present immediately after the finding of the body,
his evidence was not considered necessary, and, moreover, he was known
to be watching the case in the interests of the accused. Like myself,
therefore, he was present as a spectator, but as a highly interested
one, for he took very complete shorthand notes of the whole of the
evidence and the coroner's comments.

I shall not describe the proceedings in detail. The jury, having been
taken to view the body, trooped into the room on tiptoe, looking pale
and awe-stricken, and took their seats; and thereafter, from time to
time, directed glances of furtive curiosity at Draper as he stood,
pallid and haggard, confronting the court, with a burly rural constable
on either side.

The medical evidence was taken first. Dr. Burrows, having been sworn,
began, with sarcastic emphasis, to describe the condition of the lungs
and liver, until he was interrupted by the coroner.

"Is all this necessary?" the latter inquired. "I mean, is it material to
the subject of the inquiry?"

"I should say not," replied Dr. Burrows. "It appears to me to be quite
irrelevant, but Dr. Thorndyke, who is watching the case for the defence,
thought it necessary."

"I think," said the coroner, "you had better give us only the facts that
are material. The jury want you to tell them what you consider to have
been the cause of death. They don't want a lecture on pathology."

"The cause of death," said Dr. Burrows, "was a penetrating wound of the
chest, apparently inflicted with a large knife. The weapon entered
between the second and third ribs on the left side close to the sternum
or breast-bone. It wounded the left lung, and partially divided both the
pulmonary artery and the aorta--the two principal arteries of the body."

"Was this injury alone sufficient to cause death?" the coroner asked.

"Yes," was the reply; "and death from injury to these great vessels
would be practically instantaneous."

"Could the injury have been self-inflicted?"

"So far as the position and nature of the wound are concerned," replied
the witness, "self-infliction would be quite possible. But since death
would follow in a few seconds at the most, the weapon would be found
either in the wound, or grasped in the hand, or, at least, quite close
to the body. But in this case no weapon was found at all, and the wound
must therefore certainly have been homicidal."

"Did you see the body before it was moved?"

"Yes. It was lying on its back, with the arms extended and the legs
nearly straight; and the sand in the neighbourhood of the body was
trampled as if a furious struggle had taken place."

"Did you notice anything remarkable about the footprints in the sand?"

"I did," replied Dr. Burrows. "They were the footprints of two persons
only. One of these was evidently the deceased, whose footmarks could be
easily identified by the circular rubber heels. The other footprints
were those of a person--apparently a man--who wore shoes, or boots, the
soles of which were studded with nails; and these nails were arranged in
a very peculiar and unusual manner, for those on the soles formed a
lozenge or diamond shape, and those on the heel were set out in the form
of a cross."

"Have you ever seen shoes or boots with the nails arranged in this
manner?"

"Yes. I have seen a pair of shoes which I am informed belong to the
accused; the nails in them are arranged as I have described."

"Would you say that the footprints of which you have spoken were made
by those shoes?"

"No; I could not say that. I can only say that, to the best of my
belief, the pattern on the shoes is similar to that in the footprints."

This was the sum of Dr. Burrows' evidence, and to all of it Thorndyke
listened with an immovable countenance, though with the closest
attention. Equally attentive was the accused man, though not equally
impassive; indeed, so great was his agitation that presently one of the
constables asked permission to get him a chair.

The next witness was Arthur Jezzard. He testified that he had viewed the
body, and identified it as that of Charles Hearn; that he had been
acquainted with deceased for some years, but knew practically nothing of
his affairs. At the time of his death deceased was lodging in the
village.

"Why did he leave the yacht?" the coroner inquired. "Was there any kind
of disagreement!"

"Not in the least," replied Jezzard. "He grew tired of the confinement
of the yacht, and came to live ashore for a change. But we were the best
of friends, and he intended to come with us when we sailed."

"When did you see him last?"

"On the night before the body was found--that is, last Monday. He had
been dining on the yacht, and we put him ashore about midnight. He said
as we were rowing him ashore that he intended to walk home along the
sands as the tide was out. He went up the stone steps by the
watch-house, and turned at the top to wish us good-night. That was the
last time I saw him alive."

"Do you know anything of the relations between the accused and the
deceased?" the coroner asked.

"Very little," replied Jezzard. "Mr. Draper was introduced to us by the
deceased about a month ago. I believe they had been acquainted some
years, and they appeared to be on excellent terms. There was no
indication of any quarrel or disagreement between them."

"What time did the accused leave the yacht on the night of the murder?"

"About ten o'clock. He said that he wanted to get home early, as his
housekeeper was away and he did not like the house to be left with no
one in it."

This was the whole of Jezzard's evidence, and was confirmed by that of
Leach and Pitford. Then, when the fisherman had deposed to the discovery
of the body, the sergeant was called, and stepped forward, grasping a
carpet-bag, and looking as uncomfortable as if he had been the accused
instead of a witness. He described the circumstances under which he saw
the body, giving the exact time and place with official precision.

"You have heard Dr. Burrows' description of the footprints?" the coroner
inquired.

"Yes. There were two sets. One set were evidently made by deceased. They
showed that he entered St. Bridget's Bay from the direction of Port
Marston. He had been walking along the shore just about high-water mark,
sometimes above and sometimes below. Where he had walked below
high-water mark the footprints had of course been washed away by the
sea."

"How far back did you trace the footprints of deceased?"

"About two-thirds of the way to Sundersley Gap. Then they disappeared
below high-water mark. Later in the evening I walked from the Gap into
Port Marston, but could not find any further traces of deceased. He
must have walked between the tide-marks all the way from Port Marston to
beyond Sundersley. When these footprints entered St. Bridget's Bay they
became mixed up with the footprints of another man, and the shore was
trampled for a space of a dozen yards as if a furious struggle had taken
place. The strange man's tracks came down from the Shepherd's Path, and
went up it again; but, owing to the hardness of the ground from the dry
weather, the tracks disappeared a short distance up the path, and I
could not find them again."

"What were these strange footprints like?" inquired the coroner.

"They were very peculiar," replied the sergeant. "They were made by
shoes armed with smallish hob-nails, which were arranged in a
diamond-shaped pattern on the soles and in a cross on the heels. I
measured the footprints carefully, and made a drawing of each foot at
the time." Here the sergeant produced a long notebook of funereal
aspect, and, having opened it at a marked place, handed it to the
coroner, who examined it attentively, and then passed it on to the jury.
From the jury it was presently transferred to Thorndyke, and, looking
over his shoulder, I saw a very workmanlike sketch of a pair of
footprints with the principal dimensions inserted.

Thorndyke surveyed the drawing critically, jotted down a few brief
notes, and returned the sergeant's notebook to the coroner, who, as he
took it, turned once more to the officer.

"Have you any clue, sergeant, to the person who made these footprints?"
he asked.

By way of reply the sergeant opened his carpet-bag, and, extracting
therefrom a pair of smart but stoutly made shoes, laid them on the
table.

"Those shoes," he said, "are the property of the accused; he was wearing
them when I arrested him. They appear to correspond exactly to the
footprints of the murderer. The measurements are the same, and the nails
with which they are studded are arranged in a similar pattern."

"Would you swear that the footprints were made with these shoes?" asked
the coroner.

"No, sir, I would not," was the decided answer. "I would only swear to
the similarity of size and pattern."

"Had you ever seen these shoes before you made the drawing?"

"No, sir," replied the sergeant; and he then related the incident of the
footprints in the soft earth by the pond which led him to make the
arrest.

The coroner gazed reflectively at the shoes which he held in his hand,
and from them to the drawing; then, passing them to the foreman of the
jury, he remarked:

"Well, gentlemen, it is not for me to tell you whether these shoes
answer to the description given by Dr. Burrows and the sergeant, or
whether they resemble the drawing which, as you have heard, was made by
the officer on the spot and before he had seen the shoes; that is a
matter for you to decide. Meanwhile, there is another question that we
must consider." He turned to the sergeant and asked: "Have you made any
inquiries as to the movements of the accused on the night of the
murder?"

"I have," replied the sergeant, "and I find that, on that night, the
accused was alone in the house, his housekeeper having gone over to
Eastwich. Two men saw him in the town about ten o'clock, apparently
walking in the direction of Sundersley."

This concluded the sergeant's evidence, and when one or two more
witnesses had been examined without eliciting any fresh facts, the
coroner briefly recapitulated the evidence, and requested the jury to
consider their verdict. Thereupon a solemn hush fell upon the court,
broken only by the whispers of the jurymen, as they consulted together;
and the spectators gazed in awed expectancy from the accused to the
whispering jury. I glanced at Draper, sitting huddled in his chair, his
clammy face as pale as that of the corpse in the mortuary hard by, his
hands tremulous and restless; and, scoundrel as I believed him to be, I
could not but pity the abject misery that was written large all over
him, from his damp hair to his incessantly shifting feet.

The jury took but a short time to consider their verdict. At the end of
five minutes the foreman announced that they were agreed, and, in answer
to the coroner's formal inquiry, stood up and replied:

"We find that the deceased met his death by being stabbed in the chest
by the accused man, Alfred Draper."

"That is a verdict of wilful murder," said the coroner, and he entered
it accordingly in his notes. The Court now rose. The spectators
reluctantly trooped out, the jurymen stood up and stretched themselves,
and the two constables, under the guidance of the sergeant, carried the
wretched Draper in a fainting condition to a closed fly that was waiting
outside.

"I was not greatly impressed by the activity of the defence," I remarked
maliciously as we walked home.

Thorndyke smiled. "You surely did not expect me to cast my pearls of
forensic learning before a coroner's jury," said he.

"I expected that you would have something to say on behalf of your
client," I replied. "As it was, his accusers had it all their own way."

"And why not?" he asked. "Of what concern to us is the verdict of the
coroner's jury?"

"It would have seemed more decent to make some sort of defence," I
replied.

"My dear Jervis," he rejoined, "you do not seem to appreciate the great
virtue of what Lord Beaconsfield so felicitously called 'a policy of
masterly inactivity'; and yet that is one of the great lessons that a
medical training impresses on the student."

"That may be so," said I. "But the result, up to the present, of your
masterly policy is that a verdict of wilful murder stands against your
client, and I don't see what other verdict the jury could have found."

"Neither do I," said Thorndyke.

I had written to my principal, Dr. Cooper, describing the stirring
events that were taking place in the village, and had received a reply
from him instructing me to place the house at Thorndyke's disposal, and
to give him every facility for his work. In accordance with which edict
my colleague took possession of a well-lighted, disused stable-loft, and
announced his intention of moving his things into it. Now, as these
"things" included the mysterious contents of the hamper that the
housemaid had seen, I was possessed with a consuming desire to be
present at the "flitting," and I do not mind confessing that I purposely
lurked about the stairs in the hopes of thus picking up a few crumbs of
information.

But Thorndyke was one too many for me. A misbegotten infant in the
village having been seized with inopportune convulsions, I was
compelled, most reluctantly, to hasten to its relief; and I returned
only in time to find Thorndyke in the act of locking the door of the
loft.

"A nice light, roomy place to work in," he remarked, as he descended the
steps, slipping the key into his pocket.

"Yes," I replied, and added boldly: "What do you intend to do up there?"

"Work up the case for the defence," he replied, "and, as I have now
heard all that the prosecution have to say, I shall be able to forge
ahead."

This was vague enough, but I consoled myself with the reflection that
in a very few days I should, in common with the rest of the world, be in
possession of the results of his mysterious proceedings. For, in view of
the approaching assizes, preparations were being made to push the case
through the magistrate's court as quickly as possible in order to obtain
a committal in time for the ensuing sessions. Draper had, of course,
been already charged before a justice of the peace and evidence of
arrest taken, and it was expected that the adjourned hearing would
commence before the local magistrates on the fifth day after the
inquest.

The events of these five days kept me in a positive ferment of
curiosity. In the first place an inspector of the Criminal Investigation
Department came down and browsed about the place in company with the
sergeant. Then Mr. Bashfield, who was to conduct the prosecution, came
and took up his abode at the "Cat and Chicken." But the most surprising
visitor was Thorndyke's laboratory assistant, Polton, who appeared one
evening with a large trunk and a sailor's hammock, and announced that he
was going to take up his quarters in the loft.

As to Thorndyke himself, his proceedings were beyond speculation. From
time to time he made mysterious appearances at the windows of the loft,
usually arrayed in what looked suspiciously like a nightshirt. Sometimes
I would see him holding a negative up to the light, at others
manipulating a photographic printing-frame; and once I observed him with
a paintbrush and a large gallipot; on which I turned away in despair,
and nearly collided with the inspector.

"Dr. Thorndyke is staying with you, I hear," said the latter, gazing
earnestly at my colleague's back, which was presented for his inspection
at the window.

"Yes," I answered. "Those are his temporary premises."

"That is where he does his bedevilments, I suppose?" the officer
suggested.

"He conducts his experiments there," I corrected haughtily.

"That's what I mean," said the inspector; and, as Thorndyke at this
moment turned and opened the window, our visitor began to ascend the
steps.

"I've just called to ask if I could have a few words with you, Doctor,"
said the inspector, as he reached the door.

"Certainly," Thorndyke replied blandly. "If you will go down and wait
with Dr. Jervis, I will be with you in five minutes."

The officer came down the steps grinning, and I thought I heard him
murmur "Sold!" But this may have been an illusion. However, Thorndyke
presently emerged, and he and the officer strode away into the
shrubbery. What the inspector's business was, or whether he had any
business at all, I never learned; but the incident seemed to throw some
light on the presence of Polton and the sailor's hammock. And this
reference to Polton reminds me of a very singular change that took place
about this time in the habits of this usually staid and sedate little
man; who, abandoning the somewhat clerical style of dress that he
ordinarily affected, broke out into a semi-nautical costume, in which he
would sally forth every morning in the direction of Port Marston. And
there, on more than one occasion, I saw him leaning against a post by
the harbour, or lounging outside a waterside tavern in earnest and
amicable conversation with sundry nautical characters.

On the afternoon of the day before the opening of the proceedings we
had two new visitors. One of them, a grey-haired spectacled man, was a
stranger to me, and for some reason I failed to recall his name,
Copland, though I was sure I had heard it before. The other was Anstey,
the barrister who usually worked with Thorndyke in cases that went into
Court. I saw very little of either of them, however, for they retired
almost immediately to the loft, where, with short intervals for meals,
they remained for the rest of the day, and, I believe, far into the
night. Thorndyke requested me not to mention the names of his visitors
to anyone, and at the same time apologized for the secrecy of his
proceedings.

"But you are a doctor, Jervis," he concluded, "and you know what
professional confidences are; and you will understand how greatly it is
in our favour that we know exactly what the prosecution can do, while
they are absolutely in the dark as to our line of defence."

I assured him that I fully understood his position, and with this
assurance he retired, evidently relieved, to the council chamber.

The proceedings, which opened on the following day, and at which I was
present throughout, need not be described in detail. The evidence for
the prosecution was, of course, mainly a repetition of that given at the
inquest. Mr. Bashfield's opening statement, however, I shall give at
length, inasmuch as it summarized very clearly the whole of the case
against the prisoner.

"The case that is now before the Court," said the counsel, "involves a
charge of wilful murder against the prisoner Alfred Draper, and the
facts, in so far as they are known, are briefly these: On the night of
Monday, the 27th of September, the deceased, Charles Hearn, dined with
some friends on board the yacht _Otter_. About midnight he came ashore,
and proceeded to walk towards Sundersley along the beach. As he entered
St. Bridget's Bay, a man, who appears to have been lying in wait, and
who came down the Shepherd's Path, met him, and a deadly struggle seems
to have taken place. The deceased received a wound of a kind calculated
to cause almost instantaneous death, and apparently fell down dead.

"And now, what was the motive of this terrible crime? It was not
robbery, for nothing appears to have been taken from the corpse. Money
and valuables were found, as far as is known, intact. Nor, clearly, was
it a case of a casual affray. We are, consequently, driven to the
conclusion that the motive was a personal one, a motive of interest or
revenge, and with this view the time, the place, and the evident
deliberateness of the murder are in full agreement.

"So much for the motive. The next question is, Who was the perpetrator
of this shocking crime? And the answer to that question is given in a
very singular and dramatic circumstance, a circumstance that illustrates
once more the amazing lack of precaution shown by persons who commit
such crimes. The murderer was wearing a very remarkable pair of shoes,
and those shoes left very remarkable footprints in the smooth sand, and
those footprints were seen and examined by a very acute and painstaking
police-officer, Sergeant Payne, whose evidence you will hear presently.
The sergeant not only examined the footprints, he made careful drawings
of them on the spot--on the spot, mind you, not from memory--and he made
very exact measurements of them, which he duly noted down. And from
those drawings and those measurements, those tell-tale shoes have been
identified, and are here for your inspection.

"And now, who is the owner of those very singular, those almost unique
shoes? I have said that the motive of this murder must have been a
personal one, and, behold! the owner of those shoes happens to be the
one person in the whole of this district who could have had a motive for
compassing the murdered man's death. Those shoes belong to, and were
taken from the foot of, the prisoner, Alfred Draper, and the prisoner,
Alfred Draper, is the only person living in this neighbourhood who was
acquainted with the deceased.

"It has been stated in evidence at the inquest that the relations of
these two men, the prisoner and the deceased, were entirely friendly;
but I shall prove to you that they were not so friendly as has been
supposed. I shall prove to you, by the evidence of the prisoner's
housekeeper, that the deceased was often an unwelcome visitor at the
house, that the prisoner often denied himself when he was really at home
and disengaged, and, in short, that he appeared constantly to shun and
avoid the deceased.

"One more question and I have finished. Where was the prisoner on the
night of the murder? The answer is that he was in a house little more
than half a mile from the scene of the crime. And who was with him in
that house? Who was there to observe and testify to his going forth and
his coming home? No one. He was alone in the house. On that night, of
all nights, he was alone. Not a soul was there to rouse at the creak of
a door or the tread of a shoe--to tell as whether he slept or whether he
stole forth in the dead of the night.

"Such are the facts of this case. I believe that they are not disputed,
and I assert that, taken together, they are susceptible of only one
explanation, which is that the prisoner, Alfred Draper, is the man who
murdered the deceased, Charles Hearn."

Immediately on the conclusion of this address, the witnesses were
called, and the evidence given was identical with that at the inquest.
The only new witness for the prosecution was Draper's housekeeper, and
her evidence fully bore out Mr. Bashfield's statement. The sergeant's
account of the footprints was listened to with breathless interest, and
at its conclusion the presiding magistrate--a retired solicitor, once
well known in criminal practice--put a question which interested me as
showing how clearly Thorndyke had foreseen the course of events,
recalling, as it did, his remark on the night when we were caught in the
rain.

"Did you," the magistrate asked, "take these shoes down to the beach and
compare them with the actual footprints?"

"I obtained the shoes at night," replied the sergeant, "and I took them
down to the shore at daybreak the next morning. But, unfortunately,
there had been a storm in the night, and the footprints were almost
obliterated by the wind and rain."

When the sergeant had stepped down, Mr. Bashfield announced that that
was the case for the prosecution. He then resumed his seat, turning an
inquisitive eye on Anstey and Thorndyke.

The former immediately rose and opened the case for the defence with a
brief statement.

"The learned counsel for the prosecution," said he, "has told us that
the facts now in the possession of the Court admit of but one
explanation--that of the guilt of the accused. That may or may not be;
but I shall now proceed to lay before the Court certain fresh
facts--facts, I may say, of the most singular and startling character,
which will, I think, lead to a very different conclusion. I shall say no
more, but call the witnesses forthwith, and let the evidence speak for
itself."

The first witness for the defence was Thorndyke; and as he entered the
box I observed Polton take up a position close behind him with a large
wicker trunk. Having been sworn, and requested by Anstey to tell the
Court what he knew about the case, he commenced without preamble:

"About half-past four in the afternoon of the 28th of September I walked
down Sundersley Gap with Dr. Jervis. Our attention was attracted by
certain footprints in the sand, particularly those of a man who had
landed from a boat, had walked up the Gap, and presently returned,
apparently to the boat.

"As we were standing there Sergeant Payne and Dr. Burrows passed down
the Gap with two constables carrying a stretcher. We followed at a
distance, and as we walked along the shore we encountered another set of
footprints--those which the sergeant has described as the footprints of
the deceased. We examined these carefully, and endeavoured to frame a
description of the person by whom they had been made."

"And did your description agree with the characters of the deceased?"
the magistrate asked.

"Not in the least," replied Thorndyke, whereupon the magistrate, the
inspector, and Mr. Bashfield laughed long and heartily.

"When we turned into St. Bridget's Bay, I saw the body of deceased lying
on the sand close to the cliff. The sand all round was covered with
footprints, as if a prolonged, fierce struggle had taken place. There
were two sets of footprints, one set being apparently those of the
deceased and the other those of a man with nailed shoes of a very
peculiar and conspicuous pattern. The incredible folly that the wearing
of such shoes indicated caused me to look more closely at the
footprints, and then I made the surprising discovery that there had in
reality been no struggle; that, in fact, the two sets of footprints had
been made at different times."

"At different times!" the magistrate exclaimed in astonishment.

"Yes. The interval between them may have been one of hours or one only
of seconds, but the undoubted fact is that the two sets of footprints
were made, not simultaneously, but in succession."

"But how did you arrive at that fact?" the magistrate asked.

"It was very obvious when one looked," said Thorndyke. "The marks of the
deceased man's shoes showed that he repeatedly trod in his own
footprints; but never in a single instance did he tread in the
footprints of the other man, although they covered the same area. The
man with the nailed shoes, on the contrary, not only trod in his own
footprints, but with equal frequency in those of the deceased. Moreover,
when the body was removed, I observed that the footprints in the sand on
which it was lying were exclusively those of the deceased. There was not
a sign of any nail-marked footprint under the corpse, although there
were many close around it. It was evident, therefore, that the
footprints of the deceased were made first and those of the nailed shoes
afterwards."

As Thorndyke paused the magistrate rubbed his nose thoughtfully, and
the inspector gazed at the witness with a puzzled frown.

"The singularity of this fact," my colleague resumed, "made me look at
the footprints yet more critically, and then I made another discovery.
There was a double track of the nailed shoes, leading apparently from
and back to the Shepherd's Path. But on examining these tracks more
closely, I was astonished to find that the man who had made them had
been walking backwards; that, in fact, he had walked backwards from the
body to the Shepherd's Path, had ascended it for a short distance, had
turned round, and returned, still walking backwards, to the face of the
cliff near the corpse, and there the tracks vanished altogether. On the
sand at this spot were some small, inconspicuous marks which might have
been made by the end of a rope, and there were also a few small
fragments which had fallen from the cliff above. Observing these, I
examined the surface of the cliff, and at one spot, about six feet above
the beach, I found a freshly rubbed spot on which were parallel
scratches such as might have been made by the nailed sole of a boot. I
then ascended the Shepherd's Path, and examined the cliff from above,
and here I found on the extreme edge a rather deep indentation, such as
would be made by a taut rope, and, on lying down and looking over, I
could see, some five feet from the top, another rubbed spot with very
distinct parallel scratches."

"You appear to infer," said the chairman, "that this man performed these
astonishing evolutions and was then hauled up the cliff?"

"That is what the appearances suggested," replied Thorndyke.

The chairman pursed up his lips, raised his eyebrows, and glanced
doubtfully at his brother magistrates. Then, with a resigned air, he
bowed to the witness to indicate that he was listening.

"That same night," Thorndyke resumed, "I cycled down to the shore,
through the Gap, with a supply of plaster of Paris, and proceeded to
take plaster moulds of the more important of the footprints." (Here the
magistrates, the inspector, and Mr. Bashfield with one accord sat up at
attention; Sergeant Payne swore quite audibly; and I experienced a
sudden illumination respecting a certain basin and kitchen spoon which
had so puzzled me on the night of Thorndyke's arrival.) "As I thought
that liquid plaster might confuse or even obliterate the prints in sand,
I filled up the respective footprints with dry plaster, pressed it down
lightly, and then cautiously poured water on to it. The moulds, which
are excellent impressions, of course show the appearance of the boots
which made the footprints, and from these moulds I have prepared casts
which reproduce the footprints themselves.

"The first mould that I made was that of one of the tracks from the boat
up to the Gap, and of this I shall speak presently. I next made a mould
of one of the footprints which have been described as those of the
deceased."

"Have been described!" exclaimed the chairman. "The deceased was
certainly there, and there were no other footprints, so, if they were
not his, he must have flown to where he was found."

"I will call them the footprints of the deceased," replied Thorndyke
imperturbably. "I took a mould of one of them, and with it, on the same
mould, one of my own footprints. Here is the mould, and here is a cast
from it." (He turned and took them from the triumphant Polton, who had
tenderly lifted them out of the trunk in readiness.) "On looking at the
cast, it will be seen that the appearances are not such as would be
expected. The deceased was five feet nine inches high, but was very thin
and light, weighing only nine stone six pounds, as I ascertained by
weighing the body, whereas I am five feet eleven and weigh nearly
thirteen stone. But yet the footprint of the deceased is nearly twice as
deep as mine--that is to say, the lighter man has sunk into the sand
nearly twice as deeply as the heavier man."

The magistrates were now deeply attentive. They were no longer simply
listening to the despised utterances of a mere scientific expert. The
cast lay before them with the two footprints side by side; the evidence
appealed to their own senses and was proportionately convincing.

"This is very singular," said the chairman; "but perhaps you can explain
the discrepancy?"

"I think I can," replied Thorndyke; "but I should prefer to place all
the facts before you first."

"Undoubtedly that would be better," the chairman agreed. "Pray proceed."

"There was another remarkable peculiarity about these footprints,"
Thorndyke continued, "and that was their distance apart--the length of
the stride, in fact. I measured the steps carefully from heel to heel,
and found them only nineteen and a half inches. But a man of Hearn's
height would have an ordinary stride of about thirty-six inches--more if
he was walking fast. Walking with a stride of nineteen and a half inches
he would look as if his legs were tied together.

"I next proceeded to the Bay, and took two moulds from the footprints
of the man with the nailed shoes, a right and a left. Here is a cast
from the mould, and it shows very clearly that the man was walking
backwards."

"How does it show that?" asked the magistrate.

"There are several distinctive points. For instance, the absence of the
usual 'kick off' at the toe, the slight drag behind the heel, showing
the direction in which the foot was lifted, and the undisturbed
impression of the sole."

"You have spoken of moulds and casts. What is the difference between
them?"

"A mould is a direct, and therefore reversed, impression. A cast is the
impression of a mould, and therefore a facsimile of the object. If I
pour liquid plaster on a coin, when it sets I have a mould, a sunk
impression, of the coin. If I pour melted wax into the mould I obtain a
cast, a facsimile of the coin. A footprint is a mould of the foot. A
mould of the footprint is a cast of the foot, and a cast from the mould
reproduces the footprint."

"Thank you," said the magistrate. "Then your moulds from these two
footprints are really facsimiles of the murderer's shoes, and can be
compared with these shoes which have been put in evidence?"

"Yes, and when we compare them they demonstrate a very important fact."

"What is that?"

"It is that the prisoner's shoes were not the shoes that made those
footprints." A buzz of astonishment ran through the court, but Thorndyke
continued stolidly: "The prisoner's shoes were not in my possession, so
I went on to Barker's pond, on the clay margin of which I had seen
footprints actually made by the prisoner. I took moulds of those
footprints, and compared them with these from the sand. There are
several important differences, which you will see if you compare them.
To facilitate the comparison I have made transparent photographs of both
sets of moulds to the same scale. Now, if we put the photograph of the
mould of the prisoner's right shoe over that of the murderer's right
shoe, and hold the two superposed photographs up to the light, we cannot
make the two pictures coincide. They are exactly of the same length, but
the shoes are of different shape. Moreover, if we put one of the nails
in one photograph over the corresponding nail in the other photograph,
we cannot make the rest of the nails coincide. But the most conclusive
fact of all--from which there is no possible escape--is that the number
of nails in the two shoes is not the same. In the sole of the prisoner's
right shoe there are forty nails; in that of the murderer there are
forty-one. The murderer has one nail too many."

There was a deathly silence in the court as the magistrates and Mr.
Bashfield pored over the moulds and the prisoner's shoes, and examined
the photographs against the light. Then the chairman asked: "Are these
all the facts, or have you something more to tell us?" He was evidently
anxious to get the key to this riddle.

"There is more evidence, your Worship," said Anstey. "The witness
examined the body of deceased." Then, turning to Thorndyke, he asked:

"You were present at the _post-mortem_ examination?"

"I was."

"Did you form any opinion as to the cause of death?"

"Yes. I came to the conclusion that death was occasioned by an overdose
of morphia."

A universal gasp of amazement greeted this statement. Then the presiding
magistrate protested breathlessly:

"But there was a wound, which we have been told was capable of causing
instantaneous death. Was that not the case?"

"There was undoubtedly such a wound," replied Thorndyke. "But when that
wound was inflicted the deceased had already been dead from a quarter to
half an hour."

"This is incredible!" exclaimed the magistrate. "But, no doubt, you can
give us your reasons for this amazing conclusion?"

"My opinion," said Thorndyke, "was based on several facts. In the first
place, a wound inflicted on a living body gapes rather widely, owing to
the retraction of the living skin. The skin of a dead body does not
retract, and the wound, consequently, does not gape. This wound gaped
very slightly, showing that death was recent, I should say, within half
an hour. Then a wound on the living body becomes filled with blood, and
blood is shed freely on the clothing. But the wound on the deceased
contained only a little blood-clot. There was hardly any blood on the
clothing, and I had already noticed that there was none on the sand
where the body had lain."

"And you consider this quite conclusive?" the magistrate asked
doubtfully.

"I do," answered Thorndyke. "But there was other evidence which was
beyond all question. The weapon had partially divided both the aorta and
the pulmonary artery--the main arteries of the body. Now, during life,
these great vessels are full of blood at a high internal pressure,
whereas after death they become almost empty. It follows that, if this
wound had been inflicted during life, the cavity in which those vessels
lie would have become filled with blood. As a matter of fact, it
contained practically no blood, only the merest oozing from some small
veins, so that it is certain that the wound was inflicted after death.
The presence and nature of the poison I ascertained by analyzing certain
secretions from the body, and the analysis enabled me to judge that the
quantity of the poison was large; but the contents of the stomach were
sent to Professor Copland for more exact examination."

"Is the result of Professor Copland's analysis known?" the magistrate
asked Anstey.

"The professor is here, your Worship," replied Anstey, "and is prepared
to swear to having obtained over one grain of morphia from the contents
of the stomach; and as this, which is in itself a poisonous dose, is
only the unabsorbed residue of what was actually swallowed, the total
quantity taken must have been very large indeed."

"Thank you," said the magistrate. "And now, Dr. Thorndyke, if you have
given us all the facts, perhaps you will tell us what conclusions you
have drawn from them."

"The facts which I have stated," said Thorndyke, "appear to me to
indicate the following sequence of events. The deceased died about
midnight on September 27, from the effects of a poisonous dose of
morphia, how or by whom administered I offer no opinion. I think that
his body was conveyed in a boat to Sundersley Gap. The boat probably
contained three men, of whom one remained in charge of it, one walked
up the Gap and along the cliff towards St. Bridget's Bay, and the third,
having put on the shoes of the deceased, carried the body along the
shore to the Bay. This would account for the great depth and short
stride of the tracks that have been spoken of as those of the deceased.
Having reached the Bay, I believe that this man laid the corpse down on
his tracks, and then trampled the sand in the neighbourhood. He next
took off deceased's shoes and put them on the corpse; then he put on a
pair of boots or shoes which he had been carrying--perhaps hung round
his neck--and which had been prepared with nails to imitate Draper's
shoes. In these shoes he again trampled over the area near the corpse.
Then he walked backwards to the Shepherd's Path, and from it again,
still backwards, to the face of the cliff. Here his accomplice had
lowered a rope, by which he climbed up to the top. At the top he took
off the nailed shoes, and the two men walked back to the Gap, where the
man who had carried the rope took his confederate on his back, and
carried him down to the boat to avoid leaving the tracks of stockinged
feet. The tracks that I saw at the Gap certainly indicated that the man
was carrying something very heavy when he returned to the boat."

"But why should the man have climbed a rope up the cliff when he could
have walked up the Shepherd's Path?" the magistrate asked.

"Because," replied Thorndyke, "there would then have been a set of
tracks leading out of the Bay without a corresponding set leading into
it; and this would have instantly suggested to a smart
police-officer--such as Sergeant Payne--a landing from a boat."

"Your explanation is highly ingenious," said the magistrate, "and
appears to cover all the very remarkable facts. Have you anything more
to tell us?"

"No, your Worship," was the reply, "excepting" (here he took from Polton
the last pair of moulds and passed them up to the magistrate) "that you
will probably find these moulds of importance presently."

As Thorndyke stepped from the box--for there was no
cross-examination--the magistrates scrutinized the moulds with an air of
perplexity; but they were too discreet to make any remark.

When the evidence of Professor Copland (which showed that an
unquestionably lethal dose of morphia must have been swallowed) had been
taken, the clerk called out the--to me--unfamiliar name of Jacob Gummer.
Thereupon an enormous pair of brown dreadnought trousers, from the upper
end of which a smack-boy's head and shoulders protruded, walked into the
witness-box.

Jacob admitted at the outset that he was a smack-master's apprentice,
and that he had been "hired out" by his master to one Mr. Jezzard as
deck-hand and cabin-boy of the yacht _Otter_.

"Now, Gummer," said Anstey, "do you remember the prisoner coming on
board the yacht?"

"Yes. He has been on board twice. The first time was about a month ago.
He went for a sail with us then. The second time was on the night when
Mr. Hearn was murdered."

"Do you remember what sort of boots the prisoner was wearing the first
time he came?"

"Yes. They were shoes with a lot of nails in the soles. I remember them
because Mr. Jezzard made him take them off and put on a canvas pair."

"What was done with the nailed shoes?"

"Mr. Jezzard took 'em below to the cabin."

"And did Mr. Jezzard come up on deck again directly?"

"No. He stayed down in the cabin about ten minutes."

"Do you remember a parcel being delivered on board from a London
boot-maker?"

"Yes. The postman brought it about four or five days after Mr. Draper
had been on board. It was labelled 'Walker Bros., Boot and Shoe Makers,
London.' Mr. Jezzard took a pair of shoes from it, for I saw them on the
locker in the cabin the same day."

"Did you ever see him wear them?"

"No. I never see 'em again."

"Have you ever heard sounds of hammering on the yacht?"

"Yes. The night after the parcel came I was on the quay alongside, and I
heard someone a-hammering in the cabin."

"What did the hammering sound like?"

"It sounded like a cobbler a-hammering in nails."

"Have you over seen any boot-nails on the yacht?"

"Yes. When I was a-clearin' up the cabin the next mornin', I found a
hobnail on the floor in a corner by the locker."

"Were you on board on the night when Mr. Hearn died?"

"Yes. I'd been ashore, but I came aboard about half-past nine."

"Did you see Mr. Hearn go ashore?"

"I see him leave the yacht. I had turned into my bunk and gone to sleep,
when Mr. Jezzard calls down to me: 'We're putting Mr. Hearn ashore,'
says he; 'and then,' he says, 'we're a-going for an hour's fishing. You
needn't sit up,' he says, and with that he shuts the scuttle. Then I got
up and slid back the scuttle and put my head out, and I see Mr. Jezzard
and Mr. Leach a-helpin' Mr. Hearn acrost the deck. Mr. Hearn he looked
as if he was drunk. They got him into the boat--and a rare job they
had--and Mr. Pitford, what was in the boat already, he pushed off. And
then I popped my head in again, 'cause I didn't want them to see me."

"Did they row to the steps?"

"No. I put my head out again when they were gone, and I heard 'em row
round the yacht, and then pull out towards the mouth of the harbour. I
couldn't see the boat, 'cause it was a very dark night."

"Very well. Now I am going to ask you about another matter. Do you know
anyone of the name of Polton?"

"Yes," replied Gummer, turning a dusky red. "I've just found out his
real name. I thought he was called Simmons."

"Tell us what you know about him," said Anstey, with a mischievous
smile.

"Well," said the boy, with a ferocious scowl at the bland and smiling
Polton, "one day he come down to the yacht when the gentlemen had gone
ashore. I believe he'd seen 'em go. And he offers me ten shillin' to let
him see all the boots and shoes we'd got on board. I didn't see no harm,
so I turns out the whole lot in the cabin for him to look at. While he
was lookin' at 'em he asks me to fetch a pair of mine from the fo'c'sle,
so I fetches 'em. When I come back he was pitchin' the boots and shoes
back into the locker. Then, presently, he nips off, and when he was
gone I looked over the shoes, and then I found there was a pair missing.
They was an old pair of Mr. Jezzard's, and what made him nick 'em is
more than I can understand."

"Would you know those shoes if you saw them!"

"Yes, I should," replied the lad.

"Are these the pair?" Anstey handed the boy a pair of dilapidated canvas
shoes, which he seized eagerly.

"Yes, these is the ones what he stole!" he exclaimed.

Anstey took them back from the boy's reluctant hands, and passed them up
to the magistrate's desk. "I think," said he, "that if your Worship will
compare these shoes with the last pair of moulds, you will have no doubt
that these are the shoes which made the footprints from the sea to
Sundersley Gap and back again."

The magistrates together compared the shoes and the moulds amidst a
breathless silence. At length the chairman laid them down on the desk.

"It is impossible to doubt it," said he. "The broken heel and the tear
in the rubber sole, with the remains of the chequered pattern, make the
identity practically certain."

As the chairman made this statement I involuntarily glanced round to the
place where Jezzard was sitting. But he was not there; neither he, nor
Pitford, nor Leach. Taking advantage of the preoccupation of the Court,
they had quietly slipped out of the door. But I was not the only person
who had noted their absence. The inspector and the sergeant were already
in earnest consultation, and a minute later they, too, hurriedly
departed.

The proceedings now speedily came to an end. After a brief discussion
with his brother-magistrates, the chairman addressed the Court.

"The remarkable and I may say startling evidence, which has been heard
in this court to-day, if it has not fixed the guilt of this crime on any
individual, has, at any rate, made it clear to our satisfaction that the
prisoner is not the guilty person, and he is accordingly discharged. Mr.
Draper, I have great pleasure in informing you that you are at liberty
to leave the court, and that you do so entirely clear of all suspicion;
and I congratulate you very heartily on the skill and ingenuity of your
legal advisers, but for which the decision of the Court would, I am
afraid, have been very different."

That evening, lawyers, witnesses, and the jubilant and grateful client
gathered round a truly festive board to dine, and fight over again the
battle of the day. But we were scarcely halfway through our meal when,
to the indignation of the servants, Sergeant Payne burst breathlessly
into the room.

"They've gone, sir!" he exclaimed, addressing Thorndyke. "They've given
us the slip for good."

"Why, how can that be?" asked Thorndyke.

"They're dead, sir! All three of them!"

"Dead!" we all exclaimed.

"Yes. They made a burst for the yacht when they left the court, and they
got on board and put out to sea at once, hoping, no doubt, to get clear
as the light was just failing. But they were in such a hurry that they
did not see a steam trawler that was entering, and was hidden by the
pier. Then, just at the entrance, as the yacht was creeping out, the
trawler hit her amidships, and fairly cut her in two. The three men were
in the water in an instant, and were swept away in the eddy behind the
north pier; and before any boat could put out to them they had all gone
under. Jezzard's body came up on the beach just as I was coming away."

We were all silent and a little awed, but if any of us felt regret at
the catastrophe, it was at the thought that three such cold-blooded
villains should have made so easy an exit; and to one of us, at least,
the news came as a blessed relief.